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Entry tags:
{ open } all my troubles on a burning pile
Who: Galen Howard and YOU!
What: Wandering on the beach, smoking, throwing rocks!
When: Day 30, afternoon.
Where: The edge of the water, near houses 20, 9, and the lighthouse.
It's easy for Galen to feel like he's trapped in a movie, when he's alone. After arriving in a strange place, encountering all kinds of impossible things, and to top it all off, being told that he may end up going insane at the hands of a living nightmare, it's hard to feel like this is real life. But there's really a God here, there's really a sweet doctor who turns into an angry green monster, and he's really become good friends with a woman who works regularly with the supernatural. It's almost strange to think that just a few weeks ago, he was working early radio, spending long hours in writing sessions, going on dates with his non-traumatized boyfriend -- it all seems so damn normal, in comparison.
He doesn't like being alone, but sometimes he needs it. He isn't far, at least; Galen has nicked one of Jesse's remaining cigarettes and has wandered out to the beach, not too close to the lighthouse -- and not too close to the water's edge, either. After the boxes, he really doesn't trust this open expanse between land and God-knows-where, no matter how soothing and home-like it sounds.
Galen crouches, digging where the sand and the snow meet for a rock of the right size and shape. When he finds it, he rolls it over in his hand a few times, then winds back and throws it -- he freezes for a second, arm midair, one foot kicking slightly up off the sand, as he watches the rock go; it drops with a deep plunk several yards off-shore, swallowed by the roll of the waves. He repeats this action with another rock, cigarette pinched firmly between his lips, humming something unrecognizable quietly under his breath.
What: Wandering on the beach, smoking, throwing rocks!
When: Day 30, afternoon.
Where: The edge of the water, near houses 20, 9, and the lighthouse.
It's easy for Galen to feel like he's trapped in a movie, when he's alone. After arriving in a strange place, encountering all kinds of impossible things, and to top it all off, being told that he may end up going insane at the hands of a living nightmare, it's hard to feel like this is real life. But there's really a God here, there's really a sweet doctor who turns into an angry green monster, and he's really become good friends with a woman who works regularly with the supernatural. It's almost strange to think that just a few weeks ago, he was working early radio, spending long hours in writing sessions, going on dates with his non-traumatized boyfriend -- it all seems so damn normal, in comparison.
He doesn't like being alone, but sometimes he needs it. He isn't far, at least; Galen has nicked one of Jesse's remaining cigarettes and has wandered out to the beach, not too close to the lighthouse -- and not too close to the water's edge, either. After the boxes, he really doesn't trust this open expanse between land and God-knows-where, no matter how soothing and home-like it sounds.
Galen crouches, digging where the sand and the snow meet for a rock of the right size and shape. When he finds it, he rolls it over in his hand a few times, then winds back and throws it -- he freezes for a second, arm midair, one foot kicking slightly up off the sand, as he watches the rock go; it drops with a deep plunk several yards off-shore, swallowed by the roll of the waves. He repeats this action with another rock, cigarette pinched firmly between his lips, humming something unrecognizable quietly under his breath.
no subject
He doesn't recognize the stranger, and there's just... something about him, but to avoid being rude, he lifts a hand in greeting anyway, offers a small smile. He'd say hello, but the surf is just loud enough that at this distance, there isn't really any point.
no subject
Doesn't mean he can't imply, though, with the smile and the slow, steady, constant passing of the stone from hand to hand.
“You can do that all you like,” Loki says once he's within earshot. “The sea won't hear you.”
His head turns, eyes travelling impassively over the landscape before turning back to Galen. “Nor will anyone else, I expect.”
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He looks away, but after a short second, decides that's probably a bad idea -- his eyes dart back to Loki, and he puts his cigarette out on the stone in his hand, listening. Did he just...?
Galen laughs flatly, eyeing the somewhat large stone passing between Loki's hands. "Uh, excuse me?"
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Still. One rarely gets something from almost nothing at all. It's all so very delicious.
“Isolating yourself from all your friends wasn't terribly clever of you, was it? Alone in a strange place... dangerous, by all accounts. Full of monsters.” He tosses the rock up, up, and catches it again. “You must be very brave. Or very foolhardy. They are so often the same thing.”
