In Love With The Darkness
Eira experienced a mild, rising wave of panic as she was dressed for dinner that night. Anna fussed and hovered over her; she was tempted to tell her not to bother.
She had no intention of making the King think she was dressing well for him. She dressed well, because she had a sneaking suspicion that it would be Anna who bore the brunt of Loki's displeasure.
The heavy corset and skirt was made of burgundy leather, holding her and accentuating her waist without constricting her breathing. The high neck ended just below her chin, and her upper body was covered by a black velvet jacket embroidered with intricate golden designs that Anna told her were taken from a Chinese design. The sleeves fell away at her elbows to reveal the burgundy under sleeves.
Anna had curled her hair and bound it up, weaving a delicate gold chain through her hair and letting it drape her forehead. Looking in the mirror, she had to admit she looked queenly, regal.
A complete stranger.
Unconsciously, she straightened her spine, lifting her chin. She did not know if this was Loki's plan, but she would not let him change her. She would not let his delusions force her to be what he wanted.
It was easier said than done, especially as waves of familiarity swept over her with increasing regularity. Looking at herself now, in the mirror, in this dress that was both majestic and beautiful, the dress of a warrior queen, brought back images, hazy, insubstantial, of more gowns, more jewels, more shining hallucinations that Eira could not be sure were real.
A slight pulse of pain washed through her, and she winced, setting a hand to her stomach, as it rose and ebbed. Thankfully, Anna did not see.
The dining chamber was as luxuriant and warm as the rest of the palace. Eira had avoided it until now, taking meals in her chambers, but he had demanded her presence that evening. Cool marble was bronzed by flickering candlelight, and the hard stone was softened by rugs that devoured one's feet when walked on. Before a low table, stacked with various foods, was a low-slung sofa, piled with comfortable cushions and throws.
Eira met the eyes of the man awaiting her, lounging insouciantly on the yielding surface like a wild cat in the sun, emerald eyes watching her intently.
It had been two days since their last encounter. Eira had not hidden in her rooms as before, but she never saw him no matter how long she wandered in the gardens. A part of her longed for his company, and that alone was enough to make her wary.
She nodded once, and amusement flashed in those dark eyes. He rose, so inherently graceful that Eira could not restrain a surge of desire. What was wrong with her?
"Forgive me, my love," he purred, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "I have been remiss in my promises to you, but affairs of the Realm called me away."
Eira was tempted to say she didn't care either way, but she remained mute. She needed him to think she was weakening, slowly submitting. And it wasn't entirely true…
She was regularly frustrated and confused by her torn emotions. On the one hand, she loathed him, and on the other, she longed for him.
She eyed him narrowly, and he laughed, before gesturing to the sofa. With a haughty firming of her jaw, she walked past him and settled herself on the soft cushions. She stared straight ahead, and refused to react. She heard the gentle trickle of wine into crystal glasses, and the crackle of the nearby fire. The smell of the breads and meats, warm from the kitchens, was enough to make her mouth water.
Uneasily, she wondered what this was all about.
"Tell me, Eira," her captor began, as he reappeared in her line of sight, and proffered a glass to her. She took it gently, meeting his eyes defiantly. "When growing up, did you ever do something that was seemingly beyond your control?"
A dim memory flashed, of a crowded medical bay, and the stench of blood and putrefying flesh, and desperate, pained screams. Eira nodded cautiously, alert for any trickery.
"Describe it to me," he continued, sitting down beside her. He leant back in his seat, legs splayed in such an overt display of male dominance, that it almost made Eira roll her eyes.
It also meant their legs were far too intimate for Eira's liking.
"Must you take up all the space, by sitting like that? I can barely move," she replied, instead of answering him. His smile grew, devilishly, and he sipped his wine.
"Tell me, and perhaps I will remedy that," he retorted. Eira flicked him a glare, feeling some familiar, uncomfortable and unwanted, exasperation, as if this had happened before.
"One day, during an attack by the Chitauri, I was in the medical bay. It was filled with the dead and dying," she gave in, turning away so her eyes fixed on a spot in the wall. She couldn't look at him. "I wasn't supposed to be there, but they were all too busy to notice me. There was a man, burned, dying. I…I touched him, and he was healed."
"You have a natural affinity for healing," he murmured beside her. "You always did. How old were you?"
"Seven," she sighed. "I think. I do not really know exactly how old I am. Why do you ask?"
"I needed to know to gauge how instinctual your magic is," he explained, as she finally deigned to meet his gaze. "Instinctual magic is an indicator of power. The greater the capacity, the greater the power. That you were able to heal a dying man at the age of seven is impressive."
