Terrible. I'm terrible, and I know, and I'm sorry. The compound pressure of expectations and work really psyched me out.
This is an interlude that didn't quite fit in with the next chapter, ao I thought I would separate it and give it to you guys early. There is another (enormous) chapter on the horizon that should be here within the weekend, so don't complain about the length of this. Besides, it's content that matters... *winks*
Disclaimer: Not mine
Warnings: Nothing unusual.
Alone, Loki stared into the dark. It wasn't a whole darkness, though; Midgardian lights seeped in from beneath the curtains, rupturing the blackness.
It wasn't like the near-perfect veil that had cloaked Stark's bedroom.
He let out a heavy breath, stirring the otherwise still air. He could feel his pulse in his head, drowning his rational thoughts in a dizzying rush of half-formed conclusions and queries. From the drain of magic, he told himself sternly. But that idea was more worrisome than the alternative, and he let out an oath before turning and making his way towards the bedroom. He needed rest. Rest and time to think, time to plan, time to account for… this.
But instead of entering the bedroom, Loki pushed open a different door. He regretted it immediately but didn't return to the hall. Instead, he lit the candles with a wave and moved deeper into the chamber.
The room was mammoth-like in size, lit by a sea of candles and furnished only by a bowl the size of a bathtub in its very center. The surface of the gargantuan walls was pure white and smooth, like marble doves. Or, rather, two of them were. A third was scarred with black ink, bleeding trails of it onto the floors. Trails of words. The sentences swarmed like ants, marring and mutilating the would-be blank expanse. Looking closely, one would realize that a few of the bruise-like smears were not mistakes, but minute pictures that almost breathed on the walls. When compared to the chaos, the two untouched sections seemed to shiver in the candlelight, fully aware of what was about to happen.
The fourth wall was entirely black.
Loki approached the vat with sure steps. Each one was a lie, if only for his own benefit (there was nothing sure about resorting to this, nothing at all). Rationality demanded that he sleep, or else continue to plan for the Challenge to come. However, for once, the sheer weight of the emotion in his chest refused to be smothered.
His footsteps made no sound as he moved to stand by the tub of ink. In the candlelight, the runes carved into the sides almost undulated. A smaller bowl bobbed within like some foolhardy boat on black, deathlike waves. It was cool and delicate beneath his fingers, as though it was trying to convince him that it was something other than old bone.
Loki dipped the bowl into the ink, watching as the thick liquid crept up the sides. Withdrawing, he took three quick steps and flung the contents onto one of the pale, waiting walls.
There was a moment of stillness. The black and the white seemed to contemplate one another, remaining rigid. Even Loki's breathing paused.
Then the ink condensed into a single block of onyx before him, trembling slightly with the anticipation.
Loki stepped forward, lifting one hand and pressing it into the liquid. It gave under his fingers, soft in an alive sort of way as it evaluated him. Before his eyes, droplets began to roll away from the outer edges, writhing and colliding.
He moved back, watching. In the center, his handprint remained, surrounded by tendrils of thoughts and phrases.
Words rose like welts on the canvas, arranging and rearranging themselves into whipping, cohesive trails before scattering and spreading out on the vast emptiness. A picture blossomed in one corner - a minute cube which sprouted tongues of dancing fire. Making way for the illustration, a cluster of words took flight like startled birds, distancing themselves before rejoining one another closer to the ceiling. Larger swaths of sentences melted together to form paragraphs before collapsing into images that rippled and meandered across the expanse.
Loki touched a fingertip to the wall, and it froze.
His gaze swept from floor to ceiling, taking it all in. The spell mimicked his mind, reaching in and drawing out what he felt, what he had seen, what mantras haunted him most prominently. It was of his own invention - one of his proudest.
Some thoughts were larger, more pressing, and their size was proportional. Others were minute details that wavered hesitantly at the fringes of the painting. Small pictures hovered here and there: a raven, a sharp pair of glasses, a cube, a charm, a Book, an untapped patch of darkness. In the very center, Stark's face stared out at the air above Loki's head. His expression held something desperate, something unknowable.
The words ringed his fingertip like halos, growing and spreading and repeating. Some strands formed cohesive chains, while others were mere broken links.
Steeling himself, Loki began to read.
Trick, trick, tricking me, he is, must be, why else, how else could it have happened? A worthy opponent, I mused, and how true it is. He's tricking me, tricking me...
Frost Fire. Burn. Poison. Imbecile. More power than usual. More effort. Lips are better than hands when it comes to poison, more direct, heals more quickly. Imbecile. Burned. Branded. Burned.
Cares, he cares, do I care? He cares, he said he cares, he said, "I care," he cares, he said so, but why? He cares...
Not strong enough. Crippled. Broken. Torn. Beaten. Biding my time until it finds me again, the Beast, the Beast is searching. I can still hear it screaming, deep in the black, searching, screaming...
Amora. How does she know? How does she...?
Why else? Why else? Tricking me, he knows, he is tricking me, scenting for weakness, trying to break me, but oh, too late, far too late. Broken already, Stark, you are too late...
The Game endures, takes precedence. A means to fix... what?
Brother, my brother, not our blood, mine and his and Odin's, but not ours. Never ours. Oh, what lies you told, and you call me a liar, you dare to call me a liar. Not my father, not my brother, not my blood...
"Tell me," he begged, he demanded. He desires answers, answers, always answers, but I will give him lies. Answers are precious, but there are always counterfeits that can be offered in their stead...
I hear it, I hear it screaming when I sleep, when I breathe...
Don the mask, become the pretender. The liar. The trickster. No one looks for the secretive, hidden being beneath. No one knows, no one notices, no one cares.
He cares. Stark cares.
Bleeding without blood, too much, too little. No scars, why are there no scars? There must be, within, there must be. Torn, I am torn, I am scarred...
Pepper. Too kind to so strange a stranger, too kind.
We see in the darkness. We see. Nothing undisclosed, nothing hidden in the dark because everything is hidden and open and revealed and buried and...
Monster. Ice prince. Never a king, never meant to be king. Lies, oh, the lies, how could they lie, how dare they? Monstrous, I am monstrous...
Stark. Tony. Why does he care? No one cares. Lies, tricks, trickery, trickster...
Broken, broken, broken...
Amora, she hunts...
The Beast, it nears...
Cannot flee them both. What if she succeeds? What if I don't?
Monster. My monstrous blood. Broken monster, torn asunder. Dying. Is this dying? Am I? Can I?
Stark. He cares. For what, he cannot comprehend... I cannot comprehend...
Beast...
Monster...
Amora...
Stark...
I care.
I care.
I care.
Dare I? A kiss, simply a kiss, a simple kiss, what harm could it do, a single, simple kiss? Dare I?
No. A trick. He tricks, he cares, I care.
The Beast.
We care.
Amora.
Stark.
Broken.
Stark.
We care.
No.
Loki tore himself away from the wall. Above him, Stark stared down with unseeing eyes.
"I don't-" His voice came out in a reedy, unsettled pitch, and he quickly closed his mouth. The words remained stationary, ignorant of his horror.
"I don't," he breathed out, turning away. The candles had burned to the floor, and light was becoming scarce.
He could feel Stark's gaze above his head, feel the judgement settling on his shoulders like still-warm ash.
"I cannot."
I'll see you all very soon, dears. I can't thank you enough for your support over the past few weeks- or months, for that matter. You are all wonderful.
Cheers,
BlackSheep.
P.S.: Everything that seems out of place or confusing will be explained as the story goes on. Trust me. ;)
