Cleave | Loki x Reader

• VI •

▪︎ siren's call ▪︎

1765, Jennia, Asgard

Loki

In some special kind of peculiar way, the life of an immortal directly translates to this certain Midgardian word I encountered centuries ago.
One most mortals would probably never even suspect, but must be considered the one true, obvious answer when it comes to defining immortal.

Routine.

Gods essentially have obsessive-compulsive disorder, if you will.
They go to war; they feast. They negotiate some peace treaties; they feast. Go to war again, this time allied with the previous sworn enemy – purely for entertainment's sake; you get the gist – conquer some lands together, and then feast.
They may even make some blood brothers along the way and slay some frost giants here and there as a means to some kind of macabre bonding session, only to then end the day with – you guessed it – a feast.

Hence, to say that the experience of 'first times' tends to be forgotten by my people... is an understatement.
We experience first times; we live on; and eventually, we die.
Give or take five thousand years, which might just be considered the crux of said problem.

And yet, in this centuries-old mind of mine, I am still perfectly capable of recalling oh so vividly the exact moment when I first decided to let myself understand what she truly was. All too well.
To quite simply put it in one word: she was a siren.

If, in some other scenario, one were to ask me for, not so quite simply, two words, I would not have been able to stop at a mere two...
Thus, this single one has to suffice. Saying it all, while all the same, nothing at all.

But I digress. Let me start by saying that she was a feisty one. Always has been, always will be.
The day our father decided to send Thor and I on a quest to the desert of Jennia, she, to the surprise of every god in the pantheon, openly rebelled.

Just as we had departed the great hall, within a matter of mere seconds, she was waging war on her kyrtill and slippers – tearing the finery off her body and sending the footwear flying across our heads.
Fortunately for us, Thor and I had managed to duck just in time, and when I faced him I found the perplexed expression mirrored on his face that must've undoubtedly reflected the one on mine.

'Did he really think he could just let me turn fourteen without even the slightest acknowledgement of my well-deserved right to go on a quest? Letting me rot for decades longer, and then suddenly deciding that it's a good idea to send the two of you instead?! The audacity of this man!' she exclaimed.

One forceful tug on the fabric covering her shoulders quickly revealed to us the true purpose of this—rather drastic way of undressing.
Underneath her courtly kyrtill she wore her combat gear. Or at least the parts she'd managed to conceal beneath the silks.

Her chest was heaving up and down mercilessly and her lips were tightly pursed in surpressed rage.
A tense silence hang above our heads, driving her to stomp back into the main halls of the palace, and I prayed, for all of our sakes, for Odin of already having  retired to attend to some other matters of his.

Just when she had slammed the door shut behind her, did Thor and I hasten to press our ears against the narrow opening in-between the two massive sides of the door.
Thank the Norns, she didn't rage at him – respect was one of the things she had already mastered wielding masterfully to her advantage – for we weren't able to discern the precise words she uttered to him. But did we hear her quaver? Far from it.