laevisilaufeyson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
laevisilaufeyson) wrote2012-03-13 08:14 pm
laevisilaufeyson) wrote2012-03-13 08:14 pm
Entry tags:
please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste
The tales of Asgard tell of the threads of the Norns, each a lifetime spun and carried through a tapestry of others, each cut short, the ends tucked down into the crush of other threads, woven over, and forgotten. By that rule each twining of threads, each entanglement of lives, is fated. The charming creature who speaks to the devil animatedly, who swallows his smiles like liquor, who reaches out to grasp his hand as she tells some delightful and sordid tale and recoils in concern at the chill of his flesh – she was meant for that brush with greatness. Oh, in all likelihood she'll never know, but somewhere, if the Norns speak true, her thread once sent the finest of fibres out to rest against his own.
Loki does not believe in fate. That makes her all the luckier.
Her luck makes him benevolent. He spins her a clever tale in her own tongue, of her own tongue, flatters her, brilliant, look; that magnificent animal whose head was so cruelly separated from its other sundry parts and displayed above that delightfully well-stocked bar, that is die Deutsche Sprache. How? Well, how.
It's a fine tale, Romans, Emperors, conquest, and above it, over all of it, the word for that animal: Caesar's, now. And from Caesar, the world. Greek. Old English. The tongue of the vikingr, from sunny Italy to frozen Norway, dieses einfache Wort: Elch. An elk. He spins it charmingly, spins it well. Like he knows. Like he was there.
Which, of course, he was, not that she'll ever work out that, delightful little thing or no. That is not her purpose. Her purpose is to stand and speak and attract attention, to smooth out the lines of his ego as she does his collar while he flirts – hardly an engaging task – and spins clever tales and, as the liesmith does, mislead. Her, yes, and everyone else too. She is bright enough that they will not notice if his eyes stray.
Since the fall from the Bifrost, since his banishment and subsequent arrival here on Earth, Loki has watched. He's watched them try their damnedest, these foolish humans, to tear themselves apart, tear one another apart, for reasons as inconsequential as he's ever seen. It isn't new, the sentiment, the intent. The capacity is. He's watched it all unfold and fade and die as these things always must do, and he has kept watching.
And he has thought. He has thought much, thought hard. He has seen the human willingness to tear itself to shreds, seen how little Asgard cares for its pet project. He has seen need, and he has seen opportunity. He is better. He could be better. He could make all of this his – he is, after all a god; would they not bow?
Even if they would not he could do no more harm to them than they would have done themselves without his help. Seventy million. Their lifespans dictate that there have never existed, in all of the history of their race, seventy million Asgardians. This many humans have died, at the hands of no god, and it has hardly made a dent. Still they swarm all over the surface of this little ball they call home.
Their ingenuity is astonishing. Their short-sightedness, nearly Asgardian. Only they have not the power not to listen.
Case in point: this girl, who listens and listens to the strange man with the faintly peculiar accent speak in slightly archaic dialect about words older still, oblivious no matter how intently she listens that his eyes do wander not in concentration but in a hunt.
To build an empire, one must first grind the last into a dust. One must tear from it its secrets, and then destroy what is left. To that end, there is a man here tonight with whom he would very much like to speak.
Loki does not believe in fate. That makes her all the luckier.
Her luck makes him benevolent. He spins her a clever tale in her own tongue, of her own tongue, flatters her, brilliant, look; that magnificent animal whose head was so cruelly separated from its other sundry parts and displayed above that delightfully well-stocked bar, that is die Deutsche Sprache. How? Well, how.
It's a fine tale, Romans, Emperors, conquest, and above it, over all of it, the word for that animal: Caesar's, now. And from Caesar, the world. Greek. Old English. The tongue of the vikingr, from sunny Italy to frozen Norway, dieses einfache Wort: Elch. An elk. He spins it charmingly, spins it well. Like he knows. Like he was there.
Which, of course, he was, not that she'll ever work out that, delightful little thing or no. That is not her purpose. Her purpose is to stand and speak and attract attention, to smooth out the lines of his ego as she does his collar while he flirts – hardly an engaging task – and spins clever tales and, as the liesmith does, mislead. Her, yes, and everyone else too. She is bright enough that they will not notice if his eyes stray.
Since the fall from the Bifrost, since his banishment and subsequent arrival here on Earth, Loki has watched. He's watched them try their damnedest, these foolish humans, to tear themselves apart, tear one another apart, for reasons as inconsequential as he's ever seen. It isn't new, the sentiment, the intent. The capacity is. He's watched it all unfold and fade and die as these things always must do, and he has kept watching.
And he has thought. He has thought much, thought hard. He has seen the human willingness to tear itself to shreds, seen how little Asgard cares for its pet project. He has seen need, and he has seen opportunity. He is better. He could be better. He could make all of this his – he is, after all a god; would they not bow?
Even if they would not he could do no more harm to them than they would have done themselves without his help. Seventy million. Their lifespans dictate that there have never existed, in all of the history of their race, seventy million Asgardians. This many humans have died, at the hands of no god, and it has hardly made a dent. Still they swarm all over the surface of this little ball they call home.
Their ingenuity is astonishing. Their short-sightedness, nearly Asgardian. Only they have not the power not to listen.
Case in point: this girl, who listens and listens to the strange man with the faintly peculiar accent speak in slightly archaic dialect about words older still, oblivious no matter how intently she listens that his eyes do wander not in concentration but in a hunt.
To build an empire, one must first grind the last into a dust. One must tear from it its secrets, and then destroy what is left. To that end, there is a man here tonight with whom he would very much like to speak.