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White Unbound Stone

Title: White Unbound Stone
Author: ciaranbochna
Characters: Loki, Frigga
Fandom: MCU/Avengers movieverse
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the world.
Warnings: Depictions of grief
Length: 587 words

A/N: Tied to my other MCU fic, though it is tenuous at best.

“We never managed this.”

“Drink tea? No. Have a civilized conversation? A handful of times.”

“More than a handful, Loki.”

A porcelain cup clinks against a saucer. The walls swallow the sound.

“You remember them more fondly than I.” Loki stirs his tea with a breath.

A long sigh answers him. “What are you playing?” She gestures with a free hand at the music surrounding them. There are no speakers, no stereo. Their chairs and cups are the only other features of the white room.

The sound of two symphonies war against each other, notes tangling together as the two pieces play as one.

“Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique and Shoshtakovich’s Symphony No. 4. The tea is White Bai Mui Dan.”

A pause, hushed. “Do you like it? I chose it for the obvious psychological comparison. Some have a better nature, so they say. I always thought that the tiny creatures hovering on your shoulder would be tedious, though.”

“I enjoy both pieces of music Loki, albeit played separately. The tea is wonderful, and your paraphrasing of Jung does not escape me.”

“Alas, nothing ever does.” The air is too thick.

The music quiets and soon only one piece plays. Something new.

“Phillip Glass?”

He watches her hand twist around the translucent cup. The scar over the middle knuckle of her right ring finger.

They never told war stories of Frigga. The omission clouds his gaze with rage. Their sanitized tales make him ill.

The room dims around him. “Yes.”

“I prefer the others. This is too serene.”

Loki fails to suppress a smile this time. He thinks he can hear the tendons in his cheek snap.

“As you command.” The Berlioz returns. The sound of violins being played by the wood of the bow, rather than the string.

“What are you reading Loki?"

The sound of metal on stone.

“The language of infant black holes.”

“You kept that book a long time. Why read it now?”

“Does it matter?” His cup is gone.

Frigga’s cup is a whisper of glass and fog.

“No. But tell me what you learned.” A curl of her hair catches in the edge of her blue robe.

He can see a strand of gold embroidery spiral up to the ends of his mother’s hair.

He will not reach.

“The language was easy. No one believes that a stellar event is sentient, so when you visit them the black holes are strangely—“

“Isolated?” Frigga finishes. Her cup has vanished. The scar on her finger has moved to her left hand.

Loki tastes blood on the inside of his cheek. The palms of his hands ache as if his nails have dug too deep, though his hands are flat on his thighs.

His mother is suddenly behind him. They are both standing, and he doesn’t remember them moving. The room is empty but for the two of them.

Frigga’s hands grip his shoulders. He feels her fingers sink into his shoulder blades, through to the bone, holding him up.

“Will you always search?” The fall at the end of her voice. The ragged edge of concern.

He is alone with the black-veined stone. The taste of white tea tart under his tongue.

The smell of burning metal, singed skin. He twists wire in the blue flame. To mold this metal, only the hottest flame will do.

“Is that another piece for me?” Frigga smiles.

This room; without doors or time.

He will spend all his days as a desperate architect.


( 7 comments — Leave a comment )
Jan. 30th, 2014 07:40 am (UTC)
Very nice.I like that even the music selection is a link to the Marvel Universe.
What with the music of the Fantastique and 4
Very cool and deep! :)
Jan. 30th, 2014 05:45 pm (UTC)
Feb. 2nd, 2014 11:10 am (UTC)
Whoa. Amazing.
Feb. 2nd, 2014 07:46 pm (UTC)
*Blushes* Thank you:) Is it snowing here--has it come your way yet?
Feb. 2nd, 2014 09:43 pm (UTC)
Nothing, not even rain. Sunny and clear. O.o
Mar. 9th, 2014 07:21 pm (UTC)
Mar. 9th, 2014 07:37 pm (UTC)
( 7 comments — Leave a comment )