Loki's eyes opened as sun streamed through the foliage of winter. The trees were rather bare, with the exception of the towering pine trees that were roughly the size of a frost giant. The snow had ceased, and had only slightly covered him. Flakes spotted his rather extravagant outfit from head to toe.
Although covered in snow, he cheek felt warm in one particular spot, as if someone had just touched him. With painstaking slowness, Loki raised his shaking arm to his face. He touched his cheek to find it even felt warm.
Odd Loki thought as he remained still in the snow. He didn't quite understand the way he felt. It was almost as though a delicate hand had wiped the snow from his face, like he would imagine a loving mother would.
Loki didn't know how long he had been strewn on the ground for. He had lost consciousness not long after he had fallen in the deserted forest. He wasn't sure if it had been a few hours or a few days. He did know, however, that he was still too weak to move. He had control over his arms, but they still shook with weakness and pain. His thoughts seemed to be much more coherent than previously. He no longer thought in broken memories, and instead could clearly assess his situation.
It would be a few more days before he would have control over his powers again. He would have to slowly return to his normal habits, in order not avoid ending up like the mess he was. When he was able to relocate, he would head toward the Tesseract.
Loki knew he had to be extremely inconspicuous. There would be no sudden seizure of the cube. No, he would have to slowly assimilate and remain under the radar. Perhaps he would find himself living quarters and establish a bit of a base for himself. He would analyze the habits of the mortals that occupied Midgard in order to use their weaknesses to drive them to obedience. It wouldn't be too difficult, since they seemed to be rather mindless. And not only mindless, but wholly ignorant.
Gaining control of the measly landmass wouldn't be the difficult part. Remaining anonymous would be the challenge. Loki knew Thor, that damned brute, was walking freely on Midgard. Although not one for intelligence, Thor would be able to sense him in a second. And if Thor recognized him, Loki knew those dogs would soon be behind him.
The very thought of that sad group of unfortunate souls angered Loki. If it weren't for them, Loki's plan would have been rather simple. He shrugged off the small roadblock and decided that if they must be destroyed, he would do so…swiftly.
Loki could hear the screams and pleas for mercy. He could taste the power as it pulsated through his veins. There was something so absolutely delicious about getting what he deserved. He became ravenous for his revenge. To see the faces of those who had disowned him. To make them kneel right before him, claim him as their one, true king. All those poor souls needed to be controlled. They needed to be saved from their own demise.
And Loki was just the one to do it.
Lucy unlocked the door to the small flat. It wasn't much of an apartment, but it was a hell of a studio. Much of the apartment was windows that overlooked the picturesque New York skyline. Unfortunately, most of it was whitewashed from the snow storm that had blanketed the city the previous night. What wasn't white was a slushy grey. She loved the city, but hated winter. It was so cold, so unforgiving. She wished for the warmth of summer, when she could walk on the patio barefoot and sip on fresh lemonade, the warm breeze drifting through the studio apartment. She could practically smell the street vendors and hear the sound of children and young couples.
Lucy sighed and turned up the heat. She slipped off her boots and let her toes wiggle free in her warm socks. She carefully set her newest portrait on the large easel and walked back. She squinted her eyes and took in the finished product. It was just as how she had imagined, and had a fairly good resemblance to the picture the man had given her.
Lucy looked at every inch with a meticulous eye and checked for any spots that needed fixing up. She did not see any imperfections and dipped the tip of the brush in the black paint. In the right corner, she signed her signature in an elegant, small script. She simply signed the painting "Luc" and placed the brush down on the lip of the easel.
She expected her client to show up in about ten minutes. With careful fingers, she lifted the canvas and placed it against the wall. Lucy crept over to the closet and picked out a bare, white canvas. She placed the canvas on the easel and closed her eyes.
She could see his face quite clearly in her mind as though it was committed to memory. She picked up a pencil and sketched out exactly what she saw in light pencil marks. It was just the outline of his face, exactly as she saw it. She paused with heisitation and took a step back to look at the beginning of her handiwork.
The face was thin and delicate just as she had envisioned. The cheekbones were sharp as razors and had the hollow quality she admired. She decided to get rid of the ridiculous helmet he was wearing. It looked far too foolish and ridiculous. She didn't like the way it looked on him. It gave him such a proud and snarky attitude. So, she roughly sketched the outline of what she thought his inkblot hair looked like. She drew neat, slicked back strands that grew wild around his neck.
All the while she had sketched, she felt a tingle grow in her chest. The same tingle she got when someone watched her paint or draw. It was a feeling of modesty, of slight embarrassment. She didn't like the sensation of being watched. She felt conscious of every movement she made, from the blink of her dark eyes, to the flick of her wrist. It was an addicting sensation, even though she felt quite uneasy.
Next, she began the corners of his downward mouth. His lips had been thin, but perfectly shaped. His mouth was elegant in the way the lips were poised on his mouth. Although slightly dishelved, he had given off a sophisticated aura. Lucy slowly draped one lip over the other in the scowl they had been in. Once again, she had stepped back and checked her sketch.
She continued similarly with the nose, which had been perfectly straight and long. Lucy had always admired men with larger noses. It added personality to a face.
