Who: Loki and Raoul What: Loki makes good on his offer of a gentlemanly duel with Raoul, but kind of leaves out the part where he's a norse deity. Which doesn't technically count as cheating. Where: Jotunheim [Marvel Door] When: After Raoul's wedding to Samstine. Warnings/Rating: Various threats and sundry.
It was becoming a struggle just to push through, Raoul was finding, with all of the obstacles that were popping up everywhere that he turned. Everyone was full of reasons as to why he should not have done as he did, full of accusations about how monstrous, selfish, horrible he was, and he could not see the reasoning behind their words. What he did, he had done out of love for her, to help secure a life where they could live together, happily. He had made no threats on the Opera Ghost’s life, nor would he, for attempting to end another’s life would make him as monstrous as the Ghost who had killed before. And Raoul was a gentleman, not a monster, though even he could start to recognize that he was starting to slip, a knife-edged tongue that simply refused to stay sheathed.
Overpowering Liam that morning, after his encounter with Nadir the night before, had not been harder than before, but still not overly difficult, and Raoul swore that he would have words with Nadir before all of this was over. But that was for later. Now, there was the hotel, and his meeting with the one known as Louis D on the forums, who apparently had connections to both Sam and Neil in ways that he was not aware of.
Rounding the second flight of stairs, Raoul found himself on the third floor of the Passages Hotel. There was no pull to the doors here as they did not belong to him, something he noted with more than a bit of jealousy with the state of his own, sealed, door. The sixth door, he had been told, and he counted the doors down one by one until he came to the one that had been indicated to him, and, as Louis had said, it had been left ajar. For a moment, he made no move to enter, wondering what lay behind this door as he assumed it would be nothing like his own door, the familiar and comforting sights and smells of Paris. But Raoul was not a coward, and he did not linger long in the hallway before pushing the door open with the tips of his fingers and stepping over the threshold.
The world beyond the door was cold and dark, he would notice that first. Dark stone surrounded him, but the wind whistled - they were clearly at a height. The door appeared to be made of the same stone as the walls, crafted smooth, but pitted with cracks and pockmarks. Perhaps they had once been whole, but there had been fighting here, a very, very long time ago.
The sky above was grayish black with a touch of blue, and everything around shone with just enough dim light to make one’s way. This was a world of darkness and ice. When the door shut behind Raoul, it was with a thundering grate of stone on stone, and a very final sound of connection when it settled back into the frame. The walkway led both left and right. The walls on either side kept the clumsy visitor from pitching off the edge, and at seven feet high, they made it impossible to see what lay beyond, spiking occasionally upward into flat spikes. All the lines had harsh, sharp angles, something like a gothic cathedral, if it was built as a fortress of black stone five feet thick.
To the left, the open hall led to a bend. To the right, it led to a set of stairs that would take one down to the bowels of the castle. It was impossible to know how high the hallway was without seeing over the top of the walls, but it was high enough that no sound carried from the ground below, except the occasional dull rumble of something like sharp thunder.
Down the hall, past the bend, a voice rang out, low, casual, almost amiable.
“Come this way, won’t you?”
This was, perhaps, as far removed from Paris as Raoul could ever imagine being. There was no warmth, so soft colours or soft lines, just hard stone, darkness, and ice, and he could feel the involuntary shiver that ran down his spine as he glanced this way and that, taking in these new surroundings. Turning as the sound of the door closing echoed through the area, Raoul reached out to touch fingers to it lightly, and it was clear there would be no way it would open for him this soon. He had come willingly, but he doubted he would leave until all of this had been concluded.
The voice that called to him, almost sweet in its timbre, caused Raoul to turn, all lean lines and aristocratic grace, dressed in the Parisian fashion of the day. If he had any idea of where else to go, he might have done so, just to spite the owner of the voice, but the place felt too immense to be wandering through blindly, and besides, he was here for a reason. So Raoul moved down the hall, fingers skimming the wall as he moved, careful steps taking him along the bend towards the source of the voice. “I do hope you weren’t waiting long,” he responded in turn, his accent decidedly French, the words of a high-born.
