I was born sickbut I love it
He dreams deeply. His mind is filled with too many thoughts, too many memories, too many emotions (there is a pink queen laughing in delight as the world swirls around her, there is a golden-eyed warrior dancing before his eyes, there is a flash of lightning and the hot feeling of blood wiped across his face, there is his zombie-like alter ego swaggering closer, there is the kingdom burning beneath his broken knees, there is a powerful magician offering him a job, there is a bloodied heart unmoving and then squishing between his dulled teeth). Too many thoughts, too many memories, too many emotions. He is drowning in them (he breathes them in, he breathes them out, his heart beats them, his blood screams them, his body shakes them).
He wakes with a gasp of chilled surprise. In dreaming beneath a snow-heavy tree (and in his shaking, squirming, shuddering he had shook the tree’s sturdiness), he had allowed the branches to shower their loads upon his shoulders. The trickster startles, immediately resuming a grouchy mood. His dreams were full and wild and chaotic and his wakefulness is dreary and painful and cold. The gaunt silver bay shakes the snow off his shoulders, the image of the golden-eyed Amazonian pressing against his closed eyelids.
“Fuck it,” he growls. He moves away from the tree before sleep raunchily seduces him again and heads deeper into the meadow. The snow crunches under his hooves as he walks (his steps are slightly limping yet smooth, a unique sort of movement that lurches him along) with his nose low to the ground. He knows he won’t be able to sniff out much grass (the snow pricks at his olfactories like a piercing knife and it blocks out any warm and earthy scents) but he has nothing better to do at the moment.
LOKII
