Where Innocence is burned in Flames. [Part 1a/?]
anonymous
December 5 2012, 16:58:59 UTC
Inspiration: Title comes from Woodkid - Iron. *** A small brown rat ran close to the old stone wall, sniffing out crumbs of food that it could hide in one of the many burrows it occupied. But it seemed that the dungeon lacked anything edible as the rat wagged her tail once and disappeared.
The prisoner rolled his head away and looked at the sooty lantern, which dim flames were the only light in the cell, and blinked, once, twice…
He did not know how much time had passed - a week or two, maybe. He counted days by the times when the meager meal - a piece of half-baked bread and a jug of water - was brought into his prison, by the clatter of the tin dish being thrown onto the floor. But endless hours stretched and stretched until they became one, until he slipped into the dark abyss reserved only for him and woke up, breathing heavily and utterly lost. And then the smell of rot, of half-washed out red iron on the damp dark wall, with paint half peeled off, of rust-covered shackles would crawl into his nose and devour his brain, and then spit it out with the knowledge of where exactly he was burned into his very soul.
The mission had been a failure. And he had been a fool to have believed that lying slug Sindri! An idiot for believing the cruel, greedy Svartálfar! And a little kid for wanting others to notice him, and so he had bragged that he could have the most powerful weapon that ever existed fashioned for his father as a birthday gift. He had bragged and now he was paying for daring to step on Svartalfaheimr and believing the pretty lies of master blacksmiths, who were known to be as skilled with their words as they were with their craft. Paying for his imprudence and presumptuousness.
He did not hope that the search would begin as soon as he would have vanished from Heimdallr’s sight, after all he was known to value privacy above all and keep his council to himself. How many more months would pass before Mother would feel that something was truly amiss and not simply her son keeping to the shadows and touring the Nine Realms in search of that perfect gift?
Loki closed his eyes and wished to be back in his Mother’s arms and have her stroke his hair and sing him a lullaby. He had not heard her sing to him since he was the proud child of five hundred years who proclaimed that he was too old for silly songs. And now, he, who would have his coming of age ritual in a few decades, longed to hear her sing him of dancing stars that were companions to space whales and how they made those huge guards of Yggdrasil less lonely.
The young p- no, it sounded wrong now, it was safer to use ‘a boy’, ‘a youth’ or even a ‘young man’. Let’s try again, shall we?
Re: Where Innocence is burned in Flames. [Part 1b/?]
anonymous
December 5 2012, 17:03:01 UTC
The young man tried to move, but agonizing pain coursed through his body immediately and made him clench his teeth as not to cry out. Loki stilled at once and slowly returned to his previous position, leaving the ghost of his injuries ache slightly.
Only a day ago he had been sitting at the exact same spot in his prison, his hands were bound with the same shackles at the same angle since the moment he was left in his damp cold cell.
He had thought that there would be torture - beatings, starvation, sleep deprivation, exposure to extremely high volumes - and he had been ready for that. How many times had he been present when a prisoner was tortured by his Father’s golden Hounds? How many times had he stood by his Father’s side and watched the blood form patterns on the floor? How many times had he come into his chambers and train himself immune to pain and violence?
And still he had been caught unawares when nothing came and nothing caused his blood to drip on the floor. It had been maddening. And as days had ticked by he had come to wish that something, anything would happen and take his mind away from all the erratic thoughts buzzing in his head like a hive.
He had been exposed to such practice only once in his lifetime, when he had still been a brittle, too young child. He had seen those trained to obedience after long weeks of being kept in hollow dark cells alone with their thoughts. Some, of course, did not submit to the will of Aesir: they had cut their veins with clawed out from cell walls and floor sharp stones, hanged themselves on ropes made from their own clothing. Their bodies had been taken out into nothingness and not a hair of them could have been found afterwards. (And he had tried.)
But most of them had been made into whores for Aesir. They had serviced the warriors and the berserks and after some time they had been allowed to go (lies, they had vanished just like the bodies).
(Let it be known to the select few that Asgard’s gold was only gilt that covered rusted cooper.) And yet, he could not have reproached those unlucky souls: when separated from others lines between good and bad began to blur behind the bars; people were free to choose what they thought best for them. Everyone wanted to live, to survive and if the means shook the society’s foundation of moral but let one take another breath, was it really such a high price to pay? And Loki had found himself constantly asking one simple question - “Do I want to live?” The answer, of course, had been something that the Aesir would have frowned upon in normal circumstances (and Loki could not have said anything about his people in the situation similar to his).
