Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The First Realm echoed with the sound of rejoicing.

At first, there had been only silence as the elite of Asgard stood in their livery and fine helms upon the bridge of the byway. Heimdall, tall and ever-vigil, had stepped aside, his unblinking eyes reflecting the gold of the cosmos as he walked forward with the honored guest of the night – a mortal woman, small even by the standards of Midgard, awkward within the draping silks of the Aesir, but with bright, eager eyes as the guardian of the byway offered her a hand up the hallowed step. Her hand, tiny and white, was swallowed within his darker grip as the shadows and light from above played upon them both.

Gathered to observe, the crowd was hushed. The heavens rolled in their canopy and the sea sloshed in its cradle. All assembled could feel the touch of the Mother's branches upon their skin, even though a race of steel and flame they were. All waited, all anticipated.

The girl-child, so young in the eyes of those ancient, stepped forward, and with her hands over Heimdall's own, they sank the sword of the byway into its sheath. Moments passed, silence and stillness was all that greeted them before the spherical chamber awakened, crackling with the tell-tale pulse of seiðr and rumbling with the mechanical gears of that which was built by hands - the magicks of Heimdall's blood and the ingenuity of the woman who would mend the path between the stars . . .

All was hushed. Not one soul took in a breath.

And finally, he exhaled. In his hand, concealed by the long, draping sleeves of his best robes, a violet stone took on the brilliance of the power in the air. Seiðr and warmth flared all around them . . . light and life. Life like the beating of blood and the stretch of lungs. Life like warmth. Life like being whole; whole as was promised, but was denied to those created but to make war and die.

His breath ached in his throat, as if it had not the right to be there.

It is time, his Master's voice whispered in his mind. It is time, it is time, it is time . . .

He had not drawn in a breath again. He had no need to. Instead he clenched his fist, feeling as the facets of the crystal in his hand flattened, feeling as its burden was relieved. He felt as his shades raced about, unnoticed with so much of the elemental and the uncanny in the air around them. They clambered with their voiceless throats, they clawed with their nailless hands. They reached . . .

. . . and were swallowed, lost to the byway and its path.

Finally, the mad swirl of power on the air faltered; it gave, collapsing in on itself like a lung free of breath. The massive circles of the bifröst stilled as the last glimmers of golden light touched the gilded planes with fond fingers before falling to nothingness too.

The mortal woman stepped back. She could not keep the smile from her eyes. From the front of the crowd, the Thunderer made to step forward, but stopped himself. Her eyes found his and held, and at the gaze, his smile turned wide and all encompassing.

Heartbeats passed. Heimdall inclined his head. He looked, and saw what no other could see.

"The bridge made contact," he announced. "The bifröst has been restored."

His words were simple, spoken without inflection or feeling, but the response was immediate as those gathered gave up a cheer. Amongst the sounds of rejoicing, Odin's first son stepped forward to gather the human woman in his arms. He spun her in joyous circles as if she were a child, her feet scarcely touching the ground as her laughter rose to join his.

And he himself stepped back, turning away from the living pulse of the crowd. In his hand, the violet amulet was empty, but sated. He felt the touch of a lazy smile against his mind. His Master was pleased.

Well done, the voice whispered, the syllables like a brush of fond fingers against his mind. Now, we need only time . . .

For centuries, they had waited, slowly and surely plotting their return. Slowly and surely planning how they would claim that which had been denied to them. Time meant nothing, not when their goal was so nearly at hand . . .

And so he walked away, the gem a pulsing light in the hidden pocket of his robes, and told himself that he did not have much longer to wait.

.

.

Outside, the last rains of the year tapped at the window with their cold fingers. The land rumbled, contented and soft as the sky whispered above them. In their cabin in the woods, the fire had long dwindled down to embers in the hearth. In its absence, an orb of cold green fire hung in the air above them, giving them just enough of a glow to see by as they filled the night with their words.

Sif, daughter of Týr, was not tired in the faintest. She had been sleeping for too long, she felt, and now her body sang with movement and light and life. Her blood was a sweet song in her veins; the skin at the tips of her fingers hummed as she burrowed in close to him, sharing an embrace that had not been hers to take in years . . . too many years, even for the agelessness of their race.

And yet, where her lungs could not seem to get in air enough with her joy, Loki laid quiet and weary in her arms. He rested his head against her chest as if it were too much of a weight for him to keep upright. The newly shorn length of his hair tickled the skin above her breasts as she drew her hand in soothing passes through the now short strands. He leaned into the touch without thinking, and she wondered what affection or companionship had been given to him in the years he had been away. The thought was an ache to her heart, and so she curved in closer to him, wanting to share her warmth and let him take it as his own.

