(no subject)
Title: Loki and His Children
Fandom: Norse Mythology, though there's nothing that specifically says it couldn't be Marvel!Loki.
Word Count: 860, according to Microsoft Word
Summary: Now and then.
When he was but a young pup, Fenrir sat on his father’s lap and listened as he read. Loki seldom read aloud, preferring to commit the words to memory, to read them and memorize them and hold them close like a secret. He would mouth the words, sometimes, and that was how this had started - young Fenrir, on his lap, reaching up and pressing his wet nose to his father’s lips as air puffed out of them and onto his fur. Loki had been surprised, but he had not dropped the book nor the pup, instead laughing and stroking his fingers through Fenrir’s short, fuzzy fur.
“You wish to hear the words instead of feel them?” he had asked, and Fenrir had yipped, not yet old enough to speak but young enough to listen. Loki had laughed again, and raised the pitch of his voice so the words would come from the page and cover them both, a secret for them to share. Fenrir had wriggled, pleased, and curled up on Loki’s lap until the words lulled him to sleep. He dreamt of knowledge and his father’s voice, and he was warm, and he was safe.
When she was but a young girl, Hel sat on her father’s lap and watched him in the mirror. Those in Asgard had a love for finery, and Loki was no exception. Indeed, there were those who thought him vain (and not wrongly, though it was seldom the material unless the material was priceless), even more vain than some of the women (this he would protest, and Thor would laugh and Odin would smile, and Loki would be stuck somewhere between mollified and irritated). She would trace over the things he set out on the table before he took them, small hands tracing over pins of silver, and Loki had one day realized that she favored his comb the most of all.
“Shall I use it on you?” he had asked, and Hel had blushed, but nodded under her father’s gaze. Loki had smiled and tugged her onto his lap a bit more, and then he had combed through her hair until all the tangles that youth so loves to attract were brushed away and his daughter was half-asleep in his arms. He was not yet done, however, and so Loki had braided Hel’s hair into an elegant trail before taking her to her bed. She dreamt of fingers in her hair and being told she was beautiful, and she smiled in her sleep.
When he was but a young serpent, Jörmungandr sat on his father’s lap and watched him sharpen his blades. Loki was not a traditional warrior, never had been and likely never would be, but one as clever as he knew better than to be unarmed with the company he kept. He had sharpened them, polished them until they shone brighter than the sun, and the snake had bobbed his head and watched, coiled around Loki like a scarf but careful not to impede his movement. One wrong slip could cause an injury, and he was not such a serpent as to wish it upon his own father. Loki noticed, though, and while it had taken him some time, one day he asked it.
“Would you like to help me with them?” he had asked, and Jörmungandr had been confused - he had no hands to hold the blades, and though his jaws were strong, he was not certain that he would be much help as a grip. Loki had chuckled, had stroked his head, and had tapped at his mouth where a curved fang lay hidden. Poison, then, a way to keep his father safe, and as soon as the serpent understood, he opened his mouth and let his father milk away the venom. Then Loki used it, tipped the edges of his blades, and Jörmungandr had slept above him that night without fear that his venom would fall onto his father’s face.
Things had changed now, thought Loki. Fenrir had been bound, tricked by words that his father could not read. Hel had been cast out, had become a shade in a realm of death. Jörmungandr had been thrown, resting in the waters that made his scale shimmer like blades. Loki no longer had secret words and books, no longer had mirrors and finery, no longer had blades and venom dripped onto his face. He could ask his children no questions, only scream when tormented, only shake so hard that it was felt on Midgard.
Some nights, when the shaking subsided and he was too exhausted to sob, too exhausted to sleep, he thought he could hear them. A howl from Fenrir, knowledge of what the great wolf had seen while bound, a secret for them to share. Whispers from Hel, tales of finery that would make Freyja weep and the brush of wind through his hair like his old comb. A hiss from Jörmungandr, stories of blades and bullets and bombs, war more poisonous to man than anything from his fangs.
And Loki slept, cold and ugly and afraid, but his heart knew that they would make this right.
