The Invisible String Theory

Chapter 8 - Tethered Silence

I flinched.

"You're alone," The Hollow said, voice like wet stone grinding against itself. "You always were."

"No," I whispered, forming a shield of light–thin, barely holding. "I still have–"

"What? Hope?"  The Hollow laughed– a sound that shook the air. "There's nothing left of your people. You gave everything. And for what? He still left you."

My magic sparked, faltered. "Loki– he didn't–"

"He used you. And now... you're mine."

It lunged.

I ducked, shield snapping around me, the impact knocking me into the debris. The pain flared in my spine. I rolled over quickly and struck upward, purple light lashing across its chest– but it absorbed it.

Still– I continued to fight.

I summoned on everything that I had, or tried to. But it felt distant now– like a locked room just beyond my reach. The Hollow was too strong, and I was so tired. The unbalanced magic within cracked and lashed like a storm trapped in a bottle.

I weaved in and out of the broken pillars, launching radiant bolts with shaky hands. The Hollow's claws missing by mere inches, tearing into stone. My foot caught on a vine of corrupted magic growing from the floor– and I stumbled.

That's when it struck.

Its claws pierced into my chest, latching on what's inside. Draining the last threads of my  life essence like wine spilled over the altar of a dying god.

I was beginning to fade.

The Hollow wrapped around me like a shroud, my vision darkened at the edges.

"...Loki..."

And then–

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Loki's POV

It had been two days since the severing.

And still, she lingered. Not in the way she had before– but in dreams, in breath, in moments he couldn't escape.

Loki sat alone on a cold slab beneath the stars, the Asgardian sky too clear, too still. He hadn't gone back to the palace. He couldn't. Not after what he'd done.

He'd told himself it was for both of them. He told himself it was mercy.

But he felt nothing merciful about it now.

He hadn't dreamed of her since the bond had snapped– until tonight.

This dream was not like the others.

It wasn't a vague echo of some other her in some other world. It was her. His enchantress. The last version. His version. In the vision, she was screaming– fighting something he couldn't see, her magic spiraling wildly. The Hollow towered over her, claws plunging into her chest. She was breaking apart right before him, dissolving into dust. Her lips moved. She was calling his name.

He woke up with a jolt. Cold sweat clung to him. His breath caught in his throat. "It's not real," he whispered. "It's not–"

Then the pain hit.

A sharp, soul-deep agony bloomed in his chest. It felt like someone had torn through him from the inside out. Not just grief. Not just regret.

Real.

He knew it. The connection– whatever fragment remained– was screaming.

He rose to his feet, barely steady, and summoned a portal with the pendant in his trembling hand. His voice cracked through the world as he opened a rift– to her.

To Elyndor.

He didn't know what he would find. But he knew what he feared.

The moment he crossed over, he saw her.

Suspended in the air, limbs limp– her body surrounded by the Hollows obsidian claws. It was wrapped around her like a parasite, draining her light. Her head slumped forward, her mouth open in a silent cry. Magic bled from her  like threads of dying starlight.

And for the first time in centuries, Loki screamed.

"Miravyn!"

Power surged from him before thought could catch it– wild, furious, desperate. The ground cracked beneath his boots, his eyes glowing with a vicious emerald fire. With a flick of his hands, he snapped a rune into the air that exploded outward. The Hollow stilled mid-drain, its head snapping toward him– just before Loki's blast struck it dead-on.

There was no time for clever tricks.

Only rage.

The spell wrapped the Hollow in coils of illusion– a prison forged not from deception, but from raw truth twisted. The Hollow shrieked, caught in the binding. He didn't know how long it would hold. Didn't care.

Because she was falling. Her body dropped like stone, the world moving too slow.

"No- no, no–" Loki blinked to her, catching her just before she hit the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of him, his knees slamming into the cracked earth, but he barely noticed. Her head lolled against his shoulder, breath too shallow, magic dim.

"Stay with me," he breathed, clutching her tighter. "Please, stay with me–"

Her blood smeared against his tunic. His shaking hand pressed against the wound at her chest. His fingers trembled. His whole body trembled.

He choked, the weight of it all collapsing on his chest. The severing. The silence. Her face in the dream, contorted in pain. And now– this.

His eyes darted desperately, searching for anything that might help– until he saw it.

The relic.

A faint shimmer caught the corner of his eye, half-buried beneath rubble and dust.

He didn't hesitate.

With a cry, he flung out his hand, summoning the relic with a surge of magic. It flew to him like a comet, burning against his palm as he caught it.

"Please–" he turned to her slightly in his arms, pressing the stone against her chest where the Hollow had struck. "Come back. Come back to me."

For a heartbeat, nothing. The relic pulsed– one slow, deliberate beat. Another.

Then golden threads began to unravel from its center, seeping into her chest like veins of light finding their home. The magic kissed her skin, drawing into her, weaving itself into the fibers of her being.

She gasped.

Loki nearly collapsed in relief.  A choked sound escaped his throat as he leaned forward, his hand still pressed to the relic at her chest.

But then–

Her hand closed over his. And slowly she pulled it away.

Her gaze, still hazy with pain and magic, met his– and something unspoken passed between them.