Catalyst

Fire.

In lashes: whispery, silken, long, teasing veins. The flames slash across, down, covering her neck (curls at the nape) and settling—finally—at her hips. She does not move, remains completely still, asleep. Worlds and ages away.

He is mesmerized, is cursed dumb and blind. Move, Loki orders himself. Move now. Rooted, his feet betray him. Bones, muscles, failing their master for another.

"She really is beautiful."

Loki does not respond, does not merit the intruder with his due right, apposite dignity.

"I wonder how she would look if I just…"

Nimble and quick, Caesar reaches for her crimson braid and feels the threads quivering in his hand. He tightens his grip, clasping hard to see if blood will run.

"…if it'll be red like her hair."

"I won't allow you."

"Oh? How can you stop me? You are just an ajin. A slave. Dispensable, like dried twigs."

"But I am the one she calls for."

Releasing his hand, Caesar turns to face him. The prince's face is contorted (shadowed beautiful in his hatred and disdain). For a second, Loki thinks the prince will strike. Nothing. He merely smiles and shrugs.

"For now, perhaps."