handsofwinter | All That Are Fallen (for coldsong)

All That Are Fallen (for coldsong)

They retreat through the storm, invisible. Engine noises deadened and buried beneath the howling gales; hulls silent in tell-tale wavelengths and shielded from prying radiation by their cloaks. For most anyone they’d be nigh-impossible to track, even with the most sophisticated and cunning of sensors.

But there’s always one, isn’t there?

Loki can follow the little fleet through the frenzied snow and the roar of wind, over the dim shadows of forests splashed dark over the terrain below, the thin ridgelines that merely hint at tricky crags and sheer precipices. They travel fast. It’s not long before they begin to descend into a shallow, snowbound valley.

They’ve been at work here for some time by the look of things. The valley is criss-crossed with long hills- no, they look more like barrows, all blanketed in a thick layer of snow and swarming with activity in and out of round doors. The transport ships join others circling above and begin to offload their passengers, adding to the general din. The three largest barrows form a great rough triangle with only a couple of smaller structures between them. There is the heart of the encampment – and the noise. Vandals and a few captains in particularly good armor move among the others, directing chaos into order. Shanks lift into the air and fly to one barrow in formation. The injured limp or are carried in one direction, some with seared and blackened limbs or armor spattered shiny with blood. A dreg shrieks as his companions try to lift his scorched armor to check the burns beneath. Other dregs are tasked with taking the dead away, laying them out under the supervision of a vandal with a different style of helm and clothing.

But others are simply packing up their weapons and gathering around the officers counting heads. And others- others who were already here, are clearly sorting booty. Beneath a rough tent crates are stacked high and others lie open as the dregs beside them lower inventory tablets and cheer for the returning army. Before them lie piles of blankets, computer parts, miscellaneous trinkets… and a lot of books.

The sorted crates are being picked up and taken to the biggest of the barrows. The one with the biggest banners hung before it, and the most disciplined and armored guards beside its door. And the one before which decorative poles have been driven into the ground. Atop them sit skulls. Most look human.

Here be monsters, then. But monsters with voices, and as their speech slowly resolves itself around him, as snarls become words and words become orders, questions, greetings-

Here, too, wait answers.

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The Baroness may observe some courtesies, and she may be reasonable enough to offer terms... but she did not, after all, make any promises about the generosity of said terms. He does seem to have inferred correctly their view on other Eliksni, however. The Baroness's helm inclines a little.

"All Houses stand alone." Her voice rolls out a little slower on those words. Lexoris stirs a little, but says nothing. Something of far more import is at hand, and the vandal, like the guard, keeps his attention on Loki as the Baroness shifts position, reaches a lower hand into the shadows behind her throne, and raises something for Loki to see. It's a box - no, a cage: the top and bottom are dark metal, but the four sides are shimmering blue force-fields.

Trapped within them, floating helplessly, is Ghost.

The little bot has to catch himself as the box is lifted so abruptly, looking around in silent, frightened bewilderment, his single optic a dot of blue light in the gloom. It widens when he focuses on Loki, but then he's jolted again, Pelsor setting the box on the arm of her throne and planting her hand atop it. Out of her sight, Ghost startles downward a little, his optic turned up to the giant Fallen he can't see looming above him.

"This is what I offer. Accept my terms, and they have their ghoul again." She looks down at the cage, all her eyes narrowing in contempt. "I do not know if dead things keep honor. But this peace buys life for many Houseless... and the Light-thief."

They are watching for his reaction. Even with the alien body language, Loki can tell that much, and braces himself accordingly. If they're expecting an emotional response, they may be disappointed. He's only met Ghost twice, and while he rather liked both him and Blaze, he's not about to weep and beg them to spare them.

What he does, is look extremely thoughtful, red eyes sharp and bright in the low light around them. Again, he smiles, and makes a soft little tsk, tsk sound. "I can promise no particular outcome, but they will be interested in your offer. That I can say with certainty. Do try not to damage him in the interim, if you don't mind? I have no idea whether they could repair him."

He can tell from Ghost's reaction that he recognizes Loki, but not whether he can hear him through the walls of his prison. It matters little right now; it might matter a lot later.

"This is going to be fascinating," he says, suddenly animated. "What a magnificent little psychodrama."

His hands clasp briefly in front of his chest, a pleased gesture, and he hums softly, then gives the Baroness light salute. "I am impressed. I wish I had known your House sooner. But I feel compelled to remind you I am not entirely trusted by the others. Maybe...60% trusted? On a good day. Can you give me anything to take to them as proof?"

They relax a bit when he continues to be unfazed: perhaps they were worried about a violent reaction after all. Ghost continues to peer out at him, silent and wary, the points of his shell all drawn in close around the little robot. They do spin around him when Loki speaks - back and forward a little at the request not to damage him, a sharper spin when he speaks with such entertainment at the situation.

