Symphony of Lies
Chapter 7 - Memories
Feather pillows cushioned Tony's head as he awoke to the sound of rolling waves. The familiar smell of sea salt filled his nostrils, yet it wasn't pungent: less polluted than the Florida coastline to which he was used.
So I'm not at home.
He was obviously no longer in the tree-root cave, but that didn't mean he knew where he was. Loki must have brought him somewhere. Whether this place was safe, he didn't care. Pain had crescendoed during these few thoughts and it was all Tony could do to keep himself from blacking out. An invisible knife was working it's way up through his abdomen, twisting and grinding.
Then cool hands touched his chest. Tony felt an unnerving pain lessened to a dull ache, throbbing gently and sending the billionaire back into the comforting fog of unconsciousness.
Loki hadn't slept for days. He had sat in a weathered wicker chair at Stark's bedside for the best part of a week.
Why do I feel so...responsible?
The god of Lies had refrained from healing away his fatigue, choosing to reserve his magic, in case the human took a turn for the worse. Tony Stark had left Hel's halls alive, but barely so. The fragile mortal's life had been hanging by a cobweb and all Loki could do was heal him and hope. The god had little experience at healing Midgardians; he had never troubled himself with with their injuries before, so he was unsure where to begin when the pair had landed, in a pool of darkening blood, back in Stark's realm.
Even with his patient sleeping, Loki couldn't bring himself to leave the damaged human. Part of his mind told him that he should not have helped the genius at all, he should have left him to the fate of the rainy night. That part was overwhelmed by another, new-feeling corner of Loki's brain, a small voice that told him that things could be different. This time.
It had been a while since the god had felt the urge to help, rather than destroy. It pained him to work with constructive aims instead of destructive ones. The pain was a good pain, though. A pain that made the rewards of his labours all the sweeter. Loki attempted to push the memories of Álfheimr into the murky recesses of his thought, but they swelled and burst like a melancholy bubble in his mind's eye...
I cannot let these experiences stop me now. Stark is not a Ljósálfar, I will not let him die just because of my history.
Needing something to distract him from the unpleasant reminiscing, Loki finally stood up.
He crossed the open, whitewashed room, feet sliding slightly over smooth beech planks. His cello lay on it's side in the corner, next to a pile of haphazardly stacked manuscripts. Selecting a sheet at random, he tore it from the heap, using a small amount of magic to keep the yellowed papers out of gravity's clutches. He slid his fingers around the instruments graceful neck and carried it lovingly back to chair's corner.
Music was like a drug, even to his Aesir strength. It ensnared his senses and captured his ambitious persuasion. Loki had always found himself bored when on Midgard. It wasn't like the god of Mischief could have 'normal' hobbies, other that is, than spreading havoc and madness. In music, he found a challenge. With his unnatural magical capabilities, Loki had never had to practisesomething before. Having something to work at that actually showed improvement gave him immense satisfaction. Even having the foolish mortals commend his talents gave Loki an unfamiliar sense of pride. This was only enhanced by the fact that he had always lived in Thor's shadow.
A honey-coloured note hummed from the cello as he drew the bow experimentally across the strings. It had been too long since he had played, since the night of his last concert, the night of raindrops and blood.
Loki bowed his head, cradling the instrument. He allowed himself to be lost in the music for a while. It had been uncomfortable at first: releasing his normally frozen-solid self-control. He had come to love the way that he could let himself go.
A lamenting tune anchored Tony to reality. It also brought back the sickening sensation of a small, spiny creature burrowing beneath his ribs. The vibrations worsened the hurt, yet made it better at the same time. With unopened eyes, he exhaled slightly, lessening some of the tension that had built up in his chest. A shift of his weight slightly onto his left shoulder only made the soreness blossom further. He winced.
Hours slipped by before the god could bring himself to stop playing. He needed the music. The melody continued within him as he reluctantly lay the cello on the floor. Stark was stirring. Crows feet dented the tanned skin around the inventor's eyes. Without cognitive decision, Loki extended a slender finger to smooth out the wrinkles.
Stark's eyes opened abruptly at the light touch. The brown irises were instantly accusing.
What am I doing?
Loki sharply withdrew his fingertip, abashed and embarrassed. Hopefully before the mortal cottoned on to his action, he shifted to a more distant position, leaning on twisted metalwork the foot of the bed.
"Hey, Edward Cullen, I saw that." Stark attempted a chuckle but looked like he regretted it. Of course, his laughter would be limited by the train-wreck state of his diaphragm.
A reference to Midgardian culture? Loki questioned inwardly.
The god tried to assume a friendly, hospitable expression. One that said 'everything will be fine' in lieu of 'I have kidnapped you from your city, taken you to Hell and back and I am trying to heal your probably fatal wounds.'
Probably.
*Notes*
Story Art by teejaystumbles.