Her cut on his hair had been sloppy, she reflected. Some strands were longer than the others, peeking from the shorter layers like the quills of a porcupine. She compared the lengths with her fingertips, feeling the sharp edges against those soft.

She mush have spoken her thoughts aloud, for his voice was a low whisper against her skin in reply. "You will learn."

"Until then, you would wear my ineptitude with pride?" she teased before grimacing at the thoughtless cast of her words. She had told herself that she would keep the conversation light. She had told herself that she would not give in to words laden with meaning. Perhaps, that was too high a goal for such a night, she reflected.

"I shall wear your ineptitudes, as you dub them, as long as you count me worthy enough to receive them," Loki returned. She felt a smile touch the corners of his mouth. Her fingers curved with the wish to touch it. "With pride I shall them bear."

"Silver-tongue," the old name fell as an affection from her tongue.

"I speak the truth." She heard where the word finally had been bitten from his tongue. "And you would accuse me of using charm?"

She felt as he drew the side of his fingers down her arm, an absent caress that woke up old senses and made them new. She had held memory enough in her mind – enough so that, at one time, she had thought memory alone enough to sustain herself on - but memory was now proven to be paltry in comparison to sensation returned real and tangible to her. With her hands, she discovered where a rib was too prominent there, where she could feel the places between his spine there. His skin was thin, she thought, too thin. She wondered how it managed to hold all of him inside. The calluses on his fingers were more pronounced than they had been, catching on the fall of her hair, the light linen of her sleeping shift. He had held a weapon often in their time apart. Enough so that they had scared his hands in a way centuries of war had not before.

She felt a fist clasp around her throat. She forced herself to breathe around it. Past, she reminded herself. He shall move forward only as you do . . .

She exhaled, forcing her lungs to breathe again.

If Loki noticed anything of her momentary stiffness, he said naught of it. She drew in another breath, forcing her heart to stillness. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the sound of the rain beyond them. The lull had taken her for some minutes, she knew not how many, when Loki's touch turned curious against her skin. He had found a long gash on the underside of her arm, a wound that had long since healed over, raised as a white path down the length of her arm. In a year's time, there would not even be a scar to show, but the wound had been deep, and some things took time to heal.

"This one is new," Loki said, his voice a low rumble in his throat as he searched out the unfamiliar shape. His touch tickled, and she pushed at his hand with a smile.

"A token from Hrodgæir," she revealed after a moment's hesitation. For little did wounds heal by ignoring them. ". . . after your fall. He insulted your name in the training ring, and it filled me with such a fury . . . A rage that I could not justly refute, for his words were not then untrue."

"Ah," Loki's reply was an exhale.

She huffed out a laugh against the top of his head. She let him feel her smile, how the corner turned up – wicked in shape. "And so, where I could not use my words against him, I broke his nose with my shield. I gave up my defensive position to do so, and paid the price for attacking in anger."

She felt him smile. She hoped that the expression was true.

Her hand fell from his hair to trace the long line of his spine, curving around each of his ribs as she went. She found a mark there she did not remember, a bump in the skin from the bone underneath. "And this?" she asked. "This is new."

"The captain's shield packs quite the blow when thrown with his true strength," Loki regretted ruefully, "I was clumsy, and paid the price."

She had not known of that, she thought as she bit her lip. Underneath her fingers, she felt a dozen more marks, mementos of battle from centuries of war and her ways. Most, she knew. Some she had prevented from being more serious wounds while fighting at his side. Some, even, had been born for her sake.

She touched a long series of lines on his lower stomach, from where she had ungracefully stitched a wound centuries ago. The marks had yet to fade. She felt his mouth turn, and wished to press her fingers there in order to feel the low ridges left frown Dwarvish twine. She bit her own lip, and tasted blood as he had tasted blood then.

She shifted, and found where he bore a thick rise of scar tissue beneath his elbow. He answered before she asked. "The Beast's handiwork," he said without elaborating. "Although, in the good doctor's defense, I did deserve that one. My arm was not the same for near a month."

She felt her stomach sicken, remembering that particular battle. Remember feeling the white look of pain on his face as her pain before he had disappeared into the shadows, retreating to lick his wounds in private. How she had hated feeling so then. How she had hated that he could still have such an effect on her . . .

Now she rubbed soothing fingers against the old injury, offering a too late solace. There was a comfort to be found there, nonetheless.

