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4 notes
19/08/14 @ 11:21pm
tagged as
silvertonguedgod
His hands catch her wrists and he pins them to her sides and wraps his arms around her. "Wake up, my love," he murmurs, simultaneously sending the words sharp and clear across the bond, then drops to the ground where he sits and cradles her tightly against him with. He keeps her hands some distance from his body as a precaution, both of her wrists clamped in one hand as the other arm supports the weight of her body. "You are safe, my Skybird. Come back to me; you're safe."
silvertonguedgod

She releases an almost feral screech as he clenches her wrists, her body arching away in frustration as she realizes he is too strong to fight off. Still, she thrashes against him, veins straining against her neck as the adrenaline and terror that pumps through her blood echoes across the bond. “NO!” She screams, “not this time! You can’t win!” There’s something in his voice, in the presence she feels brushing against her mind that almost gives her pause, but the fog of the memory she’s lost in is too thick, too damning, and so she doesn’t pay it heed just yet. Her skin grows scaldingly hot beneath him on pure reflex, and though the smell of burning skin gives her further pause-just for the faintest hint of a second-her flesh grows hotter still.

"Let me go. Just let us go, and you’ll be fine. I won’t tell them! Just let.me.GO."

3 notes
@ 11:08pm
tagged as
silvertonguedgod
"Wake up!"
asgardianskybird

silvertonguedgod:

Your character walks in on mine having a violent flashback and is forced to pin them down for both of their safety. Send me, ‘wake up’ for my character’s reaction/coming to with yours still on top of them.

He falls beneath her trained hand but surges quickly upward once more, drawing a knee between their two bodies and flinging himself back to his feet in an attempt to regain himself and hopefully dislodge her. Her voice penetrates the clouds around his mind, but it is as though he is hearing it from far away — as though he were standing on a cliff’s face staring into an abyss of fog, and hearing the rush of some tributary cascading across the rocks below. He cannot place it, cannot understand its significance — how deep it runs, or how fast. 

But it is there…

And for a brief moment, it seems to him that perhaps this bank of clouds might not be all that there is to his reality… and he pauses…

She lets out a deep grunt as he catches her in the ribs, but as the wind rushes from her lungs, she manages to sink her nails into his arm, the force of which is enough to rip her upwards with him. Blood slides slick down his arm, and she draws in a ragged breath. “~Falcon, stop!~” She shouts into his mind, voice calm, deliberate, and full of authority. A burst of heat surges forth from her, tingling over his skin as she forces her presence to invade his mind.

~Loki, it’s me. I need you, sweetheart. I need you to come back. Follow my voice.~ 

Beneath the force with which she invades his mind, there is and undercurrent of familiar comfort, promising him that she is safe. She digs her nails further into his arm, ignoring the growing ache in her torso. He’d given her permission once to enter his mind if such an occurrence took place, but now that it is standing before her in the flesh, the chill that runs down her spine is all too real.

What if it doesn’t work?

36 notes
@ 01:10am
tagged as
silvertonguedgod
Hello, my lord. As of now, you will find yourself afflicted by a parasite that attaches itself to your chest. It effectively ceases the use of any magic on your part, and the only way it can be removed is if Emma carves it out of your flesh with a blade. One more catch. While this will by no means kill you, it will cause significant pain, and she cannot heal you for at least 8 hrs after it is removed. Your choice, trickster. Your magic or your vitality.
Anonymous

silvertonguedgod:

asgardianskybird:

silvertonguedgod:

His eyes widen and he lifts a hand to his chest in panic as a new weight — different from the heaviness that perpetually plagues him — settles into it. And as the curse takes effect and the parasite begins to siphon the magic from the sorcerer-god’s body, his fingers press desperately against the plate of hardened leather that guards his flesh, and he staggers.

"A simple choice," he spits furiously, and his free hand clasps at a dagger that refuses to manifest. He snarls in frustration, and grasps the back of the chair in which he had been sitting for purchase as his head swims. 

"Get out of my sight!” He growls, more weakly than he had really intended. “Mocking, pernicious creature! Away!”

And with that, he crumples back into the chair and doubles over, clutching at his chest as he fights the lightheadedness and flashing darkness at the edges of his vision. Losing his magic had always felt to him like losing blood (though with less permanent repercussions to being drained of it), and this time is no different.

She watches him as he drinks, already reaching for the pitcher to refill the goblet before he has a chance to ask for more. Idly, a hand strokes through his hair, and her teeth worry away at her lip while he continues to speak. She wants to be close to him, yes. She wants to hold him, and be held, and feel comforted by the fact that the worst of the ordeal is over. She wants to, and yet…

“I don’t know if I can.” 

Her voice is so broken, so full of the internal struggle she feels, that Emma does not bother to hide it when she feels it spill across her face. “I’m sorry, Loki. I want to be stronger, and I…I don’t want to burden you further, but something feels so wrong about letting you hold me. Or…holding you. Not after what I’ve done to you. Not after what I made you experience. Again. And yet…” She looks at him helplessly. “I know you need it. I don’t want to withdraw my love. I know how much it hurt you last time; when you needed comfort and I failed to give it. That’s not what I want to do. I need you to hear that. But it’s…” Panic has started to filter into her voice, and it is only sheer force of will that leads her to take a deep breath in order to calm herself. When she resumes, her tone is more even, though not entirely devoid of the self-loathing that had filled it previously.

“I don’t know why, but everything in me just wants to curl up into a ball and hide, because if there’s one thing I’ve never wanted to experience, it’s seeing you in pain by my hand. And I know…I know it’s selfish, because the pain I feel as a result, as it has always been, is so insignificant in comparison to yours. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not going to let it not let me be here for you, but I can’t in good conscious pretend like I don’t feel lost at the moment, and I’d rather you know than risk hurting you again by withholding.” She trails off with a long sigh and holds the refilled cup back up to his lips. “Sometimes,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “I wonder if you might have done better if you’d fallen in love with someone who is less bound by her emotions. Because I swear that one day they will be the death of me.”

Her admission’s effect writes itself as plainly upon his features as though she had just wound up and punched it into being, scattering confusion and panic across his face and spilling pain and betrayal from a split lip and broken nose. His heart skips a beat, and he releases his hold on the cup — not caring whether or not she will keep it in her own hands — and seizes hold of her leg as though he fears that she will stand up and dislodge him. 

But the panic is momentary, and as she continues, his grip slackens and he strokes her knee and upper leg in gentle sympathy. And as panic begins to trickle into her words he begins to shift himself up, ignoring the protestations of his muscles and the way the room spins before his eyes, and settles his head on her upper thigh and presses a chaste kiss to her hip. There is nothing of desire in the gesture — only comfort, and no end of affection. For the location had merely been a matter of what was most easily accessible. 

