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Your Name is a Stone

Author: ciaranbochna
Title: Your Name is a Stone

Length: 500
Characters: Loki, Frigga, Skadi

Warnings: References to grieving. Fragments of hope, somewhere in the laboured writing of it.
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the world of the Marvel universe

A sword to cut the wind. A shield to protect against any wound ( and any language uttered). Blades to excise the soul from the body (or any unwanted emotion, as needed). Armour that projects whatever an enemy fears, some so primal that the foe may never recover their sanity (no need for the bearer to ever lift their blade)

He is an expert with weapons and trappings of war, and subterfuge. Removing all trace of engagement when necessary, even touch.

And yet, she would not want them. Understand the need for them, certainly. She could wield any weapon with more finesse than the All-Father (who would deny this like the arrogant malcontent he is).

But. His mother wanted more from him. Expected things he is certain he cannot give, or be. But he tries still. Leaving bloody traces of his attempts with every twisted step.

She does (did) not want weapons. Saw him as whole even when he was…

Crystal. Sandalwood. Steel.

Less. The elusive thing he could never reach, with finger joints set as backward as the paths in his mind. Always wrong.

This thing he creates is too small. Barely enough to eclipse his palm, though it may have fit in hers. He will never know.

It is not a weapon. Nor a shield, like the first he made her. It is a rune. One new to the worlds. The first rune he made is meant to destroy. He will save it, in case of need. He cannot promise never to use it. He can never bury the rage, not completely.

He shakes. Holds the edge of the anvil. Doesn’t know how much time has passed. He always forgets to eat. She scolded him when—

It is small. A faint, desperate light comes from within, illuminating the walls of her (now his?) forge.

He does not understand it. Not yet. Though he will muddle through. Wars are not always grand gestures, he finds. He will stumble along until this word grows to fill the stars. Until he believes even a fragment of what he has wrought. He won’t be worthy of it, or her, but he can do this.

He never learned to cauterize a wound, to heal more than a bruise, or a scratch. But this thing, repeated, shared, a story whispered in every world and every star (he knows more than a few gossips among the latter). Yggdrasil and Borghild will help him build.

He will create a tale, beginning with this fragile thing. She was more than he could fathom. Her care was  more than…well.

He builds her a story with this blade—word—of truth. Something that will endure. He believes that, somehow, she will see everything that is built upon this spark.

“Why do you keep this? Everything you have done since is far better. It is too dark, misshapen.”

“It is mine, mother. I can see its bones, and they are bright.”

“Very well daughter.  Come, your lessons await.”


( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Jan. 1st, 2015 08:51 am (UTC)
Lovely and suitably epic.
Jan. 1st, 2015 08:59 am (UTC)
Thank you. It has been lingering in my head since last week, but I just didn't have the energy until now to set it down.
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )