Loki had heard NYC referred to many times as the city that never sleeps. As a... creature, for lack of a better word, that infrequently if ever slept, he knew that was not true; there were many times he had to look hard to find anyone awake besides himself on these streets. But there were places he could always find them. He liked this place in particular, a 24 hour "Italian express" that served hot damages, pizza, and even gelato at any time of the day or night. The night shift was a fairly stable cast of college students who filled the slow hours of the early morning with studies and Internet memes. He enjoyed, on occasion, asking them about their studies, to test what they and he knew about what sometimes felt esoteric.
He felt a little esoteric.
Standing outside this place, close to the Battery, he contemplated a hot sandwich and some beloved mediocre coffee when he experienced a strange sensation, throughout his senses, that something important had just occurred.
It wasn't far to the river - this restaurant had a brisk enough business in the summer from people who would grab a meal to go eat on a riverfront bench over battling it out over the place's few cramped tables.
Loki would feel it, intimately familiar, second only to his own magic. Frigga was at the disadvantage, faintly disoriented from her dip the river, though she'd managed to keep ahold of her sword. Mere moments ago she'd been fighting Malekith, half a mind on him and half on the illusion of Thor's human, buying time until her family could catch up. Was this the Convergence? Had she slipped through by mistake?
She sat on a nearby bench for a moment, dripping wet and trying to collect herself. A familiar feeling nagged at that back of her mind, one that made no sense. Her son was imprisoned, in a cell so secure surely even a warp in space time could not free him.
"It's the transition," she told herself. "Not as gentle as the bifrost."
But that was exactly what had freed, and in a way, re imprisoned him; a warp in space and time that had saved him, he supposed, and also stolen him from his course.
No. Loki knew that feeling. He was moving before he was fully conscious of it, despite how conscious he always strove to be of where he was and what he was doing. Here, it was important to be aware. But this was more important than any game of identity he was playing with the Avengers.
He did not try mask his movement, or make himself seem like he was running or moving at the rate of a human. He simply had to get there.
He was hardly out of breath when he set eyes on her, and stood as though paralyzed when he beheld her, his mother.
Loki was quick, when he wanted to be. It was one of the reasons she'd suggested knives. Frigga had just barely looked up at the sound of footsteps when her son was there, staring as though he'd seen a ghost.
Something was wrong. She knew the turns of his expressions far too well. This was not one of his many masks, this was a lost look, one that stole centuries off of his face and in spite of herself all she could see was the little boy who would hide under her work table to avoid his sword drills and his brother's friends.
"Loki," she said, cautiously, because he was so fragile lately, so prone to snap. "What is going on? Why are you not in your cell?"
How could he answer that question? How could he begin to explain the years of time that had passed since she had.... since he had...
"There is no cell here," he replied, his voice quiet. "Simply look to the stars, and you can see, my mother, how different they are from the realms we called home."
He called her mother like an apology. As if somehow he could wrap up all of the wrongs he carried, convinced they had been wrongs against her, and lay them at her feet, begging for her forgiveness, with that word: 'mother'.
Mere hours ago he'd been convincing himself otherwise. Now he lingered on the word as though it was his lifeline. What had changed?
The queen of Asgard stood, somehow managing to maintain her shroud of dignity though the many layers of her silk gown were ruined and dripping salt water. She tilted her head back and studied the sky, looking for some sign of home, of the patterns Odin pointed out when they had snuck off to Midgard together, so long ago.
It was almost dizzying, how unfamiliar it was. There were none of the stars she knew, none of the shapes that suggested Yggdrasil's branches. Could it be that they had found themselves in realm beyond the Nine? If so, how could it resemble Midgard so closely?
She turned back to her son, concern etched on her face. If they had passed beyond Heimdall's sight, how could they hope to return home?
Frigga took a step forward to brush a lock of hair away from Loki's face. Her hand drifted down to his shoulder and rested there.
Just that brush of her fingers over his temple was enough; not even
Frigga's touch made him immune to the rush of pain that careened through
his system, terrible and nonspecific stripes of pain, things he had learned
in humans to untangle, to detect small fractures, or lingering regrets.
But Asgardians were so very different, and their lives so much longer, the
pain so much more complex.
He did not bother with trying to hide it from her.
It had not been so long, for her, since he had denied her, and the memory
of it contorted the muscles around his heart far more than the transmitted
pain. He knew how he had hurt her. He remembered her words: how
perceptive he was about everyone but himself. And perhaps he had not grown
so much more perceptive, but he had examined at least that within; he'd had
no other person to call mother, ever, and if he could have one, if she
wanted to be his, he could not refuse her again.
"I have slipped between realms," he said. "I know not how. I was on
Svartalfheim. And then I was here."
He could not tell her yet he had died there. And he wondered suddenly if
she remembered dying.
"You are soaking wet," he said, and shed his coat; the cold, after all,
never affected him. He put it over her shoulders. For a moment, he forgot
he had her shawl just a tug through space away.
Frigga's frown deepened as Loki winced, clearly in pain but also determined not to move away. She stood her ground - if he wanted to endure whatever it was, it was not her place to question it. He was clearly hiding as much as he was telling and while it irked her, there were more troubling matters to consider.
"Svartalfheim? You had no business there. I know not how you could escape from those dungeons but you had to know it was foolish to defy your- Odin's wishes. Especially so soon." she admonished him. Had he found out about the attack? He claimed to have not known how he came to be here, but there was no such indication regarding Svartalfheim.
"You're changing the topic at hand," she murmured softly then, but accepted the coat. It was of a design she did not recognize, but upon contact with her, maybe it was the second observation of it, but it seemed very similar to the sort of overcoat her son generally wore in Asgard. He hadn't lost his preference for dark green, it would seem.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
worryoveryou
no subject
2015-12-10 01:51 (UTC)But there were places he could always find them.
He liked this place in particular, a 24 hour "Italian express" that served hot damages, pizza, and even gelato at any time of the day or night. The night shift was a fairly stable cast of college students who filled the slow hours of the early morning with studies and Internet memes. He enjoyed, on occasion, asking them about their studies, to test what they and he knew about what sometimes felt esoteric.
He felt a little esoteric.
Standing outside this place, close to the Battery, he contemplated a hot sandwich and some beloved mediocre coffee when he experienced a strange sensation, throughout his senses, that something important had just occurred.
Some magic knew magic, after all.
no subject
2015-12-10 02:17 (UTC)Loki would feel it, intimately familiar, second only to his own magic. Frigga was at the disadvantage, faintly disoriented from her dip the river, though she'd managed to keep ahold of her sword. Mere moments ago she'd been fighting Malekith, half a mind on him and half on the illusion of Thor's human, buying time until her family could catch up. Was this the Convergence? Had she slipped through by mistake?
She sat on a nearby bench for a moment, dripping wet and trying to collect herself. A familiar feeling nagged at that back of her mind, one that made no sense. Her son was imprisoned, in a cell so secure surely even a warp in space time could not free him.
"It's the transition," she told herself. "Not as gentle as the bifrost."
no subject
2015-12-10 02:28 (UTC)No. Loki knew that feeling. He was moving before he was fully conscious of it, despite how conscious he always strove to be of where he was and what he was doing. Here, it was important to be aware. But this was more important than any game of identity he was playing with the Avengers.
He did not try mask his movement, or make himself seem like he was running or moving at the rate of a human. He simply had to get there.
He was hardly out of breath when he set eyes on her, and stood as though paralyzed when he beheld her, his mother.
no subject
2015-12-10 02:38 (UTC)Something was wrong. She knew the turns of his expressions far too well. This was not one of his many masks, this was a lost look, one that stole centuries off of his face and in spite of herself all she could see was the little boy who would hide under her work table to avoid his sword drills and his brother's friends.
"Loki," she said, cautiously, because he was so fragile lately, so prone to snap. "What is going on? Why are you not in your cell?"
no subject
2015-12-10 02:53 (UTC)How could he answer that question? How could he begin to explain the years of time that had passed since she had.... since he had... "There is no cell here," he replied, his voice quiet. "Simply look to the stars, and you can see, my mother, how different they are from the realms we called home." He called her mother like an apology. As if somehow he could wrap up all of the wrongs he carried, convinced they had been wrongs against her, and lay them at her feet, begging for her forgiveness, with that word: 'mother'.
no subject
2015-12-10 03:09 (UTC)Mere hours ago he'd been convincing himself otherwise. Now he lingered on the word as though it was his lifeline. What had changed?
The queen of Asgard stood, somehow managing to maintain her shroud of dignity though the many layers of her silk gown were ruined and dripping salt water. She tilted her head back and studied the sky, looking for some sign of home, of the patterns Odin pointed out when they had snuck off to Midgard together, so long ago.
It was almost dizzying, how unfamiliar it was. There were none of the stars she knew, none of the shapes that suggested Yggdrasil's branches. Could it be that they had found themselves in realm beyond the Nine? If so, how could it resemble Midgard so closely?
She turned back to her son, concern etched on her face. If they had passed beyond Heimdall's sight, how could they hope to return home?
Frigga took a step forward to brush a lock of hair away from Loki's face. Her hand drifted down to his shoulder and rested there.
"My son, what has happened to you?"
no subject
2015-12-11 06:17 (UTC)Just that brush of her fingers over his temple was enough; not even Frigga's touch made him immune to the rush of pain that careened through his system, terrible and nonspecific stripes of pain, things he had learned in humans to untangle, to detect small fractures, or lingering regrets. But Asgardians were so very different, and their lives so much longer, the pain so much more complex.
He did not bother with trying to hide it from her.
It had not been so long, for her, since he had denied her, and the memory of it contorted the muscles around his heart far more than the transmitted pain. He knew how he had hurt her. He remembered her words: how perceptive he was about everyone but himself. And perhaps he had not grown so much more perceptive, but he had examined at least that within; he'd had no other person to call mother, ever, and if he could have one, if she wanted to be his, he could not refuse her again. "I have slipped between realms," he said. "I know not how. I was on Svartalfheim. And then I was here."
He could not tell her yet he had died there. And he wondered suddenly if she remembered dying.
"You are soaking wet," he said, and shed his coat; the cold, after all, never affected him. He put it over her shoulders. For a moment, he forgot he had her shawl just a tug through space away.
no subject
2015-12-11 22:49 (UTC)"Svartalfheim? You had no business there. I know not how you could escape from those dungeons but you had to know it was foolish to defy your- Odin's wishes. Especially so soon." she admonished him. Had he found out about the attack? He claimed to have not known how he came to be here, but there was no such indication regarding Svartalfheim.
"You're changing the topic at hand," she murmured softly then, but accepted the coat. It was of a design she did not recognize, but upon contact with her, maybe it was the second observation of it, but it seemed very similar to the sort of overcoat her son generally wore in Asgard. He hadn't lost his preference for dark green, it would seem.