"And this?" he asked, finding a rough patch of skin high on the back of her shoulder. In the daylight, it would be the colour of a bruise, birthed from flame. "This too is new."

"Old," she corrected, hating how thick her tongue was in her mouth as she was forced to answer. "Scared from the Destroyer's flames."

She counted out only a heartbeat before she felt him turn taut and uncomfortable in her arms. She felt the moment when he would draw away from her, lost in the shadow his deeds had cast. But she tightened her hold on him, not allowing him to leave her embrace. His strength was still wan, his skin still too pale, and she had spent years with nothing but her strength and steel to keep herself distant from her thoughts, to keep herself focused from her heart.

"And that too is past," she said firmly. Her voice was as a ram against a fortified wall. "And it shall be forgotten."

"But you," his voice croaked from his lips. "I -" he spoke as if he did not recognize himself. As if the weight of what he had done – all he had done – finally sank in, and the enormity of his actions was too much for him to bear. She felt his shoulders sink, felt where he turned his face away from her skin as if not worthy of the touch she offered.

"I," she corrected. "I healed. I healed then . . . and shall heal now, but only if you offer your own efforts to that end. Please, Loki."

His body was still drawn too tight for too long. And then he exhaled. When he touched the scar again, it was with all of the reverence of a priest to a deity above, and she leaned into the touch, finding some peace in the sacrifice he offered.

She let the silence grow between them, listening as the thunder beyond them rumbled, sleepy in the sky above. She waited for the heavens to silence before shaping her next question, her voice unsure upon her tongue. "What did . . . what did Odin Allfather say to you?"

"What is my penance to be, you mean?" Loki rephrased her query. Where years ago - even before his fall - his voice would have been bitter and derisive, now it was just tired. "We . . . we both agreed that we have done the other wrong. He offered his apologies, after much insistence from Thor," and then she heard a note of wonder flicker into his words, as if he were unable to understand Thor and his heart. Thor and his love. "And I . . . I too admitted the error in so many things. I . . . I know so much regret now, and I do not even know where to start in making amends."

She was silent, her fingers returning to his hair as she let him speak. She felt his voice bob in his throat as he swallowed. The next words were difficult for him to shape.

"I . . . I am banished from Asgard for my crimes committed against a sovereign realm. The peace with Jötunnheimr is contingent upon my absence from the First Realm until Odin deems me worthy enough to return. And, for my crimes against Midgard . . . I have wronged this world greatly, and I would pay a bone-price, if they would accept it of me."

He sounded thoughtful, at long last, and Sif raised a brow, wondering what plan he already had working through his mind. It had been over four seasons since his fall, and a near year since Jane Foster had reopened the bridge between worlds once more – thanks, in large part, to the research she had done at Loki's side, when he wore his mortal guise. While he had spent his time since Thor's return to Earth being a thorn in the side of the Avengers, Thor had devoted himself to the Heart-realm's protection - as much as a way to bind himself to the world he had grown to love as it was a way to keep an eye on his lost brother. She wondered at the shape of future events, then, seeing many possibilities before her, but unsure of which path would be hers to walk.

And so, until then . . .

She settled against her pillow, shifting so that she could bury her face in his hair, molding herself around his body as if she could crawl inside of his skin and settle herself alongside his bones. He sighed against her heartbeat, his breath slow and steady as it tickled her skin. After a long moment, he whispered, "I am finding that it is . . . difficult, coming home. There is a relative ease to be found in running."

"Shall you run again?" she whispered, fearing his answer.

A silence. A too long pause. "No," he finally exhaled. "I am . . . I am tired. So very tired, my lady." His voice was small when he spoke. . . so very small.

"Rest then," she murmured as she held him closer. The rain outside continued to fall, resolute as it fed the ground below. " . . . rest."

Chapter Text

Sif awakened to the smell of bacon.

Instantly she felt awareness rush upon her. She sat up, wiping the sleep from her eyes even as she glanced out of the window in order to see the sun in its morning perch in the sky, shining from behind the dispersing clouds of last night's storm. The few rust coloured leaves that had managed to hang on to the winter ready boughs were still damp from the rain. She had not slept that long then.

But long enough, she saw when she noticed that Loki had already departed. She must have been more tired than she thought to have not noticed him take his leave. Had she really had a true night of sleep since his fall? she tried to remember. The truth was a telling one against her thoughts, honesty a stark thing trailing behind the unwaking hours.

