[ And Loki wavers between the extremes of the decision posed to him, and for once he cannot hide the battle within him from rising to mar his white face.
Because his body still trembles in the aftermath of Thor's embrace, even a scant moment of that coveted warmth a reminder of how poorly his memories have reconstructed what he has missed for an eternity. The guttural rhythm of his death-song dies in the graveyard of his fading hatred, and Loki shifts his weight from foot to foot and back again, his arms wrapped about himself. The blades do not reform again, even though ice creeps past his fingertips to circle his wrists, and even though his scant raiment is stiff with the frost.
The snow and the sleet does not quiet; Loki's hair is whipped up in the torrent, flicking shadows across his face.
Here is victory, waiting for him to reach out and take hold of it. All the lands will thus be enveloped by the ice, and all will know Loki and Loki alone as a king and a god. They will fear him, and they will turn their faces from him, but he will grow fat and content upon the feast of power that he will spread upon his tables. Never again will he know the agony of separation, for summer will become a relic of the past.
(Oh, the winter-king is a liar still.)
When the ice-blade finally renews itself, Loki's teeth have sunk into his own lip, and blood wells and well until it streaks his chin with crimson. In a blur of movement he forces its point to the apple of Thor's throat, where it hovers, where it shakes and trembles and does not press strongly enough to draw the blood of the summer-king. ]
I will come. [ he says, and his voice is nearly lost in the rage of his storm. And then he's shifting away, the blade melting to icy water, the skies above slowly quieting their thunder. ] As a fool and a traitor to my own self, I will come — but do not think that I have forgotten my warmongering.
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Because his body still trembles in the aftermath of Thor's embrace, even a scant moment of that coveted warmth a reminder of how poorly his memories have reconstructed what he has missed for an eternity. The guttural rhythm of his death-song dies in the graveyard of his fading hatred, and Loki shifts his weight from foot to foot and back again, his arms wrapped about himself. The blades do not reform again, even though ice creeps past his fingertips to circle his wrists, and even though his scant raiment is stiff with the frost.
The snow and the sleet does not quiet; Loki's hair is whipped up in the torrent, flicking shadows across his face.
Here is victory, waiting for him to reach out and take hold of it. All the lands will thus be enveloped by the ice, and all will know Loki and Loki alone as a king and a god. They will fear him, and they will turn their faces from him, but he will grow fat and content upon the feast of power that he will spread upon his tables. Never again will he know the agony of separation, for summer will become a relic of the past.
(Oh, the winter-king is a liar still.)
When the ice-blade finally renews itself, Loki's teeth have sunk into his own lip, and blood wells and well until it streaks his chin with crimson. In a blur of movement he forces its point to the apple of Thor's throat, where it hovers, where it shakes and trembles and does not press strongly enough to draw the blood of the summer-king. ]
I will come. [ he says, and his voice is nearly lost in the rage of his storm. And then he's shifting away, the blade melting to icy water, the skies above slowly quieting their thunder. ] As a fool and a traitor to my own self, I will come — but do not think that I have forgotten my warmongering.