fel dreams

 

It’s a sweet little song and dance, familiar, and it goes a little something like this:

 

destroy.

 

It hums in the blood, brings a smile to Loki’s face–a beatific smile, a smile that makes his eyes gentle and kind, the same smile he says “Are you sure?” with–and damned if it doesn’t make Tony want to go to one knee and swear fealty all over again. He almost does, but he stops because despite the suit he’s aware there’s one long-fingered and gloved hand resting on his arm.

 

“Very good,” Loki murmurs.

 

Tony pulls his helmet off and sucks in a deep breath, tastes ash and smoke, heat smothering his skin, and closes his eyes for a moment. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes–alive, whole, well. This–smoke and fire and ash, rubble and ruin–is something holy, is the altar he prays at as much as he does Loki’s flesh, and vaguely, distantly, a part of him is horrifed but most of all he feels–

 

Peace.

 

(To think he’s found religion in the world burning.)

 

The trick to being cursed is to make sure no one knows what the curse is. Vampires, werewolves, they tipped their hands too easy, and look at them–hidden, cowering, in the shadows trying to manipulate human media to instill fear and instead they get glitter.

 

Honestly now. It’s enough to drive a monster to drink.

 

Of course, it’s easier for no one to know your curse if you don’t go blabbing about it to the first human that shows a bit of sympathy–really, what was Dracula thinking?–and, in fact, it’s much more difficult to protect oneself against what one doesn’t know too. It works out for the best all around.

 

That way, when they do encounter you, right before you kill them, right before you feast on every thought and dream and nightmare in their head, they don’t have the faintest idea how to defeat you.

 

An ideal world indeed

 

(Because a curse is a weakness, and a weakness known is a way to control, contain, tame, and knowing how to tame means they aren’t afraid, and then…

 

well then you starve.)

 

A lot of people think Tony doesn’t know much about love. Bruce knows Tony will be the first to say so–“stop being sentimental, what was that again, you know, that one person, a cellist I think”–but Bruces watches, and he knows that Tony’s lying just as much to himself as he is to everyone else.

 

When Steve shows up, Tony’s there before the rest of them are even aware there’s something that could possibly be wrong.

 

And Bruce knows just whose townhouse it actually was that Tony gave to them with a wave of his hand and “what, oh you know, just laying around, I wasn’t using it, go ahead, take it, you two will use it more than I ever will.” Tony knows when their anniversary is, birthdays, and every other date that means anything to them, knows Loki’s favourite foods and Steve’s favourite beers and when liberal application of one or the other is required.

 

Tony might claim not to love, but Bruce has been around long enough to know better.

 

“When’s it gonna grow?” she asked from where she was crouched by the freshly turned patch of dirt.

 

“When it’s ready,” her mother said. “Come on, Lillian, let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

“What if it grows when I’m gone? I wanna see it grow,” Lillian complained, but she followed her mother inside, casting one last glance back.

 

Every day after school she would stop and look and poke at the dirt.

 

Every day, the dirt remained only that: a patch of dirt.

 

“When’s it gonna grow?” she asked.

 

“When it’s ready,” her mother would say.

 

Lillian frowned and scowled, but the dirt stayed only dirt.

 

 

Someone–he’s not sure who, only knows their scent and not their name–brings him books. 

 

They aren’t supposed to, he knows. No one is supposed to. And sometimes no one does–bring him things, he means. Sometimes, he goes so long without things that his stomach aches and gnaws at his insides and all he can do is dream of the taste of anything.

 

He knows their scent, and he thinks they are kindest of his keepers–when they watch, he is given books, and food, and sometimes new clothes.

 

For this keeper, he will gift a swift and painless death. Perhaps snap their neck in one bite, or crush their head in a clean blow. Maybe even–when he is particularly generous, when a new book has just arrived and he fumbles and pours over the words, mouth and fingers sticky with honey cakes left with the book–he will let them live until they are old, and then kill them, before they grow too infirm.

 

The mortals still tell stories about him. They say he is the dangers of power unrestrained. They say he is strong, and he will occasionally flex the muscles beneath the silvery chain that ties him to the wall and think how if he were truly strong he would not be so leashed. They say one day he will escape, and that he will kill Odin Father, and sometimes–when his favourite keeper has been kept away and his stomach aches and he feels most mad–sometimes he can already taste the sweetness of Odin Father’s blood.

 

The mortals do not talk about what was done to Jormungandr. They do not talk of Asgard’s treachery and the taunts, the teasing, whispers of bastard and mutt.

 

They do at least say how Asgard tried to trick him and chain him, and he still remembers the not-nearly satisfying enough crunch of Tyr’s bones.

 

One day, he thinks, he shall finish the job.

 

He does not think himself dangerous, for he is not. He will not attack unless provoked–but Asgard provoked and provoked and provoked and he will gladly tear them apart when he is free.

 

He wishes he were the one who swallowed the moon.

 

This–the promise of destroying Asgard–is the only way he finds he can forgive Da, Da who has a new family, Da who has forgotten him, who has not found him, who has never once stepped foot here, and were he to see Da, he might tear him limb from limb, and do it with great gladness, because it is cold, and he ishungry, and he has fury in him the likes of which only Nidhogg might understand. But when Da comes, he will bring the promises of blood and death and bones, and so he can forgive him, for now, long enough to focus outwards–and once he has tasted Odin Father’s blood, then he shall taste Da’s, and he dreams of how much sweeter it will taste than anything else.

 

Then, last of all, he will kill the kind one, and because he is generous, it will be swift.

 

And it was simple, wasn’t it? Simple except for when it wasn’t, but that’s how these things go. Simple until they aren’t, and then eventually things swing back.

 

Everyone always thinks that there’s some magic trick to creative works. Everyone thinks that there’s something an author is holding back. It doesn’t how much everyone tells them no, no, no trick. Just do because these people will never hear it. Maybe they’re too young, too impatient, just looking for a reason why that person is talented when they aren’t.

 

Talent is something created. She makes her own talent, just as anyone does.

 

Talent is one word after another, rain or shine. It’s habit. It’s picking up the pen when you feel like there’s not a word left in your body to put down words.

 

We are our own worst enemies. We find reasons not to do. We buy books on how to write, what the trick is, but you don’t need them. Maybe one day, when you’re trying to improve, sort out style and all of that, but at the core, the very first thing you need is to write.

 

That simple.