dear_mun | Some would-be-kings just have no appreciation for Swinburne's poetry.

Some people just have no soul for poetry. [Sarcasm? Why yes!]

Whereas others place too much stock in soft words with softer meanings.

It can be a way to get across nuanced ideas. Just because the words are soft doesn't mean that the message behind them is.

Providing the correct words are chosen, of course.

[Mosin smirks humorlessly at Loki before pulling a little book from her pocket and reading from it.]

Yet instant to fore-shadowed need
The eternal balance swings;
That winged men, the Fates may breed
So soon as Fate hath wings.

[She snaps the book shut and gives him a blank look.]

Ah—

[ He tilts his head, vaguely condescending. ]

How convenient, that you would think to keep such a text upon your person at all times.

[A shrug.]

I like poetry. So sue me.

[Whuh-oh, you've brought the muse upon him... and based on what generally comes out, said Muse is none too pleased with you right now, Asgardian.]

Cunning Loki
Tells no jokey
Finds his birth and place too poky
Seeks a throne with methods hokey
Why not just try some karaoke?

[Zeus-DAMNIT Liesmith, why did you have to get him started!?]

Edited 2012-09-04 03:58 (UTC)

... If you're quite finished.

Well, I had been intending a second verse, though I've a bit of concern over the artistic merits of 'artichokey' in the rhyme scheme.

Ah well, it's green, you're forever wearing green, I'm sure I can work it in!

[Make it stop MAKE IT STOP his muse can't take much more of this!]

Midgard shall never be thine, brother. Turn thy thought elsewhere;to things more profitable.

Edited 2012-09-04 03:20 (UTC)

"Never"?

[ The corner of his lips quirk up into a humourless little smile. ]

You underestimate my patience, Odinson — so much can change between now and never.

Aye, things will become other than they now are. As may you, someday.

Is that what you hope for?

God of Mischief and Lies you may be, but it follows not that you must war with your kin forever.

Yes, I would hope that you could be content as you are.

Strain out thy soul with pangs too soft to kill,
Intolerable interludes, and infinite ill;
Relapse and reluctation of the breath,
Dumb tunes and shuddering semitones of death.

[ The red bow of Natasha's mouth quirks, but it's not funny and it's not arrogance that drives it. Poetry can be duplicitous if you let it. (That's her favorite part.) ]

[ Now, who'd have thought. ]

What a pleasant surprise. Tell me, does the blood on your hands leave red prints on the pages, or do you wash yourself of it between killings?

[ Her lips curve again. (This time, it is a smile.) ]

I have a Kindle. [ But the line of her mouth is an affectation, sharpness instead of amusement there in the set of her eyes. They call him Liesmith and Natasha knows that — knew it then, too, and the proof is on the planes of his face. He's hard to get a read on. Then again: god.

After a beat: ] Your typist has good taste.

[ It should go without saying that Loki has no idea what a Kindle is. His expression remains unaffected — he neither knows nor has any desire to learn about Midgardian technology — but he does know that this dull human came closest to getting under his skin. She played him once; a mistake that Loki has no intention of repeating.

He tilts his head, contemplative, lacing his fingers behind his back. ]

To encourage such a typist is ill-advised, Agent Romanoff. [ His smile is a mirror of her own: sincere in its insincerity. ] Although I dare say you know as much already.

I do. [ Again, delivered with a quiet flatness that's not arrogant or baiting; it is what it is, cordial though not quite pleasant because conversations like this never are.

Her hands are loose at her sides. When he shifts his own hands her arms follow, a call-and-response to a push-pull. Folded across her chest, the expression on her face is easy — we're having a conversation, it says, though the set of her jaw reads differently (you won't succeed again because we won't let you).

She quirks an eyebrow and says, her shoulders hitching together into a small shrug: ] But they're right, every once in a while, about the chances of success.

[ Thor knows nothing of Midgardian poetry, but ultimately it's unimportant — only yet another venue wherein Loki seeks an external mirror for the madness that has overtaken him. Thor's jaw is clenched, but his words are softly delivered. ]

Peace, brother. Your terrible machinations have already culminated in failure once. A second attempt will change nothing.

