The Constant

@afixedfigure

Sigyn of the Vanir. Dedication does not equate deference.

216 posts

baritone-skiesarchivee

αяє уou goιng тo αgє wιтн gяα¢є?

baritone-skiesarchivee

She was as beautiful as any enchantment he could imagine behind closed eyes: dancing along his sight like a red fire, inferno blazing against his veins as he considered what it would be like to caress that snow-white skin with his fingers. Would she flinch from the hardened surface of his palms, with the sharp edges of broken skin and weather-worn palms?

Or would those soft eyes soften, her lips parting as she stated his skin did not bother her. She seemed comfortable enough to clutch his arm in the manner that she had been and her own heat was enough to rattle the bones in his chest just long enough to cause subtle, burning discomfort, the kind that he received whenever he caught a woman’s eye from across the room, and the golden fire flickered at a low-angle to where he found himself yearning to know her name.

Not that he acted upon such desires, but there was still that hiss along the corners of his mind that saw fit to cause him this agony borne of delight.

"I wish to be truthful to you and, when I am crowned king, if ever you desire a place outside of these borders…my home is open to you, as a healer in my court."

Then, he felt an apology curl his tongue, because the only reason he knew that was due to the briefing he received earlier about the Lady Sigyn. He did not wish to be overly cautious or especially apprehensive, but when it came to understanding those in his company, he wished to know all.

"I have heard wonders of your craft and, if ever you desired elsewhere to go, Asgard would welcome you into its borders."

Offering her the golden gates and the bright sunlight; he had done that

for no other in centuries.

There were moments in life that stood stunning - defined with a wonder that should have been the sole province of the innocent. These glimpses of joy were sacred, they were as treasured as they were rare. It was as if benevolence infused the very air, as if hope kissed against parted lips, against frozen lungs.

It was a feeling of absolute beauty. Its peace held each cell of her being in the softest of grasps, a soft whisper igniting the dormant optimism that had lingered - beaten and bruised - at her very core.

It was a feeling that defied the context of her life.

It was a feeling that rose victorious above the agonies, above the memories, above the realism.

She was naked before a gaze that was alien, removed from her world by the separations of blood split over generations. Her features were bare, her breaths raw, her emotion plainer than it had dared to be since the dawn of her shielding.

She was vulnerable.

And she was free. Free in a way that no internal struggle could yield, in a way that no battle of will could see done. Free in a way that was base, a way integral to the peace of people since their first embrace. She was free in the care of another.

And it was stunning.

She could but stare, eyes open, bleeding the truth of her sentiment.

baritone-skiesarchivee

αяє уou goιηg тo αgє wιтн gяα¢є?

baritone-skiesarchivee

afixedfigure:

His words had been known for many things, but to inspire confusion? Perhaps, he was not as concise as he needed to be. Perhaps, he had chosen to speak in riddles instead of the precise way he was taught.

Where words failed, his actions were sure to make up for his mistakes. At least, that was what he had always believed, because whenever he had been given a book to read, he squirmed and found his mind wandering off to that garden path he wanted to explore, as well as the vast reaches of space and time, the stars as they twisted in light and air and color.

Always was his spirit that of adventure, which was why, with a heavy heart, he forced himself to pay attention to his lessons about other Realms, other worlds, for if he was to be the king, should he not then know all there was to know about other worlds?

He turned to Sigyn and, finding himself momentarily captivated by the flush to her cheeks, by the burning-red of her hair, he attempted to find that which had coaxed consternation forth.

"A voice for your people in that, I’m certain I’ll come to this world from time to time; not without telling you first, of course, for to show up unexpected is to inspire offense…"

No, no that was not it…it was hidden somewhere, in the bones and the twisting sinew of what he wanted to find, in that unanswered corner where fire danced along the walls…

And then he understood and his eyes softened.

"Oh no, no, my lady, no," he reassured, his smile broadening. "I will fight all who attempt to marry you off for the sake of status. A woman should have the right to choose whether or not she marries."

But not a king; that, he understood. If there was to be a union between he and a neighboring realm, he would shunt passion to the side for duty.

'Twas what was expected of him. 'Twas what he expected of himself.

