loki. (misrule) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2013-03-25 21:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, loki (mcu), sif (mcu) |
who: Sif & Loki
where: Loki's quarters
when: Uhh, let's say a week or so ago!
what: Sentiment.
rating: PG13 for some mild violence
“I have not the patience to wait for your superior to allow me access to he who has been my friend and companion since before your people crossed the land bridge and settled in their thatched huts awaiting the day that shipwrights developed enough skill to sail the oceans and find new lands to conquer. I am not concerned by your concerns.” Sif, whose arched brow was a precursor to a flick of her wrist as she swiftly side-passed the SHIELD agent guarding Loki, unlocked the door to his cell.
The bolt and tumblers rattled ominously, a sound not unlike the thunder which was the prelude to Thor’s presence, and she shook her head once before letting her gaze alight upon Loki. There was no need to fear him, stripped of power as he was, and though compassion pricked at the base of her heart she swallowed it to offer her greeting. You are pale and sick at heart. Anyone with powers of observation could see that you suffer and because they want to enact their vengeance upon you, they let you languish.
“The pallor upon your brow does not favor you.”
Silence was her return greeting as Loki looked up from his work, face half-obscured by the wretched gag that stilled his tongue. Taunting SHIELD agents that rose from the dead did not come without its price, nor did taunting SHIELD agents that stood guard, though his restlessness of late made such humiliating penalties worth their irritating weight.
Of course, the temporary shut down on all modes of communication grew burdensome after a (too short) while. All alone in his quarters, the silence in which he was held thrall scratched across his consciousness like a shallow wound that festered by leaps and bounds. There was nothing worse for a creature so suited for chaos than the absence of other. Even the smaller version of himself would have been a blessed distraction.
Sif, however. He turned from the book, brow contracting as he took in her appearance (there would have been a smile beneath the metal).
Here, a crinkle at the corner of his eye might mean sorcerous intent or a malevolent purpose to any such inhabitant of Midgard but Sif knew how to gauge Loki. “Ah, you are under chastisement and your jailers seek to teach you the way of obedience.” She sat next to him, leaning forward to disengage the locking mechanism at the joint of his jaw on either side. The finely wrought metal gag fell away in her hand and she sat it aside.
“What a hopeless pursuit.”
His voice, when it came, was thin and dry from disuse. “They are dull and slow to learn.” His hands, coupled together by clasps of similar make, rose as one to gently massage his jaw, then fell away to close the book. How to explain that the rifts caused by the Tesseract affected him in ways that not even this specially designed cage could dampen? How to say that even despite the crackle of energy, solitude and silence weighed heavily? He felt old. Brittle.
“What do you want from me? Thanks?”
“They are cowed by fear.” The SHIELD agents were rank with it; something beat at the corner of their perception, eating away at the peace that locking Loki away might have accomplished. But here he was. She looked briefly at her hands before, curiously, her fingertips played along the manacles which held his wrists alevel.
“If you do not wish for company, I can certainly leave.”
“Stay.” More imperious than plea, though plea it was. The humans were boring in their fear-coloured bravado as they stood watch; Thor, when he came (less and less often these days) sickening in his misplaced intentions. Loki would have liked to see the dead man -- soon, perhaps.
“How find you this place?”
“I find it to be … Midgard.” This realm, so beloved by Thor, had oft managed to frustrate Sif. The emphasis on peace (particularly in this new age) or the semblance of such left her smarting for meaningful combat. Wars were not only armies pitted against armies -- wars were words and deeds -- but this new Midgard had the art of deception that left her soured. “The mere semblance of peace. They clamour for authority beneath.”
Sitting against the wall, her lips quirked into the faintest of smiles before she turned to him. “Those pulled through the Tesseract are all varying levels of interesting, though I do think that there are certain contingents who ought to be sent back.”
His fingers drummed, one-two, against the surface of the table. “Perhaps it gathers these...” The quirk of his lips was a reflection of Sif’s. “These heroes in preparation for a great cull.” A shrug, as though to say it’s what I would do -- but then, he wasn’t running the show anymore (or had he ever?).
“Midgard has always been tiresome. The allure of worship died long ago.”