Re: Where Innocence is burned in Flames. [Part 1c/?]
anonymous
December 5 2012, 17:06:51 UTC
***
He was led through the halls of the fortress, and there was nothing else these cold grey walls without any decoration could be. A fortress for keeping prisoners and for protection against aggression of other Svartalfar Lords, no doubt.
The room he was pushed into was… pleasant-looking. It was dry and warm and there was sunlight. He had not seen the sun for so long and he cherished the moment all the more. The door slammed shut and Loki whirled around, coming face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man.
“Good afternoon,” the man put a hand on Loki’s face; his calloused thumb traced the sharp cheekbone and then touched the swollen bloodied lips.
“Such rough treatment,” muttered the man almost to himself and then tilted his head a little, considering the youth in front of him. “It is a wonder you didn’t get an infection. But then Sindri is better known for his weapons than for any delicate craft.”
The man gestured towards the chair and Loki sat down, feeling uneasiness gripping his heart and body. There was something else in this soft husky voice, there must be.
“It will hurt,” silver gleamed in the stranger’s hand. And a guttural sound escaped the boy as he felt the threads being cut and then tugged out of his mouth. And then a sharp intake of breath through his bleeding lips, and fingers on his mouth touching the little wounds, knitting them back together.
When the stranger stepped back and disappeared from Loki’s view, the young man jumped up and pressed his fingers to the scars where by all laws of the universe should be bleeding red, fresh, tiny round open wounds.
“Why?”
Someone pressed into him from behind, and put a hand on his thigh, squeezing lightly, “I enjoy vocal lovers. And you can scream, cannot you?”
Oh. It was not unexpected. After all Asgard was no different, when sure that no one would come for the captives. Loki saw and Loki knew, but would the practice be the same after the stranger used him? Kill, wash out the blood, dispose of the body? Or would he be sent home in a casket for all Asgard to see their… one of their own brought low? If so, Loki preferred the former.
But when the second hand slid under his filthy, half-torn tunic, the calm attitude towards the knowledge that he would be bent over the closest surface and used for someone’s pleasure was replaced with the tight knot of burning anger.
Heavy breathing on his hair, a kiss to the nape, hands caressing his body - disgusting and horrible. And something in him snapping, breaking.
“I am not a wench for your use,” hissed Loki and hit the man in the face with the back of his head followed by an elbow. There was a definite crunch of breaking bones. And Loki felt pride surge in his chest and then die when his arm was twisted and he was pushed forward against the wall. He tried to move, but Elivagar’s ice, the Svartalfar was as strong as a Titan! And Loki in desperation hit the man’s leg. And then punched on him, trying to get to the throat and squeeze the life out of him. It was futile.
“And I was told you are as cold as Jotunheim’s North soils. But you are fiery, aren’t you?”
The man (Loki wondered briefly whether he even had a name) pulled Loki’s trousers down and tried to force his finger in the young man’s anus. And then laughed, “You are dry.”
“Then find yourself someone who is wet,” bit out the young man.
“But I will take you.”
Later, when he was being pushed into and his shoulder being both bitten and kissed, he did not think about being degraded, turned into… this thing, for the first time in his existence his mind was entirely blank.
Re: Where Innocence is burned in Flames. [Part 1c/?]lokibitch07December 7 2012, 19:39:15 UTC
Argh.... I LOVE it when Loki fights back... I hope we get to read a little more about his..ahm...possession by the Svartalfar. Cause, you know, I am going to hell already, so that would make it even more worth it!
Where Innocence is burned in Flames. [Part 2/?]
anonymous
January 20 2013, 19:20:13 UTC
Time ran slowly.
Loki saw one tiny sand grain sinking to the bottom of the ocean, and after it settled into myriads of other sand grains, another one repeated the journey, - that was what seconds became for him in the dark rathole he was thrown into.
It was cold. So cold, that the boy pictured the endless Jotunheim forests filled with beast resembling the great wolves of old, but their fur was not furry and warm, but was made of indestructible lead and iron, lithic birds that sing only of fear and death, trees which icy leaves whisper about statues made of glistering ice, resembling people who had been once lost and who had never come back home, and the wind that reached all and touched everything, leaving an imprint of frost and winter on every living creature.
