I said i was gonna rant and by the gods im gonna rant
[This is not gonna make sense and more me shrieking at the gods cus Loki is my blorbo and i hate that Rick fucked up and made him abusive when the first book was litterally implying that he cares about his kids and making him sympathetic.]
Love how i completely forgot Heimdall was there too between reading this in school and getting home lmao. My phone guy is just that forgettable.
ALSO THATS WHY YOUR DOING THIS? THATS THE REASON YOUR GOING WITH RICK?
They got roasted too hard so theyre gonna kill two innocent kids, mulitate their corpses and use those corpses to chain their father while dripping acid on him?
It was (slightly) more understandable when it was cus Baldur (even tho hes probably happier with Hel anyways) died.
Cus like an eye for an eye.... (even tho that was much more than an eye, more like two eyes, a heart and a leg.)
Actually no scratch that killing Baldur technically was an eye for an eye if you think about it.
(Odin took three of Loki's kids, Loki took his son, his daughter in law and then the same son again when he refused to cry to bring him back. Thats also three. Thats one of the reasons i excuse Baldur dying)
I know Magnus probably either didn't realise what was going on here or if he did it didnt register in his brain the whole story. Which, fair enough, directly after this he listens to Kvasir getting cut up by a chainsaw (good, its clear if it weren't for him Loki, Narvi, Vali and Sigyn would've been probably fine) and then watches Alex get thrown out by his.....sperm donor. So what happens to Loki is not at the top of his concerns rn but i really hope he confronts Frey about it later. Cus Magnus has been shown to emphasize with Loki on this. AND THOSE WERE FUCKING CHILDREN! AND THEY WERE KILLED BECAUSE THEY WERE LOKI'S CHILDREN!
WHO ELSE ARE CHILDREN OF LOKI THAT HE CARES DEEPLY ABOUT?
SAMIRAH AND ALEX
Basically i want Magnus to yell at the gods the way Percy does. Because like Luke everything was probably WAS the gods fault.
And before you come at me with the whole 'prophecy has to happen' thing. Save your breath because most of you have no problem with blaming the gods when it came to luke in pjo and this is kinda similar.
Who was to say that Fenris, Hel and Jörmungandr would have caused ragnarok if the Aesir (mostly Odin) didnt take them from their home and seperate them?
Whos to say Loki would start Ragnarok if Odin didnt break their oath and take his children?
Or :
Let his mouth get sewn shut after he got everyone shit (Sif's new hair, Mjollnir, Draupnir, Gungnir, Skidbladnir and Gullinbursti) because suddenly oaths matter now, Odin.
Kill his innocent children (its not stated in myth or mcga how old Narvi and Vali were/are but the general consensus is that they were young), possibly made him watch said children get murdered (Sword of summer its stated by Loki that the gods watched in amusement as Vali disemboweled Narvi but that could be hyperbole) and had a snake drip acid onto his face.
If there was any good in Loki at any point (which there might be. He actually seems pretty chill in sword of summer) then its been snuffed out now.
Thanks Odin.
You signed your death warrant.
Whats that saying again?
He who tries to prevent fate is doomed to cause it?
Or something like that i cant remember the phrase.
I have more to say yet i cant quite articulate it. So im gonna end it here.
Also i am really in the mood for writing a oneshot of the day they caught Loki in Loki's—or maybe Sigyn's? Pov.
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FFXIVWrite 2022, Free Prompt #1: A Ferryman, But No Obol
She thinks about him sometimes; the heavy whuff of his horse's breathing, the sharp green tang of broken sproutlings underhoof, the poised, gentlemanly way he so nobly accompanied her to the edge of his domain.
No, not accompanied. Escorted, as though he'd taken her by the arm and guided her to the vine-choked gates of a manor long strangled and straitjacketed by nature. As though he'd clung to courtesy as his estate crumbled, no matter the manor to which he might have been born.
And always, always, a scalpel in her mind, slicing ever deeper to seek what made her Victoria. Always that insatiable slicing, gouging, digging, prying, over over and over.
Are you worthy, child?
Will you be?
Will we ride joyous together until my blade pierces your breastplate and yours pierces my throat?
Will we die together, exhilarated, unless one of us walks away?
Or will you don my mantle and title after the end?
She stumbles from pain and exhaustion, fumbling clumsily for something to hold on - anything - and the cool tree bark against her burning, infection-fiery cheek is almost enough to make her cry. Solus, Hell, fucking anything, the relief the relief please--
A black-gauntleted arm circles her gently round the waist-- no no no no no please she's so tired, she can't fight anymore--
--and calm and sure-handed lifts her into the saddle, no matter her increasingly feeble struggles.
Victoria could kill him. Victoria could kill him right now, reach down and pull her boot knife from its sheath and slam it frenzied through the gaps in his gorget again and again and again and again. Over and over until he lies in a pool of foul blood and she stands above him an eikon-killer like Solus in his prime, radiant and blazing in ferocious glory.
But she is so tired.
So weak, with the infection setting her blood afire.She doesn't have it in her, brutality like that. She never has. She doubts she ever will. Her killings are distant, remote, and if pressed up close, as cool and efficient as she's been drilled to be.
So she rides instead, swaying gently in the saddle as the eikon keeps her upright with one cold and courteous arm. As though he's attentive, if things like that are capable of being mindful of others they have yet to make pawns. When her fingertips drift towards his sword, a black and twisted thing that calls, that cajoles her to take it, he gently takes her hand and rests it on the dark and weather-worn cantle of his saddle.
Days and days, and no wildlife. No grunting deer. No rooting boars. No birdsong. Her companion is lord of the forest, and his subjects give him a wide berth.
The horse - Sleipnir, how did she know that, he's never said a word - never stumbles once. And yet, at each stony patch or potruding snarl of roots, she clings determined to the saddle. The eikon's arm tightens around her middle or shoulders, whether possessive or protective; her injuries are not hard to miss, yet he seems to take care to mind them. With each lurch or wobble, a pulse of (idle? rueful? fond?) amusement echoes through her brain she knows is not her own. There are moments where Victoria isn't certain whether she's a trophy or a prisoner.
The eikon, in his silence, provides no answer one way or the other.
He never does, not even when they reach the sun-streaked borders of the Shroud and he so nobly, so gently, so gallantly helps her down from his monstrous steed.
After days of pain and trauma and raw, near-blinding fear, Victoria struggles to find the words.
"Thank you," she rasps.
The horseman graciously inclines his head.
Do you see what I see in you, little huntsman?
Little Odin-that-might-be?
Victoria has no answers, and gives him none in turn.
The Lord of the Hunt bows in his saddle, regal and elegant, and turns his steed to ride majestic into his demesne.
Two wars and half a lifetime later, Victoria Castellus still wonders if she dreamed of riding with Odin Himself.
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