the Gap
spockjasperlokizukowriting
Eleven- Dead of Night
Ben's words kept with me throughout the rest of the afternoon. Arren had pretended like nothing ever happened, but his eyes still felt cold when he walked me home, snowman complete. My mother had bought me a new outfit for the occasion, something glamorous for the encroaching dinner- an amaranthine dress with a turquoise shawl and a silver bracelet. I sat down on the edge of my bed and sighed, taking out my sketchbook and attempting to draw the occurrences of the day. Andrew was still wallowing, furiously washing his face in the bathroom and blushing when I mentioned Sif from around the corner.
My heart plummeted. Poor Sif. I felt more of a connection to her than I ever had. I now understood Tom's anger, and Arren's. It felt like nothing was heading in the right direction for either of them. I recorded Ben's disparaging gaze and bit my lip, looking down at his angular, icy face.
But I couldn't shake the feeling I was still missing something. Like the pictures of the black-haired boy, it never felt complete.
Night fell outside my window, and before I knew it, it was time for dinner.
The dead of night offered little serenity. A cold swept down through the Messenger, a foretelling of winter. His hollow, staccato footsteps echoed down the street, dimly lit houses falling into their deep slumber. The sky was clear; the stars played tonight, a crescent moon waning, pools of moonlight spilling down in fluid shapes. The Messenger's feet sank into the snow as he paused, stopping amongst the shapes of the trees. The warm windows of the house he had paused by glowed in a soft golden light, dampened by drapes and curtains. He could almost feel the heat of the entities inside the house- touch the energy dancing from the walls- feel the passage of their immortal time.
It was their presence that had drawn him here on this night.
He crouched down, slipping behind the leaves of a frozen bush as he pressed his hearing. The words became clearer as the night fell into quiet.
"...Mother, really? You expect me to cook? After the disaster of the lasagna?"
"Be as hot-headed as you are, but at least take out the trash!"
"Fine then."
The door opened and a tall, resolute figure stood against the light, blackened in comparison. With confident steps he strode forward, the figure of the eldest Odinson bracing in the night. He flipped open the lid to a square container and tossed a mahogany bag inside, bulging with contents. He let the lid fall closed and he turned around, golden hair gleaming, breathing in the bitter air of the night.
The Aesir was so close the Messenger could almost reach out and touch him- one touch of his deadly skin, that was all it took, and the Aesir would fall limp, cold, lifeless. A poison flesh that kept the Messenger secluded, reading the aura, tingling with the power the young God radiated like heat.
The Messenger closed his eyes and concentrated, crouching, his hands pressed to his temples while his hood slipped lower, forehead enveloped in a curtain of black. Yes, yes, the power, the change of heart- the love was taking hold. This Aesir was part of a prophecy, he could tell. But whether it was this prophecy? The time was too early- it hadn't progressed thus far. He could sense it, like a small inkling, a discharge, a change in the make up of his power, morphing, growing. The thought of love made the Messenger's stomach pit in disgust.
The door slammed, and the Messenger was alone once more, a figure, shrunken like a withered plant, spindly, long fingers curling into fists.
"He has to be the one," he growled beneath his breath. "It can't be anyone else. The prophecy, the signs, the growing intimation of love- it's him. It must be."
"A heart can be conquered, but I do not believe that it is his," a slick voice cut in, a tall, dark presence emerging from between the lines of trees.
The Messenger flinched and glanced behind him, lowering his fists, breath pluming before his pale lips. "Byleist," he snarled.
The young Frost Giant smiled coyly, mortal form changed to dye with blue skin, ridges along his forehead and high cheekbones serrated like ice, though small and nimble for what he body could withstand. "I sensed your presence, and was curious," he remarked mischievously, suave as he knelt down at the Messenger's side, black hair blending with the night while his red eyes shone. "The All King surely told you of my residence here. I have kept eyes on the young Aesir since before they can remember."
"Performing your duty as well as you must, I am sure...but this is no longer within your hands," the Messenger replied coldly, turning back to face the house. "The change has begun and the prophecy is becoming true."
Byleist glanced at the stars. "You've come to sense the change?"
"Sense it? Feel it! It's so potent, how could I not recognize the difference in his powers?" the Messenger snapped. "The Aesir is falling in love, but gradually, leniently- the process is...slow..."
"As much as I'm sure you're performing your duty, you don't even know who the girl is," Byleist grinned.
"And you do?"
"You're not as clever as you seem, old spirit," the young prince laughed, straightening to a stand. "My favors to Father are numerous, but none so incompetent as yours. Fail in the manner you wish- but stay out here any longer, and you'll see who the girl is."
The Messenger glared at the son of Laufey, watching as his figure faded into the dark and snow, frost splintering through the air one moment before dissipating the next.
The Messenger turned back, cursing under his breath, until his ears pricked, disturbed at the roar of a mortal vehicle coming around the bend, yellow lights flashing. He could barely make out a man and his family through the dark windows, dressed for an occasion, more formally than usual, and as they pulled into the driveway, a young girl with gleaming chestnut hair and dark blue eyes came into view.
Though mortal, he could feel the change setting a new balance inside her- negligible, though, imperfect as of yet. But it was there, and the Messenger automatically knew as he watched her exit the car and follow her family to the door.
But did the change match the God of Thunder's? The new life stirring within them both, did they belong together? Matched in power and in life force? A heart beat strongly from within the house, but suddenly, the Messenger was not so sure...
A/N: I've recently suffered a wrist fracture and have been rather impaired in my ability to write. I promise that the next chapter shall be much longer (about 20 pages longer). However, if you're bored, check out the link to all this amazing art for the Gap (most of the awesome belonging to Loki's Little Helper). My drawing ability (though still impaired) hasn't been as largely affected. Thank you, and have a nice day!