IMDB flu season

[never_promised]

Loki wakes in someone else's room with a headache. Which isn't so strange. But whose room, how, why? Absolute blankness. No answers. No memory. That's strange. And there's no one else here.

Survey of the room: small. Boring. Ugly. Books on a table by the bed. Doors that presumably lead to closet, hallway, washroom. Clothes scattered around, leather and cloth. A crown sitting on top of a dresser, in front of a mirror.

It isn't until he looks into the mirror that he panics--and it isn't even seeing his face framed with reddish-brown hair, a beard, a scar on one cheek. It's when he flexes his mind to change back to himself and nothing happens, that's when the panic comes in. He stares at his hands, wills them into another form, and nothing happens. The face in the mirror stays the same, the hair, the beard, the nightshirt, nothing changes, and that's--terrifying.

In fact, he can't do anything. Anything at all. He can't stretch his mind past this ugly little room, can't make this physical body do anything more than its most base animal functions. Blink his eyes. Grimace. Laugh. Stand on tiptoes. Jump a few inches. Lift a book, lift a chair, can't lift the bed. Bite his lip until it bleeds. Smile. Frown.

Wipe away the blood.

Strip.

Find new clothes: red velvet robe, leather boots. Dagger. That draws blood too.

Walk to the doorway--and wait, no, not yet.

Pick up that crown, place it on his head. Frown. Smile. Wipe away the blood again--just how fragile is this body? He feels awful, headachy, everything-achy, weak, too hot and too cold.

Frown, smile.

Walk downstairs.

Survey his new territory.



(("Loki" here is coming mentally from the same timeline/universe as our Thor, in a headachy flu-ish way.))

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

There's a rather striking blonde individual sitting on the rug by the fire, singing softly to himself as he folds paper into complex little flowers.

[never_promised]

Noted. The flash of blond hair catches his eye a moment longer than anything else--just a moment, just long enough to register as almost-familiar and then not. Striking, yes, but there had been just that split second where he'd expected armor, hammer, broad shoulders, heir-to-the-throne swagger.

Loki watches anyway, and after a bit strolls over. Little paper flowers. "I used to do that when I was a child."

[thewidewideworld]

Physically Sinric is as unlike Thor as it is possible to be. Small and soft and delicate. He smiles up at the man, eyes widening a touch a the crown.

Lowering his head in a graceful bow, he offers up single tightly folded bud. "A gift, in honour of your childhood games."

As Loki takes it, the bud will open and bloom into colour. There's just a touch of magic rolled into it.


{ooc: begging slowtime. I'm just about to crash}

[never_promised]

"Nice."

Loki doesn't openly grimace--but he should be able to do that. Himself. Take the twist of paper, make it bloom. Toss it into the air and make it turn into a bird. (Seemingly.) But all he has are these stupid useless fingers.

(Well, not so useless. A roll of his wrist and the paper bloom disappears, just your good old-fashioned sleight-of-hand.)

He's already looking past the little blond, taking in the fireplace-fish. "I used to make fish too," he murmurs. It feels like it might be true.

[thewidewideworld]

The slight of hand never the less makes Sinric smile. But there's such sadness in the man's voice. "You fear you've lost the knack of it?"

[harryhotspur]

A small, stocky young man comes bounding over as if he knows him. Which, of course, as far as Harry Percy knows, he does.

"Why, what has thee so kingly bedecked?"

[never_promised]

....Excuse you? He doesn't quite laugh, but up go the eyebrows. "And is there some reason I shouldn't be...?"

[harryhotspur]

Percy shrugs. "I cannot see the use in it, in such a place, but surely 'tis thy right."

If this little man sees any contradiction in calling an apparent king "thee," he doesn't show it.

[never_promised]

"It is."

Have they met? Is he supposed to know this little person? Does this little person know him? He must know something, anyway. Loki turns on a friendly-acquaintance smile. "--But do you think it's a bit much for the setting?"

[harryhotspur]

He shrugs. "Why, 'twill gain thee no favor, nor no scorn-- but this thou know'st."

[starrydome]

There's a creature, ancient and wise, seated at the bar with pen and paper.
His long, dark hair hangs loose, kept lightly in place by a silver circlet.

When he spots the Man he nods. Politely.

[never_promised]

Loki would be so offended if he knew someone just mentally called him a Man. As if he could be anything so small.

But he'll take the polite nod and nod back. He hasn't made up his mind yet how to handle this: pretend he knows where he is, plead helplessness? He'll just--ease into a seat at the bar, not too far off, and try very hard not to look like he wants to fall over.

[starrydome]

Elton finishes the letter he is writing (the Tengwar is elegant and effortless) before ordering something to eat and drink.
(Bread, cheese, wine)


Elves have good instincts for when things are off. And something here seems just that.
Off.

Still, he will offer to share and Bar knows this, letting two cups and a platter too large for one appear.

[never_promised]

Things seem pretty off to Loki too--oh, wait, that's because he's slowly slid about twenty degrees off upright. He straightens himself. "Thanks."

He takes the plate, lifts the cup, but doesn't drink. To be quite honest he's not sure it would stay down.