Instinct bred of sick context screamed warning, they begged a flight from the safeties so kindly offered. Too kindly offered. They were a fiction, surely, for how could one born bloodied realm breathe such affection, such consideration? The histories that defined her, that had sculpted each action and thought from the moment of her first tragedy, they spelled disaster. They projected abuse.

They predicted pain.

The scars upon her flesh and mind, they bellowed caution. They pleaded for deference, for the safety of blessed removal. Let her smile, let her feign. Let her pacify the beast that slumbered beneath that Aesir's smile, let her distract that monster that lurked behind bright eyes. Let her win the peace of her flesh, of her home.

Let her escape blows of speech and fist.

Impulses wedded to a past marred in hurts too numerous to name ragged within her mind, their voices haggard - tired from the near constant demands screamed against dulled senses. They beat against her skull with petulant fists, they stomped sharp heels into the fabric of her reason.

They would see her break of fear.

They would see her surrender.

They would see her fall to suspicion.

They would be damned to silence.

For she would not be a lost child, she would not be a broken woman. She would the master of her life, of her experiences. It was goal lofted and beautiful, a breath so fresh, so cleansing, that it seemed forever unobtainable. And yet the step, the first step, was laid before her feet; gently housed in the home of this prince's promise.

He had made it easy.

A smile, tentative and true, colored in fright and yet presented despite it, spread across features that were uncertain and yet steadfast in their chosen trustee.

'I pray your honor holds true.'

Brows furrowed, lips parted. Senses fought to make sense of the fragments lingering before her. They bore features of familiarity, they moved as his had moved, they breathed as he had breathed. And yet they were not his. This creature, whatever it may be, was not him.

#liesandtheliar #here take a random fucking starter

baritone-skiesarchivee

αяє уou goιηg тo αgє wιтн gяα¢є?

baritone-skiesarchivee

What had happened to Vanaheimr he had never seen with his eyes. He had always believed it to be the components of nightmare, the ingredients that created a massive tapestry of fiction for surely his people could not have been that cruel? Surely they did not wish to dismantle all that others had created for their own foolish profit?

Surely there was something more to the goodness of his people than their lack of clemency?

If he was to be King of Asgard, then he was going to have to amend all the wrongs that had been done before. ‘Twas his duty to tear the rotten branches from the root in order to exhume the land, making way for new blossoms.

And in some cases, more thorns.

To call him kind was to understand that there was the implication of cruelty beneath his bones, to know that the very arm that held her was made of the bones of those who had harmed her people.

There was that very same evil in him that had so thrived in the ones that had personally caused her harm.

"And I in turn wish for no tragedy nor harm to befall you; I am to be King, and we might be seeing a lot of one another in the near future. I want for your satisfaction as a Realm, for you are a voice of your people, and that voice should have kindness delivered."

What had made him so forward all of the sudden? Veracity’s end would not be soon.

Blood stilled, the very thrum of a pulse that ragged defiant for each and every moment of restless days faltering in a stuttering impact. Lips parted, the mute stage for a gasp that would have been born if there had been the luxury of breath. As she stood, stone from flesh, not even the lightest of whimpers could be drawn from the tension of taught lungs. She was still, a moment flickering, one she imagined, one she prayed, would go unnoticed and yet one that shook the very fabric of her constitution.

Such a simple thing, a sentence bred in implication and yet delivered as if freed of all ties.

We might be seeing a lot of one another.

In the near Future.

The fear that had swelled, that had captured her heart, her breath, that had robbed her mind of grace, her cheeks of sweet flush, it lingered still. It grew, falling from that first blast of suspended shock in favor of a leadened blow against a tender gut. Suddenly the kindness that had been offered, the care, it seemed a ploy. The thought alone broke a heart already marred with hardened scars.

A voice of your people...

Oh how she was her mothers daughter - a lesser generation denied the stun of beauty, the charm of charisma, and yet of the same root. A pawn, nothing more, a tether to bind the realms. As conclusions swarmed, informed by the precedent of her matriarch, the goddess forced a fractured voice to flickering life.

'Pardon, lord, you're words inspire confusion.'

baritone-skiesarchivee

αяє уou goιηg тo αgє wιтн gяα¢є?

baritone-skiesarchivee

Upon the shuddering flight of delirium, the furrow of a thousand broken wings mended as they twisted in the air, seeking a path aside from their own fallout. To erase sins was to understand that there were some marks that would remain indelible, no matter how poignant and seemingly centered the churning cycle of the governed world seemed.