"No," came the voice from beyond the bend. "I wasn't."
As the hallway turned, it opened onto a large room, also open to the air. Snow and ice had gathered around the edges in small piles, and the walls were carved from the same black stone. The walls were not complete, however, here at the top of the eastern tower. The side of the room the hallway connected to was a full wall, but the other three sported wide openings for long-range weapons in case of siege. Beyond was a dizzying drop. They were very high up, it seemed, so high that one could see the mountains in the distance, half-floating. The thunderous sound was obvious, now - every so often, a rock would split from the side of one of the strange, towering, thin protrusions of rock that stabbed the sky.
This was not Earth. This was not anywhere close to Earth.
Opposite Raoul, Loki stood in front of the opening in the wall, looking down hundreds of feet to the ground below. He wore his war regalia, the gold helmet on his head sporting swooping horns that he seemed to carry with no trouble at all. He turned his head when Raoul entered, and even from that distance, the glint in his green eyes was amused. He was going to enjoy this.
"Do you like it?" Loki asked. His sharp visage had all the hungry hollows of a half-starved man, but the wiry body that moved beneath the armor looked more than capable of a fight. He spread a hand to the western wall, and the stark, terribly beautiful view of the cliffs beyond. "It does have its own strange appeal, I must admit. This realm's inhabitants are savage beasts, but one must give them a shred of credit for making their way successfully in a land so barren."
He could have drank in the world for a long time had he the freedom to do so. Foreign, alien, this was nothing like home, nothing he ever could have imagined as he moved down the corridor, catching sight of the sky that stretched overhead, the thunder that rumbled, the black stone that made up the walls. Turning a slow circle, Raoul attempted to take in as much of it as he could, the crumbling stone, the snow and ice that filled the corners of the room. But then his attention was drawn completely to the only other person in the room besides him.
Exotic. That was the first thing that came to mind upon seeing the other man. Gold and green and menacing with the angles of his face, but Raoul could sense the strength in that figure, wiry and lean as it was. He did not move as though he were afraid of the man, stepping towards him and coming to a stop only feet away, his expression carefully schooled into showing no interest in his garb, no sign that he was impressed in the slightest. “It’s interesting,” he responded to the first question as his gaze was drawn to where that hand gestured, stepping closer so that he might see better beyond the crumbling wall. “It’s dangerous and menacing, fitting for the savage beasts you say live here. Cultured people would not live in such a place, after all.” Hands clasped behind his back, his posture casual and relaxed.
Even to the people of his own realm, or the realm he had believed to be his own until very recently, Loki was, indeed, exotic. He was difficult, and strange even for one of the Aesir, who each had their quirks, to say the least. The scepter in his hands fit nicely with the crossed, asymmetrical lines of his armor, wickedly sharp at its head, clustered around a blue stone that shone with inner fire. What was he king of, then, with that scepter? What did the lost god claim as his own? Whatever he had said about being just another man, it seemed he hadn’t been entirely truthful.
The comment about the savage beasts in that land elicited a smile as sharp and tightly curved as the scepter’s end. “A good assumption,” Loki said, finding a private joke in what Raoul had said. He spread a hand. “So. We could stand here, and debate the merits of this world, or we could do what you came to do. You did agree to duel me, did you not?” He gestured to the scepter. “I understand you are some variety of nobleman where you come from, and the rules of dueling in my world aren’t much different. This is my weapon of choice. If you require one, you may have whatever sort you might name. Or if you would like a second to fight in case you fall, I would be more than happy to provide. Though they aren’t traditional.” He inclined his head toward him, the picture of the noble combatant. “I want you to have every advantage.”
Raoul’s gaze moved to the scepter that the other man held in his hands, and Raoul had no doubt that he was familiar with its weight, with how to move with the weapon, and while he was normally a confident person, there was a twinge of worry that pulled at the back of his thoughts. There were many questions he had about the man, but those weren’t to ask here or now, perhaps later, should he even survive this duel. But for now, Loki was right. It was about the reason he had been invited here, this duel.