Fandom: Norse Mythology, though there's nothing that specifically says it couldn't be Marvel!Loki.
Word Count: 860, according to Microsoft Word
Summary: Now and then.
When he was but a young pup, Fenrir sat on his father’s lap and listened as he read. Loki seldom read aloud, preferring to commit the words to memory, to read them and memorize them and hold them close like a secret. He would mouth the words, sometimes, and that was how this had started - young Fenrir, on his lap, reaching up and pressing his wet nose to his father’s lips as air puffed out of them and onto his fur. Loki had been surprised, but he had not dropped the book nor the pup, instead laughing and stroking his fingers through Fenrir’s short, fuzzy fur.
“You wish to hear the words instead of feel them?” he had asked, and Fenrir had yipped, not yet old enough to speak but young enough to listen. Loki had laughed again, and raised the pitch of his voice so the words would come from the page and cover them both, a secret for them to share. Fenrir had wriggled, pleased, and curled up on Loki’s lap until the words lulled him to sleep. He dreamt of knowledge and his father’s voice, and he was warm, and he was safe.
When she was but a young girl, Hel sat on her father’s lap and watched him in the mirror. Those in Asgard had a love for finery, and Loki was no exception. Indeed, there were those who thought him vain (and not wrongly, though it was seldom the material unless the material was priceless), even more vain than some of the women (this he would protest, and Thor would laugh and Odin would smile, and Loki would be stuck somewhere between mollified and irritated). She would trace over the things he set out on the table before he took them, small hands tracing over pins of silver, and Loki had one day realized that she favored his comb the most of all.
“Shall I use it on you?” he had asked, and Hel had blushed, but nodded under her father’s gaze. Loki had smiled and tugged her onto his lap a bit more, and then he had combed through her hair until all the tangles that youth so loves to attract were brushed away and his daughter was half-asleep in his arms. He was not yet done, however, and so Loki had braided Hel’s hair into an elegant trail before taking her to her bed. She dreamt of fingers in her hair and being told she was beautiful, and she smiled in her sleep.
When he was but a young serpent, Jörmungandr sat on his father’s lap and watched him sharpen his blades. Loki was not a traditional warrior, never had been and likely never would be, but one as clever as he knew better than to be unarmed with the company he kept. He had sharpened them, polished them until they shone brighter than the sun, and the snake had bobbed his head and watched, coiled around Loki like a scarf but careful not to impede his movement. One wrong slip could cause an injury, and he was not such a serpent as to wish it upon his own father. Loki noticed, though, and while it had taken him some time, one day he asked it.
“Would you like to help me with them?” he had asked, and Jörmungandr had been confused - he had no hands to hold the blades, and though his jaws were strong, he was not certain that he would be much help as a grip. Loki had chuckled, had stroked his head, and had tapped at his mouth where a curved fang lay hidden. Poison, then, a way to keep his father safe, and as soon as the serpent understood, he opened his mouth and let his father milk away the venom. Then Loki used it, tipped the edges of his blades, and Jörmungandr had slept above him that night without fear that his venom would fall onto his father’s face.
Things had changed now, thought Loki. Fenrir had been bound, tricked by words that his father could not read. Hel had been cast out, had become a shade in a realm of death. Jörmungandr had been thrown, resting in the waters that made his scale shimmer like blades. Loki no longer had secret words and books, no longer had mirrors and finery, no longer had blades and venom dripped onto his face. He could ask his children no questions, only scream when tormented, only shake so hard that it was felt on Midgard.
Some nights, when the shaking subsided and he was too exhausted to sob, too exhausted to sleep, he thought he could hear them. A howl from Fenrir, knowledge of what the great wolf had seen while bound, a secret for them to share. Whispers from Hel, tales of finery that would make Freyja weep and the brush of wind through his hair like his old comb. A hiss from Jörmungandr, stories of blades and bullets and bombs, war more poisonous to man than anything from his fangs.
And Loki slept, cold and ugly and afraid, but his heart knew that they would make this right.