[ His own jaw tightens just a little at that cutting word, failure, but irking him more than Thor's raw truths is the gentleness of voice in which he offers them. He can barely stand to look at him without wanting to tear him apart, never mind listen to his soft chiding — Loki's backhand can't match the Destroyer's but he finds himself tempted all the same.

And to think. He sill has to audacity to call him "brother". ]

As your words will not deter me. If I am to be denied everything, brother— [ he drawls the word, heavily sarcastic; ] —mark that you will taste some small part of my loss.

Midgard is only the beginning.

[ To his credit, Thor does not flinch at the blow that Loki has turned the word brother into, though it shreds apart the deepest parts of him. Loki's madness has taught Thor much: grief, and anger, and guilt above all else, but worst is the sinking knowledge that the warmth and camaraderie of the past will never be renewed.

It's a struggle not to reach out and clasp his hand to Loki's shoulder, to offer by touch the support of his presence, if his words cannot cleave the distance between them, but the memory of Loki's violence atop Stark's Tower is enough, for now, to still him. ]

I would rather share in your gains — and, indeed, to share my own with you — than to partake of your losses. You have choice yet.

[ Loki blinks, momentarily baffled by what he imagines must be Thor's stupidity. It's too much for him to recognize that it is his own views that have grown warped with torment, not those of everyone around him, and so he points an accusatory finger at Thor as his lip curls into a snarl. ]

Choice?

[ The yelp of laughter that follows is a desperate sound, unhappy and deeply pained. ]

What choice was ever mine alone — my existence has been prescribed from the moment your beloved All-Father snatched me as a babe. A peace offering, a tool ...

[ His pointed finger clenches into a fist. ]

... Some exotic pet kept caged until such time as I might be given away. I have no choice, Odinson; nothing to share with you anymore.

Edited 2012-09-04 20:18 (UTC)

[ And it is the reality of Loki's unhappiness that will have Thor reaching out in supplication, again and again and again until the end of all things. Because, for all of Loki's machinations, behind that shuttered gaze is knowledge that they both share: that the cloak of villainy that Loki has donned brings him no more peace than it does Thor. That the misery Thor now feels when looking upon the brother of his heart, is echoed and magnified a thousandfold in that kaleidoscopic madness.

So Thor does not rise up into the glorious fury that might have turned this into a battle — instead, he wears his pain for Loki to see. ]

Any punishment writ by Asgard's justice would be no harsher than that which you bring upon yourself now. [ Then, softer: ] You can choose to come home.

I have no home. Not anymore.

[ Loki's response is quick, perhaps a little too quick, but there's a drop of something behind his eyes that Thor might recognize — the flicker of longing that touched his visage on the cliffside before his arrest; his despair before he stabbed him atop that ridiculous tower as the city burned beneath them. He wants a home. He wants a family, companions, glory, he wants to be by Thor's side in all things ...

But he can't be. There's too much pride twisted up in his loathing, too much spite and jealousy and fury; Loki wants everything Thor has, yet he knows that he'll never be able to come close. ]

I do not need your pity — I don't need Asgard, or you, or anyone else for that matter. I am now my own.

[ His words are hissing if not a little shaky. Loki takes a step back, wary of Thor, unwilling to submit to the prospect of 'Asgardian punishment'. Rather a lonely lifetime between realms than the mockery that would follow him if he went back. Lifting his chin, Loki wills the quaver in his voice to abate as he looks Thor dead in the eye; ]

... Listen well. I would rather Mjolnir dashed me to black and bloody pieces than return to Asgard with you.

[ He continues cruelly, steadily, tears of rage glassing his eyes. ]

Perhaps you should try it — the stench of my death on your hands would offer a doubtless increase to your popularity.

Enough. [ His voice rumbles dangerously, but his eyes are festering wounds upon his face. Loki yet knows how to navigate to the innermost chambers of Thor's heart to wreak the worst sort of devastation.

Thor's fists clench and unclench impotently at his sides — not from a thwarted desire to do harm, but to prevent it. If only he knew to use Mjolnir to build rather than only to destroy: perhaps, then, he might build a sanctuary about Loki's heart to prevent it from suffering under the tyrannical rule of his mind.

