Perses [Loki]

Nine

Ariasite.

The arrowhead was dipped in ariasite.

It is the most beautiful of poisons, its sheen reminiscent of molten gold or the most expensive of divine nectars. For millennia it has been depicted in art and literature as the most fatal and harrowing toxin, able to snuff out an immortal life over the span of just a few short hours.

Ariasite: the god-killer.

It is believed that godheads with pure bloodlines can survive its wrath, given they are in good health and are within the universe's favor. Lesser gods and goddesses, though, are not so lucky. Namely myself, whose  divinity is hardly enough to secure my immortality, let alone protect me from such torture.

The moment the poison kisses my flesh, I am overcome with the sensation of a thousand bees stinging my skin over and over and over again. The pain blossoms from the entry point of the arrow and then spreads rapidly across the entirety of my body.

Perhaps if it were a plain arrow I could remain standing. But it is not, and I am too overcome by the sudden paralyzation of pain that I do not feel my head hit the ledge where the palace's polished stone gives way to gravel. I am too shocked to speak, to scream, to move. Over and over again the bees sting me, only they're not bees at all. The sensation snakes up my throat and cuts off my airway, or at least I think it does. If I am breathing I cannot feel it. Everything is on fire— the tips of my ears, the backs of my knees, the tops of my feet. The epicenter of the pain is where it is the worst, and I fear that the gold I saw was fire rather than ariasite. Only I know better; being burned alive would not hurt this much.

Loki is standing over me, I think. There are several of him. Four, to be exact. And they all look the same. I blink and there's two. I try to say his name, but I can't. It's as though I've forgotten how to speak.

He is speaking, I think. But I can't hear him. The paralyzation worsens with each passing second. I can not move my arms, nor my legs, nor my lips. I am afraid that even my eyes will cease moving.

He presses a hand to my cheek. It hurts, incredibly so. I think a guttural sound escapes my lips, but I can't be sure. He snatches his hand away, and I suppose that he is recalling everything he knows about the forsaken poison. About how his touch worsens it tenfold.

The expression on his face is unlike any I've seen before, and I realize with great sorrow that it is one of grief.

My dearest friend, I think, my only friend, watching me die.

And die I will.

Loki is yelling now, knelt over my body. I think there are guards, and maybe Frigga. Only when she steps out onto the gravel, Loki is screaming at her to return inside.

In an instant Loki has my head in the crook of one his elbows and his other elbow beneath my legs. He hoists me up. Each centimeter of contact is excruciating, and perhaps by sheer will I am able to momentarily break through the paralyzation.

Merely long enough to scream. The cry gets his attention, and within the next breath—

We are no longer outside at all. Whiteness creeps into the corners of my vision, starting on the peripheral and working its way inward. By the time he lays me down (and I think he does, because the stinging mellows out), I can no longer see anything.

"Ariasite." Loki says, and a dozen voices echo it, the rest of the conversation lost on me.

I've always known I would die, for saying something won't only ensures that it will. Immortality is a suggestion rather than a rule, and regardless I never follow rules. I did not, however, expect death to be so cruel. I expected it to be a kiss, gentle and fleeting. I expected to close my eyes in one moment and open them again in the afterlife. I thought perhaps I'd choose it. I thought I might tire of Mactus and my parents and my siblings and make myself one with the sea, where the nymphs and salt lords live. At one point, I even considered Thionesses ripping me apart limb for limb and the goddess of death having to collect me piece by piece to drag me to the afterlife. Even that would be better than this.

An involuntary scream tears through my throat as someone dislodges the arrow from my stomach. Only it is not that act of removing the arrow that hurts, but rather the stinging that worsens. Now I am not only being burned by fire, I am also being burned by ice. Ice and fire and a million angry hornets. The scream dies, my throat tightens once more. I can not see, and I panic, but I am confined to my body. My body that is on fire, that I can not move. That I will die in.

Finally, finally, the pain recedes. Or does it? No, it does not. My body is growing accustomed to it. No, I'm dying. No, I'm already dead.

I search the endless white for anything, but I still can't see.

The stinging recedes, as does my vision. The white fades to black. And then finally, there is peace. Gentle, pleasant peace.

Just as I imagined it.

I can not hear anything; not Loki's voice, or my screams, or the sound of my heart thudding against my chest. I can not see, and my string of thoughts are isolated.

It won't be long now. 

I consider my life, unnaturally short for an immortal. Have I wasted it? The question inspires a moment of panic before another thought follows, extinguishing it. No, for I've made a friend, and that is an accomplishment that I can be proud of.

And when I meet Hela, and she asks if I carry with me any regrets, I will be able to tell her no.

 I will not be lying.

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a/n: o.0 this girl is on fire

is two updates in one day overkill bc i couldn't wait