Dark Star || Loki [1]

[39] The Trickster's Trials

25 MARCH, 2011

LOKI

He had seen the worst of men. He'd watched allies fall and kingdoms rise from the desolate ashes of war. He'd seen gruesome murders-hell, he'd conducted them-and he had witnessed the deaths of hundreds of his father's men fall at the hands of the ruthless enemy.

But nothing had prepared him for the sight of Astrid Louvelle wasting away in an empty, lonely cage.

It had been a month. A month of watching her and talking to her but being unable to hold her hand, to touch her skin and feel their connection blooming like a flower under the hottest sun. Evidently, it had become a monumental task to pretend not to despise his father, but even Loki's admirable tact was wearing thin by now.

A healthy amount of Loki's sophisticated but nonetheless effective persuasion had the gag around Astrid's mouth removed. There were cuts and bruises around her lips that Loki had chosen to ignore for the part of playing the relatively indifferent council member. Unfortunately, that façade dissipated like mist in winter whenever he visited her in those damned sunless dungeons.

That was over three weeks ago. The day after, she played chess with him.

"Move the second pawn from the left-my left, Astrid, not yours-to C-four." But she'd moved it the opposite way, which left it open to be taken by her knight. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Remind me why I play with you when all you do is cheat?"

She had smirked, unceremoniously smacking his pawn aside with her knight. "You forget, gorgeous, that I"-she waved the small piece about in the air-"hold all the power in here."

Loki had just rolled his eyes. He hadn't needed to hear that from her. He knew it perfectly well. "Have you ever actually won a game?"

Leaning back in the harsh wooden chair so far she nearly fell, Astrid had adjusted the metal that bound her hands together and Loki saw some more blood trickle a map down her snowy skin. "Scott forced me to play twice a week to hone my strategical skills. The bastard never let me win, not even when I was three. But the first time I called 'Checkmate!', he jacked it up to three times a week because he guessed I'd cheated, and really wanted to test me." She'd chuckled at the memory as though fond of it. "He stopped making me play when I began winning in five moves."

"He was a poor sport."

Astrid had shrugged. "Hate the player."

Two weeks ago, her magic began to falter. Her cuffs had only negated the physical manifestation of her magic, so she would not incinerate her cell walls with a particularly powerful blast (that would likely shatter both the other cells around her and a few unlucky guards, too). Thus, she'd spoken to him every night even when the prisoners were revoked of their visitation privileges and Loki had gone to his chambers to ponder more tactics to get her out of that cage. Fairly, Loki was the only one to ever visit a single soul in those dungeons. In all honesty, he didn't even need to-their connection would work even worlds apart, and they both had the scars to prove it. But he had to see her. He needed to remember her face, her hands, her wounds: the smooth curve of her upper lip; the sunny sparks of golden flame in her ocean eyes; the scars on her throat, on her arm (courtesy, evidently, of him), on her legs. Loki needed to remember all of her. Just in case her beauty was marred by the flashing of his father's sword at her neck.

Anyone could see that the small, pathetic human was exhausted beyond what was fathomable. Pale, sweating, and eyes glazed over, Astrid had laid on the floor of her cell and watched him approach with a smile that told him she was trying very hard to stay awake. For him. Damn-he shouldn't have come.