Teeny Tiny Fic Bit: The Magpie
In Honor of April 1st:
Loki had been in the guise of a guardsman, just another piece of armed furniture staring into the distance, when he first heard the news. Everyone thought he was dead -What kind of trickster would he be if he couldn't trick death? A piss-poor one, that's what.- and further everyone thought he had become some sort of, some kind of Martyr. Which was completely ridiculous. Loki didn't die for sentiment; it wasn't his nature. The whispered bit of spite and frustration bore some investigating, though, and so Loki frolicked through the fields of Vanaheim as a child, licked his paws on the streets of Midgard, crawled along the cavern walls of Nidavellir, and winged his way between the trees of Alfheim.
It was true. As mind-boggling as it was, it was true.
Amongst certain groups of people it had become the norm to wear the emblem of a magpie somewhere about your person. Most often magpies were perched in little pins on the collars of tunics or the breast of a dress panel. Sometimes in the hair. Almost always in a place that could be quickly covered or concealed with a cloak or scarf, but the most bold and combative wore the black and white blazed across the chests, or embroidered in the silks of their raiment. Bands of green were being worn as signs of mourning.
Seven realms. Seven rebel causes -six now, with the last of the Dark Elves permanently eradicated from existence, and that had become a rallying cry, too, one that had been the spearhead of the diplomatic dance with several of Midgard's nations- that before had been small and uncoordinated and of little concern when Asgard ruled the Cosmos with a rainbow fist. But the golden realm had shown itself to be but gold painted, and as the truth of Loki's heritage came out in a bid to discredit his legitimacy the Rebel leaders came together under his supposed corpse and fused their tiny militias into a single hammer that struck weak points for massive damage.
It was a brilliant tactical move. Stories told in Asgard's halls that had been met with laughter were now being told with all seriousness. From his adventure with the mortal eating giant examples of traps were drawn. His affair with the Horse illustrated the incompleteness of Asgard's security, and their inability to see through illusions. More stories, turned on their heads yet somehow painted Loki as a long-suffering hero. The Misguided Magpie.
Loki darkened his skin, his eyes, shortened his limbs. Pinned a silver magpie to his breast. This would be fun.
If he could die for a cause, why not live for one?
Loki had been in the guise of a guardsman, just another piece of armed furniture staring into the distance, when he first heard the news. Everyone thought he was dead -What kind of trickster would he be if he couldn't trick death? A piss-poor one, that's what.- and further everyone thought he had become some sort of, some kind of Martyr. Which was completely ridiculous. Loki didn't die for sentiment; it wasn't his nature. The whispered bit of spite and frustration bore some investigating, though, and so Loki frolicked through the fields of Vanaheim as a child, licked his paws on the streets of Midgard, crawled along the cavern walls of Nidavellir, and winged his way between the trees of Alfheim.
It was true. As mind-boggling as it was, it was true.
Amongst certain groups of people it had become the norm to wear the emblem of a magpie somewhere about your person. Most often magpies were perched in little pins on the collars of tunics or the breast of a dress panel. Sometimes in the hair. Almost always in a place that could be quickly covered or concealed with a cloak or scarf, but the most bold and combative wore the black and white blazed across the chests, or embroidered in the silks of their raiment. Bands of green were being worn as signs of mourning.
Seven realms. Seven rebel causes -six now, with the last of the Dark Elves permanently eradicated from existence, and that had become a rallying cry, too, one that had been the spearhead of the diplomatic dance with several of Midgard's nations- that before had been small and uncoordinated and of little concern when Asgard ruled the Cosmos with a rainbow fist. But the golden realm had shown itself to be but gold painted, and as the truth of Loki's heritage came out in a bid to discredit his legitimacy the Rebel leaders came together under his supposed corpse and fused their tiny militias into a single hammer that struck weak points for massive damage.
It was a brilliant tactical move. Stories told in Asgard's halls that had been met with laughter were now being told with all seriousness. From his adventure with the mortal eating giant examples of traps were drawn. His affair with the Horse illustrated the incompleteness of Asgard's security, and their inability to see through illusions. More stories, turned on their heads yet somehow painted Loki as a long-suffering hero. The Misguided Magpie.
Loki darkened his skin, his eyes, shortened his limbs. Pinned a silver magpie to his breast. This would be fun.
If he could die for a cause, why not live for one?