In time, all actions came full-circle; everything and everyone would pay.

But it would not be this happy day of celebration and mirth, on a day when he pronounced his allegiance to the Lady Sigyn.

He was never very good at remaining patient; to dance along the fault-line of the chasm was to allow himself to live along the edge of a dagger, fearing the plunge into his own maddening descent or the sharp intensity of getting cut deeper than he could have possibly imagined.

This was the zenith of his own making, that of the life he forged with his own two hands. Creation came at the cost of great sacrifice, as well as filling those great hollow places.

"I was never very good at remaining stagnant, my lady," he said, his eyes lifting to her own tear-shining ones. "The world either has my absolute obedience or my absolute rebellion; you have my obedience and my word."

He stood then, offering her his arm once more as he studied the oblong curve of the sea.

"I do not ask for your trust this early, but I can look to your face and see one who hast survived great turmoil. If there is one whose judgment I trust, ‘tis your own."

Trust.

Breaths caught at the mention of such a tender thing, words cast forth in kindness grating upon wounds that reared fresh heads. The bites of days past sank again into bruised flesh, the iron tide their fangs elicited matched only by the flood of fear. Fear born of memory, of precedent. Of agonies dead and buried, of hurts that would forever linger fresh, cruel. Fear of experience, of life's myriad lessons.

What had trust won, what had it gifted? Shattered prayers dashed upon the unfeeling stones of barren context.

Still the impact of those whispered hopes, ethereal and childish in their birth and all the more tragic for such innocence, rang against hardened senses. Still it caused breasts to heave in the sickly union of rage and woe, indigence for her suffering wedded in fright of tasting such discord once more. Still it sent her pulse screaming, her mind to ice, thoughts to stone.

A quiet draw, a steady of frantic breaths. To be a slave to histories wasted and warped was to be weakness incarnate. It was to surrender to the impulses of cowardice that stood disgustingly engrained in the defeat of a proud people. It was to fall, from grace, from herself.

And so pale hands rose, settling upon the curve of offered arm even as sharp, short blinks cleared the tempest from clouded eyes. Better to adopt new wounds than to fester in those of days gone by.

'My trust leads to tragedy, I would not wish it upon one as kind as you.'

+ afixedfigure

"State your business," Theoric said, as he looked at the person," I do not have all day."

Coarser than she had imagined. Sharper in word and way than she had hoped. The words that had perched upon her tongue fell to ash, forgotten as saddened eyes surveyed hardened features.

'Forgive me,' the apology tasted of soot upon her lips, 'I meant no offense.'

"I see you’re enjoying yourself thus far, the twilight around these areas is usually beautiful." Jvarka casually says, charming his way to their heart.

'Yes,' a whispered reply, sparse in the face of beauty that demanded silence, reverence. There was a familiarity to this place that she had never before tasted, the slope of the horizon, the canopy of trees, it was a shadow of her home, 'yes I am.'

filled-by-my-archives-blog-deac

вℓα¢к ƒℓoωєяѕ вℓoѕѕoм

filled-by-my-archives-blog-deac

To drink away one’s sorrows was foolish; to drink away one’s sins was even more crippling. The soul had to learn to live with the ceaseless pain that beat against the temples, and from the hollow cavern of bones and clenching teeth, the void had to be filled.

Lest the chasm echo into the croon of the damned, something had to be created.

A spark, a fire against the pigment of all-stretching blackness. Velvet walls against magma-red curtains, and from the ether, hands would create, mold and shape as he did his ironwork.

His smile was soft, but there was an apology within his eyes. Whether it was for the actions of wolves or the callous nature of life he knew not.

“I wished to forget, and what better place than this?” he said, his hands gesturing to the black ribbons of light that danced along the walls. Somewhere in the center of the brothel, a woman laughed, long and hard, and he flinched, his shoulders tensing as he remembered…

She had laughed like silver bells against rising starlight; ephemeral, yet everlasting.

She would laugh like that for another man now.

“The damned and the heartbroken, those who seek control. What better way to forsake all of that than with digesting swill?”

The words were spoken more as an afterthought than an outright reply, and within the contrast of his mood, the warlord’s gaze focused on the woman before him.