“Oh did it?” Sif rolled her eyes. “Your actions have me fooled, Loki. I should think that your desire for a race of worshipful mortals died but when you were beaten into the ground by the Midgardian with the gamma sickness.”
It was a stepping stone. Sif’s intent was clear enough: annoyance stung him, sticking in the back of his throat as he forced himself to display some semblance of a smile. Not, of course, that it would fool her -- they had all but grown up together, gone on misadventures together as she’d earned her status as shieldmaiden and he as prince. Sif, he knew, was quite familiar with many of his idiosyncrasies.
“That one is no mere mortal. But yes, it was. Seems they were more pliant all those centuries ago.”
Walking under the sky with the blessed light of the sun upon their faces would have been a coup compared to these small favours. But in place of a physical spar, she supposed the verbal was all he had, and it would not do to deprive him of it entirely. The Destroyer yet thickens my throat and makes me long to strike you where you sit. Her jaw tightened for one brief moment before relaxing.
Sif knew that if her focus slipped, he would storm through the gap in her defenses and all of the bravado which won her time with him would be for naught.
“When one finds animal skins and fire a blessing …” she trailed off, then. A breath. “Have you finished, Loki? Are you done with these bonds? The word from Asgard dictates that we ensure our own, even as we keep watch and protect.”
Loki’s gaze dropped so as to better study his hands, white and thin in this light. Yet they could still grasp a sceptre, a spear, a knife; they could draw runes in the air and capture strands of power, weaving them into the sorcery he was infamous for amongst their people.
“You forgive me, then?”
“Do you want it?” she asked him, turning to ease her palm against his cheek and turn his gaze to meet her own. This had to be a ruse. She did not trust earnest behaviour from him, though she desperately wished it was just such enough that he could go free without being thusly shackled.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
He met her gaze boldly, without flinching away as she delivered the final two words. I wished only to further the glory of Asgard was an old argument, much abused by him. To destroy our enemies and return those who are inferior to proper submission. No -- such words would not go down well with Sif.
His fingers brushed lightly against her wrist. “When?” How?
“When --” When I am satisfied that your overwhelming self-love will not mean the death of Thor, Volstagg, Fandral and Hogun. As if he could freeze her with his touch (his parentage finally unobscured by the magic of the Allfather), her palm remained placed gently upon his cheek. “I do not know.”
“But it is not inconceivable, your forgiveness.” Touch still light, a forefinger idly traced a symbol on the inner aspect of her wrist. He could not do much whilst held by these manacles, but this, perhaps... “You are wise.”
“You are very confident, Loki …” and before her hand could drift to her lap, his fingertip upon her skin brought the ice careening down the length of her spine. Her eyes hollowed out, focus indistinct and waiting as her lips parted slightly. Sif’s breath rattled against her breastplate.
“Yes.”
Another rune, just as soft, joined the first. “I was angry with Thor,” he said, as though this would excuse the Destroyer’s path of wreckage. “And you, for the disobedience. At the Allfather, for his lies.” I am still angry.
“Your anger --” The adjoining rune seemed to cut her off; the next syllable died upon her lips before she brought her hand away from his face and rose, arms loose at her side. There was a depthless field to her vision as she gazed at an indistinct point over Loki’s shoulder.
Then -- “What do you wish of me?”
Curious, this. He hadn’t expected the magic, faint as it was, to take hold so quickly. Then again, everything was different thanks to the Tesseract. Loki let his hands settle on the tabletop, gaze upon Sif, keeping her in close study.
Then: “Nothing yet.”
Her unblinking eyes finally focused on him; at ease, his composure feline and academic. The bile rose, demanding answers of this magic. And yet … she swallowed, lips quirked in that tell-tale crooked smile.
“I await your pleasure.”
“Indeed.” And suddenly, his face split in a grin bordering on the garish as he leaned back upon his chair, letting his hands now fall onto his lap, fingers drumming softly against his thighs. “-- not yet.”
The fine line of Sif’s brow contracted as he grinned and she took a step forward, her palms resting upon the table between them. “Yes, my prince. We shall do as we may. Only --” And her spine straightened, eyes once again going indistinct before she again focused upon him.
“To keep the ruse, may I recommend re-fixing your gag. I mustn’t tarry long for fear that your brother would suspect.”
