Unbound
Five watches in stunned awe as mayhem erupts, spiralling out from the fucker and his pack of dogs. It’s a sound decision given the doomed warrior has called forth a hex only to have the bearer of dark tidings cheerfully materialise, sacrificial dagger in hand.
There's fresh blood on Loki's ripped sleeve but no open cut.
A flick of the wrist later, the blade vanishes and the god stoops down to inspect the necklace.
With a wave of his hand and a few precise words, the snake collar releases its tail and clatters to the ground. His nimble fingers glide effortlessly — as if he’s conducting an invisible orchestra — while he recites the short incantation. The silky baritone then breaks his heavy chains like they’re matchsticks and helps the lad to his feet.
“You know my name. Now, what may yours be?”
With a wrinkled brow, and wiping red from his lips, Five takes longer than he would have liked to reply. “I am known as Flett the Wolfwalker, but my name is Number Five Hargreeves.” Squinting, he quickly adds, “Sorry, but why are you speaking English?”
“It’s Allspeak, my dear Five. It allows me to be understood by nearly every species in their native language. Yours is from the early 21st century, if I am not mistaken,” Loki wonders with an upturned eyebrow.
What does the deity mean by species? How are they aware of the 21st century? Five has so many questions, but they’ll have to wait. He’s on the verge of being sick again, and it’s already too difficult to stand without a noticeable tremor. “Yeah.” Five chuckles breathlessly. “It’s a long story. One I’ll be happy to tell you about, but not now. Not here.”
“Right, my apologies.” He clears his throat. “Let us bid farewell to these unworthy knaves. Trust in me, we’ll be seeing them again soon enough,” the seiðmenn stresses as he takes Five’s hand and teleports away from the scrambling bodies. Five is more than amazed. He’s never met another skywalker.
Assisting the dumbstruck man sit down, Loki kneels and meets Five's eyes prior to voicing his thoughts.
“You’re severely wounded. By happy chance, I know a few tricks to aid in your recovery. As you may have deduced, a touch of misadventure has led up to our fateful encounter. I won’t be able to heal your injuries entirely, but it should stave off the worst of it. Would that proposal be okay with you?”
Five can’t stop a wide smirk, shaking at the considerate tone. He coughs out, “Of course!” as he places a hand on his saviour’s shoulder. Gathering his composure, the worn-out warrior then rasps, “I didn’t anticipate saying this face-to-face. But, from the depths of my heart, thank you for answering my call.”
Startled, the god nods with a blushful smile. He subsequently turns inward, gently holding the man’s nape and closing his eyes.
The tips of Five’s ears burn and his pulse might have skipped a beat or three as he studies the so-much-more-than-a-man’s frazzled features. How his expressive brows knit in concentration. The pale cherry blossom lips and rosy cheekbones. He’s unblemished, beardless.
Suddenly aware of his staring, Five breaks his gaze, leans forward, and places a hand on the god’s knee for support.
Once in a settled position, he allows himself to drift behind eyelids, sensing the sharpest pains receding from his beleaguered body while the ancient alien in the raggedy retro-future workwear repairs his injuries. He groans as bones mend and a numbing, long since omnipresent tension begins to ebb, then melt. He can breathe without significant effort and incenses no longer choke him with the smell of death. His death. Five draws in the crisp night air and tastes salt.
Fuck!
Five opens his eyes and jolts upright, trying to gather his thoughts. He’s by the sea, not on it. He can feel damp grass beneath his feet and between his toes. He’s sitting on the flat surface of a boulder. The weight of his, or rather, the collar, is absent. He isn’t bound and the thistle-prick is gone. It feels as though he’s walked into the sunlight from a darkened room when, in fact, he’s been rescued from the abrasive torchlight swarming his vision. The moonlit horizon no longer tosses or rolls. Exhaustion is not so all-encompassing. A tired raven-haired person looks at him with concern, then a shared understanding, silently waiting for permission to continue.
The traveller briefly flirts with the notion he’s actually slit his own throat. Yet, if Five were dead, he reasons Klaus would be there. Somehow. More than a millennium before they, along with 41 others, are born to random unconnected women who’ve shown no signs of pregnancy the day prior. No, the ethereal presence is real. Five’s life is just unbelievable.
He takes several slow breaths, forcing back tears brought about by the unending generosity. The god-like being with the low, smooth, genteel voice reassuring him he’s out of harm’s way. The chilled chest with the long arms holding him while he breaks down with relief. Finally, Five feels truly safe for the first time in his long life.
After Loki returns to his ministrations, with a tremulous voice but a bemused grin, Five asks through a curtain of hair, “So, why are you dressed like a pencil-pushing monster slayer?”
Loki laughs softly to himself then answers, “It turned into more of an enchantment than a slaying, but I suppose that’s besides the point. Tell me, wayward traveller, what do you know of the Multiverse?”