It's a dark, clear night inside of Loki's head. Pine trees line a two lane highway, unlit except by starlight and the headlights of cars that roar by few seconds. In the distance, bullfrogs have set up an ungodly racket. By the side of the road, Loki stands, hands in his pockets, watching the rush of cars.
     Not watching the cars, exactly. His eyes are fixed on point on the road, exactly as if he's waiting for something to happen there.

     He drops out of a tree as if here to devour your soul, landing with astounding speed and astonishingly little noise. It isn't quite as bad as his vanishing and appearing trick; in a way, it's worse, because of the suddenness and brutality of it. But he doesn't land on you, or even that near to you, and his sword is on but remains in his sheath.
     "I could slay a dragon for y', if that's what you want," Gwilym offers easily. "Or I could show you a dragon. One I'm not related t'. Why are you standing in the dark watching trees?"
     He is in his shadowy armor, so archaic and modern at the same time. His skin gleams pale as milk, his hair glowing red and gold like a fairy tale. His one visible eye watches you as unblinkingly as a cat, emerald gleam in the near-darkness. He steps towards you and looks to see what you will do.

     Loki startles at the drop, twitching backward with wide eyes. "--oh," he says, once he's caught up with what's going on. "Uh. No dragons, in this one. And I'm not watching the trees." He points back at the highway, where a semi-truck is rolling by. "Earthquake, right there, if this follows the usual pattern. The cinematic type you don't actually get in real life, with the ground swallowing up entire lines of cars, and slamming shut again."
     His hands go back in the pockets of his jacket: gray, and rumpled in the way that's entirely deliberate in the design. It's as close as he's getting to defensive about your approach. "I don't tend to get a lot of the mythological stuff showing up in my dreams. If you went dragon-slaying, would they be real ones? Or just dreams of dragons?"

     "A Chaos rift," Gwilym grunts once, shaking his head. "I'll give those a miss. Been caught in them on occasion. It's always Hell to get back out." He doesn't sound as if he's kidding, either. He drops into a crouch, watching the cars and then looking up at your face. "You don't ever dream about happy things, do you."
     A knife appears in his hand, blade dull black and drinking in the light of headlights and sending none back. He casually cleans his fingernails, still looking at you and not what he's doing. "If I went dragon-slaying, they would be real enough. What happens in dreams can still leave lasting impressions, you know. Don't y' remember childhood nightmares at all?"

     A rumble grows out of the center of the highway, and a crack appears along the yellow dividing line. None of the cars rushing back and forth along the road hit the brakes as the earth begins to pull apart.
     "This is only a nightmare if you actually like cars," Loki says, watching the fissure grow. It's wide enough already for cars to begin toppling in one after another, headlights spinning lights wildly across the trees and sky as the cars fall. He looks down at you, shrugging. "I remember enough of them. Some of them still show up. Mostly the drowning ones."

     "And can you swim, no man's son?" Gwilym inquires. He watches the cars and the earth, not you, now. "Or do you let yourself drown? I admit to being curious..."
     He says nothing else, allowing the darkness to three-quarters hold him, knife still now. He is curiously immobile, face as still as the rest of him. And patient. There is patience.

     The earth snaps shut in a thunderclap. All down the yellow line, the highway's sealed as neatly and solidly as if it had never split, though no more cars appear. "I spend the dream trying to fight my way to the surface," Loki says. He rubs at the side of his face with a hand. "Without being able to tell which way is up. Sometimes it ends with my dad pulling me out. Sometimes it ends with me drowning. It wouldn't be much of a nightmare if it were easy to get out of, would it?"

     "Nightmares are rarely easy to get out of," Gwilym agrees. He stands up straight, rolling his shoulders in a shrug and bringing a hand through the darkness; it leaves a glittering trail. "It's why hope is so important, oes? It's the light that leads people out of fear and despair. Which should tell you why I chose you, if you're still wondering."
     He looks at you steadily, then lowers his hand. "Do you wish to remain here?"

     Loki spares one glance for the empty highway. It's not so attention getting as that trail of light, now that the earthquake's over. "No. I'd rather keep going. Somewhere more interesting." He looks back to you, with a twist of his mouth that's almost a smile. "Everything else aside, you're never boring."

     "I dance with Chaos too often to be that," Gwilym retorts with a lazy grin. He holds out a hand. "Then, if you're ready t'depart..." He glances at the formerly cracked and split-open earth. "Though I can't imagine why anyone'd linger. Unless you've business here, 'course. Reminds me of the crossroads of your country's myths."

