#pov2

                     𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬 ¦ pov#2

⭑🍇ʿ                                     o amanhecer no acampamento tinha deixado de parecer estranho há algumas semanas. a falta do sol virou rotina, não estranhava despertar e não ter mais uma um fresta de luz solar invadindo o chalé para incomodar seu sono. o clima apático parecia esticar os dias, tornando-os mais entediantes e chatos. após o ataque dos monstros que saíram da fenda e a morte do cão infernal, brooklyn se recuperava do veneno da formiga, deixara a enfermaria sob o alerta de precisar de repouso pelos próximos dias. 

não foi o único machucado em seu chalé e o sentimento de pânico de saber que os irmãos estavam feridos foi algo assustador. o nível de preocupação que agora tinha com aquelas pessoas ia além do que imaginou que conseguiria ter; há quatro meses quando pisou ali pela primeira vez em oito anos, exceção de preocupação com os irmãos era algo que não passava por sua mente. depois de quase uma década longe, parecia hipocrisia de sua parte chegar ali obrigado e pensar que faria diferença em sua vida o estado de saúde daqueles com quem dividia o chalé.

mas foi o que aconteceu. 

Sometimes it’s nice to be able to bring comfort to someone you love.

[Note: Ms Ma'am has written heaps of beautifully subtle, emotionally charged content over the past 8 years, most of which can be found exclusively on tumblr. Her works have included Tom, Adam, AU and canon Loki, and probably the most impressive Oakley story on the Internet. This work is a peaceful vignette I return to read regularly, as well as a great introduction to her style.]

- Read on Author's Tumblr | @just-the-fics-maam -

It’s late. And cold. And damp. But inside, where you are, it is warm and dry, although perhaps a little lonely.

You sigh and rest your head back on the pillows. It’s been a challenging few weeks, but you knew it would be. He’s been busy, invigorated and exhausted at the same time. Long hours on the stage. Even longer hours at the stage door.

Still, it’s been fun to watch. You love to peek when he doesn’t know you’re looking, and watch the animation flicker on his features. That thing, that daily, nightly, hourly contract with the audience, that interchange of energy – that is what makes him burn like a flame. That is why he was born, and when he leaps into it with both feet, it’s more than just attractive. It sounds so terrible – so clichéd and lovesick – but it’s inspirational. It pushes you onward with your own projects, with your own trajectory, which now seems, perhaps, to be connected with his.

As a warrior, you are no stranger to battle and blood. It is all you are made for, and all you want to be. Foreign to the realm of Asgard, your goal upon arrival was to conquer your enemies. You did not come to meet a prince, especially one as narcissistic and duplicitous as Loki Odinson. You did not ask for anything that came thereafter. Yet here you are.

Note: (In honour of the impending release of the Loki miniseries and my sceptical optimism for it, I'm highlighting a few canon-adjacent Loki works that can pass the time between new episodes or, if you're like me, distract from new content long enough to miss the first wave of inevitable Discourse.) ODE feels close to an original science fiction work without losing familiar Marvel aspects. WanderingWorldWarrior utilises the second person point of view throughout the trilogy and to great effect; Softer Emotions begins by introducing tension among the realms, hostility among Odin's family, and then drops you into a battlefield to fight for your life. Each of the installments uses its 100k words to develop characters and conflicts so fully that consequences truly feel irreversible. This is handled beautifully in ODE's second and third entries, which parallel MCU events with original plots which both conclude with poignant ramifications.

- Author's Tumblr | @wanderingworldwarrior -  - Series on AO3 -

Odin Allfather is a terror to behold in his rage. His council flinches before him, the messenger that delivered the terrible news ducking his head and backing away respectfully so as not to catch the god’s unintended wrath.

“This slight shall not be ignored,” Odin growls, rising from his grand chair and almost upsetting the table in the process.

Static crackles audibly in the air, tensions rising with the physical sensation tingling on their skin.

“We should attempt to reason with them,” one of the council men pipes up quickly.

It is well known that whoever’s advice the king takes becomes heralded as a hero among the nobles of Asgard.

“No,” another man butts in, frowning. “We should use this against the barbarians. Perhaps one of the Ordinat can be leveraged to give us information.”

“That’s absurd!” a third says, rolling his eyes. “If the organization has revoked their deal with us, they are our enemies now!”

Odin’s eldest, Prince Thor Odinson, rises from the table with a grim scowl on his face. “Send me, Father. My warriors and I can make this right.”

A dark chuckle sounds from the other side of the table. The men of the council shudder in their tunics, shooting unfavorable glances at the younger prince.