“I am Ortherion Dagor- Sûl, and should you need aid this night, m’lady, you need only ask.”

Aid.

How could she ask for such a thing? How could she admit that so lofted a luxury as that fell within her needs, her rights? She had fled from a life that offered the comforts of gentle holdings, ran from a world that would have gifted her the greatest of cares had she only been cunning enough to cast aside those aches of morality and pride that had stung so sharply. Had she but laid at the feet of those beings that ravaged her world, had she but given herself to a creature that cared naught for her feeling but rather her flesh, had she cast those trappings of personality aside in favor of comfort...

Had she lost herself.

Had she lost the very things that kept sanity within her tender reach, the holdings of reality and reason bound in the trappings of her heart rather than some external support.

Support, what a comedy. Almost as ridiculous as the notion of aid, the notion of a stranger's cares gifted without so much as a flicker of thought in payment. When had she basked in the comforts of another's wills, relinquishing control of the shards that had become her life? When had she learned to surrender in the safety of another?

Could she learn? Would she dare?

Thoughts that were little more than pathless musings. The whiles of a pathetic mind, a weak mind. A mind in flight. A mind with no right to beg the attentions of this, a seemingly good if fractured man.

A mind that was sick, infected with the ruin of worlds and life and love and those tender, beautiful things that had once been treasured. That had once been protected above all else.

The goblet raised, carrying bitter spirits to lips that begged their numbing release, lips denied that sweet escape. With each sip her blood grew heavier, stagnant in veins that longed to be free of thought, of memory. Flat eyes stared forward, their consideration lost, the compliment of breaths before hanging quiet as her last sentiment.

"I wouldn't see myself inflicted upon you." A pause, amber liquor swirling at the base of a near drained glass, "On anyone."

architectofmytorment

Gods, the tension was palpable and it drove him to irritability. She was afraid of him, of some offense she had yet to commit. Perhaps she thought him fragile, Loki who had killed plenty of beasts in the frozen wastes of the desolate place his ancestors called home. Loki, whose lips had been sewn shut by a foul dark thing (with silver wire whose only undeserving mercy had come from Frigga, who had enchanted the wire to spill no blood and for it to bear the sharpest of points so the piercing of his skin would be swift and smooth.

He wondered sometimes, though no scars remained on the face he showed the world, what such scars might look like across blue skin). Such things he had endured, the latter of his own fault, and here she was, delicate and careful. “Do you think I will raise violence against you for your every word and thought? What a monster you must think me, and all of my kind.” Ah, the irony. It was not color of skin he meant though and she would know it. He lifted his head, the curve of his spine lessening some, as he sat straighter, though still with his arms around his legs. The skin was red from the water.

Alas, not even such things could melt away the beast within. “Did you fear the Allmother? Surely, a wicked and cruel woman she must have been painted in your stories. As all we were to you were hostage takers, war mongerers, I am sure you find peace in her passing.” His tone mocked, but it lacked it’s well practiced sharpness. His best weapons had grown dull since his trickery. Loki continued on, as if none of this offended him. “As you so resent, I was raised a prince. You are a lady. Had I wished to cause you harm, I might’ve done it by now.” He did not look at her, would not look at her. She was careful, fingers hardly dipping into the water, and when she did it was to rinse. Loki spoke once more after a lengthy silence, dropping his shoulders and giving in a bit to the warmth and comfort.

One dripping hand brushed raven hair from where the steam and humidity of the room had plastered it against his forehead and Loki nodded towards some bottles. He would humor her, if only so she may stop acting like he might violently assault her at any moment. His eyes were shut, allowing her to move around him as she required. His wound did not ache, he was not sweating or in a state of panic. Why should he waste energy snarling at her when she never took the bait? He was good at baiting people.

Loki was cunning and cruel and sincerity and genuine kindness made him uncomfortable. But she seemed unwilling to play his game and she had ever since they met years ago. So matter the poison he spat at her, she did not seem inclined to react outwardly. And Gods, he was tired of being angry, tired of trying to make her fight back. She had more patience than he did. Loki remembered his prison cell, how Thor had known his grief despite his illusions. He wasn’t sure he had ever really left that prison. What he had accomplished with Thor, how they had worked together as they had so long ago…he had felt alive. Thor had trusted him and he had desired to make Thor see such trust was not misplaced.

