[ Yes, Loki thinks. This moment is the culmination of centuries of bricklaying, of an eternity spent wearing this hatefully beautiful face. A layer of ice spreads itself over Esja's fingers, sharpened into a cruel points at the apex of her fingernails; it would take but a flick of her hand to rend Thor-king's glorious existence apart. Perhaps she would raise her head in the beat of silence before the Valkyrie came to collect Thor's body for his final journey to the halls of Valhalla, perhaps she'd let her eyes flicker to green. And Thor would die with tears in his eyes and Loki's name upon his lips, taking the truth with him to the golden halls, never to haunt Asgard again. The torment that Loki has suffered for millennia would be repaid in whole, and Loki's ascension would be absolute. Queen or King of Asgard, it mattered not; he would be free of the past, and free to smash the Nine Realms into bloody oblivion.
There will be prophecies and prophecies, the world and its complexities without end, and yet chaos cannot be contained by the simple lines of fate. Loki is not of the Æsir, and neither is he of the Jötun, and so the Devourer holds no dominion here.
The ice melts from Esja's fingers, leaving a cold stain on Thor's abdomen where her arm had been draped. Before he has opportunity to ask, however, she presses herself up, the fall of her hair bracketing Thor's face.
The agony in those eyes, as if Thor can understand a fraction of what Loki has done, what Loki has seen, it is a mirror and a curse both. Esja's hands shake when she cups Thor's cheeks to brush his tears away, but the expression has seeped from her face. ]
The Vanir warn of the Liesmith in our teaching chambers, where the first lessons of the arcane arts are issued. A Jötun beast, they say, one who did not deserve the gifts of seiðr that he claimed. [ Her voice is soft, almost inaudibly so. ] Be at peace, I bid you, for even after all you've told me, I can only say this: that it must be better to earn the hatred than the love of such a man.
no worries, we have all the time in the world!
There will be prophecies and prophecies, the world and its complexities without end, and yet chaos cannot be contained by the simple lines of fate. Loki is not of the Æsir, and neither is he of the Jötun, and so the Devourer holds no dominion here.
The ice melts from Esja's fingers, leaving a cold stain on Thor's abdomen where her arm had been draped. Before he has opportunity to ask, however, she presses herself up, the fall of her hair bracketing Thor's face.
The agony in those eyes, as if Thor can understand a fraction of what Loki has done, what Loki has seen, it is a mirror and a curse both. Esja's hands shake when she cups Thor's cheeks to brush his tears away, but the expression has seeped from her face. ]
The Vanir warn of the Liesmith in our teaching chambers, where the first lessons of the arcane arts are issued. A Jötun beast, they say, one who did not deserve the gifts of seiðr that he claimed. [ Her voice is soft, almost inaudibly so. ] Be at peace, I bid you, for even after all you've told me, I can only say this: that it must be better to earn the hatred than the love of such a man.