And Loki was alone and lonely. Never before the young man had experienced such grief of not having even a simple link to those he cared for - his family. How could he bring his shining golden family into the filth and humiliation he was practically bathing in? No, they didn’t belong here.
And so days passed.
***
He didn’t dream, but when he did, dreams were strange. Sometimes the statues of golden guards of Asgard would look at him and whisper that he didn’t belong in Asgard. Sometimes he would dream of faces that were covered by masks with blood-thirsty smirks and he would tear them off only to find out that under those masks were bleeding muscles and white bones. And sometimes, so rare and far between, he would dream of himself, lying still and dead. But it didn’t frighten him like it could have back under the soft blankets in Asgard. Fear became nothing.
The twenty ninth notch on the wall. Soon it would be a month. (He liked to believe so.)
***
His wrists were bruised and he felt so dirty that no amount of water could have cleansed him from shame and the feeling of nails breaking when scraping against the wall in desperate attempt to dull the pain in his ass. But the rhythmic moving forth and back and forth again didn’t stop and he wanted to squeeze the eyes of this stranger out of the sockets with his own fingers and watch as the man screamed his throat horse and laugh, laugh, laugh.
“You are not returning to the dungeon,” the man said, turning Loki around to face him.
“Slitting throats in chambers, to your knowledge, usually leaves a mess.”
The man laughed curtly and took the boy’s chin in his hands, “If I wanted you dead, I would have never specified that you were to be brought alive to me, would I?”
Loki felt sick. Did the man know he would come to the kingdom of Svartalfar? Did he spy on him through some unknown means when Loki was in Asgard? And the worst part of this realization is that the man ordered him. As if he booked him.
“Go to Hel,” hissed Loki, shoving the man away from him with all the strength his half-starved body could produce.
“Ah, and I enjoyed you when you let me fuck you like a good obedient boy.”
Loki snarled at him, “You said the opposite the last time.” And spotting the tiny red line on the stranger’s nose, added, “How is your nose?”
The man’s lips tightened into a thin line and Loki’s lips twitched into a self-satisfied vindictive smirk. Later, he would berate himself for being so cocky with this strange and dangerous man.
Where Innocence is burned in Flames. [Part 3/?]
anonymous
March 19 2013, 18:07:11 UTC
He wanted to beg. For sleep. - The sound of screams and pleas of those tortured in front of him. - For death. - The feeling of his skin being touched by blood-stained hands and whispers telling him to look and remember. - For salvation. - Stop it, take off these shackles, set me free. Let me go. - But there were no words said.
Instead, he watched. How with the swishing sound the whips dug into pale flesh. How red streams ran slowly between the stones into the dungeon drainage. How the bodies were carried out to never be found again.
“Why won’t you kill me?” he finally managed to croak out, his throat hoarse from the cold air of the dungeons.
There was no answer from the man, who was looking straight ahead at the guards dragging in a new prisoner. It was a woman with long golden hair and terrified blue eyes. Her face was round and beautiful and reminded Loki too much of his fair mother.
When the young man heard the first scream, he tightly squeezed his eyes and tried to turn away, but the steel hands grabbed his shoulders, fingers dug in painfully, leaving hand-shaped bruises.
“Watch,” the man hissed, but Loki squeezed his eyes even tighter and wished that the ground would open up under this thrice-cursed brazen-faced pig and swallow him whole.
“I said, watch.”
“No,” the boy shook his head and put his hands over his face, shielding himself from the view of burning metal being shoved into the milky flesh, of the tears streaming from the wide open eyes, of the beautiful mouth being stretched in desperate scream. Loki only wished he could grow another set of arms and press them to his ears, so that to silence the echoing scream of this woman in his head.
Another scream. Heavy sobs, pleading. A hoarse short shriek. He imagined the metal rod and the heated stamp. Saw his mother on her knees and for a second his heart stopped beating.
“Stop!” Loki exclaimed, whirling around to face his mauler, who only raised his hand to signal to the executioner to stop the torture. The man did not move, only turned his head in Loki’s direction and raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“Let her go, please,” he begged. He finally begged, but neither for sleep nor for death, but for mercy. Ironic. The taste of defeat was too strong on his tongue and it felt leaden all of a sudden.