They had been brothers, bickering and laughing and fighting together. For a while, the war he held held inside his now fragile skeleton, had come to a pause. But he was Loki, and to be Loki was to be a coward, a trickster, a liar. It was worse to be reminded of what he had lost by reliving it for any length of time than it was to lose it all and pretend he bad never known it. Loki splashed water on his face, pushing his hair back, soaking it. When he let his arms return to the water, he froze. Impossibly still, his gaze was fixed on a streak of vile colbat blue curling from the tips of his fingers as if he had dipped his slender fingers in paint. Oh. Oh no. Why was this happening? He tried to force it back, head thudding with his own pulse. He couldn’t move.

Water sloshed, Sigyn moved. Sigyn. Sigyn would see him now, this monster beneath his skin. She would also see the most rare of expressions on the prince’s face. Fear. Reminiscent of a deer caught in the headlights. He blinked, before finding his voice which at first attempt, broke. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and laughed softly beneath his breath, a sad sound.”You spoke of Asgard as if you were the only creature taken from their home, a prize of war.”

Shock.

A benign wave made no less violent for its innocence. The crushing weight of it, the torrent of ice now surging in violent irony through veins stilled in a flicker of absolute, abject surprise - it muted breaths, it ended thoughts.

For moments, long, aching moments that she knew resonated just as surely in this broken god as it did against her racing breast. The void of reaction was filled not with judgement, not with fear. Nothing so vile as those base rejections sounded a mind long disabused of such integral racism as that so lovingly embraced by the Aesir.

No.

It was not horror that filled her heart, not dread that stilled her fingers. It was a devastatingly powerful grief. A sadness that radiated through each nerve, through each fiber of her being. A burning pain engrained in each beat of a trembling heart, each draw of parted lips. An agony so pervasive it caused an unwavering stare to blur with selfish and selfless tears that lingered unshed - pride and fear of appearing piteous holding the flashes in check.

Compassion. If it could be called that - if it could be applied to such a lofty term. Truly it was little more than understanding, though from what muse she knew naught. It was as if the entirety of his person had been laid bare before suddenly informed eyes - the rages that ruled his life illuminated in stabbing, poignant detail. How he must have suffered.

How he must be suffering.

The shame, it would have been crushing. Suffocating down to the last of escapes, smothering any measure of relief that was to be found in this, the lie fostered by false parents. His venomous words rang with sense now, all them mad deflections. Better to send a soul away than to ever allow it to see, to truly see.

To see as she saw.

An accident, she was sure of that. A symptom of his weakened state, some base weakness of will caused from robbed energies. Never would he have granted her this, never would he have shared. And yet here, in this moment hovering in fragile rarity, that mattered little. This was their reality now.

Fingers fell from the crest of a trembling shoulder, tracing the curve of pale flesh that defined his greatest illusion. A contact she doubted he would bear, that he would allow, and yet one that she tested, taking her liberties while she may.

A pause as fingers edged the border of shocking blue, the vibrancy of such a tone stark against ashen white - drained from those images she had noted, milked sour by this endless illness. A pause. Then a continuation.

Flesh screamed its agonies as stabbing cold shot through tender nerves and yet the track of willful exploration continued, her touch gentle, ghosting. The softest of studies made all the more gentle by the knowledge that this - this unprecedented contact - would stand forever in a mind fractured by the veil of constant disguise.

filled-by-my-archives-blog-deac

вℓα¢к ƒℓoωєяѕ вℓoѕѕoм

filled-by-my-archives-blog-deac

No solace could be found from the bottom of a drinking glass, but even still, the amber-colored liquid was sweet on his tongue as he’d swallowed glass after glass until the burning ache of pain was dulled and the pound in his head was no more than the liquor taking effect.

He had naught to return to this night aside from an empty place to rest his head. His sleep would be black and dreamless, and he would arise to see the first stars of morning, and to the heavens, he would wonder how she was, how his love fared even after all of this time.

It took everything in him not to march to Asgard and pay a lofty price for her return, but his pride had to remain intact; he had a part to play in the grand scheme of Alfheimr.

The heart was never supposed to interfere with duty.

