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You had best. I take the matter of payment seriously.

( bland and unserious — no creature would call jude civilized when faerie considers her the worst of beasts among the worst beasts, treacherous and treasonous both. still, it carries some inherent note of something ominous, with her (horrible, beloved) natural talent for making any word out of her mouth resemble a threat. (and it's not entirely without basis, beside; one's sworn word is more valued as currency than regular gold, in elfhame. she has no choice but to hold a promise, no matter how small or flippantly given, in high regard.)

no drink touched by magic, either, she might add, if she were keen to engage her paranoia today. as it stands, she holds her tongue (a miracle in its own right), and focuses on the twitch of her hand beneath his. it steadies a moment later, turning over to grasp his with a tight sword-grip, bracing, clearly more equipped to hold a weapon than a hand. the tip of her ring finger is, as ever, missing. )

Should I needle a guess? ( not one to ask for permission so much as take it for herself, there's no wait for an explanation. simply, ) Overzealous sparring today?

[honestly, being clamped down on indelicately is for the best. it gives a good point of leverage for loki to heft himself upright, almost as naturally as if he were doing it entirely under his own power.

there is, of course, the question of what to do with their hands once he's up. shaking free is the natural consideration, but then again, flailing after her later if his legs give up the ghost seems a touch more undignified.]

Thor's got his eye on someone new, it seems. [who cared to keep up with the other prince's attention? not this one.] He always gets a bit puffy when he's trying to impress.

[doubling down has its own risks. they are, apparently, the ones loki is more willing to take. with a bit of wary tension, he shifts in her grip toward linking their arms, in the casual way asgardians sometimes chose to walk side by side (if, admittedly, with far more weight on jude than was necessarily normal for able-bodied walking).]

I have to assume that throwing someone slower, weaker, and smaller through a few walls is quite the in thing with his current crowd.

( unladylike, jude snuffles out a snort. 'a bit puffy' for thor seems as understated as 'a bit stupid-eyed' for her twin, but pedantry has its place and purposes. respectably, she keeps quiet on the matter — and the matter of their linked arms, or the tightening latch of jude's own, to accommodate for his leaden weight. when one gets used to tossing the entirety of a spindly king's dead, drunken weight back into his chambers to sleep it off, loki's weight feels like carrying around a feather.

she takes another halting stride forward, easily pretending she isn't waiting for him to keep pace. artfully so, of course — jude duarte is known as a talented liar for good reason. )

Brute force without finesse is as useful as a brainless bull. You are not weaker just because your strengths lie elsewhere.

( staunchly, factually; he would hate it to resemble sympathy, jude suspects, and she would hate for it to sound like pity. liar she might be, but there's no denying, in this, the conviction behind it. she should know — all of her enemies have always thought the same of her, for the existential crime of being human among fey. )

Charm his newest passing fancy, if you'd like easy revenge.

( with the equivalent verbal tone of a shrug. just normal things that happen every day in elfhame between siblings, enemies, lovers, and friends alike. )

[the words hit the center of his chest less as sympathy and more as a directive. it doesn't exactly make him stand any straighter or tilt his chin any higher, but it underlines something within him all the same.

the ice in him knows the steel in her. it helps. it might even be why she's the one he'd asked to be here, in a moment like this, whether his mind knows it or not.]

Perhaps. [the first step is a bit dizzy, but the next and the next and the next come with a passable level of control. the counterbalance of jude's rigid support seems to be enough--at least for their brief wander to the nearest hall.] Do you think he'll remember tomorrow what he cared about today?

( the greater question, jude thinks to herself, is will you? with a sidelong glance to match it. there's a passing moment of silent contemplation that shadows her expression — but then, that's nothing new for a woman who prefers the shadowy corners of her mind over giving her thoughts a voice. it's reminiscent, all of the same, of her own twin's flightiness in the face of jude nursing grudges. that's the curse of siblings — you remember where they've struck, even once they forgotten.

the axe forgets, but the tree remembers. )

If it's a passing fancy, be sure to mention my sister is newly available. ( darkly sarcastic — 'newly available' is polite for what taryn had done, but widowed on account of murdering her husband is uncouth to say. yet she's soft and sweet-eyed, compared to monstrous jude. she snorts, blithe. ) They could lead a delightful life of fickleness together. So long as he remembers to keep sharp objects and my father out of reach, he may fair better than the last.

[his laugh, at least, is still very much his own; sharp, slightly on the inhale, trailing off as if an unfinished thought. however much blood he might have lost and bones he might have crunched, it apparently wasn't enough to knock that out of him.]

He's never kept track of all the sharp objects in a room before. [honestly, thor seemed to forget how often most of the sharp objects near him were, at any given moment, on loki's person specifically.] I can't imagine he'd start while being addled over your sister's charms.

