Red In The Snow : 4

4.
A Memory Of Red




Do you hear that? It’s the sound of battles fought and lives lost. It pained me to know that I am the cause of such despair.

A flashing memory of two boys running through these same woods. Childish quarrels. Echoes of laughter.

Loki closed his eyes.

The Mjolnir slammed into the curve of his cheekbone, into his head. There was a sound like cracking glass. Then blinding light, reflected hundredfold in each icy shard. The shattering screamed through the silence and shook the forest to its very roots.

When Thor regained his senses, he was on his knees, arms limp at his side. And his half-brother was gone.

The sun came in full force to break the shadows of Loki’s magic wintry night. It shone on all that was left of the god of mischief: a smattering of gleaming bluish slivers in the snow. And a memory of deep red eyes, red as blood against the snow.

It was some time before Thor was able to pick himself up and lift the weapon that had annihilated his sibling. He stumbled to the spot where Loki had knelt, still as an ice sculpture, just minutes before.

“No words will ever express this moment, brother,” he whispered. “So I won’t try.”

He gathered the fine shards in his large hunter’s hands; then watched as they melted away, leaving nothing but a cold wetness in his palms. He trembled. Roaring, weeping, he pounded the ground before him.

That was when he felt the hard glass surface.

* * *

The great Mirror showed Heimdall the mighty warrior kneeling in the snow, still as a sentinel himself. His golden hair and crimson cloak were vivid against the white.

The Mirror-keeper bowed his head. He knew the truth. Let it lie with the hunter, and the hunted. Let the passing of time bring what time may.

He looked again into the swirling depths of the mirror to see an unchanging future.

* * *

Three seasons had passed. There were times when the hunter felt tiny insects burrowing into the folds of his clothes, trying to make a home on the vines that had begun to grow over him. He would not welcome them. Neither would he budge.

He was a rock; relentless, soundless. A guardian awaiting the world’s end, or the end of his life, whichever came first. Let the grass grow and the beasts forage. They did not disturb him, nor he them.

HIs abandoned weapon lay by his side. Roots and leafy tendrils had locked it into place as they had locked him. Together they would ensure no one violated that which he guarded.

Before him, encased in glass and magic, was the still figure of a broken god. The very enchantment that had saved him now also imprisoned him. Impenetrable magic. Truly, Loki’s last work had been his finest.

Thor closed his eyes and dreamt of shadow-realms where hope lurked still.

~