He decides he likes her (he likes the way she is a wolf hiding among the sheep; he likes the snake-like charm in her swirling eyes; he likes the way her voice purrs out like an enchanter of his desires) and it makes him thoughtful. The trickster often finds those he likes, but rarely those who like him. He often walks the world with the sharp gazes of those who don’t understand or appreciate him following him. Her gaze isn’t sharp (at least sharp in the manner of anger and hurt and disgust and pointed knives aimed toward his chest) and it draws him in.
Although he is great and tricky and unlovable, there is still an inkling of that little boy deep inside just yearning for someone to care about him.
There is a roar in his ears, suddenly, like the entirety of the world is running away and leaving them behind. Turning his bruised eyes (blue and white, blue and black, both mixed with a concoction of curiosity and mischief) toward the world around them, he senses the impending seal crash over their heads. They are hiding in a chamber of secrecy, now (and his lips dance into a charismatic smirk upon finally reaching the main event).
And then her voice is in his mind, velvet smooth bouncing against the folds of his brain and against the back of his eyelids. He’s performed the trick before (casting his own voice into the mind of another, although the trick is a sensory illusion and his voice never came across just perfect – because he is not a master of magic, but of illusions, and he can never seem to reach seamless perfection) so it doesn’t startle him, but then his eyes are seeing images of the future. Fire and chaos and destruction and things that should not come from the mind of a light kingdom’s queen and yet they do.
His smile increasingly grows.
Her proposition reminds him of the Jungle’s secret service (and he pictures the golden-eyed warrior’s scarred and burned chest) but it doesn’t scare him. It thrills him, terrifies him in the way that a suicide might terrify a murderer, sends chills down his spine. His lips curl into a ruthless, excited smile. The sandstorms around his ankles begin to grow, snaking around his forelegs and growing in size in response to his adrenaline.
“You’re not exactly the light-hearted queenie everyone thinks you are, eh? That’s sexy.”
And then, “Count me in, queenie.”
Lokii
the tricky god of chaos