“You find this statement humorous, brother?” Thor asks while Odin glowers at the table top with his one good eye.

Loki Odinson laughs again, finally gracing his brother with a cold, green stare. “You think your blundering band of boars can do anything to help this? There are situations that can't be settled with blood, you know.”.

If you look, really look. If you close your mouth and open your heart and look You'll see. That just like in the darkest of nights In the darkest of hearts. You can still see starlight.

Note: (In honour of the impending release of the Loki miniseries and my sceptical optimism for it, I'm highlighting a few canon-adjacent Loki works that can pass the time between new episodes or, if you're like me, distract from new content long enough to miss the first wave of inevitable Discourse.) Without writing an essay in the description of this post, it has to be said: in the TH fandom, as in society at large, we have yet to dismantle our whtie supremacy and racism. It shows up as white fans reflexively defending media and dismissing critical analysis by people of colour; it shows up as patronising and judgmental comments towards authors and fans of colour for their "incorrect" interpretations; it shows up as insidious anti-Blackness and hostility towards Zawe Ashton. The list goes on. Sidrisa created a culture, mythos, and political background to contrast Asgard's own in Power and Magic, and sadly there's no trace of them in the Loki fandom found after 2018. I can hope their deparure wasn't due to outright harrassment but I've no way of knowing. I do know that Black Marvel fans contiuously speak out regarding the inhospitable environments in predominanly white fandoms. We as online fans may not be able to shift major systems of oppression or influence film productions, but it's well within our ability to make our online spaces less hostile. We, as white fans, need to develop a nuanced understanding of white supremacy, and we must engage in difficult conversations when we see racism in whatever form displayed in our communities.

- Read on Author's Tumblr (Inactive) | Series on AO3 -

The princes come with their exalted Father arriving amidst a hail of pomp and pageantry all parties would rather forgo.

This is war, where men die, their blood purchasing land and peace until it is time for more men and more blood to balance the ledger.

But your mother adheres to the old rules of hearth and hospitality. The Lords of Asgard must be given their due despite the grim business precipitating their arrival.

She summons you, making a sour face at your choice of dress.

“Katkat,” She calls you, her voice slipping into the comforts of your land’s mother tongue. Its closest approximation in the common language places the word on the paternal side of “beloved”. Inflect the vowel sounds - 'kotkot'- and you take it from paternal to romantic.

But there's nothing paternal or affectionate in her face or voice, both thunderous as the grey clouds that herald the arrival of the Lords Odin, Thor, and Loki.

“Katkat, why are you dressed thus? Did you forget our royal company?”

“I did not, manmae.” Mama you call her, you call her, your voice also lacking the warmth such an informal address implies. “I have dressed appropriate to our situation.”

You wear your leathers. Black and austere, lacking the intricate grooved patterns your people are known across the realm for. Your pastures breed the horses Odin Allfather’s soldiers ride to war upon. Your tanners cure and cut the leather that braid their whips and saddles. Your furs fill Frigga Allmother’s wardrobe and the treasure chests of many a noble lady. The labors of your people, while not extraordinarily luxurious, grant a small measure of wealth and with it with it autonomy that your family has held stewardship over for ageless generations of which you are the sole heir.

Learning your lines is hard. And after a rough day, sometimes you need some incentive.

- Author's Tumblr -

It had been a long day. A long, painful, lonely, desperate day at work. It was the kind of day that made you consider quitting your job, selling your flat, burning your useless things, and becoming one of those crazy people that live in a tree in the middle of the forest. Except, when women did that, they were always portrayed as witches that eat children… You weren’t really down for that. Not yet, at least. Give it time. You’ll get there soon enough. You juggle the bag of groceries and your purse and your folio to dig the keys from your pocket. It’s an incredible balancing act, but a testament to how rubbish the day has been that simply opening the door was a tick in the win column. You kick the door closed behind you and set the bag of groceries on the kitchen countertop, retracing your steps to lock the door and dump your keys into the waiting bowl. You hang your trench on the waiting peg and sigh at its empty neighbor. He mustn’t be home yet. You go about the menial task of putting away the food, hoping he makes it home by the time you’re done, but no joy there. In an effort to be productive, you open your folio, fishing around for the most pressing of paperwork, and the plastic binding of the thing splits and spills every last document onto the kitchen island and surrounding floor. A litany of muttered curses pours out of you as you glare at the offending, now useless bit of junk. Heaving a sigh, you step around the papers, pull a bottle of wine off the shelf and uncork it, pouring a generous glass for yourself. It seems the measured and reasonable response, all things considered.