“[Aslaug] was the shield maiden Brynhildr’s daughter and was anxious to make her position known so her costumes are grand and very theatrical,” explains Joan Bergin (The costume designer for Vikings). To that end, she makes her grand arrival – hugely pregnant – clad in a glittering gold threaded gown and swathed in a colorful furs. “Those huge burgundy color furs and the girl is six feet tall and 8 ¾ months pregnant! Everyone went ‘Oh, my God!’”
Do not be misguided. Open your mind to a new level of self awareness and intellect. Abandon your feelings of timidity. Do not give any thought to the whispers of the blind. Project an image of confidence and self assurance.
All I ask is safe passage. All I ask is that you let me leave here in peace, to go wherever the gods decide. And you shall have back your hearth and home. With my blessing. And my sons, when they hear how it was done, will be grateful for the manner of it., and not seek revenge. I understand. Thank you.
Being a trouble maker has been your greatest thrill so far in your short life. Youngest daughter to King Aelle you spend whatever little idle time you can get tormenting your nephew Alfred and spying on King Ecbert’s court. This particular day proved far more fruitful than you could have ever imagined.
What a thrill With determination and resets through the Ruins What a thrill I’m searching and I’ll stab into you What a fear in my soul That yours is so supreme!
I give my soul Not for saving, but for you (Care Taker) In my time there’ll be no one else Murder, it’s the way I fall to you (Care Taker) I’m still in a load, Care Taker
Someday you go through the traps, And someday you feed on your pie, It’s ordeal, the trial to solve For the day we see new sparks
I give my soul Not for saving, but for you (Care Taker) In my time there’ll be no one else Murder, it’s the way I fall to you (Care Taker) I’m still in a load, Care Taker I’m still in a load, Care Taker
Loki and Thor, with the prompt "Get Me"? If you'd like to :-)
He won’t beg.
Or at least, not for them.
They want him to beg; they beat and cut and try to pry it out of him –ma plea for it all to stop, supplication for it all to end. He keeps his lips sealed however, and doesn’t give them the satisfaction.
It’s only after they leave and the blood starts to turn dry and tacky on his skin that he lets himself give in:
“Please,” Loki whispers hoarsely into the emptiness, where the Chitauri can’t hear, “come get me.”
Sometimes, the prayer is answered. Sometimes it is Odin, Gungnir in hand, who arrives and shatters the remnants of Sanctuary with his spear, steely eye glinting with rage as he destroys the monsters in all the ways Loki would imagine as a child. Most times, it’s Thor, riding on his stupid goat-drawn chariot, or with Mjolnir swinging overhead, bellowing as he lays waste to the Chitauri before scooping Loki’s wasted form up in his burly arms, a smile on his lips.
“Let’s go home, brother,” he says.
And then Loki wakes up and there are no arms; no goats; no spear. There’s nothing but the dark of the void around him and the insectlike chittering of Thanos’ servants, and he remembers: