This scene is just before a mortal is introduced, so to speak, to all the different pantheons. Loki, who has taken an interest in her, is attempting to convince her otherwise, but her curiosity wins out and she insists on being taken to the Halls of the Pantheons themselves. So Loki places what could otherwise be called a geis, a protection or marking of a sort essentially marking her as "his", and under his protection. This is explained in greater detail later on.
It popped into my head for a possible plot involving Nephilim, because so many fun things could happen when you put one specific example of Judeo-Christianity dumped into all the other pantheons you could think of. What ended up happening was this perfect scene mover, as I like to call it. All kinds of foreboding, and foreshadowing and fore- Well, Loki is a bit of a perv, but he hasn't managed to get in her pants yet, although not for lack of trying.
I've yet to flesh out the female protagonist, other than basing her on what I think are my best qualities - snarky, stubborn, and possibly too curious for her own good. So for those who know me, this might just scream me. Woops. Oh well.
I especially enjoy this scene because the beginning illustrates what people seem to forget in relation to religion, which is that society has watered it down, and put their own spin on it. All of this mythology that came into existence was here for a reason in response to some very real emotions, and are meant to represent some very strong concepts. They didn't call them Guardian Angels for nuthin'. And they had to do their fair share of fighting. They're not just cuddly, they're powerful. We should never forget that.
Enjoy your sneak peek.
*
She was scratching designs into the soft wooden bench when he came to get her. He peered over her shoulder and snorted at the weeping angel she had drawn.
"You have no idea what angels really look like, do you?" He asked her seriously, clasping his palms behind his back. She glared at him, and stuck her fountain pen behind her ear, before standing up and swinging her messenger bag around her shoulders.
"And you do?' she scowled, her fingers in a death grip on the strap. He smirked, and leaned over the bench, passing a hand over her design as if to brush something off it. She leaned over, curious in spite of herself, and saw the ink resettling into a blurry image with wings, attacking another, while flames danced around them. The closer she went, the more details she made out, the swords and spears they were holding, the sandals wrapped around their feet, the cloth wrapped around their torsos and the bracers on their arms, how the fire seemed to surround them...
She jumped back with a yelp, as the flames finally engulfed the bench whole, and Loki laughed beside her.
"One of the hazards of attempting to recreate their image, I'm afraid." He grinned, quite unrepentant. He held out his hand, and she raised an eyebrow. He shrugged and went back to clasping his hands together.
"Walking the Halls themselves tend to be a bad idea for mortals. You need a guide, a-" he waggled his eyebrows a little "-an escort, you know? Otherwise, I can't promise your safety."
She stepped up to him, gingerly linking her hand around his arm. "Weren't you just telling me you can't promise me anything?" He chuckled in response to this, and began to haul her along. The walls seemed to move uncommonly fast, until she suspected he was getting them there faster.
"True. Nice to know you're not ignoring me when I'm talking my head off at you." He smirked at her, trying to get a reaction. She finally caught up to his walk and took strides as long as his. "Well, I could try to ignore you, but you do talk quite a bit. Some of it is bound to get through." She muttered back, giving up keeping her fountain pen by her ear and tossing it in her bag.
Loki laughed again at her snipe, shook his head, and stopped them abruptly at a large set of wooden doors, with dark iron hinges and handles set along very detailed carvings. He turned to her, capturing both her hands before she could yank them away, and raised them to his lips.
"Now listen to me very carefully here, mortal. There are things behind this door that mean you harm, and would be entertained by your suffering." His blue eyes were intent on her, and her cheeks began to heat up from the close proximity, but when she attempted to take a step back, he jerked her forward, and kissed her forehead. "Trickster I might be, but you're my foolish mortal, and I don't want to share."
She slapped a hand over her forehead and swore at the stinging sensation, before pulling her hand away to look for blood. "I'm not your property, Loki, no matter how mortal I am, and I'd love it if you could remember that." She tossed at him bitterly, rubbing her forehead. He grabbed her hand again, and placed it in his former position on his arm, grinning at her tightly.
"I do love a woman with spunk, but what you're about to walk into is something you can't understand. It's nothing to do with gender or race or even cultural habits. You are quite simply inferior to them. And you mean nothing to them but as a toy for their amusement." For once, his blue eyes were serious, and seemed carved from ice. He looked down, studying her fingers on his arm, before returning his gaze to her face. Her pulse had adequately jumped from his warning, and she inhaled then exhaled sharply, before securing her grip on his arm, and staring straight ahead at the doors.
"Last chance to walk away, my curious one." Loki said softly. Her chin jerked up abruptly and she narrowed her eyes and licked her lips nervously.
"But would I still be as curious if I walked away now?" She asked, her voice dipping in tone to correspond with her anxiety. She jumped when she felt his hand cover hers and give a slight squeeze. Did he mean to be comforting? She thought, trying to ignore the tension in her shoulders.
Loki removed his hand from hers and paused before pushing the doors open. "I don't think you know how not to be curious. Just like I know you're too stubborn to back away now." He turned to her and winked, no longer serious, all mischievousness. "I do so like the stubborn ones."
He pushed the doors open, and they walked through.
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