As a simple farm-girl bargains for her father's life, she must learn how to prepare for the future that continues to haunt her present.
"It's ironic how you speak of cowardice and fear when you hide in the shadows for that very same reason."
"Then t...
He is worthless to all buyers, since he is only capable of invoking the single emotion of pity in a crowd— a sentiment that certainly does not easily burn holes in the coin purse.
If he had yet his once terrifying qualities as in his youth, the auctioneers could not have kept up with the demand, unable to decipher the highest bid amongst the hungry crowd.
If he still had the pompous strength to raise his head above all the viewers present, with an air that proved he fully knew the power of his talons and the dangerous bite of his muzzle, every bidder would shudder in fearful awe. They would recognize the natural instinct to gratify his every desire for power and pleasure—A true tyrant in their midst.
A beautiful terror.
It is hard to say why such a beast would be in such a high demand. Perhaps there are those that wish to harness his strength for their own gain of power. or perhaps there are others who wish to put a rest to such a dangerous creature.
No matter the reason, he would've been of great value before his fall.
But here stood a broken creature, rather than the proud tyrant just described. One who no longer had the strength to engage his animalistic power.
But how did this drastic alteration come about?
Rather than painting the throats of those who stood before him with gore, he instead freely gifted them his fearsome teeth to be fashioned into decorations that placidly hang about the necks of the weak.
He was able to grin a toothless smile, however, believing he had not really lost anything, but somehow gained something in turn for his newfound gentleness.
He then blunted his powerful talons in exchange for the chance to able to hold something that demanded a gentle touch. Little did he know it was never really something he could ever obtain for eternity.
Finally, what had really been the true downfall of this feral creature had been the complete disregard of his natural self-preservation. He had painfully and intentionally ignored that beautiful tyrannical instinct in which had been his measure as long as he roamed the earth.
He had foolishly ignored the demand to seek for his own gain only, so often that it only became a dull nagging whisper in the back of his mind.
So I ask you once again, dear reader:
What is a wounded beast in a cage, such as this one?
A creature which no longer resembles a beast, but a pitiable man with a bleeding heart.
A man who loved once.
A man who still loves, but cannot obtain what he strives for.
At the window of his chambers, there we find that man. Patiently waiting for the return of something he had lost. His hope and despair fought and pulled at each other like rivaling packs, fighting for the dominance of sensation.
How many times had he tried to distract himself from the emptiness she had left in her wake? He only found himself staring out at the same window, waiting for the same outcome he wasn't sure would ever come.
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The rose behind him would silently begin to demand his attention often, tearing him from the window so that he almost became like an oscillating pendulum between those two fixed points.
The main causes of this agonizing routine were still those barking dogs of hope and despair.
But how could that rose not instill hope as it arrogantly stood tall and confident, still glowing with health and fragrance?
It was the gentle and slow fall of the first petal, however, that caused his heart to burn — no, to bleed— even further as despair howled deafeningly within him.
It was with the fall of those sweet petals that he knew her promise was faltering, one that he knew, after what had transpired, should already be dissolved completely.
But because the rose still stood, and had not crumbled completely to ruin at her disappearance, he still frozen in his purgatory, continuously balancing the ever shifting weights of hope and despair.
From the window, to the rose, from the window to the rose.
He contemplated summoning Freya or Thor, maybe they could break this viscous cycle. But he knew that he would ignore them in his strife, they would only hang like ghosts against the walls —A pitying audience to this newfound tragedy.
"What's more tragic than love?"He remembered asking her that one afternoon.
That warm, beautiful afternoon. He hadn't even known he had everything of worth at his grasp, only a faint inkling still overshadowed by his pride.
He could still imagine the slight purse of her lips as she mused his statement, her brown eyes swirling hypnotically with curiosity and sadness.
He had been wrong that day, however.
He could admit that now.
It was wrong of him to place all the fault on sweet and unassuming love. The fault was more within the hearts in which she dared to rest her wing. With such a dark and cold home to rest, it was no wonder she fled when she could.
The tragedy lies in her tragic characters, believing they are only destined for sorrow—and maybe they are. Or perhaps it is that very thinking that scares away the soft trodden approach of happiness, like the dismal snap of a twig, startling the beautiful doe away into the mouth of the forest.
It wasn't his first time to blame others for his wretchedness, and quite honestly, probably not the last.
He could see now, perhaps too clearly, it was his one faults that led to his misfortunes. His pride and the insatiable hunger for glory and power.
Was he destined to continue in that viscious cycle of striving for illusionary happiness ? Was the god of mischief born to only bring ruin not only upon others, but himself? Could he ever avoid what seemed destined to be his birthright and path?
Could a tragic character ever foresee his danger, and amend his way, to be welcomed at last with many blessing and praise into the world of the comedic?
If he had it to do all over again, he would use all his strength to reject this stupid inclination of power and gain, and choose something far more beautiful .
He would choose Evelyn, even if his old desires gnawed at him for eternity, driving him to the precipice of insanity.
He would give up the title of: Loki, the powerful, the ruler, the lonely.
For the small title of: Loki, the loved.
But that was the same sorrowful oath that choked in Othello's throat, as he held his dear Desdemona's lifeless frame.
At least my Evelyn still breaths.
He would not think his story so tragic, after all, so long as she remained thus —although impossibly far from his cursed grasp.