Lucy paused again and her heart dropped. The next feature, his eyes, were going to be much more frustrating than the others had been. The eyes made the face. Emotion, Lucy believed, was portrayed most by the eyes. The profound sadness she had seen in them seemed almost impossible to replicate on a piece of canvas. How could a bit of graphite speak the volumes his expression had? There was something so raw, so painful in the way he looked. Lucy swallowed her nervousness and placed the tip of the pencil against the canvas.
She shut her eyes and recalled the most painful memory she could.
She heard the scream of her mother. The metal bent and the smell of burnt rubber. She felt her head crack on the wet pavement. Heard her brother beg for something, for mercy. Saw her father look straight at her, unblinking, unmoving.
Her hand began to move on its own, directly connected to her consciousness. Suddenly, the sadness, the disappoint felt achievable. Yes, she had been there, just like he had. She had felt the pain, she had known the misery.
The bell chimed and Lucy snapped out of her trance. She dropped the pencil and walked to the door. She peeked through the peephole and saw it was her client. She opened the door and welcomed him in.
Mr. Meyers was a slightly older man, perhaps in his fifties. Lucy knew the minute she met him he was very well off. It was clear in is countenance and in the way he dressed. He was always dressed in slacks and a collared shirt and tie. His grayed hair was always combed back neatly and his facial hair was well kept.
Mr. Meyers came to Lucy to paint a picture of his deceased wife, Lizzie. He had told her he had a new one painted every year and hung the portrait in his living room. He had seen a bit of Lucy's work in a small gallery last year, and knew immediately he had to have a piece of hers. It was the emotion in her work that caught his eye and his heart.
"Good morning Lucy! How's everything?" Mr. Meyers asked, a jolly smile on his face. Lucy returned the smile and carefully lifted the canvas off the ground.
It was quite a large painting, just about the same height as Lucy. It was an ambitious portrait, one that had taken her two months of hard work for hours and hours on end. But Lucy hadn't minded; Mrs. Meyers was a very beautiful woman and the picture was truly beautiful. Mrs. Meyers had been laughing in the picture, a hearty laugh with her mouth agape and her eyes sparkling. Her hair was soft and blonde and wrapped around her round face in supple curls. Her round cheeks were rosy and pink, her lips red and large. Mrs. Meyers eyes were small but warm, like two little chocolate candies. Lucy had enjoyed every painstaking stroke that went into the portrait.
Lucy held the portrait toward her. She felt her heart speed up. In the back of her mind, she began to wonder if it was good enough. Suddenly, she wanted to rip it up and chuck it in the fireplace.
"Everything's fantastic," she responded, slightly delayed.
"Well let us have a look," Mr. Meyers grinned. Lucy inhaled sharply and turned the canvas around, her eyes squinted shut.
Lucy heard only her own heart beat. The room was plagued with silence.
Oh God, he hates it, Lucy thought. Begrudgingly, she opened her eyes.
Mr. Meyers' mouth was slightly agape, his hand placed on his chin. Lucy noticed his eyes seemed a bit wet and sparkled in the light of her apartment.
"My God Lucy," he gasped. "She's beautiful," he smiled.
Lucy's heart leapt with joy. She felt her happiness bubble over and threaten to escape her lips in pure ecstasy. Mr. Meyers took a step closer and ran his fingers over the canvas.
"You caught her Lucy, you really did," he told her as he looked with a saddened expression. "I've had twenty one portraits of my Lizzie painted. All were beautiful and remarkable in different ways. But this one…this one is different. It's like you bottled her up in one of those little jars of paint, Lucy," he whispered, tears welled in his eyes. "It's my Lizzie."
Lucy could feel her tears sting the back of her eyes. What she had witnessed was much more beautiful than what she had replicated. The true talent wasn't her ability in recreation – no it was the scene itself, the reality behind the painting. That, to Lucy, was art. She hadn't created anything beautiful, no she had duplicated it.
Mr. Meyers carefully placed the portrait in a portfolio case and zipped it up. He pulled a checkbook out of his pocket and quickly wrote out Lucy's payment. With a swift rip, he handed Lucy the check and wiped a tear about to spill.
Lucy glanced quickly at the check and frowned at the price.
"But this is far more than the price we settled on…" Lucy trailed off. It was well over a thousand dollars more than she had been commissioned for.
"Lucy, I came to you for a portrait. You gave me something more. You gave me a memory, and that is worth more than anything. So, consider the extra money a small sign of…gratitude," Mr. Meyers told her. "Goodbye, and thank you Lucy."
Mr. Meyers left the studio and left Lucy to wallow in silence. Her heart wrenched at the thought of Mr. Meyers sitting by his fireplace that night, with a bit of scotch and his portrait. He would stare at that portrait and think of happier times, when Lizzie was alive and he was in love. It only reminded her of how she would be doing something similar, except in front of her television. That, and she had no one to reminisce about. No, she would spend the night alone, both physically and emotionally.
She wished she could've had the equivalent to Mr. Meyers' Lizzie, but she knew that wasn't possible. Her hands deceived her, ruined her. How could she love someone if she couldn't bear to touch them? But this was the life she was given, and there was nothing to be done about it.
Lucy stood still for a bit before she shut the lights of the studio off, locked the door, and headed home. She didn't dare steal a glance at her newest project. She couldn't deal with the disappointment she knew she would see, not only in her skill, but in his expression.