I was born sickbut I love it
He supposes, once upon a time, he was a relatively normalized version of a child (in the days between birth and his mother’s first blow, in the hours that he craved the milk his dam provided, in the weeks between lingering near her side and adventuring into the forest nearby). His mind shudders upon thinking he might have once cried for his mother during his immature life. Such dependence is a weak, pitiful thing. The trickster is thankful none of the sluts he filled ever brought back the result of their standings (he doesn’t know what he would do even if they did).
Children are life-sucking, frightening creatures and that’s supposed to be his job.
The darkness soothes him. He’s been missing (yes, missing; as surprising and weak as that sounds) the constant shadow and devilish silence of the Valley. Despite lying in constant slumber for the past nine years (cocooned against the security of a bundle of tree trunks, shrouded in the protection of decaying leaf matter and tangled brush, hidden by preprogrammed tricks to make passing travelers unaware), the trickster much prefers the cool and quiet of the nighttime to the warm hustle-bustle of the sun’s life.
He doesn’t appear to be the only one with the same thoughts. The sun has well since succumbed to the temporary death of the hills when he spots her. She stands alone, nestling against the chilly arms of the darkness. The trickster wouldn’t have noticed her in her silence if it hadn’t been for the light of her markings. He considers pulling a trick on her (he considers shrouding her eyes in darkness and killing the light from the moon and stars) but decides against it.
Instead, he slides up beside her. Skinny legs (legs not yet recovered from starvation for nine years) come to a shaky halt. His long side brushes against hers and he grins at her out of the corner of his eye. “You look too pretty to be out here at night.” He’s ever the original one, we all know.
LOKII
