Work Text:
New York City, May 2, 2011. . .
He’s settling into the chair opposite; she watches him covertly as her assistant clips a mic to his collar and he helps himself to a sip of water from the bottle perched obligingly on the side table.
Tall. Lean. A honey-dipped voice that’s deeper than she expected. Dressed simply, in slim trousers and an impeccably tailored white shirt. She notices, can’t help but notice, the firm curve of his bicep straining against the shirt’s fabric as he returns the bottle to its place. His eyes meet hers then, and his lips stretch into a friendly smile.
“Ready?’ he asks.
She’s interviewed dozens of celebrities, the most beautiful people on earth. She should be inured to physical attractiveness. But, still . . . damn.
Giving herself a mental shake, she nods to her camerawoman, and plunges into the spot, making her way through the prepared questions. Behind him, a poster for Thor looms, Tom’s face beneath a golden helmet, somehow making it elegant rather than ridiculous; she realizes that, compelling as the photograph is, it doesn’t do him justice.
“Your role in this film has raised your profile as an actor. Do you get recognized on the street now?”
He grins, easily, mischievously. “I do, sometimes. I’m very grateful to have had the opportunity to play such a . . . magnetic character.”
“Loki is much more than just a simple villain. What inspired you to create this layered portrayal?”
“Well . . . “ His gaze slips away from her, and he runs a thumb along his jawline as he pauses, thinking.
“I mean,” she continues, “it’s almost as if you embodied a character that was already fully formed.”
“Perhaps I did, in a way. There’s a certain weight, you know, to these names that have come to us out of deep mythology. Like Loki.” He tilts his head, looks past her into the shadows behind her chair. “Rather as if I’d met him before. . .”
In the dappled shade under the trees his hands were cold. Mum had insisted he bring his woolen gloves, but he hated the way they itched his wrists, and he’d hung back until she was out of sight around a curve in the path, and then naughtily stuffed them in his pockets. They bulged there now, forgotten.
A rabbit had flashed across the path, and he’d followed it--only for a minute! But now he couldn’t find the way back, and tears of panic dripped off his chin.
“Mummy?” his voice wavered, thin and high. “Em?”
There was no answer. The trees had been sighing with a steady breeze, but now, abruptly, the forest was breathless and still, and then he realized, hiccuping in fear, that the darkest shadow beneath the oaks was actually a man.
He stepped forward, into a beam of light slanting down through the branches. A tall man, impossibly tall it seemed to Tommy, dressed in soft, tawny leather, red hair gathered into a tail at the nape of his neck, a black feather bound into it. Tommy backed away, just a step, and the man paused, tilting his head to one side, his green gaze measuring. Then he crouched down.
“What troubles you, little one?”
After a moment, Tommy found his tongue. “Mum . . . and Em. I can’t find them.”
“Ah.” The man grinned. “Lost?”
Tommy nodded. And something in the man’s eyes compelled him to ask, “Are you lost, too?”
The man chuckled. Then he leaned forward; a shiny green stone, hung round his neck, swung forward and glittered in the sunlight.
“Lost?" He paused, then a fleeting smile. "No . . . and yes.”
Tommy felt his brow wrinkle in puzzlement.
“I am well aware of exactly where and who I am. But . . . those who once knew me are gone, and so, to you, I am lost, indeed. A wanderer, now.”
His face was bleak and sharp, for a moment, and Tommy found himself instinctively stepping forward.
“We can be lost together,” he offered.
The man straightened, and stared thoughtfully down at him.
“Such a large heart, in such a small child. But no, young one, you are not truly lost.” He lifted a hand and gestured. “Your mother walks in the grove, just over there. She has not yet noticed that you are gone. She believes you are still with your sister.”
Tommy leaned forward, peering into the trees. “I don’t see her.”
“I have . . . longer sight, child.” The man held out his hand. “Come. I will guide you to her.”
As Tommy took the stranger’s hand, he was startled to find his palm filled with something warm and silky-smooth. He peered at it: a black stone, like the one lying against the man’s chest. Faint lines were carved into it; they caught the sun’s glow in a crackle of gold and red. He looked up into the man’s face, questioning.
“For you, child. A gift.” The man smiled, a gleam that banished the sadness from his eyes. “A memento from the Wanderer. Perhaps you will remember me?”
The interview’s over, and Tom is almost out the door when she sees a glittering something in the seat he’s just vacated.
“Wait,” she calls, and stoops to pick it up: a black stone, curiously warm in her hand.
“Ah, thank you,” he says, as she hands it back to him. “I wouldn’t want to lose that.”
“A good luck charm?”
He pauses, and, as he slips it back into his pocket, he tips her a half-smile. “Something like that.”
“What do the markings mean?”
He winks, and, as he turns to go, he answers, “It's just a name. His name. ‘Loki’.”
FINIS