[starrydome]

"You are feeling unwell?"

It's only phrased as a question out of politeness.
The Man is clearly ill.

[mjolnir_retriever]

After some time -- after 'Loki' has had a chance to talk to some people, orient himself somewhat, maybe decide whether or not a crown is a fashion statement he wants to be going with right at this juncture -- the door opens, as it often does, and in comes a very familiar figure. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden, gleaming, in the scarlet and gold of formal court, walking as if all the world's a friend and all the world will move aside for him; very familiar, doubtless.

For Thor's part, it's been a long day. All the wrangling and sniping that court can be is magnified by the way the broken Bifrost is chafing at everyone. The ways between worlds without it are difficult, and require great expertise or great time or great power expended; it affects trade, it affects alliances, it affects families, it affects the power balance everywhere, and there's nothing Thor or anyone else can do about it but make sure the scholars and builders have what they need.

So he's glad to see Milliways. It's always a nice relaxing break.

[never_promised]

Hello, of course he's going with the crown as a fashion statement. It's a crown. It's not a very big crown, and it's not a patch on anything you'd find in Asgard, but it's still a crown.

And about thirty seconds after Thor's arrival, it rolls over to his feet. After Loki falls full-stretch on the floor, having staggered his way over as soon as he saw Thor.

It is Thor, though. For sure. Those are Thor's boots. And knees. And that's about as far up as he can see, lying down here, but the general feverish swirl of red and gold is very convincing. "...Brother?"

[mjolnir_retriever]

Every time he's come to Milliways -- every time the door opens -- he's hoped. Down at a mostly unacknowledged level, as the months pass with no sign of Loki, as he's told himself how unlikely it is, but still -- every time, he's hoped.

And out of the corner of his eye, what he thought for a moment was that it was Henry Monmouth again, who's a human and an acquaintance, personable enough, but who looks just enough like Loki to twist at his heart. He's had to guard himself against letting that affect him before.

But if it's Henry Monmouth, he looks horribly ill (and something else, something in the posture, the expressions, that doesn't rise to the level of conscious awareness but that strikes hard at Thor's heart) -- he's stumbling and falling, and not quite close enough for Thor to catch him --

and then that one word, and Thor is on his knees beside his fallen brother, and his face is stark white. He rasps, "Loki?"

[never_promised]

"Thank god."

Ugh, did he say that out loud? Oh, well. Loki will absolutely deny this in a minute, but he'd been afraid there that Thor wouldn't see who he really was.

He smiles, and lets it look as feeble as it feels, because really this is miserable. "I should have known I'd find you where the food is, Brother. You have unerring instincts. But maybe you know what this place is?"

(This close, Thor can feel the feverish head of his skin.)

[mjolnir_retriever]

"Brother, you look --"

Godawful.

Red-haired. (???)

Human.

Also, again: godawful.

"What's happened to you?" It's an absurd question, and he winces after he says it -- he knows perfectly well some of what happened, but not what happened after that, not why Loki looks like this (and like Harry Monmouth). "What do you need?"

He'll answer the actual question in a minute, but he's just gonna need a little processing time first.

Also, Loki is not getting gathered up into a hug quite yet, but it's not far away; Thor's grasping his arm, the other hand curled around the side of Loki's neck and shoulder in the old familiar affectionate gesture -- right now, half affection, half support.

(It might hurt a little, although Thor would be appalled to hear it. But this is Loki, and even a feverish and weak and ill Loki isn't anywhere near as fragile as a human. Until and unless Loki winces away, Thor isn't being quite as careful about the strength of his grip as he maybe should be.)

[livinginmyglass]

Viola steps into the main room just in time to see a big, shiny blond guy helping-- half-carrying-- Hal to a couch. She scurries over, just missing the blond man as he goes over to the bar.

"Why, sir!" she cannot help but cry when she sees him-- and sees he is awake, at least, that she won't rouse him by speaking.

[never_promised]

Huh?

Loki's been staring into the fire, at the fish swimming there, and the young man's approach barely registered until the greeting. But all right. He doesn't mind being called Sir by strangers.

And ohhh, right, this is probably someone who knows Monmouth. He's been so busy thinking about Thor, and the work he needs to do, that Harry Monmouth went right out of his head. (In, heh, more senses than one, he thinks.) But sure, he can greet Monmouth's friends.

"Yes? I'd get up, but--" He waves a languid hand indicating the blanket and the general feebleness.

[livinginmyglass]

"Indeed, do not venture it," she says quickly. "You look passing poorly-- little friendship, you may say, to say so, and yet friendly meant. I saw you borne here by yon fellow--" She nods towards the bar. "But how came you so ill? Should you not to bed?"

[never_promised]

"...Is that an offer?" Because he's really not feeling up to it right now but give him a minute to regroup and he can try. "Ah--heh. It's true, I'm not feeling quite myself. But Thor is looking after me." His brother's keeper and all that.

[livinginmyglass]

She goes a bit pink at that, as usual, but is relieved to hear him sounding somewhat like himself.

"I know not this Thor. Some acquaintance of this place?" It doesn't sound like an English name.