And yet such subtlety is accomplishable by the judicious application words alone, a talent that Thor has never known. To Loki's retreat, Thor offers an advance, not allowing the distance between them to be lengthened. When he speaks again, there is a weary cast to his face. All he can offer is sincerity, and that has never been enough for Loki. ]

You told me once that I should not doubt your love for me — I had thought you knew that mine for you was no less. [ And here he does reach up, telegraphing his intent but not giving Loki the chance to slip from it. Gently, he cups Loki's cheek in his hand, wiping away the errant tear with his thumb. ] No, brother. Mjolnir will not deal your death — and nor will you ask such a thing from me again.

[ That isn't a promise Thor can keep — no, not when he doesn't yet know how much further Loki will fall away from him — but it will have to do, for now. ]

Edited 2012-09-05 16:40 (UTC)

[ The pleasure that Loki takes in being the cause of Thor's wounded expression comes hand in hand with a deep pulse of sickness — it leaves him feeling giddy, nauseated, as though he might burst into laughter or break down in tears for trying to throw away so much of their past. Loki wants to see him shake, cry, suffer, see him dragged down to a level that might finally present them as equals, and if he can't climb high enough to sit beside his would-be brother ...

... Hurt. Hurt like I hurt.

To Thor's credit, approaching Loki when he's like this is no feat for the faint of heart. He's lashed out for less as Thor well knows — Loki stills, however, when he opens his hand and carefully lifts it, allowing his palm to smooth his cheek the same way an unbroken horse might a potential rider. His breathing is shallow now, slightly laboured — an iron band seems suddenly clenched tight around his ribcage — and when was the last time anyone touched him with such care? Such raw and true tenderness?

It can't be real. Loki's hand curls around Thor's wrist in quick suspicion: the last time Thor touched his face it was to set a muzzle over his jaw, after all, and the flavour of the metal that silenced him isn't one he wishes to taste again. ]

Stop.

[ Yet he can't pull his hand away. Loki shakes his head in confusion — his eyes are fever-bright, he can't stand this for much longer, he needs the ache in his chest to stop and the stirring of his blood to still. When he speaks again in words are hoarse, not silver-tongued so much as stone, and he finds himself sorely tempted to wrench himself away to a better distance for spitting fury.

Sentimental fool. ]

What does it matter? What does it matter whether I loved you, or you loved me? I am not your brother, I never was, and all we were was a lie.

[ He tosses his head in a shattered laugh, or is it a sob? ]

How could you love that?

[ And so Thor presses on, undeterred by the vehemence of Loki's reaction: because there is a yearning in that silver-wrought gaze, enough to mirror the same that beats in Thor's chest. The yearning for home and hearth and the comfort of an ending writ sweetly enough to slake the terrible thirst they share. ]

Easily, and well. [ His fractured visage softens, just so — and the echo of a smile follows, fed by the faintest stirrings of hope rather than joy. Loki's grip upon his wrist is cold, tentative in a way that calls to mind a perch upon the edge of a great precipice, and still Thor dares to hope that Loki will not again let himself slip.

And so Thor's fingers stroke along the curve of Loki's cheekbone, as gentle as a whisper; his voice quiets in volume but not in intensity. ] Is this not better? We are brothers not simply by the fortune of shared parenthood, but by word and deed and blood-forged bond.

[ And it is a thirst. For a moment Loki allows himself to imagine drinking deeply of what Thor would offer him: minds, bodies and souls entwined, as they were before the truth of his parentage laid itself bare, and a companion in his brother that he could hold in his heart forever. Perhaps the shard of jealousy would be manageable that way, maybe his resentment of his successes would be lessened ...

But 'perhaps' and 'maybe' cannot satisfy Loki. They never could. The hand at Thor's wrist ghosts along the back of his fingers in a lingering last caress — it takes great effort to shrug himself away from the familiarity of his touch, it's true, but their proximity has him growing weaker with every passing second. He can't allow it. ]

No. Even if what you say is true, I can never return to Asgard. There is no place for me in the All-Father's golden halls — only a cell or worse.