“And why should I?”
Loki opened his mouth to offer something, anything, but he had absolutely nothing: no gold, no power, and no sacred knowledge.
“What can you offer me that I cannot take by force, Loki?” the man asked, eyes twinkling in anticipation. Yes, what could Loki offer in exchange for someone’s life? Ah, well, the answer was always there, wasn’t it?
“Myself.”
The man’s stare was calculating and agonizingly long. And then he nodded to the black-clad executioner, who tugged the woman up and led her out.
***
A small brown rat ran close to the old stone wall, sniffing out crumbs of food that it could hide in one of the many burrows it occupied. But it seemed that the dungeon lacked anything edible as the rat wagged her tail once and disappeared.
The prisoner rolled his head away and looked at the sooty lantern, which dim flames were the only light in the cell, and blinked, once, twice…
He did not know how much time had passed - a week or two, maybe. He counted days by the times when the meager meal - a piece of half-baked bread and a jug of water - was brought into his prison, by the clatter of the tin dish being thrown onto the floor. But endless hours stretched and stretched until they became one, until he slipped into the dark abyss reserved only for him and woke up, breathing heavily and utterly lost. And then the smell of rot, of half-washed out red iron on the damp dark wall, with paint half peeled off, of rust-covered shackles would crawl into his nose and devour his brain, and then spit it out with the knowledge of where exactly he was burned into his very soul.
The mission had been a failure. And he had been a fool to have believed that lying slug Sindri! An idiot for believing the cruel, greedy Svartálfar! And a little kid for wanting others to notice him, and so he had bragged that he could have the most powerful weapon that ever existed fashioned for his father as a birthday gift. He had bragged and now he was paying for daring to step on Svartalfaheimr and believing the pretty lies of master blacksmiths, who were known to be as skilled with their words as they were with their craft. Paying for his imprudence and presumptuousness.
He did not hope that the search would begin as soon as he would have vanished from Heimdallr’s sight, after all he was known to value privacy above all and keep his council to himself. How many more months would pass before Mother would feel that something was truly amiss and not simply her son keeping to the shadows and touring the Nine Realms in search of that perfect gift?
Loki closed his eyes and wished to be back in his Mother’s arms and have her stroke his hair and sing him a lullaby. He had not heard her sing to him since he was the proud child of five hundred years who proclaimed that he was too old for silly songs. And now, he, who would have his coming of age ritual in a few decades, longed to hear her sing him of dancing stars that were companions to space whales and how they made those huge guards of Yggdrasil less lonely.
The young p- no, it sounded wrong now, it was safer to use ‘a boy’, ‘a youth’ or even a ‘young man’. Let’s try again, shall we?
Reply
Only a day ago he had been sitting at the exact same spot in his prison, his hands were bound with the same shackles at the same angle since the moment he was left in his damp cold cell.
He had thought that there would be torture - beatings, starvation, sleep deprivation, exposure to extremely high volumes - and he had been ready for that. How many times had he been present when a prisoner was tortured by his Father’s golden Hounds? How many times had he stood by his Father’s side and watched the blood form patterns on the floor? How many times had he come into his chambers and train himself immune to pain and violence?
And still he had been caught unawares when nothing came and nothing caused his blood to drip on the floor. It had been maddening. And as days had ticked by he had come to wish that something, anything would happen and take his mind away from all the erratic thoughts buzzing in his head like a hive.
He had been exposed to such practice only once in his lifetime, when he had still been a brittle, too young child. He had seen those trained to obedience after long weeks of being kept in hollow dark cells alone with their thoughts. Some, of course, did not submit to the will of Aesir: they had cut their veins with clawed out from cell walls and floor sharp stones, hanged themselves on ropes made from their own clothing. Their bodies had been taken out into nothingness and not a hair of them could have been found afterwards. (And he had tried.)
But most of them had been made into whores for Aesir. They had serviced the warriors and the berserks and after some time they had been allowed to go (lies, they had vanished just like the bodies).
(Let it be known to the select few that Asgard’s gold was only gilt that covered rusted cooper.)
