Prompt fic
Title: Fimbul
Author: oneiriad
Disclaimer: Transformers doesn't belong to me. Mind you, I'll claim Norse Myth as part of my cultural heritage.
A/N: neotoma asked for: Fenrir-Ulf is trapped on an island that neither Jotun nor mortal can reach -- but that doesn't include giant robots.
Sam can't remember what it's like to feel warm.
Around him pieces of metal have been driven into the snow, to provide some shelter from the wind and reflect back the heat from the fire. It doesn't make any difference.
It's cold.
"With Lord Loki's compliments," the girl says through chattering teeth and puts a full plate down on the snow in front of him. His traitorous stomach rumbles at the smell, so like roast pork. He turns his head away, tries to dig himself deeper into his coat. Doesn't look up as she leaves, stumbling on frostbitten feet.
How did it come to this? What did he do to deserve this? He still remembers going with Bee and a couple of the others, hunting a rogue Decepticon across ice and snow and sheer cliffs, remembers feeling exhilarated at the thought of walking in places where no human could ever have stood before.
Was that hybris? Maybe.
It had been sheer chance, discovering the cave - and when he saw what was inside, in the bright, white light from Bee's headlights, well - it hadn't been a question of whether it might be a good idea or not. He had been slizing his fingers open, fumbling with the knot, before even having given it any conscious thought, pausing only to pat the dark fur that slowly rose and fell in front of him.
And at first it had seemed like it had been a good idea.
His girlfriend had laughed and taken to calling him Androcles. The day Ravage had lain in ambush, well, that day it seemed like it had been an exceptionally good idea. And if some of the agents looked askance at the wolf, well, it's not exactly as if they had had a history of being able to tell friend from foe - just look at what they did to Bee.
It had seemed like a good idea.
And then it had started to snow...
Footsteps approach, crunching in the snow, and he looks up to see a man approach, his chest and arms and face covered in an intricate network of scars, like so many rivulets of water - and Sam shivers, and it has nothing to do with the cold.
"You do not eat?"
"I'm - no. I'm sorry, Lord Loki. I'm just not hungry."
"Still, you should eat."
"I'll try, sir. I mean Lord. I promise."
Fingers slide through his hair, under his chin, tilts his head up. Forcing him to meet Loki's gaze.
He remember being trapped under Megatron's talons, the spark of madness in the Cybertronian's optics. Compared to that spark, in Loki's eyes there's a forest fire.
"Good. It would be such a shame if my son's treasured pet failed to keep his strength up, now wouldn't it?"
He wishes he had the courage to flinch away from that touch.
Wishes he had the courage to scream.
Somewhere, a wolf howls.
Later, the wolf returns, flecks of silver and red on its muzzle. It snuffles at him before settling down, huge and dark and hot against the snow.
He slides as far away as he dares, pulling the torn bits of coat as tight around him as he can, curling up against one of the pieces of metal. Trying not to think of how much it resembles a car door. Trying not to think of the regularly spaced, almost cone-shaped indentations in the yellow metal. Trying not to think of anything at all.
Somewhere far above him, the moon's gone out.
Author: oneiriad
Disclaimer: Transformers doesn't belong to me. Mind you, I'll claim Norse Myth as part of my cultural heritage.
A/N: neotoma asked for: Fenrir-Ulf is trapped on an island that neither Jotun nor mortal can reach -- but that doesn't include giant robots.
Sam can't remember what it's like to feel warm.
Around him pieces of metal have been driven into the snow, to provide some shelter from the wind and reflect back the heat from the fire. It doesn't make any difference.
It's cold.
"With Lord Loki's compliments," the girl says through chattering teeth and puts a full plate down on the snow in front of him. His traitorous stomach rumbles at the smell, so like roast pork. He turns his head away, tries to dig himself deeper into his coat. Doesn't look up as she leaves, stumbling on frostbitten feet.
How did it come to this? What did he do to deserve this? He still remembers going with Bee and a couple of the others, hunting a rogue Decepticon across ice and snow and sheer cliffs, remembers feeling exhilarated at the thought of walking in places where no human could ever have stood before.
Was that hybris? Maybe.
It had been sheer chance, discovering the cave - and when he saw what was inside, in the bright, white light from Bee's headlights, well - it hadn't been a question of whether it might be a good idea or not. He had been slizing his fingers open, fumbling with the knot, before even having given it any conscious thought, pausing only to pat the dark fur that slowly rose and fell in front of him.
And at first it had seemed like it had been a good idea.
His girlfriend had laughed and taken to calling him Androcles. The day Ravage had lain in ambush, well, that day it seemed like it had been an exceptionally good idea. And if some of the agents looked askance at the wolf, well, it's not exactly as if they had had a history of being able to tell friend from foe - just look at what they did to Bee.
It had seemed like a good idea.
And then it had started to snow...
Footsteps approach, crunching in the snow, and he looks up to see a man approach, his chest and arms and face covered in an intricate network of scars, like so many rivulets of water - and Sam shivers, and it has nothing to do with the cold.
"You do not eat?"
"I'm - no. I'm sorry, Lord Loki. I'm just not hungry."
"Still, you should eat."
"I'll try, sir. I mean Lord. I promise."
Fingers slide through his hair, under his chin, tilts his head up. Forcing him to meet Loki's gaze.
He remember being trapped under Megatron's talons, the spark of madness in the Cybertronian's optics. Compared to that spark, in Loki's eyes there's a forest fire.
"Good. It would be such a shame if my son's treasured pet failed to keep his strength up, now wouldn't it?"
He wishes he had the courage to flinch away from that touch.
Wishes he had the courage to scream.
Somewhere, a wolf howls.
Later, the wolf returns, flecks of silver and red on its muzzle. It snuffles at him before settling down, huge and dark and hot against the snow.
He slides as far away as he dares, pulling the torn bits of coat as tight around him as he can, curling up against one of the pieces of metal. Trying not to think of how much it resembles a car door. Trying not to think of the regularly spaced, almost cone-shaped indentations in the yellow metal. Trying not to think of anything at all.
Somewhere far above him, the moon's gone out.