#heldrottning

Of course, my dearest”, she replies, turning her attention towards Hel and away from the maps before her on the table. The Chieftain watches her beloved daughter with intent. Angrboda knows that her youngest is her consort’s child as well: deeply intelligent and wilful.

There is much she wishes to say at first. The display of her growing power is fantastic and there is a profound sense of pride within the Chieftain. A more critical side of her wishes to know why she would be so self-conscious. Angrboda has always seen her daughter’s figure as how she sees herself: frightening. Menacing. Worthy of respect. But she also wants her daughter to not doubt herself, for she is worthy of awe.

          LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS || ACCEPTING !

@heldrottning​ says  ❝ I dream of a place where we could be together at last. ❞

The cuticle around his right thumbnail had been chewed to near extinction, a habit he had woefully picked up in the months since finding his legs. Now, his teeth pulled too much and the beads of blood appeared, a stinging pain that was annoying rather than painful. Jörmungandr regarded this wound with an impassive glance and quickly returned the flesh to mouth so he could mop up the blood with his tongue. Better than wiping it on his pants, so was his logic. It was, no doubt, his unintentional means of stalling for time before he answered his sister. The well of anxiety that hadn’t quite left him since the beginning of his days now a hissing kettle that screamed to be lifted from the burner. Some days he felt like the panic would strangle him, leave him to writhe, dying on the floor. Other days it was a faint pinprick he could ignore.

“As we all do,” he finally remarked, studying his wounded thumb for signs of more blood. It was an offhanded remark and no doubt true to a capacity. But what did Fenrir want in the end? He couldn’t say. And he wasn’t going to presume his elder brother’s feelings. But that wasn’t what bothered the world serpent. There was an uncomfortable sensation in his very core. A feeling that hadn’t left him for considerable time and likely never would. It was like that looming threat you knew existed but couldn’t quite properly name, couldn’t locate in the shadows behind you. 

Vasilija had, for the most part, kept a respectable distance from Hel and the rest of the household in those first few weeks after the youngest had settled in. It was primarily out of respect but also because the mere idea of witnessing the cheesy reunited family moments again was not something she wished to relive. She returned eventually, settling back into her usual routines. Of course, nothing was quite the same, but change wasn’t a bad thing in this instance.

Fenrir was the only child that remained to be located and it seemed all hands were on deck now for such an event. Vasilija’s usefulness had been largely spent in finding Jor, and though Loki had minor things for her to do on occasion, it was nothing quite so large and purposeful as she perhaps would have liked. But what could a siren do about intergalactic issues? Nothing. She could barely even name constellations in the sky.

That afternoon, she was stationed in the kitchen, smearing butter onto a piece of toast. Loki and Keir were holed up in the office speaking about who knows what. Jor was also being quite elusive, leaving the siren to entertain herself. Not an easy feat, really. The toast was shoved rather crudely into her mouth, almost like a voracious hunger took over her, or as if she was so irate at the toast that the best punishment was to shove as much of it into her mouth as possible. Knowing her, it was a combination of both. 

RESIDENT EVIL VILLAGE || ACCEPTING !!

The compliment crudely left aside, Vasilija arched a pretty red brow and asked, "Who's they?"

In her hand was her favored dagger, the sharpened blade reflecting the crisp, afternoon light. Her fidgeting was almost mechanical, turning the weapon this way and that between her lithe fingers or tossing it lightly in order to catch it mid-air. Vasilija's strengths did not lie in the physical. Yes, she could immobilize a full-grown man with her whole body, but it required precision, the correct movements in the proper order to successfully make her much smaller frame take down a considerably larger one. Even then, she could not do this to Loki. She'd tried. He was too strong. Like a fucking mountain. In the end, she looked like a goddamned monkey clambering onto some giant tree.

So, her capabilities were skill, not strength. She supposed where her true talents lied were mentally. A soul (if she even had one) incapable of breaking. Too stubborn to. The siren was fueled by spite and spite alone.

                         THE PUNISHER || ACCEPTING !!

@heldrottning​ says ❝ Seeking without realizing. Into the nightmare again and again. ❞ // SKÖLL

The inconceivable notion of addressing his inner demons rather than permitting them to rage on as they always had done. It was like cleaning up the mess left in the wake of a house party. A task that’s daunting, seemingly impossible, and to the wrong mind a task that will be ignored until the consequences are so grave there is no other option than to address it. And what then? Because at that point the damage is so severe, the heap of shit so high, that it seems there will never be an end to it.

Had Hati not said he would always be there to help pick up the pieces?

To hell with Hati. To hell with Loki. To hell with this woman. An aunt. Whatever. It didn’t fucking matter. What was blood anymore than something shared? To him it was nothing more than that.

Sköll fixed Hel with an unfriendly gaze, his bushy brows knitted close, his mouth down turned. Was she gonna weave some bullshit poetry about suffering to him like so many others did? He was sick and tired of the same shit over and over. 

She was right. Vasilija’s life was best defined as brusque--it took things as they were, played its cards as it saw fit, gave little regard for anything or anyone else other than its own self. It was a linear path dotted with goals and obstacles, each met head on with the intention of pursuing forward. She lived to live, to survive; nothing more, nothing less.

Loki was arguably the exact opposite. He was more open, more careful, and less obtrusive. Vasilija claimed the glass was half empty. Loki asked which was more important: how full (or empty) the glass was, or what liquid was within? What type of cup it was? Did it look nice? The smaller details that seemingly didn’t matter, and yet, in the grand scheme of things, meant everything. If the cup was leaky, if it was faulty, then surely it was half-empty. If the cup was reliable, strong, sturdy, then the glass could be half-full. Context mattered. Could the holes be patched? Could the glass be glued back? Could the cup be replaced? 

Vasilija scrapped things and left. Her ship, for one. Her crew, another. Loki didn’t give up. He refused. He was resilient in ways she was not. In ways she perhaps should have been.

Being his close companion opened Vasilija eyes to things she had never noticed before. Things that had always been there, tucked away as if waiting for her attention, brought to life by the light that always seemed to follow close behind The Raven King. He brought hope to dark places, courage where bravery was failing.

Sometimes it was infuriating. Much in the way a devoted parent’s worry is annoying--understandable and well placed, though not something to be admitted.

“A potentially attainable future.” Vasilija kept her swarming thoughts to herself, tucked securely away where they could not be tampered with. She was, if anything, skilled at hiding her emotions. “You are correct.”

Was it strength he needed? Or was it determination? Maybe even resolute stubbornness? Loki, physically, felt strong, but in regards to something deeper, something more emotional, mental, he only felt strong on rare occasions. Scaling this crumbling wall, metaphorically speaking, wasn’t as easy as some made it seem. Finding your footing, praying the piece you’re standing on doesn’t decide to give way, was more exhausting, it seemed, than the climb itself. 

Ironwood’s Chieftain takes her youngest one’s hand and guides her outside. There is no denying she loves her elder sons beyond love itself, each one being a part of who she herself is. But this is her daughter, a woman, born into a matriarchal society. Angrboda is a proud mother and sees in her daughter the potential to rule once she is dead and gone. The future of Ironwood.

But for now, she simply enjoys the smaller hand she is holding, tiny fingers not long enough to fully hold the Chieftain’s. She walks slow enough so Hel can keep up. Loki is elsewhere with their sons and Angrboda intends to meet them there, wherever ‘there’ is. She is almost sure they are bathing in the river.