Life's Lie

Their tails swished eagerly as they grew increasingly acquainted with the old god before them.  Before him, they wondered if they appeared as pups before him.  Though even as pups, many lessons had already been learned.  Of the things that came to define their beings, the brothers had risen into wisdom beyond their years—though they were few in the contrast to many.

Even as pups, their father had told tales of the Ironwoods, but their caution of the Æsir kept them from entering its holdings.  They feared of entering the realm and thus, the place of birth of their father.  From the tightened grip of the old god on their fur, the brothers wordless pressed their noses into him—breathing in his scent and understanding the ache the took him.

So complete was their embrace that a flicker of will easily consumed their shared forms, sedir contorting world and sense in an moment of flux that sent reason fleeing. Gone were the iced peaks of man, the earth's cool, temporal holdings vanished in a moment - replaced instead by the feral rumblings of a world most ancient. 

Ymir's first sons rose in the towering monsters of rock and ice and consumed the horizon, they sang in the oceans that kissed the base of great ranges. They rustled in the tundras winds, shaking with unbridled delight amongst the bows of the Ironwood. Round them rose the trunks of trees weathered and old, older still than the god which had bore them to fruition. They were the cradle of Angrboda, the birth place of father, of aunt and of uncle. They were the home the pups had never been gifted.

Blood already clouded imaginings, the cold steel carving jaw and stare leaving little fantasy to the thoughts. She seemed a thing of bite even if stature and victimization would paint her the lesser of the violently joined duo.

It was the aires of separation - of courtesy tearing conversation to shreds as if in fear of some sliver of connection - that drove his nerves dry. There was nothing more exhausting than playing a role well worn in and amongst those who themselves dawned masks of a thiner sort, tiring to see but not be seen. 

She kept on moving, winding up on her steady way to seat of power like a clock without hands while he spits words with the conviction of a fire spitting sparks.

                                                                                                        “Aye, I find myself worthy and as so alone among those who’d think to claim it. Once great Odin in his eld imagined all his foolishness to be wisdom and in his pride came near to Asgard’s destruction. The elder prince moons after a fragile glass realm like a lovesick maid and the younger dead—-though living makes him no more suitable. The Nine no longer need protecting, it is policing they require. I alone can make Asgard mighty again and I shall.”

Nothing truly had been shirked in the assembly of directive that had premeditated what was now a realm with it’s foundations trembling. The motives that had always been lodstones faithfully borne by Asgard’s most reverent of worshipers still held just as tightly, but somewhere between disillusionment and frustration they’d become swords rather than shackles, turned back on he who’d bestowed them.

For anyone else it would have been mere internal rebellion, but this was Sif. This was War Goddess. This was the Realm Eternal’s red right swordhand run riot, the brutal fierce battlemaid who proved herself wolf instead of hunting hound. This was devotion in it’s darkest calibration, like an over protective lover will make care a violent canvas. This was woman with conquest like liquid mercury curling into her as if claiming its fated home, welcoming the prodigal daughter who had run at last short of patience.

Had he not been threatened with that evil for an age now? Had it not bore upon his mind with the sick trappings of persistent infection, dominating thought and reason with a cruel abandon?

At the first taste of true agony he had been breathless with the hurt for it had cut deep - deeper than he had known nerves traveled. It had sliced through present and past, distorting memory, polluting joy. It was as if peace had turned acrid in his bones, gagging the balance that had graced all the days before. The balance who's absence would plague all the days to come. 

Thinking on that first abuse now, armed in the full context of travesties myriad and terribly inventive, the god could not help but mourn the purity of grief he had known in that moment. How beautifully clear it seemed, the aggressor blatant, the victim blameless. All of it marked in the classic tropes. All of it set, divided to roles that he could grasp, that he could understand even through the haze. In the moment it had seemed as if the world had turned to ash, that the smoke billowed skyward - obliterating any guide or mark. That blaze had been but a spark compared the inferno that waited, lurking.

That she would threaten him with pain, that she would think blade or bone would compel him to fear - to action - it sent rage sparking. The loss of the crown, the bloodying of the realm's people, the ravages of tradition which stretched to the dawn of gods, none of it had raised ire. For none of it had been his - this gilded world was but a prize of spite. Where once it had been home now it stood as little more than a ruin of memory, kept to lessen the wounds that growled, ever present. All that he had loved was gone, dead long before the warrior's blade took root. No, her aggressions had not burned him.

Her threats, however.

The proper patronymic for a child of Loki is Lokason/Lokadóttir, not Lokison/dóttir. If you click here and scroll down a bit, there’s a small chart with the proper form (and what letter is changed and what it’s changed to).