Hating that she had slept past him, she rolled out of bed and raced through her morning routine, tying up her hair into a messy tail and shrugging into a red flannel shirt and a loose fitting pair of dark blue jeans – one of the truly marvelous choices of wardrobe that Midgard had to offer - before stumbling out into the common room of the cabin. When she looked around, there was a fire already snuggled nicely in the hearth and smells of breakfast were billowing enticingly from the stove.

Volstagg and Thor had split the breakfast duties between them, as was their wont, they being the best cooks in their group, by far. Sif had a rather unflattering tendency to burn water, and Loki did not have an interest in the culinary arts when normally had to be forced to eat at all. When he did cook, he was passable enough with his talents, but he had none of Thor's easy skill, or Volstagg's rather . . . unique love for the art.

Already a veritable mountain of bacon and pancakes were out and ready for consumption. The humans had packed comparatively heaping portions to what Sif normally saw them eat. Darcy Lewis had two plates before her, and she waved a syrup coated fork in the air as she lauded Volstagg's skills with the griddle with all of the enthusiasm of a skald, if not the grace. Fandral and Hogun were already working through their own impressive portions, each eating quickly out of long habit - for once Volstagg and Thor took their portions, there would be little left for anyone else afterward.

At that thought, Sif looked over to where Thor was loading plates of omelets for his friends. Jane Foster was still in her pajamas at Thor's side, holding out a plate for the spatula with a warm smile on her face. There was a soft sort of ease between the couple, full of smiles and goofy, love struck looks. Sif bit her tongue as she watched them – fighting both the wish she had to tease and the full, happy feeling she felt for her friend, content with the match he had picked for his life's mate.

At her right, a step just behind her, Sif felt a cool presence approach. Storm-air touched the fine airs at the back of her neck as the taste of winter filled her mouth. Loki had long ago given up trying to sneak up on her, no matter his silence and stealth, and Sif turned to see his verdant gaze watching the way Thor and Jane interacted as he stepped out of the shadows. His mouth was a straight line, but there was a faint wrinkle at the corner of his eyes. He saw what she saw, then.

"He is happy," Loki whispered, more to himself than to her. She gave a crooked grin, wishing to say that Thor's happiness was more than Jane in that moment. In the end, she stilled her words, but only just.

"Where have you been?" she asked instead, taking a step back so that he stood at her side rather than at her back. "I awakened alone this morning."

He rolled his shoulders in reply. His voice was nonchalant, as if to convey the triviality of his words. "Someone chopped a truly prodigious amount of firewood yesterday. I was merely bringing it closer to the cabin for ease of use."

She cast an eye over him, noticing then the telling spots where the lingering rain had struck his skin. He had not bothered to cloth himself against the cold. He smelled of the wild beyond them; the chill of the approaching winter and the earthy, green scent of the pines after the rain. "Such a new found chivalry you bear," she teased instead of calling him out on avoiding the rest of their group.

"Always if I can offer aid . . ." Loki drawled in reply, and she rolled her eyes. A moment of hesitation passed, and then she shifted so that she could touch his arm with her shoulder. She leaned against him, just close enough to share her warmth with him, and imagined that he relaxed, ever so slightly. The lines furrowing his brow flexed, fighting a losing battle to remain tense before retreating. The skin there smoothed.

His hand found hers once, a whisper of fingertips, before falling away.

When she looked up, Thor had noticed them. "Brother!" his welcome was a bold, booming sound in the small space of the cabin. Loki flinched visibly at the appellation, as if Thor had struck him. The crinkled lines returned in full force to his brow. "Come forth and break your fast with us! Tell me, when was the last time you could boast of dining on such fare? Indeed," Thor answered his own question, "it must have been too long."

"I thank-you for the offer, but I am not hungry," Loki lied smoothly enough, but his stomach betrayed him at that very moment, rumbling loudly in the silence that always followed Thor's levity – as if the air needed a moment to recover before bearing sound again. Even in the warm morning light, the thin lines of his bones and the sunken hollows of his face were stark to see. His eyes were bruises in his face, his wrists pinched to the point of looking painful.

"I've only had coffee," Loki admitted ruefully, his cheeks flushing. "Perhaps I shall eat . . . a very little."

Thor laughed in reply, the sound bright and pleased. "Then a very little you shall have." He cracked a heaping dozen eggs into the pan, and reached over to where Jane had been cutting up peppers and tomatoes to go into the omelet. Sif felt her own stomach rumbling at the smells filling the air.

