Little Lion Man (Ship of Nails, Part 12)
Dec. 7th, 2020 07:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coldsongFalling through darkness, the only things Loki has to cling to are his own magic, and the corpse of an old friend. If, indeed, he can honestly call Heimdall his friend at all.
“Human stories claimed you and I would fight to the death at Ragnarok,” the little spider murmurs. “But we stood on the same side. And yet, the volva saw clearly enough, because here we fall into Hel together.”
And he thinks he sees a faint gleam of pale light beneath them. This void is not endless.
Quick as thought, the spider weaves a net of silk that glow green and gold, knotting it around Heimdall’s silent form. The dim glow of Hel grows around them, and Loki shifts, growing as the corpse dwindles down into a small thing, an amber bead stitched tight within a chain of spider’s silk.
Loki is naked when his feet touch the ground, but then he ties the chain around his neck, securing it to his body. If he ever escapes this place, himself, the transformed corpse of Asgard’s doorwarden will come with him.
He has been here before, but not for very long. He was only able to set foot briefly, enough to create an anchor between this Hel and the Nexus; a tiny passage for him to traffic with the dead. But Hela is also here, and her strength is so much greater than his, he could not stay or make a door that swung in more than one direction.
Ran’s prophecy was right, though. He will have to face the Goddess of Death in earnest this time. She has something he needs.
He walks forward through the trembling twilight. Hel is not a place of torture, but at its base level it is a place of banality, drowsy lethargy, the kind of discomforted passiveness that sometimes seizes the chronically depressed. Here and there he sees little flashes of color, the signs that souls have pushed themselves and begun to build something in the gloom, and he can smell woodsmoke and wet earth, and somewhere in the distance a dog barks; there are signs of people doggedly recreating the lives they lived upon Asgard. But they are few and far between.
There are no hoofbeats when Skurge appears beside him, riding the dappled stallion he rode in the last Wild Hunt. Loki looks up at the Executioner, surprised but not startled. “Do you not court trouble by accompanying me?”
Skurge shrugs. “I’m never going to be her favorite anyway, am I? Might as well watch the action from the front row.”
Loki smiles. “It’s a shame we’re both dead. I think I’d have liked you, given the chance.”
“Bet you say that to all the girls,” Skurge deadpans. After riding through the winter night together, they have established some kind of rapport.
“You know why I chose you, don’t you?” Loki asks him. “To take Heimdall’s place?”
“Same reason she did,” Skurge says. “I was willing to do the job and not ask too many questions.”
“I suppose that was part of it,” he admits. “But not the whole and sum. You were overlooked, neglected, and desperate to make a name for yourself.”
He’s embarrassed him, and Skurge focuses his eyes resolutely on the path ahead. “So, a special kind of gullible, then.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Loki steps closer to meet his eyes. “I’ve been there. A shadow unable to hold my own against the brighter lights surrounding me. I only wanted the throne because I wanted to be valued.”
Skurge doesn’t want to look back at him, but after a moment, he catches his gaze in his peripheral vision. He’s not convinced, and Loki can’t blame him. A prince complaining of neglect to the son of a stonemason is more than a little rich. But he’s considering his words, and at last he says, “What’s the point telling me this now?”
“None,” Loki says with a sigh. “But I regret failing you. We all failed you.” He could have done differently. If he had the chance now, he would do something more than watch plays and eat grapes.
“Asgard’s full of failures, if you ask me,” Skurge says, and suddenly he’s cheerful. “Just a big bunch of failures all pretending to be better.”
“That was certainly true of the upper echelons,” Loki returns the smile. “But pretending to be better can’t be all bad. Is it not worth it to fake it until you make it, as the humans say?”
“Absolutely. Got me where I am today.” Skurge nods at him sagely, and it’s the darkest gallows humor Loki has heard in a long time. He breaks out laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” Loki says with a gasp of amusement. “That’s dreadful.”
Skurge only looks pleased with himself, and Loki is willing to concede him that victory. “I’ve been to Valhalla, though,” the Executioner says. “Just so you know.”
That sobers him up a little, and a half dozen questions rise to his lips. “...you did not stay there?”
“What’s the point? Ragnarok’s over and done and the army that was supposed to be training up there didn’t lift a finger. I may have fucked up, but at least I was at the battle in the first place.”
Loki looks up at him, struck by the pride in his voice, and rubs the heel of his own hand over his sternum. The same, after all, could be said of him. “Your honor exceeds that of the honored dead, perhaps,” he muses.
“Thanks, but nah, I meant what I said about failures. I think the good thing about being a fuck-up is that it makes you keep going. Keep on trying to fix things. Turns out, you only get to Valhalla--or Folkvangr--if you really feel like you belong there. And I’m not done trying yet. So I don’t.”
Loki is silent for a moment, grateful for this strangely reassuring message. “That explains a lot about us both, doesn’t it?” He says at last, softly.