The Eliksni pay him absolutely no attention. The Baroness considers Loki's request for a minute. Then she lifts the long spear and raps the butt against the deck below, a sharp, hard sound. Her head turns left to one of the vandals standing guard, and she growls in Eliksni, "Bring the battle-honor prize to me."

The Vandal drops to all sixes as they scurry into a side door. The Baroness makes a gesture at Loki, likely indicating to wait. Presently the vandal returns walking upright, a metal pole a four or five feet long propped over their shoulder. They bow before their lord as they offer it up, and Pelsor takes it, lifts it in one hand. She takes a last long look at the trophy fixed to one end, delayed by reluctance for a couple of moments. But then she hisses beneath her mask, and tosses the whole thing down to Loki.

It's Blaze's head on the end. That may be no surprise. The Exo's optics are dark and empty, a scorched hole punched clean through her metal skull, occipital to front, dead and burned circuitry showing in between.

"When the storm ends, take this to them," rumbles the Baroness, oblivious to the way Ghost flares bright for a second, drawn to the wall of his tiny prison.

Ghost can hear him somehow, he thinks, based on that reaction. He can spare no look of pity or word of reassurance, his focus never straying from the Baroness, his smile unfaltering. He would spare the little robot torture, if indeed these beings are the type to even bother with such a thing, but 'don't damage the goods' may be the best he can do.

He almost twitches at the rap of the spear on the floor, but doesn't quite. A bit too much like Gungnir, but he is not now beholden to that courtly nicety. The parallel, though--that's not entirely pleasant to consider. Especially when the Vandal returns with Blaze's head on a pike, effectively. Loki's expression sobers, but he doesn't flinch. Would the Aesir have made an example of their enemies like this, far far back in time? It would take Hela to answer that question.

Loki catches the entire thing, then bows, lower this time, sensing this trophy is hard to let go. His heart twists a little in his chest at the thought of the skulls outside the barrows here. Were he in a strong position to bargain, he would demand them, as well, for burial. He probably carried some of the corpses that they were attached to.

(And now I am to go to the Nexus proper, with a hero's head on a pike. This really is going to be a spectacular psychodrama. He tells himself, eyeing the hole.)

"Back to front," he says softly. "How peculiar."

He doesn't know Blaze well, but he imagines she is not the type to turn her back on enemies, and the Eliksni don't seem the type to shoot an enemy point-blank, execution-style, from the back. Could this have been a trap? Friendly fire?

That's not a nice thought. Who in the Nexus would do such a thing?

He catches the little flare from Ghost out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't dare look at him, unwilling to draw attention his way. "When the storm ends," he tells the Baroness. "I will do so. And I will return to you with their answer."

He smirks. "Mind you, they may also wish return to you with their answer, but I'll try to pre-empt any foolishness on their part."

"If they are fools, the Light-thief dies forever." Her claws close meaningfully over Ghost's tiny prison. The bot jumps back a little from where he had the tips of his shell pressed against the transparent wall. "If they break their word... next time, I win that prize by my hand."

She sits back on her throne, with the air of one well-satisfied. "Have you listened enough, Loki of Askaar?"

Pelsor makes it all sound very straightforward. She is so very confident. There's no particular reason she should not be, he supposes. From what he's seen here, she has the forces to overrun the exhausted Nexusites, if she wanted. Surround the torches, if they truly cannot go past them, and the moment the magic fades at Winter's end...

And she is confident enough to be certain of her victory against Blaze should she return to life to face them again. Loki stares into the dead optics pensively, breathing in deep of the air around him, senses unfurled and alert for the scent or taste of a lie of any kind. There is much he does not know here.

"My curiosity will never be sated, Baroness," he tells her. "I have never listened enough. It is not in my nature."

He pulls the pike free with a fluid twist and tucks the disembodied head under his arm. "I assume I will be permitted into your territory at least once more, to return with word from the Nexus?"

Pelsor's words are genuine enough. But perhaps there's a hint of weary certainty to it rather than eager boasting. She is confident they have the strength. She's very sure she can slay Blaze again - and is keen on the idea. But even in saying so, there's no triumph in it. It's not the victory she intends, or she knows the cost will be great?

Others will come, she said.

"Rehnarr named you an ally," she says now, and waves a hand as if to brush aside any quibble he might have with that specific word. "You may walk the storm among us. And after, yes. Come with your message."

Trapped and silent, Ghost's pale blue gaze follows his Guardian's head. He's so close, so close, cut off from the steady ember of Light he can still detect in there. If he could just reach it...