     It's only a fractional hesitation before Loki takes your offered hand. "What business could I have with a lot of buried cars? If I wait around here too much longer, my dad will show up to lecture me on groundwater contamination."

     He grins at you with trouble in his smile as much as Ole Man Possum ever predicted, and the cars, the world goes sideways. The trees stay, oddly, but everything else is gone in a rush of green and black and darkness...
     The moving stops as suddenly as it's started. You are in a forest; dense old growth, the likes of which have rarely been seen on earth in more time than humans remember. The moon shines between branches, and eyes peer out from between sharp thorns and bracken. Gwilym is nowhere to be seen, not at first, but there are deer trails between the trees. And of this you may be sure : if Gwilym is not here somewhere, then you are surely alone.

     Loki's shoulders hunch as he looks around, wary as any city boy dropped in the middle of a forest would be. "You have the weirdest sense of humor," he says in resignation, and turns about to check out his options. To his eyes, "deer trails" are more like "slightly less thick portions of undergrowth," and not especially tempting. Even less so with those eyes out there...
     And fuck if I'm going to charge off randomly in some direction when you haven't left me with a map.

     Sense of humor? No.
     The trees part, and there is a white and shining thing between them. Its beauty is the beauty of nature; that indefinable sense that some interpret as longing and others as lust. It is a white stag of thirteen tines to each of its curling antlers, eyes the dark that is where the stars stop their glow.
     Some things are necessary, son of man. Follow me. I will take you to the Holly King's throne.
     The stag tosses its head and turns, soundless and graceful and shining with a light of its own. It does not glow; it incandesces. And it begins to recede among the trees.

     Loki follows, hands stuffed in his pockets. The woods may well be full of lions and tigers and bears oh my, and he's...not going to think about it right now. Even he can tick blatant mystical symbolism off the list when he sees it.

     The stag moves forward; there is life in these woods. You can feel the eyes, though it is curiously still, as if every eye is watching you pass this way. Birds rustle in the branches, but they are unseen; the trees and bushes are ripe with fruit and vines. And gradually, you become aware of the lizards.
     They are small, these lizards, and their colors blend so perfectly with what they happen to be on. They are not chameleons; chameleons do not look like that. They are, instead, as miniscule as they are, perfectly formed and tiny dragons...
     And they follow you; you never see them move, not directly. A flicker of movement at the corners and edges of your vision, nothing more. They pace you, staying in their own color ranges, until you reach the clearing.
     The stag enters the clearing ahead of you, thick, dark green grass forming a carpet against lighter grass. It leads to an ornate chair that looks as if it has grown up from living wood. The holly and the ivy entwine it, and yet there is gold and ivory and gems of the dark earth within it. Nothing else is there; the dragons do not follow you in here. The stag looks over its shoulder at you, and it approaches the throne. It shrinks down into the form of a man, seated there, leaning back with one visible eye that is closed, a crown of holly and thorn woven upon his brow.
     "I am Gwilym Gwyn Garu, Loki," Gwilym tells you without opening his eyes. He wears a suit of dark green and black, and spotted white fur trims the burgundy of his cloak. Only the sword remains from his set of armor of earlier. "You would call it William, the White Stag. Do you know what that means?"

     At the edge of the clearing, Loki shifts on his feet as he watches you warily. Hands still in his pockets. "Not...exactly."

     "All of humanity has archetypes that you will find repeating themselves, over and over. All gods as well, will have some of that energy, to tie them to humanity; to mortality. A god who cannot relate to his followers is one thing; a god whose followers cannot relate to him is something else." Gwilym remains where he is, though now he opens his eyes to look at you. He tilts his head, but beyond that he does not move, and his expression stays as it was. "There are archetypes which I follow as the Holly King. And there are archetypes which I follow simply because I am."
     He gestures, and the vines on his throne ripple, sending a living, breathing tangle of them growing up to just before you. They become blackberry vines, popping with fat, sweet berries that glisten with dew. "I am the king of plenty. Those that follow me need never hunger nor thirst, for the harvest is mine, and mine to give."

     One hand slips out of a pocket, no further. Loki looks to the vines, and back to you. There's a hard set to his expression that's not anger or fear. "I relate to people better than archetypes," he says quietly. The rest of what he starts to say isn't said, disappearing into a rough shrug. Eyes on you.