"We remember how you like your meals," Volstagg said next, pleasant and merry as he flipped the omelet in his own pan. "Just of the field, no game whatsoever," he shook his head in mock regret. "Although it is a shame to ruin such a fine meal so, I shall give you your vegetarian's ware. You are to be blamed for my wife's fondness of these, I'll have you know. I can get her to eat nothing else in the morning."

A half smile touched Loki's lips then, real in shape. Sif stared openly, as if by doing so she could preserve the look there for longer.

"How is your lady wife doing?" Loki asked, a note of surprise coloring his tone – as if he were baffled to find that he truly wished to know.

Volstagg stood up that much straighter, a proud smile splitting his face in two. "She is quite well – and blessed, at that! She is with child."

Loki chuckled. "And that would make what? Ten sons for you now?"

"Eleven," Volstagg corrected. "You missed one birth in the time you were . . . away," he finished awkwardly.

"Ah," Loki recovered first. "And yet, you always did wish for a daughter. Perhaps the Nornir shall be kind when weaving, and give to you your girl-child so that Illna can take her rest."

Volstagg laughed, low and hearty. "And yet, this latest child was all her idea, I can assure you," he winked over at his companions. Fandral gave a whoop and lifted his mug of coffee in a salute. Hogun was silent, but his eyes brightened with joy for his friend.

Volstagg next looked over to where Darcy and Erik were still plowing through their breakfasts with gusto. In between covering pancakes in syrup and shoveling eggs into her mouth, Darcy had been watching the interactions of those around her with a careful, thoughtful eye. She wore a half-grin on her face that was sharp at the corners. Time with the mortal circle had taught Sif to mind her quick and unerringly accurate perceptions as well as it had taught her to expect the wit of her mouth.

"The lad here," Volstagg inclined his head towards Loki, filling the mortals in on their shared history, "even delivered my sixth son. We were away from the palace at the time, and there was no one else to help Illna through a rather difficult labor. He is the reason I have both my wife and many more sons today."

Loki flushed again, glancing at her before looking to where Thor was trying to hide a grin, and failing. He looked down. "You make too much of the assistance I gave. The Lady Illna did all of the work."

"Aye, she's a strong one, I pride her for that," Volstagg gave, his voice coloring with his affection. Sif felt as his glance fell over her – the giant was never none too accomplished at subtlety, and she girded herself for whatever he would say next. "It is all a man can want for in life – strength and softness in a wife. I count myself as truly blessed."

Then he had the audacity to wink at her. Sif shook her head, and raised a brow – daring him to say more. She had not hidden the tempest of feelings she had felt for Loki's return, and during the charged emotions of the last few days, she must have let herself slip. Or, there is the fact the the two of you shared a bed the night before, as innocent as it may have been, an unhelpful voice shared in her mind. Your companions may be thick, but they are not stupid. They will put together a hundred such instances from the years, and know the truth.

Then let them know, Sif finally decided, an odd lightness settling on her shoulders at the thought. Let them know . . .

From the table, Darcy let loose a snort of laughter before pushing her glasses up higher on her nose. "Come on, Olson," she waved a hand. "Jane's laptop bag can move – sit down." She went about clearing space on the bench next to her, where Jane's numerous 'essentials' had taken up residence during the trip.

Jane threw down the knife she had been using on the chopping board, darting over to where Darcy was moving her things with a surprising burst of speed. Thor easily caught the blade before it fell to clatter on the floor. "That is not a laptop bag," Jane's voice held a note of indignant. "And it is highly sensitive."

"Gotcha," Darcy took Jane's panic in stride. "Then see that its moved gently, or the files will get it next." She held a threatening hand over the stack of manila folders and yellow notepads that had been stacked underneath the bag, Jane's tiny, slanting print filling the pages until no space was left untouched. Since the SHIELD raid in New Mexico, Jane had been near paranoid about having a written copy of everything – and a well hidden, equally well documented backup, at that.

Jane sighed through her mouth, sending a long strand of hair flying from her face with her ire. "No need to take it out on the files," she muttered darkly.

And Darcy just chuckled before looking over at Sif. "Here, Xena," she patted the bench next to her. "Sit next to me, and lets see if those muscles are contagious."

"You did not care for the routines I showed you?" Sif asked wryly as she took her seat. After a moment's hesitation, Loki slid into place next to her.

Darcy made a face. "Learning to throw a punch? Super awesome. The rest . . . I think I will leave to you save-the-world types." She patted Sif's shoulder with a grin. It was like patting a rock. "Trust me, I enjoy appreciating from afar." She turned her head, and grinned wolfishly over to where Thor was flipping the omelets out of the pan, the muscles in his arm flexing smoothly with the motion.