[it's much nicer to idly kick that thought about than to focus on the slow sapping of his bruises. (it's a bit nicer, for a few moments at least, to let go of the actual hurt in his heart when--inevitably--thor forgot a promise to teach him properly in favor of showing off. this grievance has, after all, already been added to the constantly-growing list. it will be turned over with all the rest for the next few centuries, bled out with small acts of revenge here or there but always, always weighing the thread between them.)]

It would put you in some danger of being mooned at, of course. And inelegantly begged for a kind word on his behalf.

( on a nod, stone-faced serious: )

Yes, I suppose you would need to be able to count higher than three for that.

( tellingly, the angle of her mouth slants upward, as subtle as a stirring wind. not quite smugness, so much as the knowing pride that comes with a successful victory. if he can laugh at the cruel edge of a sharp-tongued word, never mind parry it with his own, his spirit is not so broken as his body currently is — still wholly himself.

distantly, she considers what she might have given to hear someone titter and gossip over her sister's mistakes, when she'd been alone in an empty room. tricked, deceived, betrayed. as if she had not bled for taryn's safety, a hundred times over. as if she had not made herself a practice dummy, for every harsh jab in taryn's direction.

with the back of her hand, she taps him on the ribs, light, and pointedly wipes it from her mind. there was no use in her crying about it then, and there's certainly no use in crying over it now. )

Regrettably, I am fond of begging. Less so, of being the object of mooning. ( a lie, but then again, she is a practiced liar, best of all to herself. the fact remains: men with charm never mean well, if taryn's (very dead) husband is evidence of the fact. ) You can mark me safe from your brother's charms.

[things get wobbly with thor. there's love, hurt, devotion, angst, and a general sense of instability that drags the relationship here and there in any given moment. but this? jude helping to carry his weight and tapping him, in a way his mind can't help but decide is "friendly," against his slightly bruised ribs?

this he understands. it isn't quite something to name, but it sits well in his bones, more than enough to etch his crooked version of a smile solidly in place.]

Not to be dramatic, [or, in a very real way, almost entirely but not solely to be dramatic,] but I expect I should entirely perish if he got his hooks in you.

[loki has so few things that are properly his own (at least, of his own reckoning). this, nameless, was a fairly prized bullet on his dismally short list. in moments of pique (and blood loss), certainly something worth asserting a jealous guard over.]

Although not so much for your sister. Who would win, would you wager, in a courtship between them?

[is courtship a battle? loki couldn't say, but it's always appeared to be, from a distance.]

( unladylike, jude snorts, predictably disbelieving. it is, in fact, entirely dramatic and suitably dramatic of him — the declaration one makes on the brink of ill-timed death, or with a helpful prodding from their pain. fey-like, if she's being honest, for all of its exaggeration and sweet poetry and melancholy. hardly a sentiment she could take recklessly take to heart, without the chance of being proven a fool for it.

it tickles some place inside of her ribcage, regardless. jude's grasp tightens on his arm, almost as if it's unconsciously punishing for making her feel such a thing. )

You insult me. ( another lie tallied onto the list — the flash of serpentine amusement says otherwise. ) I am the one with the hooks.

( not the hooked. another soul might have shame, if they were less accepting of what they are, less inclined to embrace their grotesquerie — but it's something of a reassurance, too. thor is neither interest as a suitor nor a victim of her schemes, for how little she thinks of him. )

My sister only has claws for love. Taryn has always wanted to fit among the Folk, whatever it costs her. It would kill her not to be well-liked.

( pointedly, she does not think of how her sister's flaws align near-perfect with his own brothers, willing to sell family out for a scrap of attention. it tastes bitter in her mouth, just considering it. )

That puts them on an even playing field. We may see a draw, if Thor is not mortally susceptible to tears and batting eyelashes.

[the wall had been a shock of pain. the tension on his bruises now is something of a prickle. strange, how some hurts were only hurt and others gave the shuddering sensation of of kinship.]

What frail creatures the well-liked are.

[there had been times, of course, when loki had felt the desperation of being mistrusted, maligned, misliked. there had, perhaps, even been moments where the weight of it had felt dizzyingly close to the verge of killing him. how wonderful to be here instead, arm in arm with a pressing reminder of how much better life could be when draping oneself in oneself instead; making armor of what could not be shed.

how much better, to be the one with hooks. how much better, to be the witch or the knife.

already his weight needs to be less and less on jude's arm, but he doesn't untangle himself. it's easy enough to lift a hand as they approach the door of the nearest tavern, the barest flick of magic brushing the heavy wood back on its hinges.]

I'm not certain about eyelashes, but well-timed tears might be the end of him. At least as long as they can be cured by putting his fist through something or someone. Having to listen gently to woes might break him cleanly free again, if she's inclined to share all the aching of her heart.

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