My #fanfiction titled #thelinguist has three chapters up. I will be posting the fourth chapter March 14th. #marvel #Loki #lokifanfiction #kyskorner https://mcufanfiction.kyskorner.com https://www.instagram.com/p/BuwQgKxg06w/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1mee680t4ejhj
The Linguist (Emily Nelson #1 – a Loki Fanfiction)
Emily Nelson is a college student who is studying mythology and ancient languages. Her life was turned upside down when her mother died in a car accident, she was in the car with her. Then went to live with her cousin, Jane Foster.
Loki is a prince of Asgard who believes he deserves the right to the throne. He found out he was not the birth son of Odin, which causes him to hate his now family and want to prove his worth to all the nine realms.
The Linguist is the first book in the Emily Nelson books. To read them ahead of time visit my patreon page. More info on this, and all the MCU fanfiction I write is posted on my website.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to most of the characters, events, etc. They remain with the original copyright holders.
Tired of festering with hatred wrapped in the sheets of my motel-room bed, I find my keys and push through the screen door out onto the walkway, a fierce wind laden with some odd stench pushes across the pot-holed parking lot below and up towards me. I take a rotten moment to absorb it, sweaty from the aforementioned-festering and thus welcoming of the sporadic intervals of cold that the hot wind offers. A tight moment of joy is achieved in the arms of its foul odour. A rare thing.
And it is to it that I now surrender once more. The closest thing to the spirit-realm that I have ever encountered are these fraught moments of small pleasure in otherwise repulsive situations. To me, some tiny, amiable God floated amongst the pungencies of this late-afternoon wind, backlit by the great orange sun, revealing the translucency of his tiny pixie-like body. If humans had lived like beasts for millennia previously, who was I to crave luxury? If a man had for aeons before found brief solace in the putrid warmth of his dying animal prey, who was I to want a million dollars?
The walkway seems wobbly today, as if it was a raggedy bridge spanning some hideous ravine. Up here (the first floor), I can feel the gravity of such a situation acting upon me. I feel like Indiana Jones when I hit the stairwell ten screen doors down from my own hovel, I motion a whip-crack and, scanning the area with my tiny eyes, feel embarrassed about it, slam the heel of my weathered hand against the blue rail. There is no-one else around.
Scattered amongst the general litter of pale blue Impalas with characteristic missing doors and smashed windows are a couple of hulking SUVs, big and black, built for war, quiet and sparkling in the dusk light. Great mechanical bulldogs painted in matte black, hungry and off their leash, fixing to bound out onto the endless road in search of blood and life, tear it to shreds, fall asleep. I had heard their growls last night, mixed up in the tiny sounds of late-night business, and I had clutched the sheets of my motel-room bed tightly around me in the dark, their delicate tangibility some vague shield against the evils out at play in the starless night. They had hunted for hours, the bulldogs and their owners, whom were only parasitic in the relationship and simply in search of blood transfusions (blood into power, petrol, or money), bloodying the churning soils of the Mid-West. I had heard the delighted yaps. I had heard the snarled exchanges. I had heard their claws sing in the dark, tearing at the fabric of the world (the ripping sounds reverberated about the plain) as they attempted to escape it, as if the night air were a net ensnaring them which they were desperate to escape. This was now obvious to me, not so as the wet sounds of their euphoric blood-letting filled my motel room, as if a great red tide were slowly filling the space up . A hundred, a thousand, a million beasts had died last night at their hands, their blood pooling infinitely out on the plains, crimson and scarlet and black in the thin light of the early morning. The hills to the west were drenched in gore. I know. I had seen them. Spots of light dancing upon their bloody surfaces, filling my mind with vivid thoughts.
(Cave walls and giant, slowly gyrating shadows of supple young bodies thrown upon them by roaring fires. Massive, cow-skin war-drums and early wooden instruments straining at melody, capturing moments of tune that seem so basic that they feel as if they are emanating out of your own bones. The owners of these supple young bodies slowly gyrate in accordance with their shadows though tiny beneath them, all sweat and fervour, perfect and identical crystalline blue eyes locking onto one another as the dance speeds up. Passion incarnate.)
But now the SUVs are benign and still, bereft of their previous savagery, breathing low and long. I swing wide to avoid them, skirting the outermost white lines which mark the parking spaces until I see my own weak little Impala, pale blue and unrecognisable save the tiny, mint-green strip of metal that I nailed to the apex of the front-left wheel arch, almost white in the sunlight now shooting horizontally across the parking lot in the fading afternoon; a tight semi-circle mirroring that of the wheel-arch although bisected by a thinner piece of metal with a single nail hammered through the top of this bisection. It was a symbol I had concocted in the heat of one distant midnight, as I lay splayed out on the patchy pink carpet of some other motel on an alien planet, head shaven bloody and teeth falling out, monstrous demons seated at the throne of my soul. It meant, in the simplest terms, For all the tired and hungry, I bestow upon you an escape from hellfire. That was a damn fine summer.
Feeling maybe young again, I lurch towards the Impala across the steaming tarmac. Upon arrival, I slowly clasp my fingers around the handle of the driver’s side feeling as the heat of its steel begins to sting against my palm but do not stop. A moment of pain brings clarity. Search my mind for the important memories; where my daughter is, if she is dead, how I got here - come up empty handed and hopeless.
I throw the car door open ignoring the brief flaring up of pain upon withdrawal and clamber into the car and switch on the ignition involuntarily with keys whose location is still unknown to me. I slowly ease the car forward and begin to curl about the other parked cars towards the exit. Man at the toll booth is pale, squat and shiny in his hairlessness as if he were an escaped marble bust of a Roman senator disguising himself with a beige Starlight Motel uniform.
I plunge forth into the twisting pink winds of the plain writhing upon the horizon undulating back and forth across the world.
