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VVVVVV
In a Crowd of Thousands
Chapter 2
"Lamentis"
"Love is…" Loki's thoughts had snagged right then as he gazed into the bubbling champagne. The train continued speeding onward—he could see the landscape out of the corner of his eye whizzing past through the windows. But that motion, and everything else, had faded in the wake of that unexpected question.
Because it was a question, wasn't it? What is love?
Was it a question that could actually be answered? Or was it all subjective, depending upon each person's experience, or lack thereof, with it?
He'd been right to put that subject off, to tell this variant of himself, "Sylvie," that he'd get back to her with an answer. He wasn't sure that track of conversation was getting him anywhere, anyway. It seemed that he was doing a lot of the talking here—perhaps far too much—and she was doing too little. He hadn't gleaned anything from her except that she knew she was adopted, and hadn't known her mother. Hardly useful.
Yet, as this "Sylvie" enigma leaned back with folded arms, took a deep breath and shut her eyes to relax in silence, Loki silently came back to that question over and over, even as he swallowed two, three, four delicate glasses full of this sparkling liquid.
Love? He couldn't possibly define it for other people, and he refused to indulge in poetic cliches. And while he never minded waxing philosophical about subjects that didn't concern him…
This stuck inside his ribs somewhere, and he didn't like it.
Setting his empty glass down, he rested his hands to either side of it and frowned deep into its depths. The conversations of the other people in this car faded out of his mind as his eyes unfocused.
He remembered loving Odin. Loving him, and never receiving any in return.
He remembered loving his mother, Frigga. But always seeming to hurt her, to disappoint her.
Of course, he loved Thor. It stung him to admit it, even to himself—especially after that scalding embarrassment on Midgard. In fact, he hated admitting it. But it was true. But did his brother love him in return? Or had he taken sides against him, joining with pathetic Midgardians to bring him lower than dirt? Yes, Mobius' strange looking glass device had showed him glimpses of something else—a Thor who had expressed real appreciation, if not affection. But which Thor was that, anyway? The real Thor, or some variant who was, perhaps, a little touched?
Loki heaved a sigh, closing his fingers around the stem of the glass as older memories drifted to the surface.
Once, long, long ago, he had loved Lady Sif. That glorious, stunning goddess of a woman, with her fierce beauty, her kind smile, her radiant laugh. But in the end, she had rejected him, and chosen his lion-like older brother. Of course. And she had been in love with Thor ever since. Even if he didn't deserve her.
Loki set his teeth. It was very possible he would have an answer for Sylvie soon. He took three more glasses from a passing waiter, and downed them. And with each swallow, the truth solidified inside him.
Love was pain. Love was disappointment and loneliness. Love was being vulnerable, and being punished sorely for it. Love was foolish, like throwing pearls to swine. Love was nonsense, it was wasteful, it was…
He frowned, feeling a bit foggy, as something pushed sharply at the insides of his chest. He blinked, fighting to hone in on that sensation.
In that moment, he remembered what he'd accidentally said to Sylvie earlier—the truth he had confessed in the heat of the argument. He did hide useful odds and ends in his heart. Well—that was as close to the truth as he could articulate. His "space between spaces" was indeed fueled, controlled and protected by his heart magick. And now, some part of that magic seemed to be setting off sparks.
In alarm, he sat up, suddenly recalling—
He had put that stone—that "variant" stone he had found in the secret vault—in his "space between spaces." He kept his original, of course, still safely tucked away, deep inside him. He'd never part with that one, not ever. Not until the day he died.
But now—now, here, on this world, away from the TVA, the variant stone's magic would work.
Setting his glass down, he waved his hands across each other…
And the sparkling violet stone appeared in his left palm.
For a long moment, Loki gazed down at it, feeling its gentle ambient heat against his skin. Watching the millions of lights flicker and twinkle in its depths.
It was different. He knew that instantly. He couldn't point out exactly how it was different, but that was the truth. As he ran his thumb across its smooth surface, he sensed that its weight and glitter, its texture and heat, all felt the very slightest bit foreign. Like an old friend he hadn't seen in a hundred years, who had gone on harrowing journeys and adventures without him.
Loki pressed his lips together. Its magic was different, too. He couldn't invade it and start poking about, as he could with his own Lokistone. This one might blow up in his face, or turn to dust.
