eswareinmal | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

[ Loki's skin is pale; he, once again, looks human, his eyes green, his hair dark. His fingers are restless, tapping. ] Shall we have a tale?

Here, I believe the appropriate beginning is, let's see... Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, there was a little world. It had no boundaries, but it was small enough that it needed no boundaries. More on that later, I certainly expect. This world was made by balance between order and chaos. Order created and arranged, and chaos introduced an element of randomness. Evolution. Each required the other to innovate.

But, then, Order isn't so very good at innovation, is it? Perhaps inevitable that one day Chaos would begin to dominate. The balance reels, and the world changes -- or perhaps it's that the world changes, and the balance tips. Either way, each avatar, one of order, one of chaos, are locked in eternal battle. Thorns began to spread, and so Order had to try, again, to reach beyond itself. Literally, this time.

As we stand: order reached to heroes, but could not cope with the element of instability the heroes produced. Thus, it boxed them into confined roles, shaved off the bits of them that would not fit.

Take care, heroes, for chaos would destroy everything -- but order would destroy you from within.

This is, as it stands, all I know. Let you ignorants be satisfied with that.

[ OOC: Thread between Sif and Loki below includes NSFW content. Be thyself warned. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

And a half measure skinnier, to boot.

[She looks down. Watches the light from the orb cast shadows across her hands.]

You know truer names for me than that.

My Lady? My Warrioress?

May I suggest, "my physically superior comrade?"

"My infinitely more talented warrior?"

"My eminently more commanding leader?"

What about -- just 'mine'?

[The point to him, then. Sif's head snaps up, and she is unsure weather or not he is jesting.

(It comes, unbidden: he laughs as Midgard burns.)]

Ah. And who would you belong to, then?

I belong in the space between two lies. The space of the rain in between cloud and earth -- I belong nowhere.

That presents something of a challenge, geographically. Nowhere doesn't exist.

Believe me: I know.

Then these spaces that would claim you sound unable to fit even one man alone. Let alone his possessions.

Then I suppose I'll just shave bits of myself away.

Or, less dramatically, we could simply find space enough for both our bits.

Preferably here.

[Hmpf. She shakes her head, exasperated, and shuts off the orb.

Which is clearly Sif's way of saying that she will be at his room soon enough.

...Several hours later, when she is sitting across the width of the bed, elbows propped up on Loki's torso, the thought occurs to her:]

What is it about my rooms that you so abhor? They are clean enough.

Edited 2012-09-06 05:57 (UTC)

I prefer to issue the invitation myself.

[ In his space, he is in control.

Though... he has not been entirely in control, this time. Sometimes, they've had to stop. To pause, while he centers himself, chases the blue away.

He is still a bit tense. He has not let himself go, not entirely. ]

[She knows the tension in the lines of him. Sif wonders if she has ever seen him truly let go, since they were children.

The image of Midgard burning comes again, and she wonders if that was letting go or forcing himself into yet another set of skin.]

I prefer to issue the invitation myself, [she repeats, mimicking his tone. She moves upwards, crossing her arms over his chest. She looks down at him, nearly perched.]

So formal.

[ She is so oddly affectionate. He doesn't know what he expected; perhaps that she would withdraw, preserve her dignity as a warrior. That she would be cool to him, after she had taken her pleasure. ]

I thought you liked my words formal, and lovely.

[ He sweeps his fingers through her hair, pushes it back from her forehead. ]

When you wish them to be. Other times, they are evasive things. Your words.

[He is not wrong to have been unsure. Sif can be mercurial, as a lover. She has certainly been distant to her partners in Asgard, when necessary.

They are not in Asgard, now. She leans into his touch, places a hand over his and remembers when they tinged blue.]

I like the moments that find you without speech. I like the parts of you that I can hold onto.

My words are as real as any other.

[ Any other part of him.

Or just as real as any other man's words, perhaps. ]

I never said otherwise. Did you know that I envied your way with words, when we were children?

[Her fingers grow restless. They idle across his cheek, down his neck and collarbone.]

You seemed to know what combination of words would make all things seem right. Sorcery of a kind, but so much more powerful. And there was a point, on the cusp of leaving my house, where I was hesitant to say anything at all. No skill at lying, and a truth I was told was an ugly thing. I thought, if only I could speak like Loki.

[She traces a map across his skin. From gilded halls to quiet corners, and worlds without names. A pathway that's brought her here, to his bed.]

And I cannot. So, more plainly, I have something I must tell you.

Edited 2012-09-10 02:23 (UTC)

[ So she has an ugly truth. Perhaps it is what Thor would not tell him. Perhaps it is that she has turned against him.

He moves to pull away, but the motion is arrested by her hand.

Perhaps four weeks ago, Loki would have shrugged away her hand, refused her gesture. But now he settles back, cautious and guarded. ]

Tell, then.

[She sits up in bed, hand resting on top of his chest. She doesn't want to break contact -- desires to make clear that the knowledge she carries is neither a weapon nor a wedge.

A fact they must discuss, yes. But she is not turned away.]

There was an...incident, while you were out of contact. [She barrels on, before he paints any number of scenes for himself.]

The Seer and I switched minds. She was granted sanity and I her visions. In that state, Thor came upon me.

I saw the future with which he did not wish to burden us.

[ He has gone still, apart from breathing, and his eyes tracking her face, assessing her and her words. ]

And?

[She can feel him watching her -- analyzing every rise of her brow, every tick of her cheek. As surely as she feels the heat of the fires, the sounds of strange stone on foreign streets.

The sharp, swift cut of the knife at Thor's side.]

You amassed an army, somehow. Not the Loki that lies in my arms, now. Not precisely. I'm given to understand that this was well over a year after your fall. After all in Asgard thought you dead. After you fell and were alone, save for the Chitauri. Of all races.

[Not him, no. Not as he is now. But Sif would be blind and stupid to believe it all something of which he would be incapable. If the circumstances were just so, if he felt it justified. She barrels onwards in her explanation, unable to hide her grief at the images.

She would not want that ability, anyway.]

You were defeated. But not before enslaving many Midgardians and killing thousands more. It wasn't a war. Not truly. There were no songs. No disputes. No lines drawn.

It was a massacre, by your -- by his command. That is the truth which burdened Thor so.

[ Her worry makes him cross, and irritable. If he had decided revenge -- perhaps he would have, if Thor had been here to avenge himself upon.

Chitauri. Dark, scuttling creatures. But if he could have ruled them... ]

I saw no battle lines drawn when we took ourselves to Jotunnheim.

[Does he truly mean to compare...]

We took ourselves to Jotunnheim under false assumptions, which you well know.