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[ Loki chafes.
Kingship is no burden compared to the many and variegated roles he has played in the last several years of his life — it hardly takes more than a trivial expenditure of his energy to secure trade routes or renegotiate treaties. He has seen the underside of oblivion, tasted the dust of stars destroyed before Asgard drew her first breath. He has destroyed and he has built and he has grown in his madness, much beyond anything Asgard believed him capable. Gungnir, for all its terrible power, is but another pursuit ended in caprice.
A full cycle after the Allmother's death, Loki descends from Gladsheim's halls in Odin's guise, organizing a great ceremony in the once-queen's honor. It proves to be a spectacle, as is Gladsheim's wont: the lights in the sky, the tribute-songs of skalds from realms near and far. Weaving in and out of the throngs of courtiers and townspeople, Loki drinks his weight in crude barley-wine and — for the first time in a year — allows himself to remember his grief.
He might have invited Thor for the ceremonies: in fact, he receives a number of questions as to his whereabouts. What a legacy Frigga-queen has left behind, Loki thinks, wearing bitterness beyond the shroud of Odin's face. One son who chooses a mortal supernova over his familiar duties, and another who can only invite himself into the fold when cloaked in deception.
But a moment, he thinks, when the festivities have ended. He perches upon the banks of the River Skeiðará, where the Allmother had once grown berries and sweetflowers in wild thatches; they have grown into a dangerous thicket of dark leaf and thorn since her passing. Loki is light-headed with drink and heavy-hearted with anger and loss, but still his gaze is clear. But a moment, and he will again be flying amongst eternity, shaping his body into a bladed weapon, taking apart the universe brick by crumbling brick. He will be Loki again, if he is patient for but a moment more. He need only bide his time until then.
He catches his reflection in the rush of the river past: the creases of age in the corners of Odin's eye, the unnatural tilt of his mouth.
Suddenly heart-sick, Loki fastens a spell about himself to shield from Heimdall's gaze, and he rips the illusion away. For the passing of one night, let him mourn his once-mother in his own wretched skin, with only the truth between himself and the reaching hands of Frigga beyond. ]
Kingship is no burden compared to the many and variegated roles he has played in the last several years of his life — it hardly takes more than a trivial expenditure of his energy to secure trade routes or renegotiate treaties. He has seen the underside of oblivion, tasted the dust of stars destroyed before Asgard drew her first breath. He has destroyed and he has built and he has grown in his madness, much beyond anything Asgard believed him capable. Gungnir, for all its terrible power, is but another pursuit ended in caprice.
A full cycle after the Allmother's death, Loki descends from Gladsheim's halls in Odin's guise, organizing a great ceremony in the once-queen's honor. It proves to be a spectacle, as is Gladsheim's wont: the lights in the sky, the tribute-songs of skalds from realms near and far. Weaving in and out of the throngs of courtiers and townspeople, Loki drinks his weight in crude barley-wine and — for the first time in a year — allows himself to remember his grief.
He might have invited Thor for the ceremonies: in fact, he receives a number of questions as to his whereabouts. What a legacy Frigga-queen has left behind, Loki thinks, wearing bitterness beyond the shroud of Odin's face. One son who chooses a mortal supernova over his familiar duties, and another who can only invite himself into the fold when cloaked in deception.
But a moment, he thinks, when the festivities have ended. He perches upon the banks of the River Skeiðará, where the Allmother had once grown berries and sweetflowers in wild thatches; they have grown into a dangerous thicket of dark leaf and thorn since her passing. Loki is light-headed with drink and heavy-hearted with anger and loss, but still his gaze is clear. But a moment, and he will again be flying amongst eternity, shaping his body into a bladed weapon, taking apart the universe brick by crumbling brick. He will be Loki again, if he is patient for but a moment more. He need only bide his time until then.
He catches his reflection in the rush of the river past: the creases of age in the corners of Odin's eye, the unnatural tilt of his mouth.
Suddenly heart-sick, Loki fastens a spell about himself to shield from Heimdall's gaze, and he rips the illusion away. For the passing of one night, let him mourn his once-mother in his own wretched skin, with only the truth between himself and the reaching hands of Frigga beyond. ]
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