Loki | MCU (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} subtletrick) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} wariscoming,@ 2012-09-28 21:56:00 |
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What? Mountain-top sunset-watching/stargazing/hugs, angst, etc.
Where? Random mountain with an awesome view.
When? Backdated to last night.
Why? Because of reasons.
Whaadfhndflhkdfnhldkfh? ...no, Erin. Stop.
Rating? Nothing terrifying here!
The lack of a cruel, cold (literally and figuratively) spirit following him did not completely make the events of the last two weeks any less distressing. He had spent a great deal of time alone, and even now that he was able to be around Darcy without fearing that Laufey would turn her blood to ice or something equally horrifying, even with her curled up at his side at night, he still felt the isolation's lingering effects. He did not feel relaxed, anymore - the thin tremor of distress inside was not going away.
Laufey's presence had made the Casket's voice louder; no distinct words, just a whisper, a singing not unlike the sound he could catch the faintest traces of when his brother held Mjolnir; magic woven together so skillfully that it lived and breathed, a melody tied to the one who held the weapon. Loki wanted nothing to do with this, though; where Mjolnir's song - what little he could ever catch of it - was a warm, inspiring sound, the Casket's was cold and tempting, a lure of bright power with its edges steeped in darkness. It had been quieter, before - now, it was whispering it's song to him any time he reached into the spaces in-between.
Needy's recent spiral into what seemed to be a self-destructive coping mechanism did nothing to help matters. Nor did the sudden betrayal of Ares; Loki was certain, now, that he should have seen it coming. Morgana's revelation that she shared this burden was working to counter-balance the distressing lack of faith he was beginning to have in his ability to hold out; it was a dizzying mix, the determination and crippling sense of futility that he was trying to swim through.
Darcy was the brightest thing he had to focus on, and even that did not come without it's own complications. The sheer intensity of his affection for her was a problem all its own - the degree to which he cared about her was dangerous. He did not know what he would do if something took her from him - or if she decided she was done with him. He knew himself well enough to know that he was volatile, that his hurt turned into anger - that his anger was deadly.
That his anger was often turned against those he loved, those he felt wronged by.
Were he wise, he supposed, this would be the time to create distance, before he became any more attached to her than he was. Or perhaps it was already too late, after all; the mere idea of hurting her, even to preserve her, was crippling.
He needed her. He could not simply give her up.
She had been unhappy, this past two weeks - not his fault, directly, but a direct result of her involvement with him. The previous time something of this nature had happened, he'd had to tear her away from Lawrence in an effort to save her, only to leave her stranded in Iceland while he slowly lost his mind. Before that, his alternate self had hurt her, locked her in traumatizing nightmares for days.
It would always be like this. Was he truly selfish enough to allow it to continue?
He had found this spot last night, the edges of the sun turning the mountainside gold, orange, brilliant red, as the sun went down, the water in the distance sending rippling, shattered reflections across the cliffs. It was quiet - there was no one for miles, no roads or the sounds of traffic or planes, no street lights to ruin the view of the stars, once the sun dipped below the horizon.
This is where he brought her, conjuring a heavy, dark violet cloak from the space in-between (the Casket's whispering song dragged along the edges of his skin like the scrape of ice shards, not cutting, just there, just tracing across skin) to drop across her shoulders as they arrived, to protect her from the chill of the cool mountain air. He said nothing as he reached out to secure the tie that held the fabric in place, eyes on the clasp rather than on her - there was a twisting sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, because for all that he wished for nothing more than to hold her close, he felt as if she would soon be gone, as if doing so would only make it worse when she was.