|Loki | MCU (subtletrick) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2012-04-27 19:22:00
|Entry tags:||darcy lewis, loki|
Who? Loki & Darcy
What? Dealing with Pestilencey stuff.
When? This evening.
WHY???? Because of reasons.
Status: Unfinished / in-progress
It had only taken two days - almost three, but that almost was not so much a comfort as it perhaps should have been - before Loki was unable to hide that something was wrong any longer. At first, he had simply brushed off the gaps in his memory, the botched spells, the strangely uncoordinated movements of his hands - it was nothing, of course he wasn’t sick, he didn’t get sick. It was nothing.
It wasn’t nothing - his internet searches for the strange symptoms he was experiencing had told him that much. As far as he was able to tell based on the information he was able to access, he had a disease that would essentially strip him of brain function until he was useless and bedridden, and then he would die. It was not the dying that upset him - it seemed strangely ridiculous to be concerned about it, somehow. Perhaps because it would take so long - at least, ordinarily it would; he supposed it was advancing faster, in him, than normal, but his best estimate still put death at least a month away, and surely by then the enemy causing this would be vanquished. So death, itself, was not really what had him worried.
Rather, he simply didn’t know how much of the damage this disease was doing to him would leave when Pestilence was removed. Would he return to normal? Or was this - absent of mind, lacking in control, clumsy in movements - the new normal? The thought was nearly unbearable. His magic was full of flaws and holes because his memory and his power were failing him; his hands weren’t suited to set a table, let alone work with a knife, or ink out delicate spell-work.
How much would he forget? The internet had informed him that recent memories were what went first - but with a mind like Loki’s, as old as he was, what counted as ‘recent’? How long before he forgot why he was here, who he was with, before he reverted back to the bitter second prince of Asgard with nothing to live for but the hope that someone would see him?
How long before even that was erased, and he was a mindless vegetable in a chair?
He had to keep reading the page over and over, facts slipping like sand - like mist, clinging just enough to remind him that it had been there, just enough that he knew he was forgetting something. He had to be careful, avoiding letting Darcy see what he was looking at... it was not easy. Especially not here, without much by way of diversion for her. If they had been in Lawrence, he could have simply retreated and known she would find some way to entertain herself as she always did. Of course, had they been in Lawrence, Darcy would have been dying, so if Darcy being somewhat bored was the best alternative, so be it.
He had thought he would be fine, that he could keep playing it off as normally as possible - until this afternoon, when he’d unexpectedly found himself miles from where he was supposed to be, alone and completely unsure as to how he had arrived there. He didn’t remember casting a spell, and he didn’t remember walking there - the last thing he could remember, he had been sitting at the table, with...
...Darcy. Her name was Darcy... Darcy Lewis. They’d been having lunch. He couldn’t remember what they’d had for lunch. It wasn’t important, he knew it wasn’t, but he hated not knowing. He hated all of this. He’d returned, but it had taken some time to remember which direction he was supposed to be heading, a frustratingly long amount of time. He knew this was wrong - unnatural - that he was more intelligent than this, but knowing he was supposed to know did not actually change anything. Upon his return, upon seeing Darcy’s worried eyes, he’d admitted, somewhat moodily - short and snappish tone he rarely used with her - that perhaps he was not all right after all.
Then he’d retreated to the attic as soon as she’d allowed it, and been there since, alternating between trying to write down everything he could remember, and realizing just how many holes there were in his memory, when it was laid out in front of him in black ink, the lines and strokes of a pen (a modern pen; it was difficult enough to use these, he did not wish to chance spilling or smudging actual ink using a quill) spelling out how broken he was more clearly than he’d expected.
The sound of a light footfall on the stairs made him start. He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone - stupid, of course he wasn’t alone, why would he be alone? He closed the book and waved a hand, instinctive magic flaring around him as he tried to seal it - only for it to disappear, and he stared in confusion for a long moment at the empty place on the table where the book had been moments ago. He would have to figure out where he’d sent it, later, but for now... He looked back up at the girl in the doorway. Darcy. The girl he loved, the mortal he had swept away to save. He managed a smile, though it felt somewhat forced and weak - it was for her benefit, though, so he did not let it drop even though he wanted to.
“Did you need something, my love?”