Piercing the gloom, Skurge gives him a bright smile.
((Musical Inspiration))
“Human stories claimed you and I would fight to the death at Ragnarok,” the little spider murmurs. “But we stood on the same side. And yet, the volva saw clearly enough, because here we fall into Hel together.”
And he thinks he sees a faint gleam of pale light beneath them. This void is not endless.
Quick as thought, the spider weaves a net of silk that glow green and gold, knotting it around Heimdall’s silent form. The dim glow of Hel grows around them, and Loki shifts, growing as the corpse dwindles down into a small thing, an amber bead stitched tight within a chain of spider’s silk.
Loki is naked when his feet touch the ground, but then he ties the chain around his neck, securing it to his body. If he ever escapes this place, himself, the transformed corpse of Asgard’s doorwarden will come with him.
He has been here before, but not for very long. He was only able to set foot briefly, enough to create an anchor between this Hel and the Nexus; a tiny passage for him to traffic with the dead. But Hela is also here, and her strength is so much greater than his, he could not stay or make a door that swung in more than one direction.
Ran’s prophecy was right, though. He will have to face the Goddess of Death in earnest this time. She has something he needs.
He walks forward through the trembling twilight. Hel is not a place of torture, but at its base level it is a place of banality, drowsy lethargy, the kind of discomforted passiveness that sometimes seizes the chronically depressed. Here and there he sees little flashes of color, the signs that souls have pushed themselves and begun to build something in the gloom, and he can smell woodsmoke and wet earth, and somewhere in the distance a dog barks; there are signs of people doggedly recreating the lives they lived upon Asgard. But they are few and far between.
There are no hoofbeats when Skurge appears beside him, riding the dappled stallion he rode in the last Wild Hunt. Loki looks up at the Executioner, surprised but not startled. “Do you not court trouble by accompanying me?”
Skurge shrugs. “I’m never going to be her favorite anyway, am I? Might as well watch the action from the front row.”
Loki smiles. “It’s a shame we’re both dead. I think I’d have liked you, given the chance.”
“Bet you say that to all the girls,” Skurge deadpans. After riding through the winter night together, they have established some kind of rapport.
“You know why I chose you, don’t you?” Loki asks him. “To take Heimdall’s place?”
“Same reason she did,” Skurge says. “I was willing to do the job and not ask too many questions.”
“I suppose that was part of it,” he admits. “But not the whole and sum. You were overlooked, neglected, and desperate to make a name for yourself.”
He’s embarrassed him, and Skurge focuses his eyes resolutely on the path ahead. “So, a special kind of gullible, then.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Loki steps closer to meet his eyes. “I’ve been there. A shadow unable to hold my own against the brighter lights surrounding me. I only wanted the throne because I wanted to be valued.”
Skurge doesn’t want to look back at him, but after a moment, he catches his gaze in his peripheral vision. He’s not convinced, and Loki can’t blame him. A prince complaining of neglect to the son of a stonemason is more than a little rich. But he’s considering his words, and at last he says, “What’s the point telling me this now?”
“None,” Loki says with a sigh. “But I regret failing you. We all failed you.” He could have done differently. If he had the chance now, he would do something more than watch plays and eat grapes.
“Asgard’s full of failures, if you ask me,” Skurge says, and suddenly he’s cheerful. “Just a big bunch of failures all pretending to be better.”
“That was certainly true of the upper echelons,” Loki returns the smile. “But pretending to be better can’t be all bad. Is it not worth it to fake it until you make it, as the humans say?”
“Absolutely. Got me where I am today.” Skurge nods at him sagely, and it’s the darkest gallows humor Loki has heard in a long time. He breaks out laughing.
“I’m so sorry,” Loki says with a gasp of amusement. “That’s dreadful.”
Skurge only looks pleased with himself, and Loki is willing to concede him that victory. “I’ve been to Valhalla, though,” the Executioner says. “Just so you know.”
That sobers him up a little, and a half dozen questions rise to his lips. “...you did not stay there?”
“What’s the point? Ragnarok’s over and done and the army that was supposed to be training up there didn’t lift a finger. I may have fucked up, but at least I was at the battle in the first place.”
Loki looks up at him, struck by the pride in his voice, and rubs the heel of his own hand over his sternum. The same, after all, could be said of him. “Your honor exceeds that of the honored dead, perhaps,” he muses.
“Thanks, but nah, I meant what I said about failures. I think the good thing about being a fuck-up is that it makes you keep going. Keep on trying to fix things. Turns out, you only get to Valhalla--or Folkvangr--if you really feel like you belong there. And I’m not done trying yet. So I don’t.”
Loki is silent for a moment, grateful for this strangely reassuring message. “That explains a lot about us both, doesn’t it?” He says at last, softly.
Piercing the gloom, Skurge gives him a bright smile.
((Musical Inspiration))