And as she raises the cup to his lips once more, he once again cups one hand around one of hers to guide it, and drinks dutifully until it is empty before he ventures again to speak.

"Emma, your emotions are among the best parts of you," he murmurs, and tilts his head to look her in the eye. "I am grateful to you for being honest with me, especially if the alternative was to abandon me… for that, more than anything else, would have done me in. But I won’t allow you to take this upon yourself. This was not your doing, my wife; it was an affliction wrought by a creature that takes pleasure in our strife and suffering, and nothing you could have done would have improved our lot. Neither of us had any choice in the matter… and while it was your hand that wielded the knife, it was because you love me that you did so.”

"And I need you, my wife," he sighs, and drops his gaze, "more than anything else, I need you. My pain I can endure because I know that I am not alone… that I must not suffer it in lonely silence. I need the gentle touch of your hands now, more than ever, precisely because — by necessity — it was they that afflicted me with this wound. I need your soft embrace to offset the hard press of the floor. Just because your Gift will not affect me for several hours more, my sweet Skybird, does not mean that you have no power to heal me; already you have begun… and I am grateful for that. Now I am begging you not to stop… and if you do not, I will be grateful for that as well.”

She winces some when his fingers dig into her leg, a quiet yelp of surprise managing to escape before she can hold it back. “Easy!” She chides him weakly when he shuffles upwards, knowing it will be to no avail, and she focuses more on guiding him with her free arm. “Sweetheart, you’re not fit to move like that just yet. Please, my love, you know your comfort means more to me than anything, but I’ll not have you harm yourself further solely for my sake.” Even as the protest leaves her lips, Emma can’t quite disguise the soft laugh of affection within it. 

She meets his gaze with a sad smile and nods in acceptance of his words. “I know, my love. But surely…surely you must understand why this still remains so hard for me to accept. Because…” She sighs and places the cup to the side for the moment and carefully manoeuvres herself so she can press her lips tenderly to his, her forehead resting against his when she breaks the kiss. “I love you, Loki. The fact that my love for you is what necessitated such harm is little comfort. I will be fine in time, but I cannot ignore the deep sting of it now. I will, however, stay with you.” Despite the ache in her heart, a genuine smile manages to push forth. “Of course I will stay with you. The only thing that could stop me from holding you right now is if it would cause you further harm.” One of her hands finds his and squeezes it firmly, seeking as much reassurance as it longs to grant. “I made a vow to you long ago that you would never be alone, no matter what we faced. And this is…despite my sorrow at the state of it, this is nothing in comparison to what we’ve faced in the past. This is not me, staring at what I was certain was your dead body as you crumpled away from the Kurse,” the memory feels like a cold slap to the face, and she blinks back fresh tears as her heart inwardly recoils. “It is not you holding me in your arms as I slipped away so quickly that I didn’t even know how far gone I was when I awoke with you by my hospital bed.” Her hand releases his and moves to his cheek, wiping off the droplets of her tears that have begun to fall. “For once…loathe as I am to see you in pain, we’re still whole. You have your magic back-assuming the grey face was true to its word, and now…now we can wait. And soon, soon, this will be over, and I’ll be able to heal you.” A spark of hope reignites in her heart at her own words, and when she sighs this time, it is from the weight of a burden slowly beginning to ease itself off of her chest. “Even so, my love, I do want you to hear my apology. I…I have always tried to be so cognizant of how little my pain matters in comparison to what you have experienced. Not as a point of denigrating myself, but…I’ve never been one to think that I have a reason to complain when you have three thousand years of trials behind you. In many ways, I am grateful for the perspective. It makes me stronger, and more likely to bite my tongue when I myself am tried. Of course…well, as you’ve seen just now, I’m not always perfect with that, and…well, I remain ever glad that I have a husband that is so willing to both hear and bear my heart when I need him too. But know that I am so very aware that my pain is, and always will be less than yours, and so I try hard to keep that in mind so I might bear your struggles with more grace. It’s…well, it’s the most earnest gift I think I can give in some ways as your wife. I will always seek to protect you from what I can, and on days like this where I cannot, I shall always try-fail as I may at times-to keep what you have experienced in the forefront of my mind.” There is something almost sheepish in her smile, and when she pulls away to lean upwards, she clears her throat, as though there is nothing problematic with anything she has just revealed.

“Now,” she starts with a far calmer tone than she has had previous, her tears having tapered off. “Do you think I can bandage you? If you’re strong enough to lean upwards, I can make quick work of it, and I would at least be able to move you to the bed. As you said, the floor is hard, and it is hardly the place that I would spend the next several hours with you as I wait to be able to heal you properly.” 

4 notes
18/08/14 @ 11:37pm
tagged as
silvertonguedgod
{meme] "How am I gonna get myself back home?"
asgardianskybird

silvertonguedgod:

bastille lyric starters (bad blood album)

"…Which one?"

She looks away and winces apologetically. “I don’t know anymore. Asgard holds more of my heart than I care to admit, but I think, my love, in this case what I speak of is far more than a physical place.” She looks back to him slowly, pursing her lips together nervously before a hand reaches out and strokes his chest. “You’re the only home I have left, Loki. And I’m asking you to help me find who I was when we met, because though I don’t regret how much I’ve grown, I feel so very lost trapped inside my own mind. You’re the only one that’s ever been able to pull me out, so please, my Falcon, please come and guide your wayward wife back home.”

36 notes
@ 11:20pm
tagged as
silvertonguedgod
Hello, my lord. As of now, you will find yourself afflicted by a parasite that attaches itself to your chest. It effectively ceases the use of any magic on your part, and the only way it can be removed is if Emma carves it out of your flesh with a blade. One more catch. While this will by no means kill you, it will cause significant pain, and she cannot heal you for at least 8 hrs after it is removed. Your choice, trickster. Your magic or your vitality.
Anonymous

silvertonguedgod:

asgardianskybird:

silvertonguedgod:

His eyes widen and he lifts a hand to his chest in panic as a new weight — different from the heaviness that perpetually plagues him — settles into it. And as the curse takes effect and the parasite begins to siphon the magic from the sorcerer-god’s body, his fingers press desperately against the plate of hardened leather that guards his flesh, and he staggers.

"A simple choice," he spits furiously, and his free hand clasps at a dagger that refuses to manifest. He snarls in frustration, and grasps the back of the chair in which he had been sitting for purchase as his head swims. 

"Get out of my sight!” He growls, more weakly than he had really intended. “Mocking, pernicious creature! Away!”

And with that, he crumples back into the chair and doubles over, clutching at his chest as he fights the lightheadedness and flashing darkness at the edges of his vision. Losing his magic had always felt to him like losing blood (though with less permanent repercussions to being drained of it), and this time is no different.

She finds herself grateful for the affection that lingers in the gaze she catches upon her return, and as her own eyes close at the gentle touch of his hand, she allows her lungs to fill with the air that has seemed so scarce over the past little while. The battle is done now, she realizes, and yet her heart feels no closer to victory. Not when she knows he still suffers. His words prompt her to turn her head as the simultaneous feelings of guilt and affection wash over her and when she looks back to him, she does’t bother to hide the tears that sting at her eyes again. 

“Then I trust you forgive me,” she whispers,and then shakes her head at her own words. “I know you have. I know you never faulted me, but the truth remains that I hate myself for what I just made you experience, and I’m not certain I’m prepared to deal with that just yet.” With that, the tears breach their levees, and with another ragged swipe of her sleeve, she forces a calm smile to fill her lips. “But come, my love, you need to drink. I am not in need of your concern for the moment, nor am I worthy of it. Not after all this.” A steady hand brings the cup to his lips, and with careful movements she tips it so he might drink with ease. “Let me know if you need more. I poured a pitcher for you.” A hand idly gestures for the nearby object, and her eyes wander back to the source of their current agony.

“Does it feel any better, my love? What else can I do to help?”

"Of course…" he murmurs, and then falls silent again as she shakes her head and continues to speak. And he brushes his thumb gently against her cheek with a frown as she iterates her reignited self-loathing, and he shakes his head gently in turn and then brushes his thumb against her lips as she smiles. 

He considers protesting as she drops the subject in favor of tending to him — but the ache in his throat would be too much of a distraction in any case, and so he moves his hands to cup hers around the goblet and help guide it to his lips so that he can help regulate the tilt while she bears most of the weight.

The entire contents are swallowed in a few mouthfuls, and he nods at her question, and manages a weak smile. 

"It feels better," he murmurs, and his voice seems noticeably clearer, though it remains barely above a whisper. "It is still sore, of course, but that is to be expected… and the pain is now more than bearable. And I can think of nothing else, my love… but perhaps a bit more water, and to simply lie here for a little while in the safety of your arms. I am shaken, and more than a little drained of vitality… and I am aware that you and I have that in common. And it seems to me that proximity might be what we both need most in the aftermath of so wretched an experience."

She watches him as he drinks, already reaching for the pitcher to refill the goblet before he has a chance to ask for more. Idly, a hand strokes through his hair, and her teeth worry away at her lip while he continues to speak. She wants to be close to him, yes. She wants to hold him, and be held, and feel comforted by the fact that the worst of the ordeal is over. She wants to, and yet…

“I don’t know if I can.” 

Her voice is so broken, so full of the internal struggle she feels, that Emma does not bother to hide it when she feels it spill across her face. “I’m sorry, Loki. I want to be stronger, and I…I don’t want to burden you further, but something feels so wrong about letting you hold me. Or…holding you. Not after what I’ve done to you. Not after what I made you experience. Again. And yet…” She looks at him helplessly. “I know you need it. I don’t want to withdraw my love. I know how much it hurt you last time; when you needed comfort and I failed to give it. That’s not what I want to do. I need you to hear that. But it’s…” Panic has started to filter into her voice, and it is only sheer force of will that leads her to take a deep breath in order to calm herself. When she resumes, her tone is more even, though not entirely devoid of the self-loathing that had filled it previously.

“I don’t know why, but everything in me just wants to curl up into a ball and hide, because if there’s one thing I’ve never wanted to experience, it’s seeing you in pain by my hand. And I know…I know it’s selfish, because the pain I feel as a result, as it has always been, is so insignificant in comparison to yours. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not going to let it not let me be here for you, but I can’t in good conscious pretend like I don’t feel lost at the moment, and I’d rather you know than risk hurting you again by withholding.” She trails off with a long sigh and holds the refilled cup back up to his lips. “Sometimes,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “I wonder if you might have done better if you’d fallen in love with someone who is less bound by her emotions. Because I swear that one day they will be the death of me.”

36 notes
@ 01:50am
tagged as
silvertonguedgod
Hello, my lord. As of now, you will find yourself afflicted by a parasite that attaches itself to your chest. It effectively ceases the use of any magic on your part, and the only way it can be removed is if Emma carves it out of your flesh with a blade. One more catch. While this will by no means kill you, it will cause significant pain, and she cannot heal you for at least 8 hrs after it is removed. Your choice, trickster. Your magic or your vitality.
Anonymous

silvertonguedgod:

asgardianskybird:

silvertonguedgod:

His eyes widen and he lifts a hand to his chest in panic as a new weight — different from the heaviness that perpetually plagues him — settles into it. And as the curse takes effect and the parasite begins to siphon the magic from the sorcerer-god’s body, his fingers press desperately against the plate of hardened leather that guards his flesh, and he staggers.

"A simple choice," he spits furiously, and his free hand clasps at a dagger that refuses to manifest. He snarls in frustration, and grasps the back of the chair in which he had been sitting for purchase as his head swims. 

"Get out of my sight!” He growls, more weakly than he had really intended. “Mocking, pernicious creature! Away!”

And with that, he crumples back into the chair and doubles over, clutching at his chest as he fights the lightheadedness and flashing darkness at the edges of his vision. Losing his magic had always felt to him like losing blood (though with less permanent repercussions to being drained of it), and this time is no different.

She is oddly silent in her response, an unseen nod being all she can manage. Her work is swift, diligent, and smooth. Deft fingers follow his instructions, crushing the stone, applying it carefully, and then coating his wounds with a thick layer of balm. For once, Emma is glad he is not watching. That her husband has spared her of his ever watchful gaze. For now, now he cannot see the silent and hot tracks of tears of that stream down her cheeks. Now he cannot see the devastation that crawls up from her heart and renders her face utterly broken. Oh yes, she had felt his pain. Every ounce of it. The battle to remain calm. To reassure himself that she is not foe. And while the empath is proud that he has overcome so much of the past that would have once likely placed her in danger for her actions (good-intentioned as they were), the very core of her churns with grief at the thought that he has such a past to overcome. And for once, for once the truth is that there are no words that she can offer. No words she trusts herself to give just yet. And so, spent as she is, she closes off the flurry of emotions that threaten to spill forth onto him, and instead sends tender murmurs of love and adoration across their bond in an attempt to disguise the sorrow that has taken hold of her.

