Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians, Guardians of Childhood, or Thor.
A/N: Please note that I have not read the Guardians of Childhood books and therefore my knowledge is extremely limited. I'm taking liberties.
Death of Stars
Trapped within finely-crafted liquid glass, the dimmed lights hanging from the intricate, ancient kite chandeliers stranded from the ceiling still managed to shine as brightly as raging, dying stars.
Kozmotis Pitchiner had always appreciated the art of trying to capture the last moments of desperate death of the warriors of the skies in a single, frozen breath. Stars crying out their glory even as the force of it consumed them, burning their memories in a raging inferno so that all the universe could feel the intensity of their fading existence and know it for as it had been and done. To dance under such a representation of courage and grandeur, as the Royals of galaxies and realms did on this night, was awe-inspiring.
His gaze, sharp and trained, fell on the small child slumbering peacefully in his Tsarina's comforting arms.
Hopefully even, if the fates smiled upon and graced them, foreshadowing and foretelling.
Kozmotis stalked the shadows, hand resting comfortably upon the hilt of he sword as he studied the gathering. The music that wailed trance-like through the Great Lunan Hall traced down the glittering golden walls of the room like trickling rivers of life-giving water. Glasses of guests rarely seen clinked delicately together in symphony, twinkling magical sounds surrounded by graceful laughter and good will, the ambience soothing. Many kings and queens, duchesses and emperors, princesses and barons, happily learned and partook in the Tsar's traditional celebratory dance - the more drinks that flowed, the more dancers joined the floor. Yet there was no anger, no boasting wounded pride, a need to prove power.
Peace. How foreign, still, like a heavy wool blanket on his sun-blistered skin.
"At least they haven't started singin' yet, sir," the amused voice of one his soldiers - Iona Make, scars still burning fresh these decades later - sounded from a dipped corner. The man's glassy, clouded eyes were misleading as they scanned the hall with the same trained efficiency. There was so little stardust could not do, and so much it was incapable of. "Small favors'n all."
With amusement invisible, Kozmotis could excuse the twitch of his lips for a grimace at the thought. "Out of respect for the child, no doubt," he acknowledged dryly. "Though I have noticed the Asgardians are consuming more than we had anticipated. A matter of time." Iona snorted. The large crowd of men and women adorned in finely crafted leather surrounding their own king and queen did indeed seem to be growing less refined. "Keep an eye on them. When was the last time the balcony was monitored?"
"It's Guame's rotation, so probably…" Iona paused in thought, and winced. "Not in the last half-hour. Want me to go?"
Kozmotis sighed, fingers tightening reflexively on the hilt of his sword as he tossed a look towards the Tsar and Tsarina, the child between them. Safe, happy, celebrated, and not protected to the fullest extent of his ability.
"That will not be necessary," he replied. "I will do so. Should Guame pass your way, inform him he is now assigned as the Tsar's shadow. That should keep him out of trouble." One final look at the Royal family, a funny feeling to his chest. "As you were, Make."
"Aye, sir."
The balcony, though large and relatively private, was oddly void of any of their foreign guests when Kozmotis stepped onto its swirled gold-and-white marble floors. The veins of the music did not wrap around the walls, leaving the atmosphere comfortingly quiet and tranquil. The celebration of the evening had been long and would be longer still, the guests and blessers comforted by their warmth, uncompelled to leave under the guise of welcoming the new child. The skies above shone and sparkled with living stars, the cast of many multi-colored, clouded moons a relative distance away, beaming their radiance yet not imposing. Unbidden by his command, he found himself stepping towards the view, coming to rest on the gleaming railing.
It was easy to take a deep breath and find it satisfying.
Odd that he should find the silent understanding of the stars a deeper soothing than the peace his sword and army had gained his kingdom; this universe. And yet his hand released from the hilt, fingers singing relief as they stretched from their night-long position, coming to rest beside the other on the smooth guardrail. The lights of the moons drenched his skin, dancing colors upon the paleness, and for a moment, just a moment, Kozmotis allowed temptation to pull him under, his eyes to slip closed as the same light bathed his face, just feeling.
'How long has it been, since I have felt this?' He wondered silently, the thought almost unconscious. 'Since I have had only the light of universe to clothe me? To be my eyes? My only comfort?' His eyes drifted open, lifting to lock on the moons. 'And what has come of it? Peace for my people, my Family, my Prince. And the droll, empty comfort of a confined room, a flat bed, a stale routine life…'
"Your eyes are a remarkable shade of gold."