But the Fallen are watching, and there's no chance of that.

'Ally' is not a word he has an issue with. Familial relations are the only terms that raise his hackles, and he has his reasons. "And Reynard is your ally," he says softly, mildly, as if considering. Alas, that alliance will win them no friends in the Nexus at this point. The public-relations deck is very thoroughly stacked against them, but they seem not to care about such things. They don't want human friends.

They just want to be left alone. That their approach to achieving that goal is so harsh is unfortunate. It may win them the opposite of what they desire, in the long term. Time will tell.

"What you ask is not unreasonable, though I am not sure why you have chosen to come and settle in this place. It's a shame the anti-violence field has failed us all. Had no fatal blows been struck between you and the mortals, this would be easier. Were there some kind of central authority in the Nexus that anyone truly recognized, this would be easier-but then it would not be the place it is."

There is much at stake here, far more than the life of Blaze and her Ghost. More than a momentary peace between hostile groups, neither of which really own the land they live on. There is a precedent to be set here.

"I will raise no hand to your House save in self-defense, or in defense of the few people I claim. I would learn more about you, should your terms be accepted and a truce succeed, but perhaps that is a matter for later discussion."

"In any case, I thank you, for a window into what will prove to be an interesting discussion, and possibly a monumental change in the Nexus itself."

"Death would always come," Pelsor says, with a huff of air. She sounds like she wants to laugh again. "It came before us, and it waits behind." But then, Loki does not know the universe they left, and her eyes have narrowed a little as she considers that. "Ask the light-thieves what is left for Eliksni to claim."

Her scorn is momentary. The Baroness is not inclined to give much away of her intentions, besides what she demands of the Nexus denizens. Why should she, after all? As well announce her plans to the Guardians. She rumbles acceptance of his promise, inclines her great helm a very little. "My Eliksni will let you pass. Let the Houseless squabble until they decide. Return with their answer. Then... we will talk again."

Edited 2019-04-14 20:38 (UTC)

"Well, I don't think she's going to be answering right now," Loki says, glancing at the head tucked under his arm, brow quirking at his own grim joke. "But I'll certainly keep the question in mind."

"I suppose Death is prepared for us all," he adds mildly, though he's not sure Pelsor is being quite that philosophical. "Even the gods perish, at the end of things."

The Nexus is a kind of insane quantum-mechanical singularity. People from thousands of adjoining universes come here and dwell and play, sometimes set down the squabbles and vengeance they bring from their own worlds, sometimes carry them at their sides despite the change of venue, but in the end no one knows what created this place, what power sustains it, or why it is the way it is. A year from now, a minute from now, the whole place might go unstable and collapse, might decide to become hostile to all carbon-based beings, might become a lake of magma rather than a chilly winter world. But living things are reckless, and they will stay here, and build lives here, regardless.

None of them should be taking the place for granted. It's stupid, really. He likes that about it.

He has so many more questions for Pelsor, but to linger now would be to court failure. He can be annoying later, if it seems like an effective tactic. He is playing diplomat now, and he bows to her once more. "For now, then, I take my leave, Baroness. But I look forward to speaking with you once more."

She laughs, deep and not entirely pleasant, and he can't be entirely sure it's at his joke. Lexoris tilts his head again, but if there is more to be said on that subject, the Eliksni seem content to let Blaze and her kindred explain it. If and when the opportunity arises.

Meantime, she lifts a hand, gestures for him to go. She does rumble a farewell, of a sort: "Until then, Loki of Askaar." One gets the impression anyway that her English fluency isn't suitable for poetic courtesies, if this is that kind of court.

Lexoris moves back to lead the way again. The guard follows again, and they're still keeping watch, but things seem subtly less tense when they head back the same winding route they came. Loki's still going to draw just as many stares and startled hisses from the Eliksni they pass, however.

Loki keeps both the head and pole it was mounted on close at his side, as he goes. His body language is no less princely and controlled than before, but the questing looks from his red eyes are subtler and less devouring. He is still looking and learning, but he has other things to focus on than the immediate tableau of the work going on around him. He listens for stray words, but now that the Baroness no longer commands his attention, Lexoris has it.

"You're different," he murmurs in one of the quieter corridors. "I wonder what it is you see when you look through someone, or something, as you do."

He doubts he'll get an answer, but maybe he'll get a reaction, and it might tell him something new.

The vandal's head turns, a flash of that glimmering visor in the gloom as he glances up over his shoulder. Surprised to be addressed, but not terribly shocked to be called out. He must be weighing his words then, for he's not too hasty to speak.

"Sometimes much. Sometimes little." He stops before a side door, a second before it opens to admit a servitor and its attendants. Lexoris waits respectfully for the machine to glide off down another corridor before he looks up at Loki.