And yet, he could not have reproached those unlucky souls: when separated from others lines between good and bad began to blur behind the bars; people were free to choose what they thought best for them. Everyone wanted to live, to survive and if the means shook the society’s foundation of moral but let one take another breath, was it really such a high price to pay? And Loki had found himself constantly asking one simple question - “Do I want to live?” The answer, of course, had been something that the Aesir would have frowned upon in normal circumstances (and Loki could not have said anything about his people in the situation similar to his).
And then they had come for him.
Reply
He was led through the halls of the fortress, and there was nothing else these cold grey walls without any decoration could be. A fortress for keeping prisoners and for protection against aggression of other Svartalfar Lords, no doubt.
The room he was pushed into was… pleasant-looking. It was dry and warm and there was sunlight. He had not seen the sun for so long and he cherished the moment all the more. The door slammed shut and Loki whirled around, coming face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man.
“Good afternoon,” the man put a hand on Loki’s face; his calloused thumb traced the sharp cheekbone and then touched the swollen bloodied lips.
“Such rough treatment,” muttered the man almost to himself and then tilted his head a little, considering the youth in front of him. “It is a wonder you didn’t get an infection. But then Sindri is better known for his weapons than for any delicate craft.”
The man gestured towards the chair and Loki sat down, feeling uneasiness gripping his heart and body. There was something else in this soft husky voice, there must be.
“It will hurt,” silver gleamed in the stranger’s hand. And a guttural sound escaped the boy as he felt the threads being cut and then tugged out of his mouth.
And then a sharp intake of breath through his bleeding lips, and fingers on his mouth touching the little wounds, knitting them back together.
When the stranger stepped back and disappeared from Loki’s view, the young man jumped up and pressed his fingers to the scars where by all laws of the universe should be bleeding red, fresh, tiny round open wounds.
“Why?”
Someone pressed into him from behind, and put a hand on his thigh, squeezing lightly, “I enjoy vocal lovers. And you can scream, cannot you?”
Oh. It was not unexpected. After all Asgard was no different, when sure that no one would come for the captives. Loki saw and Loki knew, but would the practice be the same after the stranger used him? Kill, wash out the blood, dispose of the body? Or would he be sent home in a casket for all Asgard to see their… one of their own brought low? If so, Loki preferred the former.
But when the second hand slid under his filthy, half-torn tunic, the calm attitude towards the knowledge that he would be bent over the closest surface and used for someone’s pleasure was replaced with the tight knot of burning anger.
Heavy breathing on his hair, a kiss to the nape, hands caressing his body - disgusting and horrible. And something in him snapping, breaking.
“I am not a wench for your use,” hissed Loki and hit the man in the face with the back of his head followed by an elbow. There was a definite crunch of breaking bones. And Loki felt pride surge in his chest and then die when his arm was twisted and he was pushed forward against the wall. He tried to move, but Elivagar’s ice, the Svartalfar was as strong as a Titan! And Loki in desperation hit the man’s leg. And then punched on him, trying to get to the throat and squeeze the life out of him. It was futile.
“And I was told you are as cold as Jotunheim’s North soils. But you are fiery, aren’t you?”
The man (Loki wondered briefly whether he even had a name) pulled Loki’s trousers down and tried to force his finger in the young man’s anus. And then laughed, “You are dry.”
“Then find yourself someone who is wet,” bit out the young man.
“But I will take you.”
Later, when he was being pushed into and his shoulder being both bitten and kissed, he did not think about being degraded, turned into… this thing, for the first time in his existence his mind was entirely blank.
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I hope we get to read a little more about his..ahm...possession by the Svartalfar.
Cause, you know, I am going to hell already, so that would make it even more worth it!
Reply
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Loki saw one tiny sand grain sinking to the bottom of the ocean, and after it settled into myriads of other sand grains, another one repeated the journey, - that was what seconds became for him in the dark rathole he was thrown into.
It was cold. So cold, that the boy pictured the endless Jotunheim forests filled with beast resembling the great wolves of old, but their fur was not furry and warm, but was made of indestructible lead and iron, lithic birds that sing only of fear and death, trees which icy leaves whisper about statues made of glistering ice, resembling people who had been once lost and who had never come back home, and the wind that reached all and touched everything, leaving an imprint of frost and winter on every living creature.
And Loki was alone and lonely. Never before the young man had experienced such grief of not having even a simple link to those he cared for - his family. How could he bring his shining golden family into the filth and humiliation he was practically bathing in? No, they didn’t belong here.
