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comment_fic. Um. Dark like a very dark thing. Do not piss War off, ladies and gentlemen. Title, by the by, is from the play by William Congreve. For, yes, exactly the lines you're thinking of.
Title: The Mourning Bride
Rating: R
Fandoms: Avengers movieverse, Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Thor, War, mention of Odin, Loki, Jane, Heaven Hell. Thor/War, Thor/Jane (hinted Odin/War, too)
Summary: "In my youth I courted War." And now, Thor, she's about to court you back
Wordcount: 678
Warnings/Notes: It's War, yes? Also Thor, and Odin, and Loki, and implications for most of the plots of Thor and Avengers. Dark like a very dark thing
Disclaimer: Not mine, either of them
comment_fic. Um. Dark like a very dark thing. Do not piss War off, ladies and gentlemen. Title, by the by, is from the play by William Congreve. For, yes, exactly the lines you're thinking of.Title: The Mourning Bride
Rating: R
Fandoms: Avengers movieverse, Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Thor, War, mention of Odin, Loki, Jane, Heaven Hell. Thor/War, Thor/Jane (hinted Odin/War, too)
Summary: "In my youth I courted War." And now, Thor, she's about to court you back
Wordcount: 678
Warnings/Notes: It's War, yes? Also Thor, and Odin, and Loki, and implications for most of the plots of Thor and Avengers. Dark like a very dark thing
Disclaimer: Not mine, either of them
The Mourning Bride
She had had his father, once. She never told him that, saved it up for later, maybe. For a shard between them, a spark for conflagration. One she wouldn't ever need, with the brother so close, so pained, so hateful. A war to sow a fire across worlds, in that spark nursed in blue, jealous chest. Yes, oh yes. No need to bring the father in.
He was too old, anyway. Too hollowed, too scoured. She'd had him. Odin. She'd feasted on his youth, his vigour, on the hatred held between he and his foe. Nursed his fire between her teeth, fed it and feasted from it, and in the end, left him cold. Hollowed through, worn and frozen as the world he'd left in ruins.
One of her greatest works, this prince's father. Even to the seed she had set within him, the hollow hope for peace, in a man slaved to war, that planted the blood-red crop yet to be reaped between his sons. Oh, she had loved Odin. A true masterpiece, he had been.
But this one. The son, the firstborn, the prince. The warrior son, who nursed for her such an honest love, such a genuine joy. Not like his father, his brother, the carnages born in political breasts. A warrior, instead. Her true devotee, with blood in his veins that pounded like thunder, like cannonshot, like heartsblood pulsing to the floor. With his hammer in his hand, and his heart full of honour, and courage, and all the rich, savage joy of the fight. This one, she loved for other reasons.
He courted her. Not petitioned her, with causes and hatreds and greed, and all the black, delicious sparks that flared to blood-red war. Not that. Honest, upfront, beloved. He walked into her arms for no better reason than that she was there, raised his hammer in her cause for no better reason than that she wanted it, and he did too. Fighting for fighting's sake, war for the pounding of his blood and the singing in his heart, for power and might and all the joys that she commanded. He courted her. Walked to danger for her sake, chose enemies for their challenge, and that which brought him closer to her. Let her lay her hands upon him, let her sink her claws into his breast, and kissed her soundly in nothing but delight.
Oh, she had loved him. Pulsed inside him, took him into herself to sing his thunder into her veins. He was a warrior, and she was War, and she had loved him true.
Until the other. The woman and the world, the soft and gentle thing that wooed him from her, that slipped soft fingers beneath her claws, and pried them gently free from him. That slipped between him and her, and whispered other thoughts into his heart.
She had loved him, until then.
But that was the flipside of her love, the danger of her hate. One like the other, one and the same. She was War, and knew no other form of love.
Now, then. The brother, nursing hatred in that fragile chest. The humans, her favourite children, war forever cradled in their hearts. And all the wonders of the universe, where she and her brothers would ever and always ride. Where Death whispered words into a conquerer's ear, and frail egos and desperate causes forever drew sweet lovers to her.
She smiled, seated on a broken bridge, offered up to her in a moment of glorious genocide, painting her lips a bright, bright red in preparation. For blood and fire, for hatred and courage, and the reaping of the blood-red crop she had sown so many times, over and over. She smiled, the red-tipped brush in her hand heavy as a sword, and made ready to court her prince in his turn.
Heaven hath no rage, like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.
And Heaven and Hell, at least, had known she was coming. Asgard ... had no such advantages.
She had had his father, once. She never told him that, saved it up for later, maybe. For a shard between them, a spark for conflagration. One she wouldn't ever need, with the brother so close, so pained, so hateful. A war to sow a fire across worlds, in that spark nursed in blue, jealous chest. Yes, oh yes. No need to bring the father in.
He was too old, anyway. Too hollowed, too scoured. She'd had him. Odin. She'd feasted on his youth, his vigour, on the hatred held between he and his foe. Nursed his fire between her teeth, fed it and feasted from it, and in the end, left him cold. Hollowed through, worn and frozen as the world he'd left in ruins.
One of her greatest works, this prince's father. Even to the seed she had set within him, the hollow hope for peace, in a man slaved to war, that planted the blood-red crop yet to be reaped between his sons. Oh, she had loved Odin. A true masterpiece, he had been.
But this one. The son, the firstborn, the prince. The warrior son, who nursed for her such an honest love, such a genuine joy. Not like his father, his brother, the carnages born in political breasts. A warrior, instead. Her true devotee, with blood in his veins that pounded like thunder, like cannonshot, like heartsblood pulsing to the floor. With his hammer in his hand, and his heart full of honour, and courage, and all the rich, savage joy of the fight. This one, she loved for other reasons.
He courted her. Not petitioned her, with causes and hatreds and greed, and all the black, delicious sparks that flared to blood-red war. Not that. Honest, upfront, beloved. He walked into her arms for no better reason than that she was there, raised his hammer in her cause for no better reason than that she wanted it, and he did too. Fighting for fighting's sake, war for the pounding of his blood and the singing in his heart, for power and might and all the joys that she commanded. He courted her. Walked to danger for her sake, chose enemies for their challenge, and that which brought him closer to her. Let her lay her hands upon him, let her sink her claws into his breast, and kissed her soundly in nothing but delight.
Oh, she had loved him. Pulsed inside him, took him into herself to sing his thunder into her veins. He was a warrior, and she was War, and she had loved him true.
Until the other. The woman and the world, the soft and gentle thing that wooed him from her, that slipped soft fingers beneath her claws, and pried them gently free from him. That slipped between him and her, and whispered other thoughts into his heart.
She had loved him, until then.
But that was the flipside of her love, the danger of her hate. One like the other, one and the same. She was War, and knew no other form of love.
Now, then. The brother, nursing hatred in that fragile chest. The humans, her favourite children, war forever cradled in their hearts. And all the wonders of the universe, where she and her brothers would ever and always ride. Where Death whispered words into a conquerer's ear, and frail egos and desperate causes forever drew sweet lovers to her.
She smiled, seated on a broken bridge, offered up to her in a moment of glorious genocide, painting her lips a bright, bright red in preparation. For blood and fire, for hatred and courage, and the reaping of the blood-red crop she had sown so many times, over and over. She smiled, the red-tipped brush in her hand heavy as a sword, and made ready to court her prince in his turn.
Heaven hath no rage, like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned.
And Heaven and Hell, at least, had known she was coming. Asgard ... had no such advantages.
