✧ EXOTIC MATTER ✧

                                                                                      THE PALACE HALLWAY

Dismissed. 

Courtly renders are dissolved for the day with a single, swift command. Sevlyn had first conferred in privacy with her retinue; mostly composed of young women from high-minded clans, aflutter with their first royal assignment on a realm never before visited. Soon after, she found herself apace with the King’s General, taking strides smaller than his with just a step behind, en route to her boudoir in the highest segment of the nearest keep. The stark oddity of the circumstance stems from the scrawny bird squeaking and shivering beneath finespun fingers. Poor thing. Singled out in foreign country. It dawns that they would both share an elemental understanding of one another. 

Scaling the turnpike stairs, the glazed windows give way to the inner courtyard, immense and bustling with men training in leather padding, raising iron and steel in simulated battle, yet the atmospheric gallantry is in all authentic. Her brother often joked of how Asgardian valor was more tilted to a spiritual make than skill. An illusion. Pure showmanship. That bit surely isn’t true; not when the King’s general himself, a red-blooded Asgardian, is as celebrated as he is for the sheer prowess demonstrated across a robust military career with the Crimson Hawks. Sevlyn notes the equable posture and fluid grace that is unimpeded despite the large amounts of embroidered metalwork. A serpent carved out of red gold gleams with an emerald eye upon his pauldron. 

“They call you “Sword upon the Dawn” where I’m from. That is, in rough translation.” Sevlyn remarks, her eyes following the red stain cloak spilling from his shoulders like a beautiful, russet wave. “The account where you killed a frantic deserter with a counter riposte despite the element of surprise- what a spectacle that must have been. Is it true?” As sincere as her attempt for affinity was, the reality is that she needed friends. Friends, not necessarily in high places, but the right ones. Asgard, familiar as she is, bore new blood, a new system, and in truth, her odd position with the king may just scare her. 

           One would be led to believe that operating as the King’s right hand and military general would be full of unending excitement. More battles, further strategy, conspiracy considerations. For as much honor had been given, there was less intrigue in the position during a time of peace. Lengthy conversations over trade, distribution, and training, weekly (if not daily) council meetings where he would constantly convince the King to keep his boots off the grand high table, and escorting the king and his guests to wherever was asked. Much escorting. Despite however many battles he has fought, Theoric Erlandson found himself walking more in his life than at any other time acting as Right Hand to the King.

    Today he’s escorting a foreign Princess, small little thing but bold. He’s rather impressed with her quick tongue when she was received. Their task was to put the infant bird someplace comfortable. Thrilling, exciting. Won’t the other Hawks love to hear of this tale. He’s waiting for the bird to excrete on her hand, seeing as she was so particular about carrying it herself rather than leaving it in the cage. She keeps looking at him. Not the bird but the Princess. Theoric isn’t surprised when she speaks. Her interest pulls at a corner of his mouth, curving into a slight, yet reserved, smile.

        His eagerness is rather captivating despite how strange he seemed whilst inhabiting it. He beckons her to show him great legends of old, but there were none to be provided. So long had they been cast in shadows, only the tongue of the Druids held such wisdom now – and Morgana had long learned that their forthcomingness was a farce beyond all comprehension. Pausing once more, her hands fold nervously behind her back as a laugh of near disbelief finds its way to her features. “There is little to show, the King has burned all great scripts from the libraries ages past. Only the high priests likely hold any stories of repute, although they would hardly share them with a stranger…” For even she, as tightly secured as she was, did not know many of importance. 

         But he seems unending in his demands, only causing her further discomfort, as sweet disposition morphs into a furrowed brow. Her skirt drags along the earth before she has thrice stepped away again. Emerald hues narrowed in great skepticism, Morgana reasons it would be most unwise to abide him. 

         “You have already alerted them of some misgivings, and so close to the forest – there will be raids again,” She sighs before turning to look upon the winding stream. Knocking her knuckles once more along the rocky borders they walked, Morgana hoped someone would be coming to look into this. One of her companions mayhaps… but she dreads the idea of a priest. How could she explain him away? Even now, slowly leading him towards the inlet where many remained, Morgana does not assume the best in fear of the worst. If he wanted safety, he would soon learn there was no place truly safe for those touched by the heavens’ gift.    

         “Camp is west of here, if you wish to not run into those men alone, it would be wise to seek the mercy of the priests,” She advises, although she dares not look at him in fear of her own feature’s contradiction. While they certainly wouldn’t hurt him, or so she hopes, it would be an upheaval to contend with the stranger. Trouble already awaited her for this outing without a guide or protection, was it cruel to forgo pleasantries in fear of further chaos? Was satiating her curiosities a prize grand enough to warrant such penalties? Pausing, she glances back at him again, features soft, naive perhaps, but unendingly curious. “If I take you, they will not permit you to return with me. You will be alone.”  

          The burning of books, scrolls, scripts--- a painful horror really. A lover of knowledge feels the loss in his bones. The dread of disappointment flutters across his features when she bears the news. He could scarcely imagine. Of all his own histories embedded in the traditions and archives of Asgard and the other worlds, if one were to be lost even his father would be greatly unsettled. These legends, now told by word of mouth alone, were for acquainted ears alone. Loki wonders how easily he could sway these priests.

   But his accidental arrival has stirred trouble for her. For the young woman and her people. He did not intend to endanger anyone. It all had been a fumbling of fate or perhaps another mischievous endeavor that was not originally intended. Some where, others occasionally were not. Today happened to be the exception. The prince still follows her, lingering behind a few steps in caution. There was more at stake here than the repercussions of his mistake, for once he ought to make up for it. It’s what his mother would tell him to do. It’s what she has been telling him to do.

   “I am certain I can return to the relics on my own, that is not what I worry for.” It would be far more appealing to inquire with these priests over history rather than as escorts. “If I have caused this much trouble for you, perhaps I can be of assistance in rectifying it. Should these bullies come to abuse your people, I will gladly stand among your warriors and fight.” His brother may say otherwise on his capabilities, but he was not untrained or unskilled. The perfect opportunity to create a story of his own, this time drowning in its own truth.

Asgardians and their mannerly biting, how….orthodox. Sevlyn’s smile lends a taut end, curling with an indignant note. To some extent she had missed the grandstanding of court, their endless vestiges on where they stand with anything remotely foreign. Unfolded ears may not be acute enough to pick up the veiled hisses, but the laughter makes itself known the way a boar’s tusk greets a man’s tender side. Her cheeks are torrid, her tongue practically sizzling at a burning point. She catches the eye of her chaperone, peeking out from the blend of the courtier’s crowd, bold enough to dress in her handsewn peignoir of Vanir make, but somehow not bold enough to speak against artifice. 

The chaperone shakes her head grimly at the princess, whose jaw is clenched. The glare of impulse is teasing, shallow, just beneath cream skin. 

“Get up. All of you.” Sevlyn finds herself amid a demand to her menials, who choose to be meek in the face of empty, golden roars. The girls turn to regard her, worriedly, considering her request deviant from Loki’s. “I said, get up. You’re not obliged to sleep on the stone- you’re not slaves. No longer, at least.” 

They exchange concerned glances, but one by one, they rise. Sevlyn is relieved at their obeisance. Vanir fealty will mean something in this court. 

Gloat. Gloat, you mean, bull’s pizzle. 

Her dove-like voice would sweeten the air, but instead, it dresses the atmosphere with a spark.                                                    Tact! Approach with tact!  “My king, you choose to mock us? I was under the impression that our reception will be a warm one, but instead, I am greeted with an ignorance uncharacteristic of your make. Surely a scholarly man such as you would be educated in the fine details of foreign culture, at least enough to refrain from making statements easily spun the wrong way.” She smiles, her eyes bent in no way a hospitable manner.  “But no offense was taken, your Grace. I hope that wasn’t too ill of a jest. I only mean to mirror the wit of you and your people!” 

She laughs.

“A dragon is a compelling choice. Strength and power. It’s important that we compensate well in symbolism for what we lack.” 

Court tightens. Unseen strings in the air knot like wet fiber. A few gasps transpired, only a portion of them audible. Spears are rigidly grasped. Her chaperone sighs. The peacock takes a shit on the marble.        Fuck! The peacock took a shit on the marble!  

Sevlyn’s smile drops into a flat line; a sentry standing on the first step near the throne- a broad-shouldered handsome man of strawberry blonde hair, grows a grin, almost cheeky, but it drops quickly after a while.  Armoured in a red plate, his broadsword gave him an air of import, and he shakes his head at her too. His expression was now deadpan.  The princess clears her throat and picks up the squeaking fowl, covering the spit of excrement with her fine skirts. 

