Author's Note: No, it isn't another chapter of Antic and I apologise for that! But who could turn down a challenge to "Write precisely 1000 words describing a beautiful man"? (Thanks, SeedyDeeDee and Spectral Sereda) Pure Loki fluff, and I'm not in the least bit ashamed.
The word 'lie' is so unfairly treated.
Try it yourself. Deliver the word in context: say "You lied to me!". Say "You're a liar!". Perhaps even go out on a limb and have a try with "How long have you been lying?"
It's very hard to say the word without tasting it in anger, or misery, or pain. The word 'lie' is the scapegoat of the dictionary, the one which explains everything and excuses nothing. It's the denouement of the story, the part which gives motive to the murder and solution to the mystery. Something terrible has occurred? Fine. Say that behind it all, somebody lied. The lie is the seed from which all things twisted and reprehensible grow.
Except that it isn't, not always. It's purely a matter of good marketing. Sometimes a lie can be necessary and beautiful, and so can the liar.
He sits and thinks in his chamber behind the waterfall, to all external viewers apparently watching the sparkling water cascade by in the light of the falling sun. He is very still, his long body angled into the corner of his chair, the green velvet swag of his cloak bunched up in rich folds to cushion his elbow. His mind isn't in Asgard, though: his mind roams Midgard, looking for his brother. Occasionally, the long, pale fingers of his left hand flex and grip the arm of the chair as he grapples with a particularly thorny piece of magic. His fingernails are growing a little long and shine in the sinking golden light like polished glass.
The ability to dissociate the mind from the physical form is a particular speciality of his. It makes some of the more complex magic so much easier. He blinks only as often as is necessary to keep his eyes from drying out. The trick is to leave enough of the instinctive animal hindbrain active to maintain the body. One can't leave such a body vulnerable. After all, something might get in and poach it while its owner is wandering the Realms Below. And difficult though it can be to live with sometimes, it's a useful body and not one he's keen to lose.
For one thing, it's beautiful, and a lie's always so much easier to swallow if it comes from a beautiful face. What man hasn't wanted with all his heart to believe when a beautiful woman tells him he's the best? And there are plenty, male and female alike, who would believe anything this beautiful face tells them, especially if it would buy them another few moments in its company.
Those lips that lie so well are smooth, pale, slightly parted as he breathes evenly. To those looking closely (and one should always examine lies closely) there are faint white pinpricks of scars, running parallel to each other along top and bottom, a ragged sort of blanket stitch marking, with the thread long vanished. The nose a little sharp, but elegant: the cheekbones high and sculpted. Perfect skin, cool and smooth in a fashion supermodels would weep bitter tears over. The arrogance so easily hidden in large, liquid green eyes currently fixed in intent contemplation of something not visible in Asgard.
Would you buy a used car from this face, as the saying goes in Midgard? Of course you would. Several have.
That face now walks unnoticed in the crowds in Times Square, it passes with an upturned glance under the tower of Big Ben. It pauses on a street corner, poses gracefully in a long cashmere overcoat and scarf under a streetlight and enraptures several passers-by who in their turn hold its attention not at all. In mirrors, shop windows, car windscreens, Loki's shadow flickers past, searching, watching. Sometimes smiling, a crooked, infectious flash of glee in the manner of a small boy who has managed, against all odds, to introduce a grass snake into his sister's bedroom. That smile has turned confusion into certainty, seen a handful of money proffered in the final vital minute, or in those quieter moments after midnight turned a "no" into a "yes".
Loki's hands both grip, suddenly, at the arms of his chair, and he pulls in a breath with a short gasp. More effort is required to manifest his form enough to speak in Midgard while his body languishes here. His knuckles show abruptly bold and white through his pale skin, glass nails scraping tiny slivers of varnish from the wood in thin lines. Instinctively, his feet draw up, bracing the tips of his boots under the chair, and his long back arches inward, pushing his thin chest out. It looks almost on the edge of painful, but Loki's scarred lips curl up at the corners in his crooked, delightful smile, his green eyes lost. He exhales, lips moving barely perceptibly.
It is almost ecstasy to tell stories, even if you are talking for your life. And a lie is, after all, only a story. Stories aren't true, and yet a novelist is rarely vilified for telling them. Fictions enrapture us, hold us tight, tie us up in their knots and coils; yet we always go willingly, hypnotised by the pull of something unreal and impossible. The truth is often so dull and mundane. The lie is bright and seductive and often more pleasurable than the truth.
Try it yourself. "Honestly, that new dress looks beautiful on you." Or have a little test of "No, it's exactly what I wanted, thank you so much." If you're feeling brave, as the god of mischief himself is today, maybe you can even taste how sweet "It's all for your own good" is on your tongue.
Perhaps one day, someone will manage to lift the veil concealing the beginnings of the universe, of all Nine Realms from Asgard to Jotunheim and Midgard and beyond, and dare to taste an ancient, hidden truth. Remember, in the beginning, the very beginning, was the word - and that word was probably a beautiful lie.