♤The Conqueror's Dagger♤

~Chapter 13: Crystal Clear~

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From the moment he found himself staring at the huge double doors, he knew there was no turning back. As intimidating as they were, he grasped the knobs of both doors as he and Sylvie had before, and pulled them open, revealing the looming halls that he'd been through once before. He didn't even stop to think. He simply began to run.
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He kept on running. The air was stale, energy pulsating from the cracked walls, coming off in waves. His senses were getting overwhelmed with the aura. His aura. His lust as dark as storm clouds, almost suffocating him. But no Sprite. He couldn't feel her at all. And he was giving himself a migraine trying to. But his mother taught him all too well on what that meant. And it meant he had to hurry. Now, he urged his weary and trembling legs onwards as if they were horses in need of encouragement. He shivers and pulls his tunic tighter around him and starts to walk now, heading into the thick and unbreathable mist that made the room resemble a smoke lounge. As soon as he stepped through, he felt faint and his eyes watered. The air smelled dank, reminding him of the River Thames where unidentifiable things rotted away under the sun. It was putrid and oddly- what was that word Midgardians used? Ah, yes, nostalgic. He put a hand to his nose, the stone on his ring scratching him gently. He ignored his roiling stomach and the rising bile in his throat. He reached out with one hand, groping for something to hold on to. He'd come too far to be indisposed because of mist. He eventually steaded himself against the wall, moving onwards. As he went on walking, time seemed to move much slower. The smell grew weaker and more distant. His bare feet screamed in protest from the strain they were forced to endure. But instead of pausing, he ran blindly again through the cloud of mist. His still-healing ribs began to join the screaming match with his feet. His head began to pound. The silence was deafening, the sound of his feet hitting the floor was the only thing that could be heard. He strained his senses yet again, knowing that he would be drained of energy the following day. If there even was another day. He would let the Gods decide. He turned a sharp corner, narrowly avoiding hitting a wall. Here, the mist began to subside. He slowed down and began to walk once more, his breathing and heart settling. He observed his surroundings, taking in the familiarity of them. He found himself stepping into a vast room, and taking a shaky breath. He was finally here. His breath formed a small cloud in the air, and despite the fact that he couldn't feel it, he knew the room had to be below freezing. From one part of the room, an eerie little tune broke the silence. He looked around, trying to find the source of the sound. His eyes landed on the desk they'd sat near. He walked towards it and scanned the surface. He carefully picked up the small box that was perched at the edge of the desk. He observed it, the music causing it to shake in his hands. It took a few moments to remember his daughter's 7th birthday, her wide eyes gleaming with childish curiosity as he handed her the box, and her gleeful laugh when she opened it to reveal the small wooden dancer. The music suddenly trailed off, the room abruptly thrown into silence. A sudden shudder rain down his back, his senses alert, urging him to turn around. A figure stood before the wall, their back turned, head bent, their attention solely on the book in their hands. "Hello?" Loki approached slowly, then stopped at a sudden wetness under his feet. His looked down his breathing hitching. Crimson stained the marble floor, spreading out like a puddle. He looked up at the figure. "Who are you?" He asked. The figure stopped flipping through the pages, and closed the book. Loki swallowed past a lump in his throat. A feeling of dread formed in his gut. "Sprite?" The figure finally turned around. "Hello, Father."