Loki | MCU (subtletrick) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2014-09-03 20:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | loki |
Who: Loki
What: Returning, ripping the hell out of his mental innards, and bleeding magic all over this bitch.
Where: Iceland!
When: aaaaaround 9pm tonight [9/3]
WHY: Reasons.
Rating/warnings: High / Pretty effing dark, brah. No legit gore/violence/etc. but a lot of mental anguish and shady wording that makes it seem darker and.... yeeee
Notes: LOOK GUYS I'M NOT KEEPING HIM DEAD, see how lovely and nice I am?!!
The space between death and returning to life was ...unmemorable. Just like last time, he remembered nothing. If there was any afterlife - Valhalla, Hel, or perhaps even a return to his original reality - it was ripped from his memory the second his eyes opened again. Breath forced itself into his lungs almost explosively. He was disoriented, but that was nothing new - the last time, he had been, as well. This time, though, he was not certain he could believe what his eyes were telling him. This place was not the forest. This was not the games. This was... home? Iceland. He was on the floor in the attic, in his study. He could breathe, and move. Sitting up, his hand automatically reached for the bite-wound on his leg - it was not there. His skin was clean and unbroken, no grotesque swelling, no blackening veins standing out against his fair skin. He was whole. He was home.
He was alive, and he was home.
How had..?
The very next second, before his breaths were even beginning to even out and before his heart rate had reduced to something other than a mad racing, everything near him seemed to glow - a rippling burn-shimmer from within, twisting and warping every tiny piece of every item he could see, shredding it slowly, particles drifting in the air, everything shrouded in the green-gold light from nowhere and everywhere all at once. There was a howling sound - not a sound. There was just... a howling, somewhere between his mind and the outside. Inaudible but distinctly there, resonating in his mind like it was supposed to be a sound. It was like agony, and it made his breath - still ragged to begin with - catch with the rawness of it. The temperature in the room dropped even as everything burned, and tiny hair-thin ice tendrils were creeping across his skin, the only thing untouched by the shimmering devastation.
It took him a long moment to understand that all of this was him - that his magic had returned, his powers and his magic and his; that this was his doing. Once he realized it, however, it was more than simple to see it. He was bleeding magic everywhere. He had spent years carefully cultivating defenses and mazes and traps and barriers around the knowledge and the power he kept inside of him - and now they had been shredded. He had done that, he realized, piecing bits of his walls back together - it had happened the moment he had awakened. It had not been some grand plot by that place, and it had not been simply the lack of his magic - he had lost that, before, under other circumstances, and he had been fine. This ... this had been self-mutilation. This had been his own hand tearing at these walls, setting off all the trip-wires and traps there to destroy anyone who tried to control him - set them all off against himself; he’d thrown open the floodgates and left himself to drown.
He had to work quickly. He turned himself inwards, stopping up the leaks where he could, patching holes and resetting traps, covering the wounds he’d created with thin layers of protection where there should have been thick stone walls. He would still be bleeding - he would be a beacon to anyone able to sense magic or the injuries he’d just created, blood in the water... - but he had to do what he could before this became too much. He could not allow someone to get hurt - to hurt - because of his own inability to handle his resurrection and his own power.
How had he done this? Why? His best guess was simply that he had been fighting against whatever had stolen his magic - against the Seal itself, perhaps - fighting for access without realizing it - and now that he had it back, now that he could touch it, he’d simply broken everything. A giant in a hall of mirrors. He’d always been the careful one, Thor was the reckless one who broke everything he touched, swinging that damned hammer around and swords before that and even earlier, sticks. Loki rarely broke things - at least, not because of sheer reckless carelessness...
Desperation, though... Loki was always good at desperation. At tearing through barriers to
By the time he had created enough of a barrier around himself to staunch some of the bleeding, he was shaking - exhausted. It would take more energy than he had, presently, to properly recreate the original structures... even to simply properly patch the remains of what he had once build would be too much. He had done what he could, though - nothing was glowing, anymore. Nothing was permanently damaged, the magic reverting everything to the way it had been as it retreated back into him. He was certain that outpouring had not gone unnoticed - how could it have? - and that it was, more likely than not, painful for the others... but he could do nothing about that. He could only do his best to avoid allowing it to overwhelm him again. A slow leaking was better than the torrent that had taken place moments ago.
Loki pushed himself to his feet, standing in the attic study that was familiar and, normally, one of the safest places he was aware of - but presently he still felt as though he were hunted. As though something was going to slip out from the shadows and destroy him while he was vulnerable. He was not certain anywhere was safe, at the moment. Not as he was, bleeding bright and loud, a trail behind him that anything with any degree of power that was hunting him would be able to see clear as day. He knew, rationally, that it was unlikely that the Games had followed him here. This world did not work that way. Things rarely followed them back - he’d been to several realities and each time, those realities had remained where they belonged. Only he came back.
He was not the only one who came back, though. Not this time. At least, it was unlikely that he was. His phone appeared in his hand before he had time to think about summoning it to him, and he grimaced - his magic was too close. The barriers were too thin. Sooner or later, he was going to spill over again. He had to be careful. His fingers played across the screen of the phone, checking the recent updates to the message board that was a constant in this reality. Skimming. Others had returned. He did not see Grant Ward’s information displayed, but he was sure the man was here, somewhere. Unfortunately. Probably extremely smug about having won out over him, deceived the deceiver and watched him die slowly...
...he banished the thought before his anger could overpower him, magic at the edges of his touch already, threatening to destroy the object in his hand. He paced as he continued to skim the board’s recent posts, gritting his teeth and trying not to feel like there were eyes on his back - the unseen and unblinking eyes of cameras and those behind them who wished for nothing more than to kill him as creatively as possible.
OOC: TL;DR: Loki came back from the dead, aaaaaand accidentally ripped down all his mental defenses/control because whoops. All psychics/magic-users/etc. feel free to hate every life decision you've ever made that led you to feeling the result of this small isolated shitstorm. If you are for some reason in Iceland, you are also getting to hear a psychic screaming, aaaand a lot of things in your vicinity are glowing and disintegrating for a few minutes there.