“Truer words have not been spoken my lady,” he replied, his tone smooth and his eyes warm. “Forgive me for forsaking manners; I am Ortherion Dagor- Sûl, and it is good to meet you, no matter how tasteless ‘twas that wolves would not leave you alone.”

Perhaps…it was the red hair. The mortals had a legend for a wolf and a woman in red, did they not?

She imagined this man had saved her, though from what she dared not think. Flesh, it seemed, knew as shivers coursed the length of a curved spin, as memories surged with violent tide.

Hands clasped over lips that issued fruitless screams - a meaningless gesture - for who would dare aid their instrument? Who would intervene in this, her wifely duty?

As if in a mindless defense the goblet rose, hard against trembling lips as the edge slammed against an unprepared mouth, a grimace and a swig serving to silence the pain of past and present. A prayer that maybe this would be the sip that would send her senses reeling, that would grant her blissfully numb escape.

Eyes rose to survey her would be defender, a thought that caused breaths to tighten. The exhaustion of this constant dance, of seemingly endless dependence on one soul or another, on the strengths of some external body, it wore heavy in her survey. She had fought, toiled and sweat, bled into the blind practices of sparing both mental and physical. She bore the scars of great battles, their pale lattice deeply engrained with a rapidly hardening heart. She was a veteran.

And yet she was as helpless as child, it seemed - lost to the reverence of her thoughts, exposed to the savagery of the world.

As the trace of her observations fell upon this creature bathed in the grace of court and yet seeped in the sick tang of alcohol Sigyn felt a stir of recognition - not for any feature or trait but for the grief that slipped into his every word, his every breath.

Perhaps it was imagined, perhaps she merely sought connection in this realm utterly devoid of familiarity. Perhaps she desperately needed a harbor of similarity. And yet, even with those doubts instilled in wavering reason, the goddess knew their reality.

"You are far too chivalrous for this place."

insanidadecomoarte-deactivated2

And the best shit coffee.

vingthor-deactivated20180526

That’s even worse than the roaches.

But better than the water pressure.

But they also have the best roaches.

vingthor-deactivated20180526

Yeah, like that’s a plus.

And the best shit coffee.

vingthor-deactivated20180526

Motels have the shittiest water pressure.

But they also have the best roaches.

"Would you like to try?"

There was a light edge to her question, the beginnings of a laugh housed in that teasing phrase that just as easily could have been born to hard challenge. She could not deny him these leniency, would not rob him of one constant, however neglected it may be.

kingoftheravensarchive

That brought a smile to his face and a huff of breath came from his nose that was a sort of breathy, noiseless chuckle. “I think not. I’d rather not put you in such a mood at the moment. Besides, my form of irritating others is usually by acting as childish as possible.”

"Please."

A pause, eyes flashing dangerously, her one annoyance dangerously close to realization. The petulant game wore her low.

"Don't."

Eyes closed at that, a look of soft grief descending over features wrung pale with the rigors of life. That he would think that a possibility, that he would think her ire raised over the simplest of words when it had remained dormant over his greatest sins, it saddened the goddess.

"You have never irritated me, my king."

kingoftheravensarchive

He was quiet for a moment, watching her with an otherwise stoic expression minus that crease between his brows, which deepened a bit. She was patient, she always had been, and she’d always been strangely forgiving no matter what the instances.

"Not yet."

"Would you like to try?"

There was a light edge to her question, the beginnings of a laugh housed in that teasing phrase that just as easily could have been born to hard challenge. She could not deny him these leniency, would not rob him of one constant, however neglected it may be.

A sigh, soft, freed from world weary trappings and yet tired nonetheless. Would they never have a word free of wits, free of some benign strife? Could they not simply be?

"Perhaps it is I that speaks in futility now."

kingoftheravensarchive

Loki glanced to her, as if he was just now noticing she was here, or perhaps his expression was due to her words. “I did not imply anything of that sort, Sigyn,” he murmured, his brow creasing slightly. “I was not trying to irritate you.” Then again, he irritated many people, so it wasn’t much of a surprise anymore.

Eyes closed at that, a look of soft grief descending over features wrung pale with the rigors of life. That he would think that a possibility, that he would think her ire raised over the simplest of words when it had remained dormant over his greatest sins, it saddened the goddess.

"You have never irritated me, my king."

The Constant @afixedfigure - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag