Maelstrom|Book 5| A novel in the Blue Moon series| An Avengers fan fiction series|

36- From Black to White

Hello everyone!

So @Haley_Ferland and I got back from a triumphant tennis match. High five, feesh!

(yes, we call each other feesh. It's a long story.)

Here's a chapter! It's one of my favorites from Maelstrom, actually, don't know why, especially when it doesn't have any of the main/good characters in it (or as Haley puts it, no bæ because Loki/Rani isn't it it).

WATCH OUT FOR SYMBOLISM AND PARALLELISM. HALEY, ATTEMPT TO CATCH IT THIS TIME, YOU MISSED IT IN CHAPTER 28 !!! (ily feesh have fun with that take home comp si test.)

OKAY READ ,MY PRETTIES, READ! :)

Please VOTE and COMMENT!

I ACTUALLY GOT AN EDIT DONE. SO PROUD. NOW TO DO HOMEWORK FOR LIKE 2 MILLION HOURS UNTIL MIDNIGHT.

I'm sorry. I'm tired. Love you all.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Just as Thea and Loki land in Cork, Ireland, in Asgard, Neidra stands in Fodjr's great hall overlooking the massive waterfall, nearly invisible today in the misty afternoon. She is in a bare-shouldered black dress that trails behind her, encrusted with shimmering beads and lace that trails up both of her long, slender legs. Her black hair has been pulled back into a high ponytail, so that her cheekbones look so unnaturally chiseled, it is as if they are sculpted in marble. Her silver eyes gleam like a new moon.

"Ireland," she mutters, crossing her arms and peering at Fjodr, Saissa, and Caomh. Fjodr has his arms crossed too, and his dark eyes do not leave Neidra. He is wearing light armor, but his giant sword hangs at his side. Streaks of gray hair run through his disheveled hair, and his brow is furrowed.

Caomh is sprawled lazily on the top of a wooden table, throwing and catching a hooked dagger that shines in the light of the sun. The end of the dagger is dripping with blood, sometimes landing Caomh's forehead. Whenever a drop splatters on his cheek or his forehead, instead of twisting his mouth in disgust, they twist in the sort of glee a child would have when trying to catch the largest rain drop.

Near the corner of the room, Saissa sits quietly. Her pleated white skirts are spread neatly around her, the snowy colors of the gown throwing her black hair into a severe shade. Her hair is plaited back neatly, but the hollow circles under her eyes and nearly translucent skin dictate her increasing fatigue. She is looking through a thick book with ancient leather binding and worn pages. Her wrists and fingers are shaking. Although she tries to help it, her eyes still shift back and forth from her book to the figure on the floor.

It's a woman with copper hair. Her throat has been slit. The blood is still draining over her pale skin to the thick red and black carpet.

"What reason could they have for going there?" asks Neidra, not seeming to notice the body, or perhaps, more likely, not caring.

"The rondayven," replies Fjodr, "Is Ireland not one of the Twenty-Five?"

"No. It is not. They can't possibly be going after every single gem, that would not only be impossible, but they would know what would happen if they should fail. So what in Ireland could appeal to them?"

Saissa's eyes shift to a particularly worn page in the text. K Laiyehn-ren Clíodhna. The Legend of Clíodhna.

She traces her trembling finger down the comforting parchment.

The legend of Blarney, a settlement in the Earthen province in which the Gaelics live, is known as the Legend of Clíodhna on Earth. As the tale goes, the red-haired goddess bequeathed to a lord the traits of flattery or extreme fluency of tongue. However, the goddess Clíodhna has been derived from the source of a powerful Asgardian sorceress: Eala, then a young, but beautiful, girl. It has been said that the clever child was accompanied by her closest childhood companion: Loki, prince of Asgard. Both of them powerful courtiers of magic even at such an early age, the two placed upon the Blarney Stone a spell. It is true that if one's lips meet the stone, he may gain the gift of flattery, but only if the kisser is one of Asgard, and particularly, one of magic. And so, the stone sits to this day, waiting to be kissed for naught, for no human has the powers of magic, and no Asgardian of magic-born has seen fit to travel to Earth.