“I think it’s best if we let things set for a bit before moving any further, my love. I’ll bandage you when you’ve had time to recover some.”

Her voice is entirely even, but unbelievably small and timid. With the fluidity that comes from years of dancing, she removes herself from him, brushing the hair by his temple to reassure him she isn’t going far, and stands. “I need to get you some water, my love. Give me but a moment and I’ll be back.” True to her word, the soft padding of her feet that recedes returns shortly thereafter. Quietly, she seats herself behind his head with a cushion in her lap, and gently manoeuvres him so his head and neck are propped up upon it. “If you lean against me, love, I can help you drink. I added a small amount of your powdered herbs to it, so it should help you inwardly as well.”  The hand that does not clench the glass of water strokes his hair soothingly. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “But things seem to have gone well, and if you can stay strong for just a while longer, my love, I promise you I’ll do everything I can to keep you comfortable until this is healed in full. Whatever that takes. You’ve done so well, sweetheart, and I…” She swallows to keep her voice from breaking. “I’m so proud to be your wife. I hope you know that.”

As his flesh knits beneath the stone and the balm stings and then evens out into a cool, dull ache, he fills his lungs to their full capacity, holds the breath for several seconds, and then releases it in a sigh of relief. And as the pain begins to fade, his heart begins to fill with the affection and tenderness which she sends across the bond. Certainly, they don’t need a bond for him to understand her predicament; his sentiment and feeling had been raw and unfiltered, for he had not had the means to conceal it from her, and so it follows that she would at least have been exposed to what he had suffered. That she seeks to comfort and reassure him now only strengthens his affection, and his heart aches with the weight of his own reciprocated adoration.

"Alright, my love," he murmurs as she announces her intentions, and now he does open his eyes in order to regard her fondly as she touches his head and rises.

"Thank you."

In silence he lies, awaiting her return, and trying not to think too deeply on what had just occurred. Fortunately, her return is swift, and barely gives his mind the opportunity to venture into unfriendly territory. He gratefully allows her to shift his head into her lap and does as she instructs, leaning against her and tilting his chin to better see her face. His eyes, still red with leftover tears, widen somewhat as she speaks, and with what strength he has left, he lifts a hand to caress her jaw. 

"I do know that," he murmurs, ignoring for the moment his parched mouth and the temptingly sweet-smelling water in her hand. "And I am proud to be your husband, Emma. I am proud of you… and I love you. I could not have asked for a more caring wife… or a more devoted friend. And it will be easy to remain strong when I know that I am in your hands… and safe.”

She finds herself grateful for the affection that lingers in the gaze she catches upon her return, and as her own eyes close at the gentle touch of his hand, she allows her lungs to fill with the air that has seemed so scarce over the past little while. The battle is done now, she realizes, and yet her heart feels no closer to victory. Not when she knows he still suffers. His words prompt her to turn her head as the simultaneous feelings of guilt and affection wash over her and when she looks back to him, she does’t bother to hide the tears that sting at her eyes again. 

“Then I trust you forgive me,” she whispers,and then shakes her head at her own words. “I know you have. I know you never faulted me, but the truth remains that I hate myself for what I just made you experience, and I’m not certain I’m prepared to deal with that just yet.” With that, the tears breach their levees, and with another ragged swipe of her sleeve, she forces a calm smile to fill her lips. “But come, my love, you need to drink. I am not in need of your concern for the moment, nor am I worthy of it. Not after all this.” A steady hand brings the cup to his lips, and with careful movements she tips it so he might drink with ease. “Let me know if you need more. I poured a pitcher for you.” A hand idly gestures for the nearby object, and her eyes wander back to the source of their current agony.

“Does it feel any better, my love? What else can I do to help?”

36 notes
@ 01:01am
tagged as
silvertonguedgod
Hello, my lord. As of now, you will find yourself afflicted by a parasite that attaches itself to your chest. It effectively ceases the use of any magic on your part, and the only way it can be removed is if Emma carves it out of your flesh with a blade. One more catch. While this will by no means kill you, it will cause significant pain, and she cannot heal you for at least 8 hrs after it is removed. Your choice, trickster. Your magic or your vitality.
Anonymous

silvertonguedgod:

asgardianskybird:

silvertonguedgod:

His eyes widen and he lifts a hand to his chest in panic as a new weight — different from the heaviness that perpetually plagues him — settles into it. And as the curse takes effect and the parasite begins to siphon the magic from the sorcerer-god’s body, his fingers press desperately against the plate of hardened leather that guards his flesh, and he staggers.

"A simple choice," he spits furiously, and his free hand clasps at a dagger that refuses to manifest. He snarls in frustration, and grasps the back of the chair in which he had been sitting for purchase as his head swims. 

"Get out of my sight!” He growls, more weakly than he had really intended. “Mocking, pernicious creature! Away!”

And with that, he crumples back into the chair and doubles over, clutching at his chest as he fights the lightheadedness and flashing darkness at the edges of his vision. Losing his magic had always felt to him like losing blood (though with less permanent repercussions to being drained of it), and this time is no different.

 

His words sink almost sickeningly deep into her heart, and for a moment she simply closes her eyes against them. “I know,” she echoes, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. I just needed a moment. I promise I’ll do this as swiftly as I can.” Her tone is more one of a young girl caught taking too long to do her homework than a wife about to carve her husband’s chest. As his wraps around hers, relief etches its way across her face, and a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding escapes. 

“Thank you, my love. Thank you for being so understanding.” When he attempts to dismiss the procedure somewhat, she wrinkles her nose and mutters something dark under her breath, watching the path they create carefully. Emma is careful to avoid his face, well aware of the pain it shows (for it runs through her, after all), and after a moment, gently prises his hand off of hers with a tap of her free fingers. “I have a way to make this quicker, my love, but you’re not going to like the effect.” Her empty hand gestures and claims a cushion that moves to it. “You’ll..likely want this.” She places it in one of his hands, and without giving him much time to anticipate, she allows the knife beneath her now solo hand to grow scalding hot, ignoring the smell of singeing skin that permeates the air. “This will help things heal faster, and as much as I hate it, it will let me work faster without worrying about you losing too much blood.” There’s a new note of authority in her voice, her more methodical side having kicked in. With her spare hand once again leveraging her weight against his chest, Emma carves diligently around the creature that begins to squeal as it is pried from its home. While the heat of the blade is enough to slow most of the blood that threatens to fall, she moves her hand to the floor when it grows too slick with the beads she is unable to stop, and after a matter a minutes, the wretched thing is freed. In half an instant, her blade is speared through it’s head, one final shriek being released before the thing dies. Her eyes narrow in disgust and it bursts into ash, a wave of heat consuming it so quickly that the air shimmers with the aftershock of it. It is then that she allows her eyes to find his, and she bends down to press her forehead to his in a  moment of pure relief. “I’ll use your balm in a second, sweetheart. I fear I simply need a moment to breathe, for my lungs have just made me aware that I forgot to throughout the duration of my endeavour.” True to her word, she draws a few breaths, kisses his cheek, and then steadies herself back upwards. Her now free hands reach for a pre-moistened cloth and then soothingly wipe any remnants of blood off his torso. Once she is satisfied that the area is as clean as it can be, she reaches for his kit, claiming both a healing stone and one of his several balms.