Some variety of nobleman. Raoul wanted to roll his eyes at that, to explain to him exactly who he was, but he truly doubted that the man, this creature from an alien world, would understand or appreciate his lineage. So wisely, Raoul kept his mouth shut for once. Gaze slipping to the scepter, Raoul considered for a moment his own weapon, though he was trained in little other than swordsmanship, and even in that, he was a better fencer than anything. “I have no need of a second, for any fight that I engage in will be my own, not another standing in my stead.” Raoul met his gaze, saw the sharpness in those eyes, and as he took another step closer, his lips curled in a small smile.
“A sabre, if you will. That will be my choice in weapon.” One he had marginal experience with, but against that scepter, he felt he needed something stronger than a traditional fencing foil. “And do not give me too many advantages, monsieur,” Raoul said a moment later. “I would hate to put you at a great disadvantage.”
"I appreciate your gentlemanly restraint," Loki said, with an inscrutable quirk of his lips, inclining his head toward him. He then gestured to the shadows in the corner of the room. From them, a giant emerged.
How something so large had hidden behind Raoul was impossible to say, but the Jotunn was half again as tall as the average mortal, and twice as thick. He was girded in a black loincloth, covered over with raised, dark lines on his blue skin. His eyes were scarlet, and stood out strangely against all that ice blue. In his hand, he carried a stiff leather bag that clattered as he swung it. He set it down with a heavy, ponderous thump, and rifled through it, his eyes fixed on Raoul, burning, staring, assessing. He removed something from the sack that resembled a saber, though it was half carved from ice and half from black iron, and extended it out for Raoul to take.
Loki held up a hand, crossing between them. He took the saber lightly from the Jotunn's hand, and produced from his pocket a small scrap of leather. This he wrapped around the hilt, and tied in a peculiar knot, then handed the weapon to Raoul himself. The leather was now fixed to the hilt and did not slip, offering a proper hand hold. "You would not wish to touch such a thing with your bare hands," Loki explained. "It would freeze the flesh from your bones, as will the blade, if you let it touch your skin." A flash of a smile. "I recommend you keep it point out."
The Jotunn giant who had produced the weapon now watched Loki. It was no more difficult to read his expression than it was any other humanoid creature, and while one got the sense that the Frost Giants were, on the whole, dour beings, this one looked particularly grim. In fact, he looked ready to run Loki through with the weapons at his side at any moment.
Loki nodded to the hallway from which Raoul had come. "You may go," he said, dismissive as any master to their servant.
The Jotunn's lip curled up at the order, but he turned and marched through the open doorway and out of sight, his steps heavy enough to reverberate against the stone.
"You'll excuse his manners," Loki said, hand to his heart, as if they were having the sort of conversation of understanding that only two creatures born into nobility could share. "He served my father, once upon a time, and he is not overly fond of me." Loki straightened, and regripped the scepter. "Now then. You are armed, and we are alone." He stood tall, not so much as shifting his weight forward. "You may attack whenever you feel ready."
Whatever Raoul had been expecting to see with Loki’s gesture, it was not the thing that emerged from the shadows. Large, looming, and with red eyes that chilled him to his very core, Raoul took a step away from the creature, wary and on his guard. Even when the sabre was offered to him, he made no move to take the strange looking weapon from the creature, not trusting, and it seemed, for very good reason when Loki stepped forward to intercept the sabre before he could touch it. His gaze never left the man’s hands as the leather was wrapped around the hilt of the sword before it was handed back to him, and with that warning ringing in his ears, he took the sword in hand, testing its weight and holding it cautiously. “You’ve nothing normal, I take it?” he said as he stepped away slightly, trying to shake off the feel of the giant who had stared so heavily at him. At least the things attention was directed towards Loki now, something Raoul allowed himself to take a small amount of pleasure in. The exotic one did not seem to be lacking in dislike even here.
“Often times, one must give those they rule reason to like them. Perhaps you should look within yourself at how you’ve treated them to find out why they treat you so coldly,” Raoul said, lifting his gaze towards Loki, the weight of the sabre in his hand becoming more and more familiar as the moments ticked by, giving several practice swings with it before he settled into a loose, relaxed stance.
The invitation to take the first attack was accepted with a small nod of his head. “I will not tell others that you were not a gentleman to me,” Raoul commented, and that was the only warning before he stepped forward, swiftly, the sabre swinging directly towards the man in a hard swing, those warm blue eyes of his narrowed in concentration.
“Nothing normal for you, no,” Loki said. “Any one of the race you just saw an example of would be proud to wield such a...fine weapon.” There was no mistaking the touch of humor in that, as he looked at the broad thing, crudely constructed but surely effective and terribly sharp.
Loki’s smile turned savage, and he laughed, abruptly. Coldly. Hilarious. “Well I killed my father. Unfortunately, that has not earned me much fondness within the court.” There was no guilt there, nothing but pleasure at the memory, and rage to go with it. That feeling of betrayal had not died, for the creature who had abandoned the runt of the litter to die on the open plains of this frozen world, and then allowed him to be taken in by the conqueror and raised as a tool for diplomacy rather than a son. He did not miss his true father. He did not mourn the dead, or the deed.
Loki brought the scepter up and easily met the swing with a block so hard the metal of the staff, some unearthly gold alloy, rang like an atonal bell. It seemed that not only was Loki strong enough to fend off an attacker, he had more than the strength of a mortal man. He might not be strong for an Asgardian or a Frost Giant, but that still left him with more power in his limbs than several of the strongest men Earth had to offer put together. Did they not call them gods for a reason? He neatly tossed the scepter up while his opponent was off balance, caught it close to the curved head, and nimbly brought the blunt end up for a brutal blow to his opponent’s chin.
“Oh, good,” Loki said, ringing with amusement now. He was going to enjoy this. “My reputation is a little marked at the moment, you see. I could use a good recommendation from a true gentleman, the sort who coerces his way into marriages with defenseless opera singers trapped in the bodies of day laborers.”
Raoul did not have the fountain of anger and rage to draw from like Loki had, nor did he want such a burden. But he did have pride, honor, dignity, and to him, those were just as important to defend as anything else might have been. Patricide might have been one of Loki’s crimes, but Raoul doubted it was the only one he had committed. He spoke too lightly of it to have any remorse or regret, and to Raoul, that meant he must not have felt much at all. Raoul valued his family, his father, his brother, and to think of crossing them was absolutely impossible.
His arms ached with the block that the other man provided to his initial swing, and it was clear in that single moment that he was not dealing with anyone he had come across before. This was strength unlike any one he had met, a power that he knew he ought to be feared of, but yet he could only press on. Raoul did not give up, did not back down, and today would not start that. But that wasn’t to say that Raoul was weak. Slender though he might have been, he was lean, strong in his own way, and though his arms shook as he drew back the sabre for another swing, impulsive and greedy for a strike, it was evident that his skill was lacking.
The end of the staff hit him neatly beneath the chin, his teeth clacking together as he nearly bit the tip of his tongue off from the force of the strike. There was a stumble backwards as he brought up his free hand to press at his mouth, the skin already tender, swelling from the blow. Loki’s words rang in his mind as the man went on, hearing their light tone, the sarcasm that painted them thickly. Raoul gave him a long, hard look, stepping back to put some space between himself and the other man. “Coerce? Is that what you think I’ve done?” he said sharply, though the words were softened through an injured mouth. “I did not twist her arm, I did not force her hand, no matter how much of a villain you wish to paint me. And you ought to not stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. This business is between her and I, not some stranger with horns on his helm.” And Raoul raced forward again, two-handing the hilt as he brought it in hard for another swing, stepping into it and putting his weight and speed behind the blow at Loki’s midsection, hoping for a hit on at least an arm, a tender side. Some place vulnerable.
Loki had no tender sides, and his mistake was to expect them. Perhaps they did exist, but he was girded in light, durable armor, and even in nothing but plain cloth he would have been a hard target to hit. His skill in battle was to move quickly, nimbly, and stay always one step ahead. The strike to his middle was easily predicted, and he batted it away with the scepter, shoving its end into the opening that provided, striking the base hard into Raoul’s stomach. “Oh, from one villain to another, I couldn’t care an inch less what you do,” he confessed, wide eyed, almost apologetic. “You really think I involve myself in the romances of pathetic Vicomtes and their operatic rivals on a regular basis? I have no stake in this fight. I am doing this for the man on the other side. It is in my best interest to keep his family happy and out of arranged marriages. What you did doesn’t concern me, nor do your delusions. Who you did it to - there your error lies, and there it does become business of mine to intervene.”
Loki stepped back, giving Raoul a generous moment to recover from the strike to the stomach, flipping the scepter again. Now the sharp points of it faced out. “But enough games,” Loki said, smile twisting higher. “You claimed you could best me. I have yet to see you try. Do it for your lady love, yes? Find your strength,” he encouraged. It seemed Raoul’s opponent had a fondness for sarcasm. “If you lose, remember, you forfeit your marriage. If she is your world, and not just the only woman who would stoop to lie with you, you ought to fight like it.”
He was being toyed with. Raoul was intelligent enough to recognize that, even as the breath was shoved from him with that blow from the base of the scepter, a stumbled step backwards as Loki’s words echoed in his ears. The man was presumptuous, inserting himself in this matter as though it was something he should concern himself with. It might have been his family involved, but he saw no place for them in the decisions of adults. “You are welcome to your opinions,” Raoul said after he had caught his breath once more, straightening from the bent over posture he had taken, removing his arm from where it had wrapped protectively around his middle, warding off further attacks.
His gaze moved to the tip of the scepter, to the sharp end that was directed straight towards him, and slowly, Raoul lifted his eyes to meet Loki’s own, that twisted smile, the sharp words. “The only woman who would stoop to lie with me?” Raoul echoed, his grip tightening on the sabre in his right hand, something dark in those normally warm, blue eyes. “She is the only one I have ever loved, and she chose me just as I chose her. As for laying with her, I would not sully her reputation by sharing her bed before we were wed. I am not a barbarian. And you should not doubt my feelings for her!” Raoul rushed forward then, and unlike before, there was passion and anger behind the next volley of thrusts, swinging the blade with his entire person, the strikes carrying weight with them as he pressed forward, unafraid. Raoul was not as skilled as Loki may have been, but his fury carried him on, and he fought as though he had everything to lose.
Now, at least, the Vicomte presented a little fight, and Loki was pleased. It was obvious enough to him how this conflict would end, but it wasn't going to be any fun for him unless he managed to humiliate Raoul on the way, and that would require him throwing his all into the fight and being bested all the same. This was a battle to make a point, more than it was a duel on which both sides fought with equal fervor for some grand reward. Raoul had everything to lose - Loki was simply there for the fun, and to win himself over with the difficult man he had been saddled with.
Loki liked Raoul's passion. He liked to see him fight desperately for the girl he seemed to have decided he had a claim to. There was no joy in tormenting a man who did not care, and his anger was delightful to behold. He parried each thrust, but began backing toward the ledge. Perhaps the force of Raoul's renewed vigor was too much for him. Perhaps the love that motivated him, and his self-righteous anger at Loki's insinuations, had given him the strength to press the god all the way to the edge of the tower. Loki's foot slid back against the ledge, heel edging out over the long drop, and he set his jaw, exposing his teeth.
When Raoul fought, he fought with all that he had. There was nothing held back, and he attacked with pure emotion, raw, unbridled fury, giving just a peek at the sort of ruthlessness the young Vicomte was capable of.With each parried attack, Raoul countered with another, pushing forward, his eyes hard even as he backed Loki towards the ledge. There were no logical thoughts running through his mind, just driven purpose that was more need than any sort of intellectual desire. Raoul simply did not lose, it was not in the rule book in his life, so never could he contemplate that he would fall at this man’s feet.
