[ There are few things that can strike the words from Loki's tongue, fewer still that can surprise him into honesty. Now his eyes are wounds in the empty canvas of his face, too sharp, too green.
His mouth twists. ]
To whom do you speak, o mighty king of kings? [ he murmurs, already returning to his baseline of contemptuous mockery. ] To the earth below our feet, perhaps? To the sun, trenchant above?
no subject
His mouth twists. ]
To whom do you speak, o mighty king of kings? [ he murmurs, already returning to his baseline of contemptuous mockery. ] To the earth below our feet, perhaps? To the sun, trenchant above?