Triptych: wearegeth, thebenefitsofdestruction ((Closed))
The sun slowly slipped below the edge of the horizon, its retreat painting the sky a tumult of vibrant colors, some so bright as even to challenge those of Asgard's brilliant hues.
Though he might not admit it within the hearing of any living, Loki found this part of the day tolerable, among a set of circumstances that were very equally intolerable. He was, however, coming to terms with the sheer extent of what his sentence signified, with the constant drain of his seiðr that he had almost become accustomed to... even with the presence of those who had united to defeat his army, not a single Midgardian cycle prior.
They had been strangely... decent, when he and Thor had arrived. Unimpressed by his relative freedom, within and without the Tower, he had been treated far more civilly than he would have expected. Save for his little Hawk, of course, but that lingering animosity was to be expected. Loki himself would have reacted no differently had he been put in the mortal's situation.
In truth, this was the crux of his current issues. That he was even capable of doing so, of possessing empathy where before he simply had nothing at all. That spark of awareness had led to his reconciliation with Thor, and although less so, with the one he'd called father the whole of his life, as well.
The task he'd been given was even merciful, entirely reasonable within the boundaries that it could have been expected. Not that he would have accepted such sentimental drivel if offered outright, but the lack of more corporeal punishment was a relief nonetheless. He'd seen more than enough of that very physical brutality at the hands of the Chitauri, before he'd seen the wisdom of their conceits.
Shielding and slowly cleansing this city of the corruption that had befallen it due to his actions seemed almost a gift, in comparison.
So this binding, while inconvenient, was not actually unpleasant. Loki had freedom of this World, should he require it, a residence the luxury of which even he could find no fault with... and thoughtful lovers enough to distract him, when he felt the need.
Which, as was his wont, he felt quite often.
He and Thor had bedded one another before his fall, and now that they were reunited, they had shifted seamlessly into the same habits of intimacy they'd once indulged in. It was almost to be expected, with their feelings so long denied. What he had not expected, however, was to find another lover within the very ranks of those he had once opposed.
Anthony Edward Stark had an impressive predilection for repudiating expectation, and instead exceeding it. For a mortal, of course.
And his very mortality was what made him so extraordinary. Loki could not even move himself to bother behaving as if it were not, with what the man had accomplished in his brief flare of an existence. It was truly remarkable, as were some of his other, less cerebral attributes. He had comported himself well enough in Loki's bed to earn himself the right to revisit it, which spoke libraries regarding his patience, stamina, and inventiveness.
But that was neither here nor there. This night, as every night, Loki stood on the broad expanse of the landing pad beneath the darkened sky as the last fitful dregs of sunset faded into shadow, his eyes cast heavenwards as he refreshed the shields that protected the great mortal city.
The steady drain of his strength was something to be borne, as was the pain that accompanied it... no sentence was intended to be met without pain, without suffering to recompense those who had been wronged.
As he heard the familiar heavy step upon the landing behind him, Loki smiled, his gaze never shifting from the sky. Some burdens were not, at least, always to be met alone.