When Loki’s heel shuffled over the edge of the ledge, Raoul gave him a dark grin, baring his own teeth in a way that was truly vicious. “You are not as powerful, as skilled as you made me think you were,” he said, the sabre held so that the point pressed against Loki’s chest. Just a shove, he believed, and this problem would be over.
Loki looked back at him, fear in his eyes. The end, for him. How had it come to this? He hesitated, unsure of how he possibly could have been beaten. Well, his only option now would be to yield. "I..." he said, trailing off, hand reaching out abortively for the edge of the gap in the wall.
Then his expression turned, and he tipped the scepter forward. A burst of blue energy fired from the end, hitting Raoul square in the chest. He'd used only some of its power - using much more would have disintegrated him entirely - but the force of it was enough to send Raoul skidding across the floor.
Loki let the staff hang at his side. He didn't even step forward off that precarious edge, lingering on it instead. He lifted his free hand, his long, elegant fingers closing in on one another. Raoul was lifted into the air, a bit like a puppet who'd just had his strings attached, and dragged bodily back over to the gap by an invisible force, pulling him parallel to Loki, to the edge. Then the strings dropped, went slack, and let Raoul freefall backward for a few terrifying moments before coming up short. The force, whatever it was, was attached at his wrists, and when it came taut again it did so with bruising force.
Raoul hung with the tips of his toes at the edge of the wall, and a thousand foot drop beyond.
Loki stood over him. "You may yield now," he said. His green eyes, their pupils dilated wide, looked like smooth, flat stones.
For a moment, there was victory shining in his eyes. He had won. He had bested this stranger in a match on his own territory, and it tasted sweet, this victory, dancing upon his senses. But the celebration was premature, short-lived, before the world turned on its very side and hauled him along with it. The impact against his chest from a force that was beyond his imagination, beyond his understanding, set Raoul flying backwards, the man startled enough to release the grip he had on the sabre, the black iron and ice weapon skittering away several feet. There was hardly time to respond, to even take in what had happened, before some force that he couldn’t see lifted him from the ground, and no matter how he fought, he could not escape the hold that was on him.
His heart pounded a furious pace in his chest, scrambling for whatever grip he could find, though hands closed only on air, empty and providing no support. His face was a mask of terror, pure fear showing in those dark blue eyes, lungs working overtime with the short, frantic breaths he pulled. When the force released him, there was a terrifying moment, a scream escaping him unbidden, the colour washing from his face, leaving him white as a sheet. When he finally stopped, he was breathing hard, tears tracking back towards his ears with how he hung from his arms, his shoulders aching and protesting. Never before had he felt this way, this terrified, not even when he had faced down the Opera Ghost that had terrorized their lives. But here, Raoul knew true terror, and no amount of pride would save him now.
“Please,” he stammered, tripping over the word as he stared up towards Loki, that dark stare, not yet willing to yield. “Please let me up,” he repeated, with no more confidence, but a bit more evenness in his words.
Loki looked back at him, at the tears, and felt a surge of satisfaction, visible in the way his tense shoulders smoothed out and his lips parted. Suffering was always such a balm. “You will leave here, and you will annul your pointless little charade of a marriage,” Loki informed him. “Your door will be open within the week, and when that happens, as painful as I know it can be, you will contain yourself to your own side of the door. You will stay away from the girl, Sam. You will not harm Neil, or the Opera Phantom he is on the other side. I have placed these two mortals under my protection, as they are siblings to the man I am bound to, and I seek to do what I can to keep our relationship amicable.” The unseen threads spooled loose a little further, enough lower Raoul another foot and to jostle the teardrops from the edges of his cheeks. They fell hundreds of feet down, freezing partway to the ground.