Let him. A lock of hair fell loose against his cheek as he gave a slight shake of his head, finality a flat note in his voice as he replied, “No. I think I prefer it off. You can tell him I convinced the Midgardians to remove it.” A metallic rattle as he gave his wrists a shake. “I’ll leave these on.”
“Very well.” She half-turned to reach for the door and with her hand upon the lock, looked back to him. His magic churned within her, a miasmatic fist bearing down upon her heart. “Stay your restlessness, I will not be gone long, Loki.”
Then with several swift motions, the lock was disengaged and she stepped through the open space, only to close it again and address the guards with a tone that rang with authorial clarity.
“Do not go in alone.”
Curiosity swam in gentle ripples beneath his skin, but Loki -- on occasion -- could practice the art of patience. The walls and doors of his domain were thick, heavy, soaking up the sounds of the outside world; Sif’s words to the guards were lost to him, as were her following actions. Loki was left alone with his thoughts and interest in what she would do with the suggestion of sorcery upon her, the only hint of any agitation the tattoo the tips of his fingers played out against the seamless surface of the table.
When the door swung open again, his gaze was predator-quick, flicking up to meet her.
As promised, Sif’s return was swift. An hour, no more, and sweat stained her brow. With hair hung limp in her face and head bowed, she stood in the doorway, spear gripped tightly. One breath, then two: “Potts Tower is on lock down. Thor and the Warriors Three are neutralized; SHIELD will not be an issue. You and I will take the Tesseract and flee Midgard.”
With swiftly executed movement, Loki dropped his ankle from his knee and rose to his feet. Sight of the infamous spear brought the grin spreading across his face once again, and though he would have liked nothing more than to close his palms around the slim hilts of his daggers (appropriated by Sif, no less), he turned his attention instead to: “Thor and the Three? How?”
“Your sorcery is powerful, my prince.” As Loki rose, she stepped around the table within arm’s reach of him and finally let her gaze rest upon he who had been both her prince, her confidant and her friend. Betrayal sparked in the grey depths -- the cold frost of anger that he had to recognise -- and with a cry the blunt edge of the spear sought first the backs of his knees and then the hollow of his throat.
“But it is not powerful enough for me.”
There was recognition -- and then there was the floor, a wheeze of startled laughter escaping him, only to be cut off by the pressure of the weapon against his neck. A hand wrapped around it, but he did not exert the pressure necessary to move it. Instead: “Oh, very good, Sif. I was wondering.”
“Wonder no more.” The spear was easily relegated to her back as she fell upon him, her fingertips seeking out the same hinge of each jaw to bring his head up and then knock it against the floor. Then, again. Stop talking. Stop it, stop it now. She stilled, then beared down upon him.
“I would have gone to great lengths for you. I would have held tight to that, despite even the Destroyer. It did not require sorcery.”
The strength of another Asgardian meant his vision swam and pain spread across his skull as he was brought down hard against the floor -- but the laughter, though reedier than it had been a moment before, remained. Now I know. You are like Thor: weakened by emotion.
“Would have,” he began, sucking in a breath. Eyes narrowed as he struggled to keep her in his focus. “But did not.”
Though her arms sang for further violence, she stayed herself with a final fist cracking against the floor near his temple. “No, Loki. Had. Will.”
She rose slowly, foot holding him against the ground for a moment before she reached down to offer him her hand. No more tricks. “I will not feign grandiloquent moralization by suggesting that you ought to seek forgiveness, only that I do not require manipulation to love you.”
“I do not need forgiveness,” was, by now, reflex, half-spat despite the lingering -- if dazed, lopsided -- grimace of a smile on his face. “I do not need your love.” I want it. A beat, then he slapped her hand away, then her foot, electing to roll onto his side, dizziness gripping him before, with a grunt, he pushed himself to his knees.
“Did not,” he repeated after a moment.
She shook her head as he slapped her away. “Tell Thor.” Turning from him, she picked the gag up and then placed it on the table with his books before the spear shot out to bar him from the open door. A minute prick of guilt gave her half a blink. “Your activities, inasmuch as they endangered Asgard, are all that concern me. Since you do not need my love.” Then --
“It is nothing to alienate yourself from me. I know.”
“You know nothing.” It was easy to fall into this anger, the low-grade, festering heat of it a comfort of sorts. “You disobeyed me. You sought him out before the time was right. You disobeyed your king. If that is love, then I reject it.” His hands found the back of his abandoned chair, gripping it tightly as he fought to steady himself.
“Then I know nothing,” she said, her knuckled white upon the spear’s leather handgrip. She wanted to help him but compassion was the weakness of her woman’s heart. Her lips pursed. “Because you lied, Loki, and you wore your wounds upon your tunic as a badge. For all your sorcerous arts, it was easy to see for those who knew where and how to look.”
Then -- “Should I have trusted you when you levied your own grievous wounds upon your brother at the expense of the realm? No, Loki. For all the love -- I care not what you call it -- I bear you, Asgard will stand until you bring the final war upon us.”
“It was the Allfather’s lesson; I merely executed his will.” Curious how the desire to lash out and kick the chair that now supported him into the wall -- this was an act befitting Thor, not Loki, and yet the patience he could exercise was sorely tested by this sentence he now served. And the thought of it disgusted him -- what was he if not a creature different than Thor?
“Love.” Even the word tasted metallic. “You Asgardians -- your love is always built upon conditions. I do not know much of love, but even I think that that cannot be correct.”
As he spoke, she found her lip curling. Loki, for all of his understanding and all of his long-forgetting, hadn’t the ability to see beyond the betrayal of others. I see your hurt. I see your pain and I raise it tenfold. Bring the world down around us, but do not fall to this.
“Is not yours? You loved me once. For all your protestations, you are of Asgard. I do not see you in the guise of those who you would feign call yours, Loki.”
“-- they are not mine,” was hot across his lips, damnable defensive reflex that always managed to eat through the iron-clad control like insidious rust. “I reject them.” I wanted to wipe them from the universe. “I rejected them. This is the only guise I know.”
“Correct. We are yours --” I -- It was a weakness; a thought better met by women with lesser heart. So Sif, with her wariness swept aside for the moment, bent to brush a dry, chaste kiss against his lips. She smiled then, quietly --
“If your enchantments were to fail, sometimes I imagine that my hair would change. I am glad of the strength of them; I am glad that we match.” A pause. “But here, if you use me ill again … “ Her chin tilted up and forehead drew back to strike the soft place at the bridge of his nose.
It did not break, not quite, but the pain of such a strike was almost blinding, and a hiss escaped him even as he caught himself from a backwards stagger by fastening his hands around the base of her neck. That was the sharp alkalinity of blood in his mouth -- cold, undeniably cold.
He would mull over the meaning of her words -- now we match -- in the long hours of solitude, but now?
A vicious wrench brought her near, and as his eyes went red and the white of his skin dissolved into that loathed blue, he kissed her with none of her cool, dry dignity. His hands were tight. A whisper of a snarl: “Now do we match?”
It was a risk. It was always a risk as they built tension between one another, spiralling for their ground could never be level, not they who knew all too well what it meant to be other in the Halls of Asgard. Even if Loki’s predilections and parentage set him apart, so did Sif’s gender and her natural talents in such a way that it came to define them both in a world where Thor and Fandral were the norm.
His kiss was ice; his kiss was the searing burn of the glaciers as they collided and she disengaged with a hard push to his shoulders. Breathing heavy, the back of her hand against her lips, she waited until the feeling returned to her skin. A burn, yes. But not so cold as your fellows. I remember them well.
“How like you to forget,” she finally rasped. “We always did.”
As she spoke, as she collected herself, Loki took a slow step back, made the slow walk back to his chair, the deep marine hues of his skin fading into the pale until he was once more like himself, gaze no longer coloured by the blood-like stare of the giants that had plagued Midgard until Asgard intervened with all of its imperious wrath. There was blood on face, tracking down from his nose and into his mouth; he ignored it, choosing instead to pin his attention on Sif for these last few moments.
“Get out.”
“With a good will,” she hissed back, her narrowed eyes drinking in the subtle variants of Loki pre-transformation and post-transformation. How had she not noticed the deepening circles under his eyes and the gaunt hollow of his cheek? Leave it, Sif.
Then she turned and, with a slide of glass and a roll of tumblers, was gone.