“Stone first, or balm? It’s been a while since you’ve treated me with these, so I forget the most effective order.”

Her voice is tired, but full of the apology that has refused to leave since he revealed their predicament. While the worst is over, she has yet to process things properly, and her mind has already begun to murmur just how gravely it disapproves of the ordeal. Thus, as far as she’s concerned, the quicker the angry red tracks on his chest are covered, the sooner she will feel truly settled. “And we’ll have to see if you can sit up for the bandages. I want them properly tight, for even though I’ve cauterized most of this, I don’t want any chance of anything reopening until I can heal you properly.”

He lets his hand settle back to his side with some relief as she gives him the signal that it is alright to do so, and he barely has time to make sense of her words and the cushion and put the pieces together before white-hot pain tears through his torso, and his mask of diligent and disciplined calm shatters wholly. His fingernails dig into the cushion she had provided as his other hand scrambles for purchase against the cloth beneath him, and before he can stop it, a rough scream tears itself from his throat and presses the restrained tears from the corners of his eyes. 

And for a moment, he fears the worst. Some vague, animalistic part of his brain which only extreme pain could set free suddenly gains voice, and for that brief moment, he is convinced of her malicious intent. It is this part of his mind which nearly shifts him out from beneath her blade, nearly tosses the cushion aside and seizes her, nearly — nearly — makes finding relief from this pain and punishing the one responsible the Trickster god’s sole priority. 

Nearly.

Oddly enough, it is the smell of his own burning flesh that returns him to his senses. Burning flesh meant less bleeding, and less bleeding meant no chance of dying — at least under their current circumstances. Burning flesh meant cauterized wounds, and while Loki’s mind is still clouded by the smoke of the flames that seem to have engulfed his upper body, he knows that her decision to cauterize had been on his behalf. To keep him safe. To save his life. And with that realization comes tepid acceptance of his agony. His eyes roll back in his head as he squeezes them shut, his jaw locks, his fingers tighten around cushion and cloth, and he breathes. He must not let himself grow too tight; he must not make the pain worse. 

Sweat beads on his skin, plastering his raven hair to his neck and forehead, tears continue to fall as she continues, and occasionally a muffled cry of distress breaks through the wall of his teeth before he swallows it and takes another breath to steady himself. This is not his past, he reminds himself. This is his wife. This is the present. This is for him — to help him and to heal him — and not to break him. The scattered images that flash behind his eyelids are not reality — not anymore. And what had once hurt him far worse is not what hurts him now. These things he tells himself to keep the feral panic at bay — for if he allows it to have power, then it will take from him all that he had worked so hard to acquire, and what evil exists in those memories will hold the sway over him which he had vowed never again to give it.

He does not notice when the blade is drawn away and the parasite removed — along with a good portion of his flesh — from where it had attached itself. He does not notice the slow trickle of magic that begins to pool in that place deep within him where he has always kept it in reserve. He knows nothing but pain and the harsh light and vivid color within his own mind — until the vermin’s dying scream pierces the air, and his eyelids crack open to allow soft daylight in. Tears continue to track down the side of his sweat-shining face, and as Emma presses her forehead to his, he does not move, and he does not answer when she speaks. His fingers release their deathly grip, and with that, his entire body grows entirely limp beneath her with exhaustion. Her gentle ministrations to his wound are met with silence and the occasional wince, and it is not until she asks him a direct question that he unclenches his teeth, sighs, and tries to summon water to his tongue.

"Stone first," he mumbles, voice hoarse and ragged with lack of moisture. "Stops the bleeding and burning. Crush it in the mortar. The balm’s for pain, and also burning."

And that is all he can summon the will to say — his eyes close once more, and her intentions for how to handle bandaging him are met only with small nods of acknowledgment that are, more than anything else, reassurance that he is still conscious, and still listening.

She is oddly silent in her response, an unseen nod being all she can manage. Her work is swift, diligent, and smooth. Deft fingers follow his instructions, crushing the stone, applying it carefully, and then coating his wounds with a thick layer of balm. For once, Emma is glad he is not watching. That her husband has spared her of his ever watchful gaze. For now, now he cannot see the silent and hot tracks of tears of that stream down her cheeks. Now he cannot see the devastation that crawls up from her heart and renders her face utterly broken. Oh yes, she had felt his pain. Every ounce of it. The battle to remain calm. To reassure himself that she is not foe. And while the empath is proud that he has overcome so much of the past that would have once likely placed her in danger for her actions (good-intentioned as they were), the very core of her churns with grief at the thought that he has such a past to overcome. And for once, for once the truth is that there are no words that she can offer. No words she trusts herself to give just yet. And so, spent as she is, she closes off the flurry of emotions that threaten to spill forth onto him, and instead sends tender murmurs of love and adoration across their bond in an attempt to disguise the sorrow that has taken hold of her.

“I think it’s best if we let things set for a bit before moving any further, my love. I’ll bandage you when you’ve had time to recover some.”

Her voice is entirely even, but unbelievably small and timid. With the fluidity that comes from years of dancing, she removes herself from him, brushing the hair by his temple to reassure him she isn’t going far, and stands. “I need to get you some water, my love. Give me but a moment and I’ll be back.” True to her word, the soft padding of her feet that recedes returns shortly thereafter. Quietly, she seats herself behind his head with a cushion in her lap, and gently manoeuvres him so his head and neck are propped up upon it. “If you lean against me, love, I can help you drink. I added a small amount of your powdered herbs to it, so it should help you inwardly as well.”  The hand that does not clench the glass of water strokes his hair soothingly. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “But things seem to have gone well, and if you can stay strong for just a while longer, my love, I promise you I’ll do everything I can to keep you comfortable until this is healed in full. Whatever that takes. You’ve done so well, sweetheart, and I…” She swallows to keep her voice from breaking. “I’m so proud to be your wife. I hope you know that.”