Einmyria and Eisa are not the children of Loki and he and Glut were never married. You’re thinking of Logi, a fire giant who was often mixed up with the God of mischief but are, I assure you, two different beings.

If Laufey is Loki’s mother, the proper matronymic is Laufeyjarson, the -jar indicating that Laufey is his mother. Fárbautason would be his patronymic (the “i” changing to an “a”).

Some may notice that Uni’s matronymic is Frigguson and may proclaim things such as “but that’s not right”. First off, it’s very right. It’s actually the correct form of it. However, Friggjarson is acceptable (not entirely right, but it certainly passes). Friggason is not.

Loki didn’t fuck a rock.

Loki’s hair is not red canonically in the myths. It’s a common UPG; the myths don’t actually ever say what color his hair is. In fact, he’s been shown in artworks as having a multitude of different hair colors (from black to blonde to red to brown) and you have to remember he’s a shapeshifter, so I’m certain it’s not impossible for him to change his hair color. That being said, his eye color is not known, either (a lot of myths describe them as changing colors when under heightened emotion).

           Loki

It faulters her advance — the one thing that could have; surprise sinking teeth into her veins Sif stiffened almost imperceptibly. Hardly a reaction per se in the satisfactory sense, but tantamount to one if you were at all versed in the chapter and verse of Sif’s expressions. Tortoise shell iris dilated with the snatched out glance that was assessment and ill-formed comprehension. But the caustic mixture of reaction is short lived, fasting bleeding into of course and the odd urge to laugh (sharp, vicious, not without humor, but sans any warmth) . This wasn’t the first time he’d dancing kissing close to death only to turn up in least predicted place, untouched by the dry cold of Hel with smug-bright eyes and smile that slid up at corners, laughing-mischief.

    Nothing had changed. In a (simpler?) age which might as well have been a lifetime ago, this would all have been simple and near wordless. The mobile man stilled, the still woman in motion: fists from the latter and freelance fricatives from the former.                Everything had changed.

 And Sif slides the kind of look that pares skin away from bone all along the length of him.

                                                                                                              "It makes then two father’s you have slain, does it not? Patricide becomes you." So mild she could have been commenting on cloud patterns on a sunny day rather than the wrongness of whats implied by words, by deception, by his very presence atop dais reserved for Asgard’s ruling body. Same dais that she resumed her implacable ascent up the steps of.

Had her harrows of need matched his own, had she imagined herself deserving by some birthright, by some injustice? He could not see such a thing as truth, could not imagine that even insanity could draw barren the duty, the honor, which the warrior held so dear. No, this was a quest of purpose, twisted, perverted in some vital way yes but purpose nonetheless.

A step forward, leather upon stone, radiating outwards through the silence. The din that had lapped upon the gates now quieted, a victory imminent, doom of one order impending at the dawn of another. A staff shifted from one palm to the next, an easy transition, a habit soon to be denied its tool. 

'Fathers they were not, one bore me to abandon in the heat of war, the other sought to play me a pawn then leave me used, little more than collateral in the skirmish of worlds.' A shake of head. Even as death threatened, true and swift at this hour more so than at most, he could nto let such titles as that fall upon unworthy shoulders, 'Name me king slayer, if you must, but only that.' 

Yet, there was no need to listen to the idle chatter swimming in her head, not when flesh took what was due to it many times ago. She groaned at the mouth that ravaged hers, that stole every breath from her and bruised her now swollen lips. Limbs trembling to keep from falling apart, aching to be touched, to be bruised, to be loved in the only way chaos could love. Craving destruction, craving depravity, wanting those teeth to burden her with his demanding kisses and sinful bites. 

Legs wrapped around him, leaving the solidarity of earth and reality to lean completely on the troublesome creature, lost perhaps as much as she was- finding themselves in the sickness they loved and despised at the same time. Such a sickness not many stayed for- they knew each other far deeper than could be expected from beings of different realms. 

The animal that savaged with abandon, that called with a voice clear enough to silence the noise - the doubts, the distractions. A call that resounded in blood, blooming and beckoning and bettering. The animal untamed, defiant against bought after bought of sedative. The animal that arched rage against convention. 

The animal that thrashed in his grasp, that had sought this in some base, unconscious way. The animal that flared in her eyes, finally.

In a breath they were turned once more, dark palms pressed against marble, legs kicked wide in a single deft stroke. Braced against the stone, back arching as his grasp fell to swaying hips, a single tear casting fabric aside, rendering it ruined. Fingers fell then, settling on screaming nerves, taunting steady, unrelenting. A free grasp rose, locking round the curve of throat, drawing an unsteadied form back so that balance and weight leaned wholly on his frame. 

So that she had to embrace the hold or fall.