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Lokabrenna

Pairing: Eivor/Basim Ibn Ishaq, Angrboða | Angerboda/Loki (Assassin's Creed)

Summary: She found him there in the dark, with her white eyes piercing like two flames, and took him back to dwell with her in the Ironwood. For an age of the world, they ran together through the frozen trees in any shapes that suited them; Wolf-kind, fox-tongued, the white hare hunted. He understood it, her, with a certainty that bordered on madness.

He loved her, of course he did—how could he not?

In the beginning, before time, before breath, there was only dark. A darkness so deep it had no beginning, no middle, no end. Only the black expanse swallowing bone-deep and endless: a heat-death of a universe unbegun. A coal, guttering out.

The dark waits, the dark is eternal, the dark was there before us, and it will be there after. All praise and all glory to the dark, the eater of dreams, eternal!

Into this abyss fell a stone. A stone, or a star, tumbled from a great height unknown into the dark. The stone burned, white and pearl burning at the edges, falling faster and faster until it seared a hole in the limitless night. It fell, cutting a swathe of dark-from-dark, and forged something new entirely.

A single flame, immutable, cut from the cloth of time itself. A tear. A torch.

The dark screamed. A scream, a keening. A sound of grief as much as joy; for all that was, and all that would be, and all that might never come to pass.

Light had come. He would never be alone again.

---

Black hair tumbled around him, falling in waves around her face, her neck. Her kisses came hungry, eating him up like the dark itself, and he tugged her closer, wishing only to swallow up and be swallowed in return. The ice of her skin did not phase him, nor did the blue of her sharp, sweet eyes as she weighed the measure of his manhood like a pig for slaughter.

“Loki,” she purred, catching both his wrists in hers, “Did you think you could come here to raze my fields, too? Like you suffer your poor wife?”

He threw his head back against her pillows without thinking, an instinct born in him baser than flesh. His Æsir skin sang with the submission—and he gloried in that, too. How right and good it was to debase what was noble, to bring low what was lofty. Let this shape give him pleasure that Havi himself might shrink to see.

Her lips found, then, the tender skin of his neck, the hollow of flesh just below his beard, and she bit without mercy. Jotun teeth, made sharp by Seiðr, sliced and sliced until his neck was a mess of bloody ribbons, and he was hard and straining for her.

Angrboda lifted her head to look at him, and her mouth was full of the sticky red sweetness of him.

“Please,” he said, staring into the twin suns of her eyes, “Please.”

She laughed at him, a twining drop of blood running down the column of her throat, but there was no cruelty in it. Only a bitter knowing, and a peace long since made with her lot. And herself.

She kissed him once, smearing and sweetly, and gave him what he begged for.

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Random Pics

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Flesh and Bone

Pairing: Eivor/Basim Ibn Ishaq

Summary: “Eivor,” he whispered against her lips, “Eivor.”

It wasn’t a question, or a statement, or a plea, or anything at all, really. Just her name, over and over, a desperate man reaching out for any shield in the axe-storm.

Silence filled the air between them, long and heavy, simmering with electric tension.

He took all I had.

The rage behind those words near took her breath away, no matter how he tried to cover it with a smile, with a braver face. For a moment, the mask had slipped. For a moment, she’d seen some real, true part of Basim, some part she perhaps had not been meant to see.

A part that spoke so true to the pain in her chest, the loss that had formed her days for so many years.

“I am sorry, Basim,” Eivor said again, the words too small for all she felt. “As much for what was taken from you, as that you had to carry it by yourself. The weight of such loss is too heavy to bear alone.”

Sigurd had been there for her, close as a blood-brother, all those years ago. If Hytham could not be for this man the son he lost, then he must find another way to wipe the rust from his heart.

One of Basim’s shoulders hitched up and down, and he gave her a smile over the crackling fire that did not meet his eyes.

“Such is life. We are all subject to the ravages of time.”

Eivor blew a breath out her nose, and heaved herself to her feet. In one, two, three steps, she reached the assassin’s log, sat herself down on it without invitation, and nudged his shoulder with hers, bent her temple against his. He tensed at the sudden touch, but did not pull away.

Among the Danes, this gesture was simple. It meant home, family, brotherhood. You are not alone, it said, you are not alone in the battle-storm. I am here beside you.

It took a moment, but after another breath Eivor could feel Basim relaxing into the contact, his shoulder softening against hers. This close, she could smell the strange, spiced-sweet scent of him, feel how hot he ran even under all her furs. She wondered, idly, if that was why he wore such thin robes in all shades of inclement weather.

“Thank you, Eivor,” he said, finally and simply.

When he sat up, Eivor nodded, just as simply. It is what you do for your own.

They sat like that for a long time, hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder in silence, watching the crackling sparks fly into the darkness.

Read it on Ao3.

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Favorites from Ireland

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Some of my favorite landscapes so far.