When We Were Young
Who: Thor Odinson and Loki Laufeyson
Where: Stark Tower and the City of New York
When: A weekend most free
What: The game's gone on for centuries. One seeks to find, the other seeks to run.
The sun was wrong.
The time was right, in a way- low light from the ending day but the sun was not that of Home and the people around him more reserved with their voices and the environment as exotic as the realm of the Dark Elves or the Vanir.
Or the Jotun.
There were not the metal studded guardsmen with their gleaming pikes and helms (though much respect was to be given for the men decked in blue with their gold trinkets and Midgardian weapons). He expected to see no Asgardians saluting him with their tankards, or blacksmiths at their anvils nor women weaving at their looms with their deep-set eyes which saw more than he feared he would ever know. Some noted him (though he had done his best with civilian garb for the sake of not stirring trouble for the others) and greeted him with enthusiasm, requesting odd poses for their 'camera' devices, thrusting their 'pens' at him so that he may sign a parchment or item of theirs.
Strange that they did not ask for the customary tokens of a warrior, but he would not begrudge them their habits. He never would.
It was troubling, however, for as much as he appreciated them, it was not their attention he sought nor their praise which had cast his mind to years of old.
Thor remembered being (relatively) small. Hiding behind pillars or within tight alcoves, trees, bushes, and so sure he'd never be found until-
'Got you'
--he would be discovered each time by a cunning younger brother who in turn would hide and remain so for hours despite Thor's calling; sometimes frustrated, sometimes desperate but always Loki would come back in the end and then his world would once again be right.
A peculiar sound drew him back to the tiny bag in his hand, crushed now to fineness in his fist. Catnip to attract a cat. A particular cat which would, invariably, lead him to his brother.
For if his brother were hiding dead mice within their boots and begged for a dog not to roam the tower, surely he was nearby.
Thor opened the offering as carefully as he were capable and sprinkled it on the sidewalk, venturing into an ally at least a league from the House of Stark. He then employed the phrase he had learned from Midgardian television:
"Here kitty, kitty... psst psst psst."
Where: Stark Tower and the City of New York
When: A weekend most free
What: The game's gone on for centuries. One seeks to find, the other seeks to run.
The sun was wrong.
The time was right, in a way- low light from the ending day but the sun was not that of Home and the people around him more reserved with their voices and the environment as exotic as the realm of the Dark Elves or the Vanir.
Or the Jotun.
There were not the metal studded guardsmen with their gleaming pikes and helms (though much respect was to be given for the men decked in blue with their gold trinkets and Midgardian weapons). He expected to see no Asgardians saluting him with their tankards, or blacksmiths at their anvils nor women weaving at their looms with their deep-set eyes which saw more than he feared he would ever know. Some noted him (though he had done his best with civilian garb for the sake of not stirring trouble for the others) and greeted him with enthusiasm, requesting odd poses for their 'camera' devices, thrusting their 'pens' at him so that he may sign a parchment or item of theirs.
Strange that they did not ask for the customary tokens of a warrior, but he would not begrudge them their habits. He never would.
It was troubling, however, for as much as he appreciated them, it was not their attention he sought nor their praise which had cast his mind to years of old.
Thor remembered being (relatively) small. Hiding behind pillars or within tight alcoves, trees, bushes, and so sure he'd never be found until-
'Got you'
--he would be discovered each time by a cunning younger brother who in turn would hide and remain so for hours despite Thor's calling; sometimes frustrated, sometimes desperate but always Loki would come back in the end and then his world would once again be right.
A peculiar sound drew him back to the tiny bag in his hand, crushed now to fineness in his fist. Catnip to attract a cat. A particular cat which would, invariably, lead him to his brother.
For if his brother were hiding dead mice within their boots and begged for a dog not to roam the tower, surely he was nearby.
Thor opened the offering as carefully as he were capable and sprinkled it on the sidewalk, venturing into an ally at least a league from the House of Stark. He then employed the phrase he had learned from Midgardian television:
"Here kitty, kitty... psst psst psst."