“If I hear that you have tried something else with the girl, or if you attempt retribution on the man I inhabit on the other side of that door, or if you harm his brother, I will take him over, hunt you down, and slit your throat while you sleep.” Loki lifted his chin. “Do not underestimate me, Vicomte. I am a god, but even were I a man, I could still make my way into your home under cover of darkness and kill you so quietly, so skillfully, that no one would ever find a speck of blood on your sheets.” He cupped his fingers, joints taut, as if the threads were wrapped around them, the puppetmaster of Raoul’s limbs. “Whatever else you do on your own side of your own door, I care not a whit about. Enjoy your freedom, for it will continue so long as you manage to behave. And you will behave,” he said, pulling his hand up closer to his body, tilting Raoul partway up again. “Won’t you?”
There were very few times in Raoul’s life that he had been shocked into silence, and this was one of those times. Several times he opened his mouth to respond, but when the invisible threads slackened and he fell for a heart-dropping moment, his breath rushing out of him, paling even further if that were at all possible. The man - no, god, as he called himself - had made an offer that Raoul would not have agreed to a day ago, but here, now, he saw no other choice. His lower lips wavered, slightly, before he steeled himself again for the rest of Loki’s words.
His heart beat furiously in the cage of his chest, and just as he had been with the Phantom, Raoul could feel the noose slowly tightening around his neck, though this time, it was in agreement, not physically. It hurt his pride to even think of agreeing, but Raoul did, his throat working over the lump that had risen there, the words coming out in silence before he swallowed hard. “I- I agree,” he whispered, and he closed his eyes tightly at that, his hands curling into fists where they hung at his sides. It was saying goodbye to all that he loved, all that he knew, if he were to stay away from her, and he saw no other way around this. The threat of death was one he took seriously, moreso than he ever had any of the Phantom’s threats.
Loki cast a disdainful eye on him. "Oh, please. Don't weep," he said, turning from him, walking toward the hall that led away from the tower. "You can have the girl on your own side of the door if you want her. Truly, I am being magnanimous to you. I wanted to kill you. It would have been cleaner, I'm sure you can agree, and clearly it would be all too easy to cut the cord." He looked back at him, over his shoulder. "But no. I'm glad you've decided to see things in a different light. This might be a new chapter for you."
But now Loki was almost enjoying himself too much, and he had other things to do while he was within his own realm. There were so many little errands that he trusted no one but himself to do. "You will tell them of my kindness," he said. "And humbly thank me as your god when you speak of me, for not crushing your head beneath my boot like the hollow thing it is."
Loki did not move, or gesture, but a second later, those invisible threads lifted Raoul and dragged him bodily forward, pulling him with his legs on the ground across the floor, down the hall, around the corner, and to the door, where it dropped him to crawl out on his own power.
"Think a moment on your decision, before you next challenge someone whose skills you cannot know."
He wasn’t crying, Raoul wanted to say, to argue, but it seemed a weak point to bring up in light of everything else that had just happened, all that had been said. So Raoul kept his mouth closed, swallowing back the comment in a very wise decision. And then came mention of Christine. If he wanted her. Raoul was wondering if she would want him after all that had happened, after this. But those thoughts were chased away when Loki spoke further, of the gratitude that he ought to have for him, of how easy it would have been to kill him. Raoul could swallow his pride, yes, but even he could not handle being degraded as he was then. “Then why do you not kill me?” Raoul asked, his voice thick but calm. He did not seek another fight with the man, and was wise enough to know that he was beaten. But that did not mean he would refer to the man as a god. There was only one God in Raoul’s eyes, and this man with the green eyes and horned helm was not it. No matter what the man wanted to think.
As he was dragged away from the ledge, from that terrifying drop beneath him, Raoul had a moment of thanks that he did not voice, wincing instead as he was dragged, knees scraping, and no matter how he fought, there was no freedom to be found from that invisible grip Loki had upon him. When his limbs were finally his own once more, Raoul stumbled to his feet, his knees weak, and he turned to face the man. There was so much he wanted to say, but his mouth refused to make a single sound, to utter a single word. His ego was bruised, his pride damaged, and humiliation tasted sour upon his tongue.
“Let us pray that we do not meet again, monsieur.” And with those parting words, Raoul dragged the door open and himself over the threshold, the heavy door closing loudly in his wake.