          She is not what he expected. But he hadn’t known what to expect in the first place. Her gall, her sense surprises him. Calling upon her company to stand while he hadn’t bothered to signify their release. It was nothing to be in offense over, but he was curious to see where she stood in place of the opposing court. A quick tongue. She means to play the game. That was all she was offering now. Another player in this and really... he was tired of it, yet intrigued all the same. After all he wanted this position, and the joys of politics accompanied it. The laugh of the princess doesn’t amuse him, but he plays along.

   Straightening his posture, a hand curls into a fist, chin tilts up at an angle as he regards her. “Like brother like sister.” Loki worries over the relationship, as strained as it may be. He doesn’t believe this to be just a rectifying attempt. There was more to this. Barely noticing the mishap with the bird, he sighs it off, ignores it and elects to stand.

   “You have much to learn here little princess. Your wit is greatly misplaced, and as are you.” A Vanir in the courts of the Æsir, the two realms already at odds from misconceptions and conspiracies. He slowly descends the steps from Hlidskjalf, taking care with each as he goes. The cape spilling from his shoulders follows just behind his boots. “If you’re looking to make your brother proud, to... aquire what it is he wants from this, then I’d suggest you be careful of that tongue of yours.”

   Once he’s stepped down to the main floor, he leans towards the man who had smiled at her, Theoric, the newfound chosen right hand of the king. Whispering something into his ear concerning the princess, the man nods and Loki moves on back towards the center. He wants Sevlyn to have an eye kept on her. Just in case. “You are being greeted with our utmost hospitality, my princess,” he addresses her now, though the grandeur in his voice is less convincing than that of before. “Forgive me for my so-called ignorance, I simply just don’t have a way with animals like I should.”

          Morgana does not know what she expects when she awakes, perhaps chaos personified and half the room torn apart. As the sun’s kiss touches her features, fingers curl around the displaced furs that had been kicked away throughout her rest. Her legs unfurl from their passive state and lips part in a deep breath before she settles once again. Staring at the far wall, it takes but a moment for her mind to be set right and her guest’s location to be considered. Slowly, she pulls herself upright before the mountainous volley of unruly curls settle around her shoulders. Her knuckles rake across her eyes before narrowed gaze notices him sitting by the fire, seemingly staring at her. Wetting lips absently, Morgana looks around to see what mayhem he had managed. It seemed relatively calm, save for the stack of dinner rolls left on her bedside table. Her brow pulls together, and she’s somewhat amused. 

            “It would seem you did not destroy the room, I’m somewhat impressed,” She murmurs languidly before reaching to take the top roll from his rather endearing arrangement. Tearing into the dough, she pops a piece into her mouth before humming in consideration. Her feet now cold without their coverings, she wonders when she might have found herself so disheveled throughout the night. Morgana remembers getting up to retrieve him, perhaps she’d removed them then? Foggy thoughts are slowly dispelled as she finishes her second roll. A coffee would be nice, she thinks peering through the stained glass, it might do her well to make them a proper breakfast. 

             “I’ll need to call my tailor to get you some more clothes, yours were absolutely filthy,” She explains absently before crawling off the bed and reaching for her housecoat. Pulling it over her shoulders, her slippers are retrieved from under the edge of the bed before they too are slid on. Standing, she finger-combs through the ends of her hair before sauntering over to him. He’s offered an appraisal as eyes rake over him, ensuring that he was not undone in such a short time, her head cants towards her door as the locks unlatch and the spell disperses with a faint rumble. “Would you like to have something for breakfast? I suppose you’re starving – I might have something to make us some flapjacks…” Morgana’s lips curl in a wayward smile, almost implying some temptation in her offerings. 

          She was slow to waking up. Taking her time. Though... had she been looking for something? Her eyes wandered the room, scrutinized the room. Loki doesn’t remember doing anything to cause much disturbance. He wasn’t one to make messes out of boredom. He was particular on keeping to himself, having only taken paper and borrowed a pen. Biting his lower lip, Loki continuously glances between his drawing and the woman as she ate the bread he had left for her. Glad for her eating, the corner of his lip curves slightly as he dipped his head to fill in the finishing touches. Writing the runes of his name in the bottom corner. 