36 notes
17/08/14 @ 11:39pm
tagged as
silvertonguedod
Hello, my lord. As of now, you will find yourself afflicted by a parasite that attaches itself to your chest. It effectively ceases the use of any magic on your part, and the only way it can be removed is if Emma carves it out of your flesh with a blade. One more catch. While this will by no means kill you, it will cause significant pain, and she cannot heal you for at least 8 hrs after it is removed. Your choice, trickster. Your magic or your vitality.
Anonymous

silvertonguedgod:

asgardianskybird:

silvertonguedgod:

silvertonguedgod:

His eyes widen and he lifts a hand to his chest in panic as a new weight — different from the heaviness that perpetually plagues him — settles into it. And as the curse takes effect and the parasite begins to siphon the magic from the sorcerer-god’s body, his fingers press desperately against the plate of hardened leather that guards his flesh, and he staggers.

"A simple choice," he spits furiously, and his free hand clasps at a dagger that refuses to manifest. He snarls in frustration, and grasps the back of the chair in which he had been sitting for purchase as his head swims. 

"Get out of my sight!” He growls, more weakly than he had really intended. “Mocking, pernicious creature! Away!”

And with that, he crumples back into the chair and doubles over, clutching at his chest as he fights the lightheadedness and flashing darkness at the edges of his vision. Losing his magic had always felt to him like losing blood (though with less permanent repercussions to being drained of it), and this time is no different.

He nods gently in understanding, and it is with tired resignation that he meets her ferocious gaze and plucks the decorative gold crescent from where it rests in his breastplate. The little damask-silver dagger in its pearlescent scabbard — the only one that he regularly keeps on his person — had been discarded along with his outer vest, and so there is nothing left to do but breathe in the smell of burning leather and wool, relaxed in his confidence that she will not let his flesh burn as well.

And while there is part of him that is loath to look at the thing on his chest that is responsible for his current weakness, it seems even more abhorrent to him not to know his foe hard upon its unmasking. And so he is watching as the cloth around the creature burns, and fights against his urge to be sick at the sight of it and the deformities it has inflicted upon him. 

It is for this reason that he only nods in answer as she announces her next actions, and what blood had returned in the interim to his sallow cheeks now fades once more, leaving his skin once more like hard alabaster. He barely dares to budge, and it is not until he notices her gaze move to his chest that he lifts his own, grits his teeth, swallows, and nods again. 

"Nor do I," he murmurs through his tightened jaw as he fights to keep his bile down, and tries not to look at the knife as he slowly obeys her direction and lowers himself unsteadily to the floor. 

"And… Emma?" He says quietly once he is prone, and props himself up on his elbows to better meet her eyes, "…I love you. And thank you. I know how difficult you are finding this, and I am grateful to you for taking it in stride."

She wants to comfort him. She wants to reassure him of how difficult this is, and how desperately she would give anything to have their places reversed, as it will always been when one of them finds themselves afflicted with something within their marriage. And yet, she cannot. She cannot bring herself to do so properly just yet, because to do so means she must acknowledge to herself that this is her husband that she is about to inflict pain upon, and to do so is a violation of so many promises she has made to both him and herself. For now he is a friend, someone who still has her heart, guarded as she is forcing it to be for now. 

Until he breaks the walls entirely with one simple statement. There is something in the vulnerability of his prone body, something about the way he calls her name, something about the whole of it that destroys her will in a moment, and paints its way across her face. And so, though she makes no sound as she moves to straddle him, desperately fighting to regain the resolve that has left her features entirely. With her weight resting on his lower abdomen, she holds out a hand, allowing the chosen blade to slap itself into her palm, and then stares down at him, eyes pleading for forgiveness and support.

"I’m sorry, my love" she whispers. "I’m so sorry." Her voice is raw and she draws a long breath. Her free hand begins to feel around his chest, discerning exactly how deep she will need to cut, and how far the creature’s unseen grasp extends. It doesn’t take long, and she soon places it flat to steady herself as the blade poises itself to begin to cut. There is a long pause, and her head drops in momentary defeat.

"I can’t. I just…"

Her hair curtains her face as she bites back a sigh of frustration. “This isn’t right, and it has no bearing being said right now. We both know it. We both know that fair has no place in this scenario, but my sense of justice is offended, and as your wife, this is…” She lifts her gaze to his and allows her breath to escape slowly. “I know I won’t hurt you beyond what is necessary. I trust myself enough to know that. But this is the realization of nightmares I’ve never had the heart to put words to. And it is because this is so arbitrary. So unnecessary that I resent it.” Her teeth dig into the inside of her cheek, and she shakes her head in annoyance even as she feels her eyes sting with unwanted tears that she will not allow to fall. The tip of her blade manages to breech his skin, but she stalls before it goes much farther. A curse is hissed past her lips and she sighs. 

"I…my focus is weaker than it should be." Her eyes find his and she gives him a look of resignation. "I can’t do this without your help, Loki. I need you to guide me, and then…then I’ll be okay. But I can’t do this by myself right now, and I need you to know how much I hate myself for having to ask you for this." 

He lies back as she straddles him, fingers gathering up some of the cloth beside him in anticipation of the pain he knows is about to come, and meets her helpless gaze with gentle, steady resolve and a small nod of encouragement. 

"It’s alright, Emma," he murmurs as she apologizes, and moves one hand to stroke her knee and the outside of her leg — the nearest parts of her that he can reach. And as the cold flat of the blade presses against his skin he lowers his hand, takes the cloth once more in his fist, takes a deep breath to steady himself, and closes his eyes. And when after a long moment he feels no bite of steel, he opens them once more and regards her in gentle question… which quickly turns to sympathy as she voices her inability to make the first incision. His hand returns to her leg, and he strokes it gently with his thumb in reassurance. 

"I know, my love," he murmurs. "I know. But I need you to do this. I am begging you to start. It hurts more not to have my magic than it would to be cut — it’s the heavy, hollow ache of a slow death, and I don’t know how much longer I can bear it.”

It’s the truth — perhaps the purest expression of it — and perhaps that is the problem. He has never been able to hide his pain from his empathetic wife, but to a certain extent, he can vary the degree to which he expresses it… as he had done quite heavily with regard to present circumstances. But if the truth will provide incentive for her to begin — if he can demonstrate that his current state of being is worse than the measures which must be taken to improve it — then perhaps a certain degree of brutal and plaintive honesty is better than the pure tenderness with which he had been engaging her thus far. 