     "If you want to relate to me as a person, you still need to know the parts that comprise me," Gwilym answers. He retracts his hand, and the vines retreat, shimmering and shifting, bending and lifting to offer him fresh blueberries instead. "All archetypes are in people, Loki. Even in you. Learn them and you'll be a better musician as well."
     He pops the berry between his lips, chewing and then swallowing; the moon ducks behind a cloud, and he is shadowed by branches. "I am the guardian of gateways; I stand between the world of the living and the world of spirit. I am the thief and the assassin, and my way is sharp and bloody. I am the knife - but I am also the sacrifice. My life is poured out upon the worlds that others may find greater things thereby."
     "Do you understand?"

     "Some," Loki says. "I think. I don't know. You're not a fact I can memorize. I'm trying to follow and I can't judge my own progress." He looks up to where the moon was before, taking a breath to steady himself. "I get--the gist of it. Not the details, not yet."

     "I'm not something you can condense to facts and figures." Gwilym smiles, a smooth and beautiful smile that holds love and loneliness, sacrifice and menace. "Even if I were not the Holly King, Loki, no man's son. It is easier to condense an archetype than it is to condense a person. And you are afraid of people. You are afraid of me."
     He leans back, and plucks from the empty air a goblet of wine which he brings to his lips, never once looking away from you. "It is reasonable to be afraid of me. I am not a safe kind of person, let alone a safe kind of god, oes? But you are a little in love with me... and that has made you hate me."

     The corners of Loki's mouth flatten away from a frown. "More or less. I could deal with it better when you were there and gone again, and a lot less real." A level of tension's left him with confession, leaving several still in place. "You're not just in a position of power compared to me, you're off the scale I thought existed. What am I supposed to do with that?"

     "Do you hate the ocean for being larger than you? Do you hate the sky, for its emptiness? I could spout other platitudes, or bring more human scales of comparison into it - professional athletes and the like - but you get the idea, oes?" Gwilym smiles lazily, and holds out his hand. "Come here."

     "I don't try to talk to the ocean," Loki says, even as he's walking forward. If he weren't already in a dream, he might be sleepwalking. "The sky doesn't want anything from me. It's a lousy metaphor."

     "If you don't talk to them, you can't know what they do or don't want. Even if you do talk to them, you can't know. Not unless you listen, too." Gwilym's smile remains, widening just briefly. He reaches for your hand, waiting for you to take his.

     "I have enough questions about my own sanity lately without starting up conversations with the local geology." Loki takes your offered hand one hesitant moment after he's close enough to do so.

     He closes his hand around yours and tugs you into his lap. He is warm, and solid, and as strong as you might remember; and there is the scent of wine and cloves, of figs and evergreen and spruce, and something of copper. Gwilym smiles with the delight of wicked triumph, and settles you on his lap, one arm wrapping over your belly, around your waist.
     "And yet, here you are," Gwilym tells you, dispensing with the wine. "Where you want to be, as much as you hate me for it."

     How does this keep happening? And do I really want to know the answer to that one?
     Maybe not. Loki folds his arms across his chest defensively even as he's leaning against you. "I never claimed to make good life choices, did I?"

     His hands are not still, and he proves his thieving skill with thieving intent, freeing your shirt from the confines of your trousers with barely a whisper of fabric. One hand slides up over your bared belly, his other hand dipping fingers into the back of your jeans. It goes no further than that - for the moment.
     "You never claimed to make choices at all," Gwilym answers with obvious amusement. His grin is wicked with delight at your predicament. "Do you want me to kiss you, Loki?"

     Loki squirms at the touches, color rising in his face. Even in his dreams he can't escape that. "...yes," he says, neither gracefully nor graciously.

     He smiles - and his fingers curl against your belly, his other hand lifting to cup at the nape of your neck, the base of your skull. You loathe being asked. You would rather I take what I want so that you could complain about it after. Gwilym draws you closer, but does not kiss you yet, speaking beneath your skin where even the forest may not necessarily hear.
     You would rather be seduced and ravished, and then walk away indignantly. I do not give you what you want, Loki. Instead, I give you what you need.
     The one visible eye closes, just for a moment, in a wink. He tips his head so that his lips just brush yours, the tip of his tongue tickling at your bottom lip. "Say it," Gwilym murmurs. "And I will give you what you want. Or what you need. Which is it to be?"

     He tries for a glower, half successfully. Blue eyes don't lend themselves well to dark glaring. "One yes isn't enough?" Loki asks. His arms unfold, one hand reaching for some stable surface to hold that isn't--you. "You are such a bastard sometimes," he says, in a lower voice. "Would you kiss me already?"

