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ofmyth
[ When Loki returns to himself, he finds that he has rubbed his wrists raw from the magical bindings keeping them fettered. He can still taste the dryness of Midgard's dusty earth in his lungs, sweet and cool in comparison to the ancient air of his cell. His hands tremble when he pushes himself to his feet.
Perhaps it had just been another of the Allfather's cruel machinations — showing him the promise of freedom at the hands of a Thor that didn't yet know him, a world ignorant to his past crimes. And yet, his strings cut, he'd been returned here without even stepping into the Asgard perched upon Yggdrasil's far-lying branches.
He curses aloud, a soft hiss of sound that the darkness swallows up.
A dream?
No. He'd recognized and marveled at the shift of foreign seidr within his breast, strange and shrouded and unfathomably powerful. Even now, he can curl his mental fingers into the chain-links of that power, but they simply fall to dust in his palms. A path had been opened, of that there is no doubt, but it has since been closed and locked tight.
Hours pass. Loki meditates upon the shadows of his cell, unknotting and knotting the extremities of his thoughts. Sleep tugs at his consciousness, but he sets his teeth and casts it away. He can feel it now — the tension coiled into the air, the ineffable calm before the outbreak of chaos. Something waits for him beyond the shadows, further, further, into the light; something to which Loki will not show his soft underbelly. He digs his nails into his palms, and attempts to strengthen the ramparts of his own fragmented mind.
And so Loki waits. ]
Perhaps it had just been another of the Allfather's cruel machinations — showing him the promise of freedom at the hands of a Thor that didn't yet know him, a world ignorant to his past crimes. And yet, his strings cut, he'd been returned here without even stepping into the Asgard perched upon Yggdrasil's far-lying branches.
He curses aloud, a soft hiss of sound that the darkness swallows up.
A dream?
No. He'd recognized and marveled at the shift of foreign seidr within his breast, strange and shrouded and unfathomably powerful. Even now, he can curl his mental fingers into the chain-links of that power, but they simply fall to dust in his palms. A path had been opened, of that there is no doubt, but it has since been closed and locked tight.
Hours pass. Loki meditates upon the shadows of his cell, unknotting and knotting the extremities of his thoughts. Sleep tugs at his consciousness, but he sets his teeth and casts it away. He can feel it now — the tension coiled into the air, the ineffable calm before the outbreak of chaos. Something waits for him beyond the shadows, further, further, into the light; something to which Loki will not show his soft underbelly. He digs his nails into his palms, and attempts to strengthen the ramparts of his own fragmented mind.
And so Loki waits. ]