He is unprepared for the little cut when it comes, and as a result his fingers dig into her knee rather than the cloth, and he gasps in surprise. But surprise quickly turns back to sympathy once more as she regards him sadly, and he nods at her request, and lifts his hand from her leg to cup it around her own. The malicious greyface had specified only that Emma would need to be the one to carve the parasite from his flesh; her hand holds the knife, therefore, and Loki’s hand holds hers. 

"Don’t apologize, my love," he says quietly, and manages a weak and bitter smile, "I would have carved the creature from my body with my own hands and spared you the entire process, had I been given the chance to do so. Now come, my love," he murmurs, and readjusts his fingers around hers, "just a little cut. As easy as breathing."

And with that, he takes a deep breath, and applies enough pressure to cut all the way through skin and a little way into the muscle beneath. Blood wells up behind the blade as he guides Emma’s hand in a precise line toward his diaphragm, and he takes care to swallow the steady cry of pain which sticks in his throat. Tears begin to gather at the corners of his eyes, but he forces them back and keeps his expression gentle as all of his attention is focused on his wife’s hand, the blade in it, and the steady filling and emptying of the lungs beneath.

His words sink almost sickeningly deep into her heart, and for a moment she simply closes her eyes against them. “I know,” she echoes, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. I just needed a moment. I promise I’ll do this as swiftly as I can.” Her tone is more one of a young girl caught taking too long to do her homework than a wife about to carve her husband’s chest. As his wraps around hers, relief etches its way across her face, and a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding escapes. 

“Thank you, my love. Thank you for being so understanding.” When he attempts to dismiss the procedure somewhat, she wrinkles her nose and mutters something dark under her breath, watching the path they create carefully. Emma is careful to avoid his face, well aware of the pain it shows (for it runs through her, after all), and after a moment, gently prises his hand off of hers with a tap of her free fingers. “I have a way to make this quicker, my love, but you’re not going to like the effect.” Her empty hand gestures and claims a cushion that moves to it. “You’ll..likely want this.” She places it in one of his hands, and without giving him much time to anticipate, she allows the knife beneath her now solo hand to grow scalding hot, ignoring the smell of singeing skin that permeates the air. “This will help things heal faster, and as much as I hate it, it will let me work faster without worrying about you losing too much blood.” There’s a new note of authority in her voice, her more methodical side having kicked in. With her spare hand once again leveraging her weight against his chest, Emma carves diligently around the creature that begins to squeal as it is pried from its home. While the heat of the blade is enough to slow most of the blood that threatens to fall, she moves her hand to the floor when it grows too slick with the beads she is unable to stop, and after a matter a minutes, the wretched thing is freed. In half an instant, her blade is speared through it’s head, one final shriek being released before the thing dies. Her eyes narrow in disgust and it bursts into ash, a wave of heat consuming it so quickly that the air shimmers with the aftershock of it. It is then that she allows her eyes to find his, and she bends down to press her forehead to his in a  moment of pure relief. “I’ll use your balm in a second, sweetheart. I fear I simply need a moment to breathe, for my lungs have just made me aware that I forgot to throughout the duration of my endeavour.” True to her word, she draws a few breaths, kisses his cheek, and then steadies herself back upwards. Her now free hands reach for a pre-moistened cloth and then soothingly wipe any remnants of blood off his torso. Once she is satisfied that the area is as clean as it can be, she reaches for his kit, claiming both a healing stone and one of his several balms.

“Stone first, or balm? It’s been a while since you’ve treated me with these, so I forget the most effective order.”

Her voice is tired, but full of the apology that has refused to leave since he revealed their predicament. While the worst is over, she has yet to process things properly, and her mind has already begun to murmur just how gravely it disapproves of the ordeal. Thus, as far as she’s concerned, the quicker the angry red tracks on his chest are covered, the sooner she will feel truly settled. “And we’ll have to see if you can sit up for the bandages. I want them properly tight, for even though I’ve cauterized most of this, I don’t want any chance of anything reopening until I can heal you properly.”

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36 notes
@ 07:42pm
tagged as
silvertonguedgod
Hello, my lord. As of now, you will find yourself afflicted by a parasite that attaches itself to your chest. It effectively ceases the use of any magic on your part, and the only way it can be removed is if Emma carves it out of your flesh with a blade. One more catch. While this will by no means kill you, it will cause significant pain, and she cannot heal you for at least 8 hrs after it is removed. Your choice, trickster. Your magic or your vitality.
Anonymous

silvertonguedgod:

asgardianskybird:

silvertonguedgod:

silvertonguedgod:

His eyes widen and he lifts a hand to his chest in panic as a new weight — different from the heaviness that perpetually plagues him — settles into it. And as the curse takes effect and the parasite begins to siphon the magic from the sorcerer-god’s body, his fingers press desperately against the plate of hardened leather that guards his flesh, and he staggers.

"A simple choice," he spits furiously, and his free hand clasps at a dagger that refuses to manifest. He snarls in frustration, and grasps the back of the chair in which he had been sitting for purchase as his head swims. 

"Get out of my sight!” He growls, more weakly than he had really intended. “Mocking, pernicious creature! Away!”

And with that, he crumples back into the chair and doubles over, clutching at his chest as he fights the lightheadedness and flashing darkness at the edges of his vision. Losing his magic had always felt to him like losing blood (though with less permanent repercussions to being drained of it), and this time is no different.

Never before has she refused to acknowledge him after such an expression of past pain, and he blinks once and swallows back the sting of it. For he knows why she does it, and after all, those words had been intended to encourage and embolden her, and not to elicit sympathy. And he nods in acceptance and acknowledgement, then takes a deep breath, and manages the smallest of smiles as he returns the squeeze of his hand. 

"This part I can manage, I think," he says, and begins to unlace the cord of black leather that keeps his outer gambeson bound fast around his slim body. No care is taken to keep the cord woven through its eyelets, and it opens down the front to reveal the breastplate — which ends just above his ribcage on both his front and back — and the wool tunic beneath. He shrugs it off with little ceremony, pulling it off of his arms with some frustration, and sets to work undoing the straps of the smaller, lighter vambraces which extend onto the backs of his hands, instructing Emma further as he does.

"I suggest unbuckling the strap beneath one of my arms, as well as one over the shoulder on the same side. That way both pieces can be slipped off of one arm, and then," he grits his teeth slightly, and sighs, already bracing himself mentally to see himself disfigured. "…the tunic will be all that remains."