   Looking up again, he notices she’s out of the bed, wrapping herself with a robe. Was she going somewhere already? But he frowns slightly at the mention of new clothes. Where were his clothes anyways? A nice clean and they would have been fine. She didn’t get rid of them did she? Dammit, he needs those back--- sooner rather than later. But he’s distracted from that thought with the mention of breakfast. It was a far better thought. His worry lessens and he nods at her. Moving to stand, he leaves the pen behind in place of where he was sitting. The drawing remained in one hand.

          There was a morsel of her, perhaps behind the deepest of streams and tallest of walls, that thought she might have truly missed him. It crawled its way to her eyes and touch for the briefest of moments, that was until he started talking again. It takes a great deal of restraint not to throttle him with he dares to sneer back at her. Even more so when he discards her offering and practically pushes her into the soil to stand himself back up. Hem now thoroughly filthy, her pale features likely were the color of cherries as she bore holes through the back of his head with her eyes. Muttering under her breath all manner of curses, Morgana practically stomps into the earth as his blubbering insolence scours every nerve within her. “You were being a right ASS!” She volleys back before stepping onto the path behind him. 

           By the time he’s hobbled his way up the steps, the gardeners returned with a thermos of water. He notices Morgana’s distance with the stranger before pausing himself, unsure if his mistress was entirely welcoming another addition to their conversation. Loki’s avian counterpart, however, was not as hesitant in showing his distaste as she or the staff. Cawing rather discernably, he nips at Loki’s head with two swoops before perching at the top of the gardener’s cottage. It did not seem to matter what sort of thoughts she was having, Loki would continue to act like an insolent child. She had tried to speak to him, reason with him – but he seemed too far removed. 

            “Wouldn’t be the first time, eh? I wonder when you had YOUR second thoughts, finally deciding against me and leaving me to die?” Morgana reminds him before finally snatching him by the arm. The gentility he had been afforded now dismissed in his arrogance, he’s back to submitting to her wrath. He had been unwise and tested her patience before in the Tower. There was little guarantee he would be spared again now that he’s safely contained within her grasp. “You should be grateful I spared you, your brother and his friends would have had you killed or worse!” And with all his frantic bumbling about what was after him at the Tower, the idea of ‘much worse’ seemed to be hanging like a guillotine. 

            Releasing him, she turns for the briefest of moments, as if she would really leave him to sulk in the gardener’s cottage. Halting before taking even her second step, Morgana turns back to glare at him once more. “You are a selfish, PATHETIC, little child! You play like a man, but you are nothing but an insolent little worm trying to take other’s toys.” There’s another caw sounding above them, an echo as another has joined their audience a few paces back. Morgana is unperturbed by them. “No wonder you were broken like a mare, there’s no backbone in you.” Her sneer, however potent, leaves little in the way of forgiveness or hospitality. While she might have been tempted to invite him in before, he could sulk in the heat alone now. Snatching the thermos from the gardener’s hand, she burns it within her grip before the water sloshes onto the ground. Both attendants flee, and Morgana heads back into the house in turn. 

          The raven was pecking at him. Morgana scolding him. And there seemed to be eyes everywhere. There was too much here. Too much to consider and digest and recollect. He’s tired. Despite having been unconscious for gods know how long. Loki knows his weariness is derived from various origins. One now being her. Waving the bird away, slipping a curse out in frustration before grunting at her. He doesn’t understand what she means-- he doesn’t understand much any of it really.

   The trek to the cottage door is short but it felt long, long and painful, and he waits there. Of course Morgana isn’t done. No one ever is. Everyone seems to be so free to spill their anger at him these days. Perhaps he’s getting use to it but it’s a heavy weight on his shoulders. He doesn’t want to grace her ridden words with an answer. Loki knows what would have happened--- knows what likely will happen. This wasn’t so much as a rescue as she thinks. He was well beyond rescue. Too late for it. The former over the latter would suffice. It would suffice far better. A bitter end to the misery that is existence. Everything only seemed to make it worse. Anything. Everything-- gods. If he had the strength he’d provoke her, wring her neck to make him feel better, only to have her finish him off in the end. It would be easier. 

   Although, as much as his anger was fueled, part of it quickly dissipated as she broke the container of water. Maybe he deserves it. He hasn’t figured that out yet. At this point he doesn’t have the strength to suppose otherwise. Maybe dehydration would be the way to go, but it would likely take weeks. Morgana storms away, the servants flee and Loki stumbles back into the cottage, nearly falling into the bed. He stifles his groans, knowing that it wasn’t necessary. No one was around to hear him, supposedly. Except maybe that bird-- it watched him from the window.