“Brother, if you had it your way, all nights would be defined as ‘fine nights,’ so that you had an excuse for mead, but!”
Loki follows his sibling to the overturned tree overlooking the ocean, and perches there. He conjures his own mug–decked with gold serpent trim, of course–and extends it wryly.
“Alright, furbish me with that rank stuff. The things I do for you.”
The stars above form constellations unknown on Asgard; still, the brothers are home.
“As the Midgardian’s would say, guilty as charged.” Thor beamed, because Loki was absolutely correct. Any night was a good excuse for mead, not that one NEEDED an excuse to induldge in such a delightful drink, right?
He seats himself beside Loki upon the overturned tree, giving a wry smile as he begins to fill his brother’s tastefully decorated cup with that of the wine, humming a jaunty, nonsensical tune as he does so.
“For me? Surely you would drink without my coaxing.” He comments. “Though perhaps, not as often.” Allowing the mug to fill itself near to the brim before he tips back the wine jug, setting it down and raising his own, the mead bubbling.
“A toast, brother, to our future, and our continued strength.” He quips, clinking mugs with Loki before taking a hearty swig, feeling as content and at peace as the Thunder God possibly can.
“Perhaps, though not unto excess,” Loki amends.
He muses upon the rare instances of his intoxication. It’s difficult to say when the Liesmith has been properly drunk, in good part because he conceals it so well. A demeanor still quieter than usual, perhaps warmer as well, rosier cheeks and drowsier eyes, that’s the effect of a little too much wine on the God of Mischief. Other than that Loki could be mistaken for sober, for the fear of being an object of sport or ill will is too great.
He sips the piss-bitter mead and grimaces.
“I’ll never get a taste for this stuff. It is very much like cramped, foul smelling quarters that you still love because they are your home.”
Loki stalls, clearing his throat, angling his head around the chamber like the opportunistic predator that he is, for a diplomatic answer.
“ … Alright, don’t get upset. These hex bags and potions and this … aroma of … ehm, putrid corpses … are all the product of me trying to protect New Asgard from a most slimy American politician who wishes to impose tariffs on all of of products, rendering our entire nascent economy dead in the water. Listen, brother, I know you aren’t fond of murder, but this man is scandalously corrupt anyhow, and don’t we owe it to our people? He’s cheated on his sick wife! With underage interns! He is reprehensible! No one will miss him! Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’d have thanked me later, you stuffy altruist.”
Irritably Loki begins to put away the various accoutrements of his black magic. A puff of puke-green smoke puffs, with comical timing, from the vial that he goes to screw shut. The smoke takes the shape of a skull.
Loki can’t help but smirk at that, as he shelves the concoction.
Thor is momentarily rooted to the spot, slightly stunned as he sees his erstwhile sibling contemplating flat out murder once more. Magical murder, but still, murder! And while Thor is far from being high and mighty in that regard..(these days) he cannot help but shake his head just so, for he is morally obligated to prevent Loki from doing such a thing, no matter how utterly reprehensible the target in question might be.
“Loki..” His voice is oh so slightly raised in warning. “While I agree that the circumstances are definitely such that one might desire and nigh, even feel obligated to take drastic action in this regard, you know what it is I must say.”
But, clearly, he needs not say it, for Loki, though grumbling, begins to put away his magical spells, watching the skull appear in the smoke, Thor allows himself another shake of his head. “There are ways of protecting New Asgard from this individual, and others of the same ilk as he without resorting to such measures.”
Thor would not be foolish enough to call himself the ‘reasonable’ one of the two of them, former brawler and ruthless fighter he was, but sometimes..sometimes he could have the most random spurt of being the voice of reason, especially where Loki possibly making a grave action was concerned.
“I refuse to scold thee, for your intentions are ah..well, maybe one could call the noble in and of themselves, if perhaps a tad too dangerous.” He pauses, “Though between you and I? It is more so I dislike the idea of you finding yourself in trouble.”
It takes nothing more than that elevated tone to tighten and square Loki’s shoulders, to jut forward his jaw, to darken his eyes.
“Nobility at the expense of pragmatism often produces still more innocent suffering. Think on that.”
He snatches away any remaining vestiges of the magics cast, and resolves silently to pursue the matter at length. The man in question needn’t die today, or even soon, or even by means Loki devises. But Loki will himself die before he sees the last scattered clusters of his people blown away like dust.