If she could afford it, she would allow him to see the pain in her heart as he blinks back a response to her stoicism. It’s already begun to test her patience, and she knows that her ability to maintain it is rather quickly coming to a close. She watches him reservedly as he moves, clearly focusing more on being prepared should he stumble. And then…when he is finished, she moves to touch the leather that still binds him and lets out a soft growl that symbolizes that her patience has finally come to an end.

“No.” She mutters. “I’m done. No more wasting time. I’m not here to make you suffer this ailment any longer than necessary, and I certainly don’t have any desire to prolong the experience for myself either.” The bite in her words is clearly not meant for him, for instead of the stone face she had put in place before, the eyes that meet his as a gentle hand moves to his cheek are fierce and full of a fire that should be familiar. Defiant and strong, they burn bright, clear as the conflict may be in them.

“I don’t think I can do this slowly any longer, my love. And I’m sorry for that. But I can’t….I’m not strong enough to endure this any longer than I must, and my patience with the matter has worn rather thin.” Even as she speaks, the clothing surrounding his upper body begins to warm slightly. She closes her eyes, and with clear concentration, any semblance of heat is pulled away from his skin and displaced into the air. Her grip on his skin tightens involuntarily and she lets out a soft grunt of discomfort as the leather begins to incinerate, first slowly, and then almost immediately, followed just as quickly by his tunic. Job done, she exhales the breath that she hadn’t realized had trapped itself in her throat and gives him a slightly distracted smile of apology as she regathers herself from the exertion. “Now,” she murmurs barely above a whisper. “I’ll need just a moment to get a clean area in place.” Her eyes have purposefully avoided what she knows resides on his chest as of yet. The time for that is coming, but she will not give it precedence just yet. 

With a wave of her hand, materials begin to move into place. A thick black blanket sprawls over their marble floor, plush enough to absorb any errant blood that manages to escape. A small stool moves, and upon it his medkit and her sharpest blade settle themselves, along with the various herbs and lotions for numbing Eir had recommended when she had explained she intended to learn more about battle surgery.  Finally, when all is in place, she turns back to him, allows for her mournful gaze to find his, and then dutifully drops it to his chest. 

It is not…as offensive as she might have worried. The creature lodged to his chest is small and greyish in colour, almost like a grossly oversized maggot with a hardened shell. What is discerning, however, is the purpling of the veins surrounding the site. His normally pale skin is even more so, but where the creature latches on, it is red and irritated. The head seems to be latched firmly to the deeper layers of his skin, possibly to the muscle, as is the rest of the body. She sucks in a low breath and sighs. 

“Well, it certainly could be worse. But I don’t think this is going to be overly easy on you, my love.”

Her eyes find his and she gives him a gentle smile laced with apology. “Whenever you’re ready, if you’ll settle yourself on the floor, I can get to work.”

He nods gently in understanding, and it is with tired resignation that he meets her ferocious gaze and plucks the gdecorative gold crescent from where it rests in his breastplate. The little damask-silver dagger in its pearlescent scabbard — the only one that he regularly keeps on his person — had been discarded along with his outer vest, and so there is nothing left to do but breathe in the smell of burning leather and wool, relaxed in his confidence that she will not let his flesh burn as well.

And while there is part of him that is loath to look at the thing on his chest that is responsible for his current weakness, it seems even more abhorrent to him not to know his foe hard upon its unmasking. And so he is watching as the cloth around the creature burns, and fights against his urge to be sick at the sight of it and the deformities it has inflicted upon him. 

It is for this reason that he only nods in answer as she announces her next actions, and what blood had returned in the interim to his sallow cheeks now fades once more, leaving his skin once more like hard alabaster. He barely dares to budge, and it is not until he notices her gaze move to his chest that he lifts his own, grits his teeth, swallows, and nods again. 

"Nor do I," he murmurs through his tightened jaw as he fights to keep his bile down, and tries not to look at the knife as he slowly obeys her direction and lowers himself unsteadily to the floor. 

"And… Emma?" He says quietly once he is prone, and props himself up on his elbows to better meet her eyes, "…I love you. And thank you. I know how difficult you are finding this, and I am grateful to you for taking it in stride."

She wants to comfort him. She wants to reassure him of how difficult this is, and how desperately she would give anything to have their places reversed, as it will always been when one of them finds themselves afflicted with something within their marriage. And yet, she cannot. She cannot bring herself to do so properly just yet, because to do so means she must acknowledge to herself that this is her husband that she is about to inflict pain upon, and to do so is a violation of so many promises she has made to both him and herself. For now he is a friend, someone who still has her heart, guarded as she is forcing it to be for now. 

Until he breaks the walls entirely with one simple statement. There is something in the vulnerability of his prone body, something about the way he calls her name, something about the whole of it that destroys her will in a moment, and paints its way across her face. And so, though she makes no sound as she moves to straddle him, desperately fighting to regain the resolve that has left her features entirely. With her weight resting on his lower abdomen, she holds out a hand, allowing the chosen blade to slap itself into her palm, and then stares down at him, eyes pleading for forgiveness and support.

"I’m sorry, my love" she whispers. "I’m so sorry." Her voice is raw and she draws a long breath. Her free hand begins to feel around his chest, discerning exactly how deep she will need to cut, and how far the creature’s unseen grasp extends. It doesn’t take long, and she soon places it flat to steady herself as the blade poises itself to begin to cut. There is a long pause, and her head drops in momentary defeat.

"I can’t. I just…"

Her hair curtains her face as she bites back a sigh of frustration. “This isn’t right, and it has no bearing being said right now. We both know it. We both know that fair has no place in this scenario, but my sense of justice is offended, and as your wife, this is…” She lifts her gaze to his and allows her breath to escape slowly. “I know I won’t hurt you beyond what is necessary. I trust myself enough to know that. But this is the realization of nightmares I’ve never had the heart to put words to. And it is because this is so arbitrary. So unnecessary that I resent it.” Her teeth dig into the inside of her cheek, and she shakes her head in annoyance even as she feels her eyes sting with unwanted tears that she will not allow to fall. The tip of her blade manages to breech his skin, but she stalls before it goes much farther. A curse is hissed past her lips and she sighs. 

"I…my focus is weaker than it should be." Her eyes find his and she gives him a look of resignation. "I can’t do this without your help, Loki. I need you to guide me, and then…then I’ll be okay. But I can’t do this by myself right now, and I need you to know how much I hate myself for having to ask you for this." 

1,616 notes
16/08/14 @ 08:37pm
tagged as
husband
475 notes
12/08/14 @ 10:28pm
via:borinq
source:untrustyou
untrustyou:

Coley Brown

andillwriteyouatragedy:

guardians of the galaxy + text posts (x)