california 02 // loki's romanoff prelude

three // preparations

The next morning, Loki looked at himself in the mirror.

Sif and Thor together had destroyed his face. It looked like a nuclear wasteland. His right eye was purple and swollen. His nose was covered in plaster, but the skin around it was the colour of butter, and there was a red scrape on his forehead. It looked painful.

He ran his fingers along it. His pale, unpainted fingers. He might as well paint them now - he looked a freak either way. But he had thrown away his nail varnish.

Angrily, he fetched his boots from where he had kicked them off last night, and was strapping them up when his mother walked into the room.

He met her eyes. She met his.

He looked away. He heard her soft moan from the doorway.

'Good morning, Mother,' he said. 'I think you look pretty today. How do I look?'

She had put her hands to her mouth, but now she lowered them.

'Oh, my son,' she said. She held out her arms and he wasn't a baby, he wasn't, but he walked straight into them. She was smaller than him by quite a lot, but he knew he was safe in her arms. Nobody would hurt him here. He almost wanted to cry, but the tears didn't come.

She leaned back finally to examine his face, her warm fingers tracing the shape of his bones. He shut his eyes. Her touch was a butterfly's - light and skilled and gentle.

'The swelling will go down in a day or so,' she whispered. 'Your nose, however -'

'It's broken.'

'Yes.'

'How long?'

'A few days more, maybe.' She sighed, stroking his cheek. 'Oh, my son. Whatever possessed you in that ring?'

He opened his eyes. 'Did Thor not tell you?'

'He told me of a fight, and your invisibility spell. And . . .' she hesitated. 'He mentioned the Lady Sif.'

Loki shuddered. He slid her hands off his face.

'She has sent her condolences,' went on his mother, 'and she has expressed her sadness that you will not be participating in the upcoming race -'

He froze.

'What?'

She shook her head. 'I told her that you might still be able to, but I thought you would not want to compete in the -'

'No. No,' he said. 'No. I want to race. I want to!'

'Loki, look at your poor face.'

'You don't understand,' he muttered, teeth clenched.

'Then help me to.'

He didn't reply. Instead, he went to the mirror, and checked his hair. It stuck out in every direction. 'Can you do my hair?' he asked, offering her his comb.

'Of course.'

She sat him down on his bed in front of her, and as she combed his hair, she sighed, 'Your hair is so beautiful, Loki.'

He frowned. 'Do you think so?' He winced as she tugged a little too hard at one of his tangles. 'Ouch.'

'Sorry. And truly, I think so.'

'It isn't blond.'

'No, it isn't,' she agreed, as she combed. 'It's black. It's so black. It's black as the bottom of the ocean. As a raven. And smoother than silk. It's the colour of night time . . . and dancing shadows . . . and charcoal for fires . . .'