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( the day breaks apart in our hands )
Feb. 10th, 2013 11:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
treachery[ In the depths of Loki's quarters, a silver chest is stacked neatly atop a golden trunk. Atop it, another of bronze, and another of copper alloy. His rooms are arrayed with gold and silver and gleaming metal as such, magical artifice as far as the eye cares to wander.
But in one — wrought by the dwarves of Nidavellir, with undulating waves etched into its surface, with rubies glittering aplenty no matter the angle of the viewer's approach: this chest is filled with artifacts that even Loki has thought twice before testing.
(There are realms that he dares not traverse, after all: the fortresses of Jotunheim, the lavish rotting feasts of Hel. His father's heart. And his brother's — well, some perversions are too terrible to name.)
Tonight, Loki enters his quarters with the sweep of a green cloak. His hands are trembling and there is a strange light in his eye — he has partaken of more wine than is advisable, and chalice upon chalice of spirits beyond that. Odd, that he should fall to such vice, for Loki prides himself in his control above all. Let the firstborn loosen his body and his heart for a thousand lesser men and maids to defile; Loki looks upon all with the same carefully-crafted disdain. Tonight, Thor had lost a flyting contest and given up his favorite hauberk as recompense. He had stood upon the high table in naught but his thin undertunic and still directed the laughter and affection of the court as a Midgardian maestro over their puling mortal orchestras.
And how Loki had burned, beneath the long sleeves of his robes. How he had hated every covetous eye turned upon Thor.
But tonight, Loki is a man who has switched places with his own shadow. There is greed in his eyes and in the tremor that disturbs his hollow bones; he steps across his room and sets his hands to the innocuous silver chest with fingers that scrabble for purchase. When his magic fails to undo the latch, he falls upon it with a dagger instead. Soon the vial of his choice sits upon his upturned palm, the silver-blue potion within casting wan light over his brow. He'd purchased it from a fishtailed mercreature in the oceans of Vanaheim, with secrets instead of gold.
(One drop is sufficient, my prince.)
Sobriety is quick to return, once the scheming takes over Loki's mind. He conjures a chalice of wine, shakes his head, dismisses it, and conjures a tankard of mead instead. Without hesitation, he spills the entire vial into it.
Fifteen minutes later, Loki slinks down the halls burdened with a silver tray: tankards for two, a platter full of candied meats, and a ready smile. By the time he reaches Thor's quarter and quietly lets himself in, the tremble in his hands has stilled. ]
—brother?
But in one — wrought by the dwarves of Nidavellir, with undulating waves etched into its surface, with rubies glittering aplenty no matter the angle of the viewer's approach: this chest is filled with artifacts that even Loki has thought twice before testing.
(There are realms that he dares not traverse, after all: the fortresses of Jotunheim, the lavish rotting feasts of Hel. His father's heart. And his brother's — well, some perversions are too terrible to name.)
Tonight, Loki enters his quarters with the sweep of a green cloak. His hands are trembling and there is a strange light in his eye — he has partaken of more wine than is advisable, and chalice upon chalice of spirits beyond that. Odd, that he should fall to such vice, for Loki prides himself in his control above all. Let the firstborn loosen his body and his heart for a thousand lesser men and maids to defile; Loki looks upon all with the same carefully-crafted disdain. Tonight, Thor had lost a flyting contest and given up his favorite hauberk as recompense. He had stood upon the high table in naught but his thin undertunic and still directed the laughter and affection of the court as a Midgardian maestro over their puling mortal orchestras.
And how Loki had burned, beneath the long sleeves of his robes. How he had hated every covetous eye turned upon Thor.
But tonight, Loki is a man who has switched places with his own shadow. There is greed in his eyes and in the tremor that disturbs his hollow bones; he steps across his room and sets his hands to the innocuous silver chest with fingers that scrabble for purchase. When his magic fails to undo the latch, he falls upon it with a dagger instead. Soon the vial of his choice sits upon his upturned palm, the silver-blue potion within casting wan light over his brow. He'd purchased it from a fishtailed mercreature in the oceans of Vanaheim, with secrets instead of gold.
(One drop is sufficient, my prince.)
Sobriety is quick to return, once the scheming takes over Loki's mind. He conjures a chalice of wine, shakes his head, dismisses it, and conjures a tankard of mead instead. Without hesitation, he spills the entire vial into it.
Fifteen minutes later, Loki slinks down the halls burdened with a silver tray: tankards for two, a platter full of candied meats, and a ready smile. By the time he reaches Thor's quarter and quietly lets himself in, the tremble in his hands has stilled. ]
—brother?
