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( darling, everything's on fire )
Nov. 16th, 2012 11:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
treachery[ Loki shifts from shadow to shadow in the halls of the greenwood palace, a plain wooden goblet of Thor's favored honeyed mead in one hand, and a sprig of braided sweetgrass in the other. Though his draped crystals remain strung about his limbs, chiming gently with each step that he takes, he is otherwise dressed as a creature wrought of summer: in green-edged linen, with flowers tucked into the thick spill of his hair, with a cape of white draped across his shoulders, and silver and gold circling his throat. If not for the cloud of ice upon the air every time he exhales, he may have been born of summer, a brother of Thor, meant to lie languid in the soft warmth of sun-dappled earth for the rest of eternity.
He is saying his farewells: to the red-cheeked dryads, to the soft-footed deer, to the very walls and rafters of Thor's summer palace. He leaves gifts where he may, a blue feather for the sweetest of the dryads, a tinny silver bell for each of the fawns to wear strung about their necks.
Twice has the moon grown fat, and twice has she cut herself away to a mere sliver — Loki has come to love the summerlands as much as he loves the lands of his own crafting. They have taught him to love, and to raise his whispering voice in laughter. They have taught him to cup the warmth of the sun in his hands and still brim with more.
Most of all, they have given him Thor, and even Loki's songs cannot paint the intricacies of the summer-king as he lives: warm and broad and filled with bounteous plenty. Loki has learned of all the secret hidden knolls of Thor's country, and he has learned of all the secrets hidden upon his golden skin; so winter begins it ascent into the mountains with Thor's antlers shadowed like wings upon his back. ]
If you miss your country overmuch, you must tell me. [ says Loki, when they have climbed halfway to the lands of ice. His gaze is a quick, flitting thing, darting from Thor to the peaks in the distance and back again.
After a moment, he reaches out and takes Thor's hand in his own; his thumb strokes across the back of that sun-warmed hand. ]
He is saying his farewells: to the red-cheeked dryads, to the soft-footed deer, to the very walls and rafters of Thor's summer palace. He leaves gifts where he may, a blue feather for the sweetest of the dryads, a tinny silver bell for each of the fawns to wear strung about their necks.
Twice has the moon grown fat, and twice has she cut herself away to a mere sliver — Loki has come to love the summerlands as much as he loves the lands of his own crafting. They have taught him to love, and to raise his whispering voice in laughter. They have taught him to cup the warmth of the sun in his hands and still brim with more.
Most of all, they have given him Thor, and even Loki's songs cannot paint the intricacies of the summer-king as he lives: warm and broad and filled with bounteous plenty. Loki has learned of all the secret hidden knolls of Thor's country, and he has learned of all the secrets hidden upon his golden skin; so winter begins it ascent into the mountains with Thor's antlers shadowed like wings upon his back. ]
If you miss your country overmuch, you must tell me. [ says Loki, when they have climbed halfway to the lands of ice. His gaze is a quick, flitting thing, darting from Thor to the peaks in the distance and back again.
After a moment, he reaches out and takes Thor's hand in his own; his thumb strokes across the back of that sun-warmed hand. ]