Startled, Kozmotis whirled towards the silky voice, sword drawn before he even knew his target, the guilt of his selfish thoughts racing his blood more than the sudden voice. What met him, however, was not the crude face of an enemy. Rather it was a man, foreign, that stood before him, skin as pale as his own, clothed in robes of rich emerald silk that drew life from eyes of the same color which currently watched him, sparkling with mischief and no short amount of impending devastation. A finely crafted eyebrow lifted in arch that didn't seem surprised, so much as amused as a small smile twisted sardonically on thin lips.
"My apologies," the stranger murmured in a tone that implied he was anything but, glancing down at the tip of the curved saber and then back up. "It was not my intention to frighten you."
Frighten? Kozmotis' shoulders lifted in offense even as he re-sheathed his sword. Frighten indeed. His eyes narrowed as he took in the stranger's now noticeably thin form, the grand golden helmet atop his head twisted into obscure shape. "You are the youngest Asgardian prince," he realized. The other man – the prince of Asgard – tilted his head in acknowledgement, smirk growing into something more resembling prideful as he took a step back.
"I am Loki, son of Odin and indeed, a prince of Asgard." He bowed in a way that could only be considered mocking, but he was up too quickly for Kozmotis to respond to it. "And you are Kozmotis Pitchiner, General of the Golden Army. I have heard a great deal of you." The deadly eyes glinted in humor. "Only wonderful things, of course."
"Of course," Kozmotis responded wryly, and then stopped. Foreign prince or not, this man outranked him and demanded the respect of his station. "It is I who should apologize. I did not mean to intrude upon your peace of the balcony -."
"Oh, peace," the Asgardian sighed, cutting him off as he went around Kozmotis to lean against the railing. "If it were but that easy to gain peace from my brother and his warriors, half of my problems would be but solved. No." He shook his head. "I merely stepped out for a break from the gushing of their happiness and expectations of a new child of this grand Golden Age."
"You are not a fan of children?" Kozmotis inquired, surprised in spite of himself. All throughout the galaxies children had become a precious gift, their purity treasured – there were few who did not appreciate a child or yearn to be near one. He himself felt that same desire from time to time.
Strangely enough, Loki's smirk fell a little, a soft shadow of a smile that could be mistaken for bitter in its place as his head shook.
"On the contrary," he softly argued. "I adore children. It is the expectations that are placed upon them before they grow that I cannot stand. Already your new prince is being hailed as the new beacon of light for this realm, and he has yet to formulate so much as his own independent thought." He paused. "Such a life your fighting has brought, General."
The twist in Loki's eyes was beckoning, dangerous – an old promised flavor of chaos Kozmotis had not tasted since the final battle, and he ripped his gaze away uncomfortably. "It is still a new peace," he asserted. "Still under threat. It takes adjustment."
"Adjustment merely breeds new war." Loki turned toward him now, and Kozmotis' gaze flickered back – a mutually curious regard that ignited something hard in the general's chest even as Loki's mocking smirk returned. "But I have no doubt you are the type of man to fight it, no matter its cost. You do seem the type."
"And you?" Kozmotis demanded, harsh. His head was spinning. "What type of man would you be, majesty, in such a war?"
And Loki laughed, the other pulling back in surprise.
"Oh, I knew I would like you. The things I have heard. The great general of war." Suddenly he was there, a mere inch from Kozmotis' face, all burning eyes of battle and want, breath hot against his skin, thin hand wrapped tightly in strong grip around the curve of his neck. "You still yearn for it, don't you?" He whispered cruelly. "The heat of battle, the fast-pace of war, the feel of a life fading beneath your sword. You do, I know. I see it in those golden eyes of yours, that yearn for chaos. This peace is killing you. I know what you want, Kozmotis Pitchiner. I will give it to you."
His chest was heaving. "You know nothing." But he could feel it, his blood roaring with Loki's words, recalling the memories, the sensations, the life. "Nothing."
The kiss was unexpected and hard, teeth and tongues and force. Loki laughed against him even as Kozmotis shuddered, biting at his lips and pushing into him, armor and leather clashing. Where Loki's eyes had hinted chaos, Loki himself promised it, forcing him to taste it, feel it, remember it-
A heavy crash resonated from inside the hall, ripping Kozmotis back to the balcony, to the peace, to the gathering of constant potential threat. A roar of drunken laughter quickly followed, accompanied by the displeased wailing of an awoken new prince.
"Consider my words," Loki murmured against his lips, nipping at the skin, their breath mixing in pants of ruined desperation. He pulled back, smirk returning. "Go."
Chest heaving, blood burning, trembling hand falling back to its place on his hilt, Kozmotis twisted back towards the Great Hall, and did not see Loki disappear.