Perhaps, if he took another drink and just relaxed with it in his hand, he might be able to absorb something. He snatched up the champagne in his free hand and took a sip, letting his eyes fall shut. He closed his fingers lightly around the stone, feeling the heat work its way through his hand, up his wrist and into his arm.
At first, he didn't feel or hear anything. But as the silence lengthened and he grew more still, he began to catch at splinters of sensation, and shards of pictures. All dark and indistinct, as if they were hiding from him. Cagey and guarded. Unwilling to show him anything.
"What?" he whispered, almost teasing. "You were just jabbing me a moment ago. Now you want me to leave you alone?"
The stone instantly flickered across his thoughts, sending violet fragments across his mind's eye.
It had retorted at him. He smiled faintly.
"What is it, then? You wanted to join the conversation?"
Love is…
The words rose up before him, unbidden, but in his own voice, with the flavor of his own thoughts. His brow furrowed.
"Love is?" he repeated.
That instant, the stone no longer felt like a stone—but a hand. A slender, delicate, soft hand, clasped in his. Familiar and safe, resting there as if it belonged. As if it had always belonged.
It was not Sif's hand. Nor was it his mother's. But it was certainly a woman's.
He gasped.
The phantom hand vanished like a ghost, leaving him spasmodically squeezing the stone.
Laughter. Bright, vivid laughter—girlish with delight, but womanly in its richness and humor. It rang all around his head, echoing as if through a wide meadow. The scent of flowers flooded his lungs, and he felt the warmth of a summer sun beating down on his face.
Blurry, brilliant lights slowly coalesced and solidified, until he could almost make out his surroundings.
The summer hunting lodge in the mountains of Asgard, near the high fells. A massive, wooden structure, with woody smoke pouring from its chimneys, the scent of wild boar roasting on a spit making his mouth water. Wildflowers danced all around its windows and doors, and laughter and song resounded from within.
And within…
All the Aesir, wearing feasting draperies, sat at long tables, drinking ale and singing. And Loki stood amongst them, near the fire, his spirits lifting ecstatically as the raucous old drinking song—celebrating the summer solstice—flooded his hearing. He grinned.
Strangely enough, it seemed that a few others from elsewhere in the World Tree had been invited to this feast, for they weren't all Aesir. They dressed differently, they looked differently, and they sat closer to the fire. But as Loki burst into singing and waved a hand bidding them to join, they opened their mouths and sang along too, hoisting their glasses in the air. Loki sang as loud as he could, urging the others on as they slammed their mugs on the table and stomped their feet.
"Loki!" came a call—a woman's call. A voice that brought his head around. A tone that commanded the essence of his soul.
A woman sat on a bench quite near him. She wore a pale pink, off-the-shoulder Aesir dress, with a gold necklace. But she was not Aesir. At least, she hadn't been born one.
She was small and delicate as a rose, with dark brown hair flowing around her shoulders; laughing brown eyes and long lashes, with a beguiling mouth. She gazed up at him expectantly, for it was she who had called to him.
He instantly recognized her. It was Jane Foster.
"Loki," she said again, reaching out and grasping his hand.
Searing pain shot through Loki's hand—and he snatched at her fingers, holding them tight as a lifeline. He felt foggy and staggering again, but he could do nothing but return her magnificent smile, and await her orders.
"Sing that song I like," she asked. "The one you sang the other night."
He didn't speak. His mind swam. But he took a breath…
And when he began to sing, all the mead hall quieted, listening raptly to the ancient, haunting melody.
"I stormsvarte fjell, jeg vandrer alene
Over isbreen tar jeg meg frem
I eplehagen står møyen den vene
og synger "når kommer du hjem?"
Men traner danser og fossene stanser
når hun synger, hun synger 'kom hjem'
når hun synger, hun synger 'kom hjem…'"
The tune washed over them all, and through his body, like a kulning upon the mountainside—ringing and sad and pierced with longing. The pretty image of Jane in front of him melted away, and as the meaning of the words consumed him, he saw her again.
As if from a great distance, he saw her standing in a grey, lifeless garden, her face thin and pale, her eyes shadowed and staring mournfully at the flowers that had died in a frost. Her hair hung limp around her face. She wrapped her bony arms around herself and bowed her head. And again, the words rang through his mind.
In storm-black mountains, I wander alone
Over the glacier I make my way
But in the apple orchard stands a maiden fair
And she sings, "When will you come home?"
But cranes dance and the waterfalls falter
When she sings, she sings "Come home."
When she sings, she sings "Come home…"
To be continued…
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