marvel movieverse fic: coronation
Loki, Frigg, other randoms
PG-13 for gore, ~600 words
His father gave him knives, titles, history, a place at the right hand of the throne. But his mother, it was she who gave him his delight in a cutting rejoinder, his free hand with whimsy and spectacle, a place to hold his secrets, his silver tongue. It's proper that she should be the one to cut it from him.
The great hall echoes with the susurrus of shuffle and breath. The royal court is in full attendance. Half are in mourning blacks, half in warrior dress. The second prince is returned from the dead, unprecedented, in chains, thin and dry as a winter tree. Today is justice and reunion as once.
He was a wide-eyed child, a serious youth, as a man quick to smile. He has regressed, the skin of his face stretched, his eyes sharply sunken. His head on her lap like she's telling him a bed-time tale. He will not look at the gathered crowd, at his brother, his father, instead he looks at the stitching of her dress as it falls across her knees. She has taken off the muzzle; he's not a beast. He mutters night-terrors into her skirts, desperate to use his voice. Oh, it is soft as an untrod snowfall. It is the sound of her brushing his hair after a day's adventures, the sound of the poetry he reads to her every year on her birthday, his own tradition and no-one else's. He begs her now, her second son, a litany unfurls from him and into her hand that cups his cheek. She pushes his mouth shut and takes the needle from her pocket.
Frigg holds the needle and thread high for the court to see. Golden light hits it and flashes hot white into her eyes. The assembled throw up a cheer. They are family. They raised this creature too.
He begins to struggle.
His throat works to shout, but she is Frigg, she holds him mute. She speaks into the echoing hall.
"I have been given my child back. Now he will know the mercy of the Aesir."
Loki seizes like laughter. She fits the point against the edge of his smile. He's watching her as if they share a secret. It takes quite a bit more pressure than she'd imagined to pierce his meat and run the thick thread through. Then the top lip, then across and down. His chest heaves, his eyes spill over. Behind her, Thor drops to his knees. Huginn and Muninn cackle. There is blood and spittle on her fingers.
Ten stitches. It takes a very long time. Her boy clings to her ankles for the first three. By the fifth, he is still. And in the end, he is Loki.
She tilts his chin up and ties the knot. He rises to his knees, his feet. He takes her hand and folds it around the needle. He presses his mouth to it so that the skin of his face rips against her knuckle. When he rises, she can see his teeth through a gap in two stitches. Three open gashes run down his cheek from where he scored them into this own flesh.
"Loki Lauffeyson," she says. "Prisoner of Asgard, your debt is far from paid. You will remain here, among those who have loved you well. You will flee at your own peril."
When he grins, his face splits, and splits, and splits.
PG-13 for gore, ~600 words
His father gave him knives, titles, history, a place at the right hand of the throne. But his mother, it was she who gave him his delight in a cutting rejoinder, his free hand with whimsy and spectacle, a place to hold his secrets, his silver tongue. It's proper that she should be the one to cut it from him.
The great hall echoes with the susurrus of shuffle and breath. The royal court is in full attendance. Half are in mourning blacks, half in warrior dress. The second prince is returned from the dead, unprecedented, in chains, thin and dry as a winter tree. Today is justice and reunion as once.
He was a wide-eyed child, a serious youth, as a man quick to smile. He has regressed, the skin of his face stretched, his eyes sharply sunken. His head on her lap like she's telling him a bed-time tale. He will not look at the gathered crowd, at his brother, his father, instead he looks at the stitching of her dress as it falls across her knees. She has taken off the muzzle; he's not a beast. He mutters night-terrors into her skirts, desperate to use his voice. Oh, it is soft as an untrod snowfall. It is the sound of her brushing his hair after a day's adventures, the sound of the poetry he reads to her every year on her birthday, his own tradition and no-one else's. He begs her now, her second son, a litany unfurls from him and into her hand that cups his cheek. She pushes his mouth shut and takes the needle from her pocket.
Frigg holds the needle and thread high for the court to see. Golden light hits it and flashes hot white into her eyes. The assembled throw up a cheer. They are family. They raised this creature too.
He begins to struggle.
His throat works to shout, but she is Frigg, she holds him mute. She speaks into the echoing hall.
"I have been given my child back. Now he will know the mercy of the Aesir."
Loki seizes like laughter. She fits the point against the edge of his smile. He's watching her as if they share a secret. It takes quite a bit more pressure than she'd imagined to pierce his meat and run the thick thread through. Then the top lip, then across and down. His chest heaves, his eyes spill over. Behind her, Thor drops to his knees. Huginn and Muninn cackle. There is blood and spittle on her fingers.
Ten stitches. It takes a very long time. Her boy clings to her ankles for the first three. By the fifth, he is still. And in the end, he is Loki.
She tilts his chin up and ties the knot. He rises to his knees, his feet. He takes her hand and folds it around the needle. He presses his mouth to it so that the skin of his face rips against her knuckle. When he rises, she can see his teeth through a gap in two stitches. Three open gashes run down his cheek from where he scored them into this own flesh.
"Loki Lauffeyson," she says. "Prisoner of Asgard, your debt is far from paid. You will remain here, among those who have loved you well. You will flee at your own peril."
When he grins, his face splits, and splits, and splits.