Written for a Valentine's Day drabble. Warning: character death. Very morbid
And there, in that phrase, the bitterness leaks again out of my pen. What a dull lifeless quality this bitterness is. If I could I would write with love, but if I could write with love I would be another man; I would never have lost love.
― Graham Greene, The End of the Affair
The taste, it hurts, and burns like embers too long forgotten in a house lost to any worthy inhabitants in a world cold and ice laden.
So much for idleness.
Or peace…
So simple a turn, so symphonic a phrase, so morbid a mind turned lewd in day.
And in his mind, it stings. Mortar blackened in his rage, in his cell…and the bars are not the shackles which bind him. It is his own mind.
Churning his thoughts in an entropic plane of sand…recalling the desert…the plane of yawn and bare nothing…he had been there with her, many a day (and more often than not, a night)…
To tell the tale now was fruitless, it splintered in disjointed memories of a brother unable to tame his lioness, of a lady too wistful and sanguine to care. Her marriage, it fell.
…down a path of hallowed halls and despicable decadence…she laughed at his anger. Blonde beast of yore, he resented her chortles and called her names.
Idiotic
Misanthrope
Whore…
He had honor, once. He lost it in a union ill suited to his pride.
Proud, like a lion.
And his lioness, she wandered as the great female cats often do, though not in search of food, per se…
He was a snake.
He slithered into her life. Snuck in the back door…
(Double entendre if you will)
And it didn't hurt that he was her husband's brother.
The lioness often will turn an eye from the pride, but less often in the snake's direction.
But oh, the serpent's tongue is sharp, and often beguiling, more often still, it is practiced, and can bring a cat of her kind to her knees if she bends…
And bend Jane did, in the desert heat…with Loki's tongue pressed inside of her, then his arousal, then she would scream out in ecstasy, the dark squeezing her, her walls of her own holding him fast…over and over…until stars spilled and split the sky's cloak in two…one for him…
And one for her.
So much for morbidity.
A prideful lion may often be unaware of things which others deem to be painfully obvious.
But pride can also blind a cat to things he thinks no one would ever deign to do.
Like copulate with his wife.
So much for pride.
Their argument had rent night's cloak in scornful wrath. Brothers screaming as never had been witnessed heretofore…
She entered the kitchen.
She placated them both.
Do you love him? Thor had asked.
Do you care? Jane replied.
Do you love him? the lion roared.
I love her. The snake hissed.
Loki's smirk curled like a ribbon, red like blood…
And all that was heard…all had ceased…a bang…and blood…
And the snake found his legs.
They held him above her as she shed her life on the floor beneath him.
No one would have guessed a snake could cry. Or scream.
And when the police came, the brothers were unable to speak, could not say what had happened. So both were taken…
Loki sat in his cell. He had a pen and paper. "Jane is dead. And there, in that phrase, the bitterness leaks again out of my pen. What a dull lifeless quality this bitterness is. If I could I would write with love, but if I could write with love I would be another man; I would never have lost love."
He believed it would be better than not to die. To tell them he had shot her.
And still he sits, in morbid attitude, wrenched from his family, lost in his mind…tarrying in fanciful reflection…evermore.