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Description
There was nothing there but the two of them. The world behind and the world ahead, and they stood in a vacuum, in the place where only the gods knew, deep within and far without. It was the white space.

Eros was no different than he had been before, not an abstract concept as mortals had tried to define him in the old days, but a fully formed man, with the same fine features that Loki remembered. Golden ringlets framed a strong jaw and high, chiseled cheekbones. His golden tanned skin seemed to emanate with a glow from within. Straight nose, great posture, pleasant muscles, full lips.

As those blue eyes looked down at Loki, he realized that every line in the god's body was filled with fury. He stood, shakily, feeling as if his joints weren't quite connected. He had never died before, though he had killed others, and dying had not been easy on his spirit. He still wasn't sure if it had been real. It had certainly felt real. The tightening of the coils, the manic pumping of the blood in his veins, the pain in every limb.

"You still hate my guts?" he said, as casually as possible. His usual composure was obviously a thing of the past, and useless here; his voice felt as ragged and hoarse as a raven's croak. "Can't say I blame you."

"I am not here on my own regard," Eros replied. "I am merely the forerunner... as I was before, when you played that last juvenile game. Have you finished waging fake wars?"

Loki ignored that last jab. The fact that it was wholly deserved meant nothing whatsoever. Old news. A thousand years of old news and he was drowning in it now. How much time had passed? "Forerunner," he echoed, and then tore his eyes away. He could feel the pull of the other god's charisma; he had, after all, done the same to others many times over - the charm, the glamour, the spell to dazzle vulnerable eyes. "Get to the point."

"I am here to formally issue a word of gratitude from the pantheon," Eros continued smoothly. "They are, in fact, returned and in state."

Loki remained unimpressed. The expression on the other god was not one that fit on a 'mere' messenger. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the look of someone that wanted him to suffer, painfully and slowly until he was reduced to a raw, whimpering thing that couldn't even beg for his own life. Absolutely wonderful. As if his day - week, season, moon, aeon - thusfar had not been enough. He listened without much in the way of expectations. Perhaps the powers that be would not keep him here long. Surely the fact that the gods were in action was not a world shaking announcement.

"That's nice," he said, his tone perhaps more flat than he had intended. He hardly dared to meet Eros's eyes.

"Neither Zeus nor any other god will mediate the terms of your release. You will have to seek that elsewhere - and preferably not at all, if you wish the Olympians to tolerate your continued presence in our midst." The god's tone was more serious than before, and tension slipped up again above the surface of grace. He held out his hand - he wore four gold rings, Loki counted.

Then he saw the arrow balanced in his palm. The point of it was tipped with lead; it cast a negative aura, repulsion in the place of attraction. Everything else seemed ordinary. Wooden shaft, fletched with feathers from a dove. He registered it vaguely. "I'm not interested in playing Cupid," he said.

It was Eros's turn to ignore the comment. "Take it. You will know when the time comes to use this as you will and to do as you must. I know that you will be the death of her... but she will be in the next world, and you will not."

Loki did not like the truth that those simple words brought to his mind. It was with a heavy heart that he thought of Delilah, delight herself, daughter of the soul, daughter of love, the one that he loved...of killing her and all the others, but especially, always her. His mind would break. "She will not know me then, I assure you," he muttered. "I am not yet that one, but I will be."

Despite his misgivings, he closed his fingers around the shaft and gripped it tightly. Eros's eyes closed; the world began to move and spin again, and the pain came rushing back in full force as nothingness dissolved around them, into something very much real. Loki had never been so grateful to be rendered unconscious.

Description
There was nothing there but the two of them. The world behind and the world ahead, and they stood in a vacuum, in the place where only the gods knew, deep within and far without. It was the white space.

Eros was no different than he had been before, not an abstract concept as mortals had tried to define him in the old days, but a fully formed man, with the same fine features that Loki remembered. Golden ringlets framed a strong jaw and high, chiseled cheekbones. His golden tanned skin seemed to emanate with a glow from within. Straight nose, great posture, pleasant muscles, full lips.

As those blue eyes looked down at Loki, he realized that every line in the god's body was filled with fury. He stood, shakily, feeling as if his joints weren't quite connected. He had never died before, though he had killed others, and dying had not been easy on his spirit. He still wasn't sure if it had been real. It had certainly felt real. The tightening of the coils, the manic pumping of the blood in his veins, the pain in every limb.

"You still hate my guts?" he said, as casually as possible. His usual composure was obviously a thing of the past, and useless here; his voice felt as ragged and hoarse as a raven's croak. "Can't say I blame you."

"I am not here on my own regard," Eros replied. "I am merely the forerunner... as I was before, when you played that last juvenile game. Have you finished waging fake wars?"

Loki ignored that last jab. The fact that it was wholly deserved meant nothing whatsoever. Old news. A thousand years of old news and he was drowning in it now. How much time had passed? "Forerunner," he echoed, and then tore his eyes away. He could feel the pull of the other god's charisma; he had, after all, done the same to others many times over - the charm, the glamour, the spell to dazzle vulnerable eyes. "Get to the point."

"I am here to formally issue a word of gratitude from the pantheon," Eros continued smoothly. "They are, in fact, returned and in state."

Loki remained unimpressed. The expression on the other god was not one that fit on a 'mere' messenger. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the look of someone that wanted him to suffer, painfully and slowly until he was reduced to a raw, whimpering thing that couldn't even beg for his own life. Absolutely wonderful. As if his day - week, season, moon, aeon - thusfar had not been enough. He listened without much in the way of expectations. Perhaps the powers that be would not keep him here long. Surely the fact that the gods were in action was not a world shaking announcement.

"That's nice," he said, his tone perhaps more flat than he had intended. He hardly dared to meet Eros's eyes.

"Neither Zeus nor any other god will mediate the terms of your release. You will have to seek that elsewhere - and preferably not at all, if you wish the Olympians to tolerate your continued presence in our midst." The god's tone was more serious than before, and tension slipped up again above the surface of grace. He held out his hand - he wore four gold rings, Loki counted.

Then he saw the arrow balanced in his palm. The point of it was tipped with lead; it cast a negative aura, repulsion in the place of attraction. Everything else seemed ordinary. Wooden shaft, fletched with feathers from a dove. He registered it vaguely. "I'm not interested in playing Cupid," he said.

It was Eros's turn to ignore the comment. "Take it. You will know when the time comes to use this as you will and to do as you must. I know that you will be the death of her... but she will be in the next world, and you will not."

Loki did not like the truth that those simple words brought to his mind. It was with a heavy heart that he thought of Delilah, delight herself, daughter of the soul, daughter of love, the one that he loved...of killing her and all the others, but especially, always her. His mind would break. "She will not know me then, I assure you," he muttered. "I am not yet that one, but I will be."

Despite his misgivings, he closed his fingers around the shaft and gripped it tightly. Eros's eyes closed; the world began to move and spin again, and the pain came rushing back in full force as nothingness dissolved around them, into something very much real. Loki had never been so grateful to be rendered unconscious.