Eira stared at him, then looked away. "Compliment or not, I'm still not giving in."
He laughed at that, freely, without edge, and she shuddered at the warm sensation gliding down her back. Her heart lightened, and she had to remind herself of his misdeeds, his tyranny. He was the enemy.
"I was not trying to persuade you to," he protested silkily. "That will come later. No, I was being sincere. Now I know the extent of your talents, I can better decide how to go forward."
"With what?" Eira asked, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously.
"Your awakening," he replied. "It may be that magic is the key to unlocking your memories, my love. As it is, it is a crime to leave such talent to waste."
"Again, flattery will get you nowhere," she sipped her wine, yet a slight smile bloomed on her lips. To her slight horror, she was enjoying their banter.
"Was that a smile I saw?" he asked, and she glanced at him, amusement dancing in his eyes. In this setting, with the light of the candles and fire dancing over his alabaster skin, he appeared sensuous and seductive, a creature of legend, yet more human than his icy persona in the harsher light of day. "Why yes, I think it was."
"Do not flatter yourself," she hissed, reaching out for a grape to busy her hands. "If you know so much of magic, then by all means tell me what you know."
Loki simply smiled and lazily watched her, as she ate. "Before we begin, my love, there is something you should know. You are my wife, and I had known you for a thousand years before we lost one another."
Eira froze.
"So I know you better than you know yourself right now," he purred, sitting up to lean into her, his lips dancing over her ear and hair. She cursed Anne for putting her hair up so he might caress skin far too sensitive to his touch. At least the rest of her was covered. She felt fear mingle with her lust and longing, as she uneasily wondered if he guessed about her plans to escape. "No matter what situation, no matter how difficult the odds, your first reaction to capture was escape. However long it took, whatever you needed to do to fool your captors…even submit, to an extent."
She turned to face him, defiantly, even as the ache in her gut bloomed, and images tugged at the corners of her vision.
A clash of blades…the whistle of arrows…blood…rage…pride…anger…cold chains…triumph…
"So I know exactly what you are seeking to achieve. You think to escape, to run back to your precious Resistance," he hissed, more menacing than seductive now, and she curled her fists in fear and anger. "Have you not noticed the lack of guards? Of Chitauri? They are not needed here, because my magic protects this area for miles around. Even if you made it out of the mountains, you could not escape, so do not try and cease your deception. It has long stopped working, although I applaud your cunning. Now, we may begin."
As if a veil had been lifted, the menace faded and the seductive, teasing host was back, as he leant back on the cushions. Eira watched him, waiting for any other sign that he might attempt something, more intimidation, or physical harm, but he just smiled.
"You may warn me off all you wish," she began quietly. "But I will not yield. I will escape."
"Oh my dear," he chuckled. "Soon, you will not want to."
Eira was utterly bewildered.
How could someone go from dangerous and menacing to seductive and assured in less time than it took to blink?
After their confrontation had passed, he had settled into telling her about magic, its foundations, its theories and practical applications. Despite herself, Eira was drawn in, enthralled by his voice and hands as they gestured elegantly.
Magic, to her, had always been mysterious. She had known how to use it to help the sick and dying, but anything else had long been simply an unknown entity, a possibility she had neither the time nor the knowledge to explore.
She had it now.
As he spoke, that familiar wave of knowing, of understanding that was simply locked away, where she could not yet access it, rose and grew stronger.
Soon, they moved from discussion to practice.
Eira was decidedly uncomfortable. She was sat in front of the now empty table, and struggling to grasp what he was trying to tell her. Instead of just letting her power overflow from her, he wanted her to direct and control it herself, to command it, instead of it using her as a vessel.
"Magic is more than just spells and power, Eira. To wield magic, one must understand and embrace all aspects of one's self. The light, the dark and the greyness between," he whispered in her ear. "Embrace that darkness inside your heart, and use it. It is ever a ready servant."
"But it may also rule you," she argued. "Look at yourself."
He chuckled sensuously against her ear. "That is an argument for another time," he told her. "Now concentrate. Focus on the object you wish to conjure, and enthuse it with your magic. Imagine every atom, every particle, and ignore every scientific theory that would tell you it is impossible. The mortals' science is still too narrow-minded, and as such it can limit you. Science is magic, but magic is not science."
"Riddles again?" she asked, huffing out an impatient breath. "That makes no sense."
"Your magic does not stem from this Realm, therefore it is not bound by its rules, as mine is not. The mortals' scientific concepts do not apply," he explained, and she rolled her eyes.
"Couldn't you have said that before?" she snapped, and he just laughed again.
"You know me, love. I can't resist a chance to tease and torment," he purred in her ear. Uneasily enough, Eira was beginning to suspect he was right. She did know him.
Over the course of their discussion, as she had watched and listened, and sometimes argued and rebutted, everything seemed to crystallise. His every gesture, his voice, the cadence and pitch of it, his face and eyes while animated by intellectual passion; all were familiar.
She knew him.
"Eira? Focus, my love," his voice, slightly admonishing, pulled her from her reverie. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on the bracelet she was supposed to be conjuring from her rooms. She felt his lips against her forehead…
The magic welled from her in a great rush, accompanied by pain even as she controlled it, and she gasped.
The stars glistened and burned above her head, as she stepped out onto the golden terrace steps, looking down into the shadows of the gardens. The skirts of her crimson gown, reluctantly donned for the occasion of the summer solstice celebrations, pooled around her feet as she stepped down.
"Loki…?" she called. "Loki, where are you?"
She paused in the centre of the lawn, hands on hips. "If this is a trick, Loki, I'm going back inside. I'm sore enough from your brother's tomfoolery as it is, without standing around in the gardens all night!"
"You're no fun, love," he hissed, against her ear, and she spun to meet him. He stood before her, tall and elegant, dark hair slicked back, armour gleaming. His arms slid around her waist, easing the pressure on her hurt ankle as warmth trickled through her body. "As it is, I could murder Thor for spooking Aren."
"He claims it was all in the name of love," she laughed. "I think the mead went to his head, but at least you were there to catch me."
He just smiled and bent his head, brushing his lips over hers, making her longingly follow them, yearning for his kiss.
So many wasted years. They had grown and fought and learned and laughed beside one another for centuries, for nearly a millennia. They had bled and argued and trained until they knew the other as intimately as their own selves.
Yet it had taken Thor's foolishness and the flight of a horse for them to realise a fundamental truth.
They were in love.
"Eir, my love, my life," he whispered against her lips, as she stroked his cheek. "Marry me. Be mine, as we should always have been, for the rest of eternity."
"So forceful," she smiled up at him teasingly. "But after Thor's ham-fisted attempts at matchmaking, I'm inclined to agree to avoid any more near death experiences."
"Eir, be serious now," he purred, amused despite the sternness of his features. "Will you marry me?"
She sobered and met his gaze steadily, as she raised her lips to his. In the instant before their lips met hungrily, she whispered, "Yes."
Eira's eyes snapped open with a cry, and she shuddered as she hunched over in her seat, feeling intense desolation, deep within her, as tears streamed unchecked from her eyes.
"My love? What is it? What did you remember?" Loki's worried voice, still so calm and clear, grounded her, gave her something to cling to as the pain welled and ebbed. "My love, look at me."
She felt his hands, oddly calloused and rough for such an elegant man, raising her head up, stroking back stray curls that had escaped, and she met his emerald eyes.
She could not lie, not in that moment.
"The summer solstice," she breathed, and his face hardened. Pain flared deep in his eyes, and he abruptly stood, facing away from her, hands fisted. Eira was shocked to see him shake. "You asked me to be your wife. There was something about a horse…and your brother…"
"Thor," his voice was a husky rasp. "Thor intentionally spooked your stallion, Aren, in order to drive my feelings for you out into the open. He succeeded."
She was so torn. Her entire body was wracked with it, and she didn't know whether to run or to stay.
He is Loki, the tyrant of Earth, a murderer and a madman, she reminded herself. Think what he did to Jaina, to so many others for so many centuries.
It wasn't working.
She had to go, she had to leave before her mind let her do something stupid. She stood, but he whirled around, reaching out to her.
"Stay," the word was whispered, gentle, irresistible. She stilled, but did not turn to face him as he walked up behind her. His arms slid around her waist, and she did not resist this time, but sank back into his arms.
Safe. Loved.
"We were so happy," he breathed. Eira called on her strength and turned to face him.
"What happened?" she asked, both needing and dreading his answer. His eyes turned into hollow pools, overflowing with pain, darkness and an anguish so bleak, so tortured, that Eira almost gasped.
He bent his head and kissed her once, hard and urgent. "You will remember soon enough," he breathed, his lips brushing hers. With that sad whisper, he disappeared from sight, and she was left alone with her confusion, her fear and an instinctive, answering anguish that left her shaking.
Tears welled but she would not let them fall, as she turned on her heel and left the room.
The firelight gleamed off the silver links of the bracelet, lying forgotten and unnoticed on the cushions of the sofa.