     He laughs at that, and he bends suddenly, a swift swooping that is no less predatory than if it were a knife. He lands, he claims, he takes. Your mouth is parted beneath his, he spreads it wide and makes no pretense in what he is doing.
     It is ravishment, to be sure, and his hand slides into your hair at your nape, his other hand spreading fingers wide over your belly. There is the tingling of winter and the ripeness of the harvest in his kiss, with wine and cloves and forbidden promise.
     And he does not surrender your mouth until he is ready to, pulling back with that smugness that makes you want to hit him. Gwilym holds you against him lazily, with a casual possession that lingers. "You are mine, little priest. And it is only a matter of time until I have you naked and squirming under me. I intend to take you not just once, oes, but repeatedly, so that I hear you moan and gasp and call my name."

     If it's ravishment, it's ravishment that's calling up no resistance, despite any earlier glowering. Loki's hand slides out looking for purchase, lands on your hip and holds there in an uncertain cling. There's nothing uncertain about his open mouth beneath yours.
     When you've pulled back, the loss is distracting enough that he almost doesn't notice the smugness. Almost. "You are so fucking sure of yourself," he says, an accusation without much heat. It's hard to argue against that claim when he's still holding onto you, pressed to your chest as if you might vanish if he loses contact.

     "I don't see any reason why I shouldn't be," Gwilym answers reasonably. His lips tuck at your ear, then return to kiss you again. It is a shorter kiss, teeth tugging at your lower lip to leave it reddened and throbbing before your mouth is freed to your own use again. "I do, after all, have you."
     His hand slides at your stomach again, down this time to palm against your groin. "You are mine, little priest, marked and bound, by your own desire now. Use your desire. It will teach you more than words alone ever can."

     "You never lose arguments. Do you have any idea how annoying that is?" It's a question slipped in after the kiss while he still has the ability to ask. In more ways that one; Loki's caught away from any further complaint by your hand, twitching backward in what might turn into a tumble off your lap if your arm weren't there. (And his own grip, little more than five nervous fingertips resting at your side.) There's no question as to the interest of his body, dreamed or otherwise.

     "I have a notion, oes." Gwilym's eyes glint with his amusement, and he tugs you closer, so that your twitch does not take you anywhere he does not want you to go. "I don't really care, but I have a notion."
     He pats your thigh, then begins to rhythmically rub his palm up and down against your groin, trapping one of your legs by winding his own around it. He bends to whisper in your ear, tugging lightly on your hair to bring your head to a convenient and comfortable angle.
     "I am marking you as mine, little priest, a little more each time we meet. You see, I am not tricking you; I am telling you." His thumb presses in to flick open the top button of your jeans, and the pressure of his palm increases minutely for a moment. "Your arguments aren't really with me. They are with yourself - oh, not because it is a dream, no. But because I know you underneath your skin. And you hate that. But it is something of a relief to you, oes? Because if I know you so well as that, then what happens next is still not your fault, even if it is a little more your fault than if I just took what I wanted."
     His lips travel warmly, grazing from your ear along your jaw to nip at the side of your throat. "But," Gwilym murmurs, "I will not let you take the easy way out, Loki. You would not thank me for it in the long run. And you do not want me to let you, either. It is not what you need And so it is time for you to wake."

     Without any kiss to muffle the sound, the noises Loki's trying not to make at the back of his throat are far more apparent. He's caught between flight and cooperation, shivering at every new touch. "Fucking bastard," he mutters, for any and all of it, but especially for the last declaration you've made.

     "I am, actually. My parents weren't actually married in any legal sense when I was born." Gwilym's grin catches the moonlight, turning silver. "But they were married in the eyes of the magic, and that was all it took."
     His fingers recede like seawater from sand dunes, leaving no mark of their passing but something felt, prickling beneath the surface. Your clothes are left askew, your hair disheveled, and there are the marks of his mouth still on your lip and your throat. "Return to the world of the waking, little priest. When you are ready for more, you will tell me. I have not come into your life to allow you to take the easy way."
     Already, things are beginning to fade at the edges, even as you are lifted to your feet. Gwilym settles back upon the throne, smiling at you with that wickedness and wisdom in his one visible eye. You'll do. You are reconciling yourself to it. You have not even argued tonight about that you are mine.
     Wake...

     It's only a fleeting thought--Actually, that's a good point, and why am I not arguing about that?--as Loki's waking. In his own bed, once again, and all alone.

     Alone, but not unmarked. Mouth and throat alike still bear the signs of Gwilym's kiss...

Posted by rowan at April 21, 2009 08:46 PM