His smile widens and he gives the stone another easy flip before turning away to launch it out to sea with a sharp flick of the wrist.
“One never does know what one might meet, out wandering alone. Or whom.”
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He takes a step back as Loki gets closer, and his heart skips a beat when that rock is about to be thrown -- but no, it's not coming for his head, it's flying into the water, far too lightly for a stone of that size, making him wonder again who this guy is. Still, Galen's hand jumps to the wrist with the communicator, eyes not leaving the stranger.
"Is that a threat?" He asks, still straddling that line between brave and foolhardy. "Cuz I'm one button press away from having the whole town tuned in. I'm not as isolated as you think."
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And there's nobody among them, even those who can jump through spacetime with a single thought, who could stop him before he could kill this little boy if he really wanted to. Not a one. “Some of us don't have much left to tarnish.”
His smile widens and he presses a hand to his chest, giving a shallow little bow. “Something to think on, the next time you decide to go wandering alone. Unless you think the meagre reward to be had in exposing an attacker would be worth your life.”
Loki looks Galen over, his gaze witheringly impassive. “Or you're hiding something truly impressive underneath that unassuming exterior... which I doubt.”
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"Maybe it would." His hand drops from his wrist, eyes defiant. "And if I am? Would getting your kicks be worth your life? Since I'm gonna assume you're experienced with this kind of thing."
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How ridiculous, how utterly ridiculous the mere idea is; no. Loki survives. Loki survives because Loki is needed, and Loki survives because survival is pain. Pain is his lot. Thus has the thread of his life been woven.
“I know the day of my death, and it will not come at the hands of you or yours, child. But if that's how things are, then show me.” His hands dart out to grab fistfuls of Galen's shirt near the shoulder, yanking him in and up. Close. Very close.
“Well?” He braces Galen's weight against his forearms and lifts, arching his back to bring the shorter man's feet well off the ground. “Let's play. Your strength against mine. Your power against mine.”
no subject
Still, he tries to twist out of Loki's grip, panic starting to show in his eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"Let me go," he hisses, trying to pry one of Loki's hands open. "It was -- fucking -- hypothetical, get off."
no subject
He does, though, he does; lets the question hang as he completes his turn before setting Galen back down on his feet with a surprising gentleness. Careful hands tug at his shirt to straighten it before Loki steps back, and no harm done.
“You should watch your temper. Astonishing, your species. You can be snatched from your homes and deposited in a strange place, clearly outclassed, outgunned, outsmarted, and you still can't let go of your hubris.” Truly astonishing. Unmatched in their overestimation of themselves and their capabilities. In that regard they outdo even Loki himself, which if he's entirely honest with himself is something of an impressive feat.
“Pride is such an insidious thing, is it not? Look how it's made you put your foot in it.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.
no subject
He swallows again, steels himself. "So I guess you're flawless." God, Galen, shut up. "Who are you?"
no subject
“I am Loki, son of Laufey, rightful king of Jǫtunheimr, once king of Asgard, God of Mischief... et cetera.” The rest isn't important. Even most of what he's said isn't terribly important. He is Loki, the rest is merely elaboration.
“So, you see, you've nothing to fear, really. I'm you. Your archetypes embodied, your stories, your imaginations; every dark, crawling, little thing. Your fools, your jesters; you laugh and your humour is me. I am insubstantial, nothing more than the things you hold in the back of your head, or should; all your filthy little secrets and all the things you fear, the lines you dare not cross; I am your mirror. Nothing more than that.” He straightens from the bow.
“Or so the job description implies. God. I'll let you decide the weight of the word. And of mine own.” Loki's gaze turns out to sea, but his smirk never falters. "If you were to ask me, I would deem it all nonsense, but perhaps that's the lie. Loki Silvertongue, the Liesmith; thus men have named me. And you've names too, I expect; I fain would know them."
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"Galen Howard," he says once he finds his voice again, willing himself to regain his footing and ease the fear back off his face. "New Yorker. Musician. Not a God, but I get by. And I've definitely heard of you." It's funny, actually; he's realizing now that, going by the God's description, he's had an awful lot of Loki in his life. Theoretically.