And so days passed.
***
He didn’t dream, but when he did, dreams were strange. Sometimes the statues of golden guards of Asgard would look at him and whisper that he didn’t belong in Asgard. Sometimes he would dream of faces that were covered by masks with blood-thirsty smirks and he would tear them off only to find out that under those masks were bleeding muscles and white bones. And sometimes, so rare and far between, he would dream of himself, lying still and dead. But it didn’t frighten him like it could have back under the soft blankets in Asgard. Fear became nothing.
The twenty ninth notch on the wall. Soon it would be a month. (He liked to believe so.)
***
His wrists were bruised and he felt so dirty that no amount of water could have cleansed him from shame and the feeling of nails breaking when scraping against the wall in desperate attempt to dull the pain in his ass. But the rhythmic moving forth and back and forth again didn’t stop and he wanted to squeeze the eyes of this stranger out of the sockets with his own fingers and watch as the man screamed his throat horse and laugh, laugh, laugh.
“You are not returning to the dungeon,” the man said, turning Loki around to face him.
“Slitting throats in chambers, to your knowledge, usually leaves a mess.”
The man laughed curtly and took the boy’s chin in his hands, “If I wanted you dead, I would have never specified that you were to be brought alive to me, would I?”
Loki felt sick. Did the man know he would come to the kingdom of Svartalfar? Did he spy on him through some unknown means when Loki was in Asgard? And the worst part of this realization is that the man ordered him. As if he booked him.
“Go to Hel,” hissed Loki, shoving the man away from him with all the strength his half-starved body could produce.
“Ah, and I enjoyed you when you let me fuck you like a good obedient boy.”
Loki snarled at him, “You said the opposite the last time.” And spotting the tiny red line on the stranger’s nose, added, “How is your nose?”
The man’s lips tightened into a thin line and Loki’s lips twitched into a self-satisfied vindictive smirk. Later, he would berate himself for being so cocky with this strange and dangerous man.
“Guards! Take him to the interrogation room.”
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Hope there's more soon!
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Instead, he watched. How with the swishing sound the whips dug into pale flesh. How red streams ran slowly between the stones into the dungeon drainage. How the bodies were carried out to never be found again.
“Why won’t you kill me?” he finally managed to croak out, his throat hoarse from the cold air of the dungeons.
There was no answer from the man, who was looking straight ahead at the guards dragging in a new prisoner. It was a woman with long golden hair and terrified blue eyes. Her face was round and beautiful and reminded Loki too much of his fair mother.
When the young man heard the first scream, he tightly squeezed his eyes and tried to turn away, but the steel hands grabbed his shoulders, fingers dug in painfully, leaving hand-shaped bruises.
“Watch,” the man hissed, but Loki squeezed his eyes even tighter and wished that the ground would open up under this thrice-cursed brazen-faced pig and swallow him whole.
“I said, watch.”
“No,” the boy shook his head and put his hands over his face, shielding himself from the view of burning metal being shoved into the milky flesh, of the tears streaming from the wide open eyes, of the beautiful mouth being stretched in desperate scream. Loki only wished he could grow another set of arms and press them to his ears, so that to silence the echoing scream of this woman in his head.
Another scream. Heavy sobs, pleading. A hoarse short shriek. He imagined the metal rod and the heated stamp. Saw his mother on her knees and for a second his heart stopped beating.
“Stop!” Loki exclaimed, whirling around to face his mauler, who only raised his hand to signal to the executioner to stop the torture. The man did not move, only turned his head in Loki’s direction and raised an eyebrow, “Yes?”
“Let her go, please,” he begged. He finally begged, but neither for sleep nor for death, but for mercy. Ironic. The taste of defeat was too strong on his tongue and it felt leaden all of a sudden.
“And why should I?”
Loki opened his mouth to offer something, anything, but he had absolutely nothing: no gold, no power, and no sacred knowledge.
“What can you offer me that I cannot take by force, Loki?” the man asked, eyes twinkling in anticipation. Yes, what could Loki offer in exchange for someone’s life? Ah, well, the answer was always there, wasn’t it?
“Myself.”
The man’s stare was calculating and agonizingly long. And then he nodded to the black-clad executioner, who tugged the woman up and led her out.
“We have a deal then.”
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