He can feel the tendrils of old bitterness gathering around his heart cockles, and he knows he’s being unfair, but there’s still an empty sort of consolation in being sharp-tongued and petty.
“I wonder if you reflect upon your record of slaughter when you berate me for acting on unfortunate experience. Never, not once in life, brother, are there shortages of enemies.”
Something in his eyes lacks focus, as his pupils dilate to swallow sight of any invisible, unforeseen danger. Old fears do not easily die.
“Brother, if you had it your way, all nights would be defined as ‘fine nights,’ so that you had an excuse for mead, but!”
Loki follows his sibling to the overturned tree overlooking the ocean, and perches there. He conjures his own mug–decked with gold serpent trim, of course–and extends it wryly.
“Alright, furbish me with that rank stuff. The things I do for you.”
The stars above form constellations unknown on Asgard; still, the brothers are home.
Thor scrutinizes his sibling with a single eye, a brow raised conspicuously at Loki.
“Do I even want to know?” He asks, his voice carrying the faintest hint of worry as he remains rooted in his spot.
“I, ehm.”
Loki stalls, clearing his throat, angling his head around the chamber like the opportunistic predator that he is, for a diplomatic answer.
“ … Alright, don’t get upset. These hex bags and potions and this … aroma of … ehm, putrid corpses … are all the product of me trying to protect New Asgard from a most slimy American politician who wishes to impose tariffs on all of of products, rendering our entire nascent economy dead in the water. Listen, brother, I know you aren’t fond of murder, but this man is scandalously corrupt anyhow, and don’t we owe it to our people? He’s cheated on his sick wife! With underage interns! He is reprehensible! No one will miss him! Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’d have thanked me later, you stuffy altruist.”
Irritably Loki begins to put away the various accoutrements of his black magic. A puff of puke-green smoke puffs, with comical timing, from the vial that he goes to screw shut. The smoke takes the shape of a skull.
Loki can’t help but smirk at that, as he shelves the concoction.
It’s so soft and infinitesimal, it could go forever unheard. And it will not be spoken again soon.
“I would give anything for you. Even my life.”
Thor looked steadily upon Loki, knowing the unspoken words. Though his heart would not quite know what to make of it if Loki had said it aloud. So perhaps it was for the best that he remained in the dark about such things.
He grows equally quiet, before he is unable to bear it much longer, a sort of smile crossing his features. No, not a smile, but not a grimace, either. More like a pulling of lips, concertation. Consideration.
“I am sorry.” A conversation they have had many a time before, rearing it’s head towards the surface once more. ‘If I ever made you feel otherwise. Well, I say, ‘if’ and yet I know this to be truth. You lived for so long believing yourself less than I, and I merely fed it, by treating you as such. Know that I was wrong, brother, and that nothing could ever change you being my equal. Which is something I should have known from day one.”
Loki scrutinizes his brother for a reason behind such sudden shame. He is left in obscurity, despite dissecting the Thunder God’s every feature, and it renders him restless.
“Thor. I did not make this offering out of guilt, pique or obligation. It is my privilege to flank you, forever. Everything is different now; you know this.”
He waits, the fleeting, fickle Trickster, constant, faithful and loyal to but one soul: the one before whom he stands, keeping vigil for some sign of brightened spirits. Always his elder brother will be the fixed mark upon his conscience.
“It will keep me breathing, it will keep me afloat, for always one more day, and one more after that. Rage is my last remaining sacrament untainted by living, brother. Do NOT deny me my armorand my anesthesia.”
Loki rolls his eyes Thor’s direction. He glances at the rubber spider, then looks up at his brother with an expression that fairly oozes the sentiment, really?
“I am literally the God of Mischief, and you think I’ll be suckered by that?” he scolds.
“Brother. Honestly.”
He snickers, knowing that he has been found out as he approaches from the shadows. “Perhaps I was of the belief that you would humour me.” He comments, allowing himself to grin, clearly not at all disturbed by his little would-be-prank not panning out as he might have hoped.
“Besides, it gave you a bit of a laugh, did it not?”
“Ah yes, that’s right! You’re not as dumb as you look!”
Thor would be wholly justified in kicking the chair out from under his snobby, sardonic little brother.
Loki rolls his eyes Thor’s direction. He glances at the rubber spider, then looks up at his brother with an expression that fairly oozes the sentiment, really?
“I am literally the God of Mischief, and you think I’ll be suckered by that?” he scolds.
icyxmischief 