[ There's a note of bitterness in his tone — the flash-flood of his earlier fury seems to have ebbed as quickly as it came, leaving little more than raw nerve and broken words in its place. ]

I will never be your equal.

Edited 2012-09-06 09:32 (UTC)

[ There are truths that Thor could speak in return: foremost, that Loki has never been less than his equal. That Thor had known that he could bear the burden of kingship only when secure in the knowledge that his quicksilver shadow of a brother would be ever present. Yet to say as much now would be to shame the memory of the Loki that Thor once knew — the Loki who had steeped himself in mischief and wordplay, yes, but who had never embraced the complexity of the darkness as his own.

Thor's hand lingers in the displaced air for a moment, and then his fingers curl upon his palm. There is hope, Thor tells himself, even as his closed palm falls back to his side. Whatever horrors Loki has known, Asgard's justice and Asgard's mercy will show him the stars that give light to that oblivion. This is what Thor believes, with a singular focus that has defined him these past months — and now he has finally been given the chance to give voice to that conviction. ]

Remember, brother: I, too, stood before Asgard's justice and was found wanting. Yet my punishment did not make me any less than I was; instead, it only scoured the worst from me and taught me instead the value of compassion and prudence. [ There's a strange, measured timbre to Thor's voice; he speaks with the sort of deliberation that does not come naturally to him. ] The Allfather is wise beyond reckoning — whatever punishment you will face, it will be for your betterment, not for your humiliation.

[ Loki does remember. "What hope is there for Thor?" — yes, he remembers all too well the moment of realization that, unless otherwise deterred, it would be all too possible for Thor to figure out his way back home. Frigga had not been wrong, there had been much lesson and purpose in Thor's punishment, but then what less would be expected for a son made of his own flesh and blood? What less for the future king of Asgard?

Long fingers twitch by Loki's sides as his lips press into a tight line. In any other circumstance he might have found the sway of their argument somewhat amusing — does Thor not recall the tales they were told as children recounting the punishment of the frost giants? Doubt has a freezing hold upon his heart — he cannot imagine a scenario in which he would be granted the same leniency as his brother.

... He catches himself. No, not his brother; as his now sometime enemy. He will not put himself in the hands of the Allfather. ]

Wise beyond reckoning?

[ Loki tilts his head, finding himself able to re-erect his guard with much greater ease now that physical contact has been removed from the equation. ]

—But not so wise as to foresee the damage a lifetime of lies could lay on a stolen son. Not so wise as to admit the truth until I discovered it for myself — that it was through no fault of my own that you were the favoured child; the golden heir. Why should he care for my humiliation? Why should he not strip me of my power and banish me, not to Midgard, but to the sorry wreckage of Jotunheim?

[ A wry smile touches the corners of his lips, humourless and small. He could have wiped out all trace of his heritage had Thor not thwarted him towards the very end. ]

Do you imagine the frost giants will receive me well?

[ And that, finally, is enough to elicit the sharper edge of frustration from Thor; not the fury for which he is renown, no, but sharp enough to tighten his loosely closed hands into fists. Speaking with Loki is oft more of a battle than any that he has fought with fists or blade or Mjolnir's weight. Worse still is the knowledge that Thor yet languishes in his clumsiness while Loki will forever remain Asgard's greatest wordsmith.

If only Thor could reach into him and feed the truth directly into his heart, unfiltered by prejudice and madness. (For all of his good will, he still cannot recognize that Loki may yet have grievances that cannot be solved by the warmth nor the weight of Thor's embrace. If Odin chose not to share the truth of Loki's heritage, it was only to protect him: Thor believes this without question.)

Still, Thor speaks with that same curious gravity, unchanged by the flicker of his ire. ]

To banish you into the company of the Jotnar would be to send you to your death — surely even you do not think our father capable of cold-blooded filicide?

[YOU CALLED?]

Some would-be-kings just have no appreciation for Swinburne's poetry.

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This is perfection! /chinhands ♥

Aww ♥ You just want to see Loki belting out some Bon Jovi awesomeness~

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loki, your life needs to be rectified if you don't know about a kindle.

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