"You are..." and he's not sure of this word, now, not sure it carries the correct weight in this alien tongue, "undecided."

Well, that only serves to interest Loki further. People (of any species) who consider their words and speak deliberately are more difficult to glean information from than the sort who will babble, but what they have to be gleaned is so much more valuable.

He watches the servitor glide by curiously, having no clear idea what the significance of this machine might be to the Eliksni, but certain that it is, to them, vitally important. Another item on the mental list of things to inquire about that he's creating. Too much inquiry would be pushing his luck right now, but if a truce can be established, maybe later there will be time for more. Time to study, for lack of a better term.

"Undecided?" He repeats. "Do you mean that you are uncertain what you see in me, or that you sense that I am undecided about something?"

In fairness, if it's the latter, Loki wouldn't be able to deny that.

"Both are true." Lexoris resumes their march, their footsteps echoing through and from the metal floor. The guard at their back are no doubt listening, though he doesn't seem concerned about that.

"You look... like a human. Like Reef-dwellers. It is strange. But that is just shape, yes? You are more. Like Rehnarr. Like... ghouls, another way."

How oddly charming, to find him so open about his thoughts. Loki really expected a denial, or a 'mind-your-own-business'. Instead, it seems as though this one is nearly as curious about him as he is about the Eliksni. Not all people play things as close to the chest as Loki is wont to do, though. Perhaps that's a cultural difference, or maybe it's just something about Lexoris himself.

"I am a shape-changer. I can look more like a human and less like one, should the mood take me. My birth form was like this, though. Blue, with red eyes. Smaller, of course."

"Do your people have no concept of gods, or immortal spirits?"

There is plenty that Lexoris is withholding, by choice or because of his difficulties with the language. But he does want to know things, and one must risk giving away a little if they wish to learn a little in return. One of the captains behind gives away something himself: a hiss at the word 'gods', and Loki knows that word is both recognized and not especially respected. At least when an outsider invokes it. Lexoris is just quiet for another moment or two, tracing out implications.

"We know gods," he says slowly. "Machine gods of Eliksni. Gods of Hive. The Great Machine. All different. Whose god are you?"

"The highest bidder," Loki says with a burst of false cheer. Connecting himself blithely to humanity seems unwise just now. "The species I am born of are known as Frost Giants. Or Jotun. The realm of Jotunheim is always frozen, always winter."

"I suppose that's why Reynard described me as kin. But I was raised by the Aesir, who you might mistake as human at a glance. But they are not. They are longer lived, far more physically powerful, and many are sorcerers."

"Frost... giants. Your kindred did not choose this name?" Why would they? Loki isn't even that big. Another long, pensive moment. Lexoris is taking his time, but now he's gotten over the initial hurdle of speaking with the alien, he seems to be warming up to the task a little. Enough to make a chuffing sound at Loki's description of yet another species with sorcery and strength beyond their size.

"These Ay-siirr... were human, once?"

"Actually, I think the Aesir chose the name 'Frost Giants'. Some are a bit more giant than I am just now, but rarely more than another head or two higher." He looks thoughtful. "Jotun is the more proper term."

Surtur was far, far bigger than any Jotun, but no one called him a 'fire giant'. It is a bit peculiar now that Loki thinks of it.

"No. No, they were never human, but the superficial resemblance is undeniable. There are a number of beings like that here, you'll find, I think. Not everything that looks human is human, and there's a variety of types of humans as well, because so many worlds meet here."

"As to why Aesir and human look identical at a glance...well, their stories, human stories, claim the first two humans were created by Aesir. But the Aesir claim no such thing."

Lexoris gives a growl as if disgruntled by that answer, though he's far from the first to be surprised by the curious resemblance between humans and so many disparate species. For now, he seems to accept that 'stories' are the best answer he's likely to get. He quiets long enough that Loki might think the vandal is done talking, but then:

"You say they do not trust you. Why?"

"I have a theory," he says. "That while infinite worlds may well meet in a single Nexus, there also exist infinite versions of a Nexus, with all the implied variations in environment and inhabitants. It's possible that we've simply all landed in one where the pink-and-brown bipedal body type is the most prevalent, but there are others where that would be an oddity, and we might instead find more beings with six limbs and four eyes, or even creatures without form or fixed body type."

That's unrelated to anything Lexoris has been asking him, of course, but maybe Loki just felt like talking to fill the silence.

He laughs softly when asked why he's mistrusted. "I have a checkered past. I am known as the god of lies, or the god of mischief. Most of the humans here that know me know me as the person who attempted to conquer their planet, at the head of the Chitauri army."

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All That Are Fallen (for coldsong)

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