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"Most of them true, even, the usual amount of embellishment aside." His eyes turn back to his companion with newfound curiosity.
"What manner of music make you, then, Galen inn Skáldi?" he asks, a genuine question. "I admit some fondness for the artistic ventures of your species."
Music in particular. The rímur and chants of Asgard and Jǫtunheimr are lovely in their way, but they've changed little over time. Ancient voices rising in song have a particular beauty to them, but they are painful, encoding memories that Loki does not gladly recall. Occasionally one favours the ridiculousness and naïveté of a species doomed, after a fashion, to eternal youth. Besides that, Loki is fond of innovation, for innovation is chaos, entropy, and entropy and chaos are his.
no subject
"Funny you should ask," he says at length, smiling a little. "I mean, in layman's terms, it's rock. But the music I make - we make, my band and I - is our mirror. We have an awful lot of, ah, stories and imaginations between us. Should I thank you for that, or...?"
The question is a little facetious, but his smile is pretty genuine as he realizes how much of what Loki described actually goes into his writing. As a group, it's what they explore, and what they face. How they cope. And now, more than ever, he's missing them terribly.
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“Rock, then. I admit I lack familiarity with the full scope of what that entails but it seems to me that that designation is exceptionally vague,” he adds, another little tease. “No matter; I shall default to the best method I have yet discovered for testing a man's character.”
He turns away from the sea and looks down at Galen seriously, eyes narrowed. “Your preference: The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?”
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"Shiiit, tough question," he says, smiling nervously, shifting his weight. "I mean, they've both made such a huge impact on music. But, um, in terms of personal preference? I think I'd have to go with the Stones. They have the better stage presence, too. And that's... kinda... a factor for me." His mouth pulls to the side a little, an 'oh well' movement, just in case he's answered incorrectly. Them's the breaks.
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“That, and Sympathy for the Devil is terribly flattering.” His grin is wide and... well. Perhaps a bit devilish.
“I'm afraid I rather lost track after... when was Billy Idol?” Fantastically funny fellow, in any case. Simply difficult to place. He's grateful to humans for changing so much decade to decade, else he'd forget even more easily than he already does. It's inconceivable, the rapidity with which they reinvent themselves. Needs must, lives short as that, and hungry. Loki doesn't understand it a bit, but it's always entertaining to watch.
“There are extenuating circumstances, I do assure you.” Mostly, initially, that he'd simply lost track of time. After that... well, after that it'd all gone terribly, terribly wrong.
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He shrugs, watches Loki for a second. There's so much he wants to ask, but it's cold, and Loki is still very intimidating. He wets his lips.
"It's, uh -- it's cool to know you have an appreciation for music, though. Not saying I think you'd like my band, but I know we aren't awful." He grins a little.
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“I've an appreciation for all things that make the load of living lighter. I have done a great deal of it and in all likelihood I shall do a great deal more. What relief there is to be had is worth paying attention to.” So yes, he appreciates music, he truly does.
“Though I admit it's also quite entertaining to watch humans ponce about onstage making fools of yourselves. If the Æsir were as willing to compromise their image as your species the universe would be a far better place.” Or at least his life would've been, and equating the two, universe and subjective microcosm, is a dangerous exercise. Then again, what universe does any being know save that contained within the scope of its own life?
“In any case, a fine invention of the modern age. Though I miss the skáld. Stories are better sung, and singing is better when it tells a tale. One may learn much of a man from the stories he tells.”
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"Well, most good music still tells stories," he offers, shoulders shrugging a little. "Maybe not so much about like... battles and conquerors, these days, but I mean, that's why a lot of us do it." A beat.
"Skáld, that sounds like what you called me a minute ago."
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After, too, in Asgard. Tradition dies hard in such a long-lived race. “Their songs were lies which told true stories. Childish songs of childish things as all those written by your species are. Songs of my childhood, in some cases. Songs of my children. And the children of men. Not merely battles and conquerors, but the people. The battle as it happened then was irrelevant. As it happened in the story, as we heard... that was reality.”
The only one most listeners could touch. Most. Some saw more.
“You would not like them, I expect. Usually sung without music, without much by way of dramatics. Last I was on Earth, Icelanders still sang rímur in similar style, some of them. It dwindles with time. All things do.”