Sif raised a brow, amused, but was distracted when a mug of black coffee was pushed before her. Truly, there was no finer nectar to be found from Niflheimr down low to Asgard upon the top of Yggdrasil's high boughs. She inhaled the steam from the top of the mug with reverence before taking that first sip and sighing.

Loki watched her with an amused half-smile before Thor placed a plate down before him, and his attention was then quite taken. Sif watched as he took a first small bite, as if trying to hide that was was eating what his brother had put before him. He blinked before taking another bite, this time with more gusto. Sif tried not to smile, amused by how hard he was trying to hide that he did enjoy the meal.

He was already halfway done with his plate by the time Thor, Jane, and Volstagg joined them. Thor held Jane's chair out for her before sitting himself, his grin not falling from his face once throughout the routine.

There was silence once they were all seated. A brimming silence, waiting and watching . . . for light words and levity could only last for so long before certain questions were asked. And already Sif was more thankful than she could say for the effort that all were putting forth. Even if it was more for Thor's sake than Loki's, she wished for as smooth as a transition as possible, and already the morning was passing more amiably than she could have hoped for.

They would make this work, she thought fiercely, and believed her words to be so. They would.

Finally, it was Darcy who broke the silence, just as the sound of forks against plates and the clinking of mugs was starting to take on an edge of strain. "So . . . what's new?"

Thor looked up. Loki blinked. A long muscle in his throat worked, more visible now than it ever had been before.

"I mean . . . obviously Olson here isn't being dragged back to Asgard in chains," she plowed on, her large eyes sharp. Her mouth curved up at one corner to soften the weight of her words. "So . . . is he banished à la-Thor? Or is there something else going on?"

Thor leaned forward, as if he meant to reply in his brother's stead, but Loki took in a deep breath before answering himself. "Asgard is . . . closed to me," he revealed. "For the crimes I committed against a sovereign realm. And yet, I have been granted clemency. Odin has judged me as chief law-speaker of the Realms, and left it to me to pay a bone-price to the realm I have wronged the most."

"Bone-price?" Darcy repeated, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Like a were-gild?" she asked.

"Most simply, yes," Loki said. "I have done ill to Midgard, and I would pay back those deeds until my debt is cleared."

"So . . . are we talking vigilante good deeds here?" Darcy asked. "Working by night in spandex? Or are we talking something more . . ."

" - the Avengers," Thor broke in with such a grin, unable to contain himself any more. He wore a look of pride on his face as he turned to Loki – as glad to have a shield-brother once again as he was to have one of his heart and blood. "What greater way to pay his debt than to defend this realm alongside those he has personally done wrong? Indeed, there is no better way."

Darcy frowned, looking dubious for a moment. Jane bit her lip. "That will take some convincing," she pointed out gently.

"Although," Darcy said thoughtfully, "If there is any team who is adapt at taking violent forces and harnessing them, it would be these guys. In the end, Fury's greed for Loki's particular brand of powers may outweigh anything he has done in the past. Or," she allowed with a honest look, "he may just prefer Loki in a cell, with his magic being dissected for the rest of his natural life. It's going to be tricky, Olson."

"I dare SHIELD to come up with a cell that can hold me," Loki's mouth was a thin line as he spoke. His words were neither unkind nor mocking, he simply stated a truth. "And Fury can be convinced, in time. He shall simply require . . . persuading."

Thor inclined his head. "And if there is any who can wear a force down until they are forced to yield, it is my brother," he looked across the table and caught Loki's eye. Loki held his gaze for a moment, before looking away.

Brother, brother, brother, Sif could read the mantra marching through Loki's mind, and beneath the table, she shifted on the bench so that the long line of her thigh pressed up against his own. He blinked, coming back to himself, before bowing his head to Thor's belief in him. His hand was a fist over his fork; his knuckles turning white from the strain.

Across from them, Volstagg stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Join in until they have no choice . . . I like it."

And Darcy chuckled lowly, shaking her head. "Give 'em hell, Silver-tongue . . . give 'em hell."

.

.

Norse gods may not have been the cleanest chefs while they helped prepare the meal, but they did sincerely aid in cleaning up their messes when they were done. From where she was washing the truly impressive mountain of dishes left over from breakfast, Jane watched Thor from out of the corner of her eye. As often as she could, she tried to bump his arm with her shoulder or brush his hand with her own, each small touch bringing the smile waiting on the line of his mouth to the forefront without fail. Jane, who had known a lingering shadow – a sadness – to him since their reunion was intoxicated by the ease of that new smile. He was turning as a tree to the spring sun before her eyes, and it warmed her heart to see.

The main area of the cabin was one large space, the kitchen and the living room separated only by a line of couches before the hearth. The couches were now commandeered as Darcy let the Aesir in on the wonders of Super Mario – showing them how to pummel and conquer and destroy in the virtual world. Thor looked over at his companions again and again, but it was always Loki whom his eyes found. Loki had not taken a turn yet, but he was watching the game with a curious, calculating air. There was a careful observance in the way his eyes flickered over the game, and Jane fought the urge to grin at the look – recognizing it immediately as a kindred spirit to her own.

Beside her, Thor was being gingerly careful with how he dried the plates. He had had a couple of . . . interesting incidents with the frailty of ceramic when he first started with his stay on Earth, and they were experiences he was trying his best not to repeat.

Jane handed him the next plate. Her thumb brushed his, and he smiled again. She shook her head, trying to ignore the pounding ache that had settled there as she worked. She tried to tell herself that it was just the stress of the last few days catching up to her, but the migraine tightening around her temples had become a second self to her the last few months, and it was staring to worry her. Stress, she told herself. Stress, and too much time staring at tiny numbers. She just needed a vacation. And Thor happy, she thought too as she watched his gaze find Loki's and hold. Her hands tightened over the mug she was washing. If he hurt Thor again . . . god or not, she would tear his heart out with her own two hands. The thought was a low, savage one, but it was a truth, burning low down in her bones. She could not deny it.

Thor caught the shape of her eyes. "You are too pensive," he said. "What troubles you?"

"Nothing you haven't already thought of," she shrugged, trying to swallow her worries so that only her hopes shown through. They were just as real as her worries, at least.

Thor lowered his head. The unerringly clear shade of his eyes was bright and blue in that moment. "And I . . . I thank you – all of you, for the efforts you have already put forth in welcome. Truly, it means much to me."

Jane fought the urge she had to run a hand through the golden hair before her, wet and soapy as they were. He felt more like a particularly affectionate golden retriever at times rather than a character out of myth and legend, and something about him just begged to be touched. She smiled, and the look was true. "Loki, I knew as a villain," she tried to explain the turmoil of conflicting feelings inside of her. He hurt you. He stole your smile. He dimmed your light, and I could not bring it back. "But . . . I worked long enough with Luke Olson, and I really, really, liked him. I look forward to learning which one your brother really is."

Thor's eyes were soft, lost in memory. Jane looked back to the glass she was soaking, running her rag in an absent gesture as her temples tightened like vices. Wow, but her migraine was angry at her today . . .

Thor's brows were narrowed at her grimace. He peered closely at her, concerned. "Jane, do you fall ill again?" he asked, worried. She felt the corner of his mouth quirk up. The first time she had taken a common cold since his return had been quite the experience - for both of them.

"No," she patted his arm, soapy hand and all. "My headaches are just kicking my butt." He knew about her migraines – how could he not? But the doctor had revealed nothing to worry over, just stress . . . She winced as another spasm cut in deep. "I didn't sleep well last night," she shrugged. They had spent long into the night talking, and when she did sleep she had dark dreams – of mist and half-shaped creatures she could not describe on the morning hour. But that was the intangible, and she wouldn't bother Thor with that – he coming from a people where dreams were dissected for truth and sought after as fact.

She watched as he opened and closed his mouth, wishing to pry further, but she cut him off before he could with the most obvious distraction in sight. "So . . . your brother and Sif? How long has that been going on?"

Thor dropped the coffee mug he had been drying. It landed with a crash, the ceramic pieces flying as they shattered. His face was a pale expression of surprise as he looked at her, his mouth open.

From in front of the TV, Darcy gave a whoop. "Thor: 36, Earthware: 0!"

He flushed before kneeling down to pick up the broken pieces of the mug. Jane turned off the water, and wiped her hands on her jeans before going to help him. "Here, don't try to pick all of that up, I'll get the broom. They're sharp."

But Thor picked up the larger pieces regardless. His callused skin was too thick for such a paltry injury. He did not speak for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Jane said, even though she was not sure what she was apologizing for. "Did I say something wrong?"

And Thor just blinked at her. "My brother?" he repeated incredulously. "Sif?"

"So . . . they're not an item?" Jane was confused. Darcy had been nearly certain, and she was rarely off about such things.

"I . . ." Thor stammered before looking over her shoulder to where Sif had her turn of the controller, muttering in her own tongue under her breath as Loki looked on her with an amused light in his eyes. Understanding was dawning in his gaze, and Jane fought the urge to slap herself.

"I'm sorry," Jane grimaced. "I just assumed it was common knowledge."

Thor gave up trying to gather the sharp pieces around him. His massive form bent forward as he leaned his head against her shoulder with a huff of a breath. "I have been far too blind for too long," he admitted ruefully. "In more ways than one."

Jane gave in to the urge to card a hand through his hair, trying her best to embrace him from an awkward angle with her other arm. He was just so large before her, she reflected, even when he sounded small. "You can't be perfect all the time," she whispered into his ear, trying her best to return him to cheer. "But does this . . . bother you?"

He shook his head. "I have always thought of her as a sister," he admitted, his voice stilled, as if deciphering a riddle that had long eluded him.

"Well, now she may be in fact," Jane pointed out before smiling wickedly. "Just as long as Loki does not think of her so."

Thor groaned into her shirt. "Verily, but you must let me process such news before jests are made," he pleaded his boon of her.

"Take all the time you need, then," Jane patted his shoulder. "All the time you need."

.

.

The rest of the day passed as slowly as it had begun.

By the time the noon hour had passed and the evening was creeping upon them, Thor found Sif strapping her shield to her back and tucking her hunting knives into her belt. Already outside, Loki bore nothing but his daggers and his skin to wear against the bite in the air, but he was ready to depart as well. Thor looked at him through the window before turning his attention to Sif.

"Volstagg said that he would make his stew if we bought him back rabbit enough," Sif told him when he asked where they were going. "And I find myself in craving." For the stew or the hunt, she did not say, and Thor looked on the shape of steel in her hands with the ease of long familiarity. The hand that was not holding her weapon was tapping at her thigh with a restless beat.

Outside, Loki was pale in the sunlight. The line of his recently cut hair was stark against his neck, like ink against parchment. Thor stared without meaning to, thinking of centuries ago, when Sif had shaved her golden hair and boasted all to stare and comment if they dared. It must have been his brother who held the blade, he reflected distantly. Loki had taken her hair then, and Sif as he knew her now had been born. She had held the blade this time, and it was his brother who had his second birth. So long? Thor wondered. Had he truly been blind for so long?

When he looked back to Sif, she was watching him with a careful gaze that reminded him of Loki. Did she glean the look from her brother, or did he from her? Thor wondered, but found he could not answer.

"I wish you the best Fjörgyn has to offer," Thor recovered himself. "The hunt becomes you."

Sif smirked. "I look forward to it." She tilted her head, still considering, and again Thor was reminded of his brother's looks. "But you seem queer. Is all well?"

"Yes, of course," Thor said, trying to recover himself.

But Sif was not convinced. "Speak, my friend," she said. "Something weighs upon you – something past the obvious."

Her concern was written in strong lines upon her face. Her fingers flexed about the grip of her glaive. And in that moment, Thor felt his love for her settle like a weight upon his chest. He walked forward, and placed both of his hands high on her arms. He felt strength there, the muscle hard from long use where her arms curved into her shoulders. She wore confusion on her brow as he leaned forward to brush a kiss upon her forehead. "I thank-you," he breathed against her skin. "For all you that are to him . . . and all that you are to me."

Understanding dawned without words, and when he stepped back, she bowed her head, a promise in her gaze. "I would protect him until my last breath," she vowed. "As I would you."

He inclined his head. "The House of Odin is better for your presence, my lady," and he spoke with no jest on his lips, just an honest sincerity on his tongue. He found the word sister waiting in his mouth, able was he to speak it now in more ways that one.

"Then may I continue to serve," she said, her voice warm. She heard the unspoken nonetheless.

And Thor waved her off. "Go now, the hunt awaits you."

The corner of her mouth turned up. When she smiled, she showed her teeth. "It awaits us all, does it not?" she agreed before turning. Her stride marched, a new confidence clinging to her step as she walked. Loki watched her approach with a look Thor was just starting to decipher for its truth. He looked with hunger and appreciation, as a predator would acknowledge an equal in might before inviting them nearer even still.

Thor watched them until they were swallowed from his view by forest shadow and the cold. He shook his head as he walked back to his companions, his smile a rueful shape on his face. "Indeed it does, my lady," Thor murmured to himself. "Indeed it does."

Chapter Text

For the first time in centuries, Sif turned her face to the sky, waiting for the familiar roar of the byway, and did not feel the eager anticipation of returning home.

They stayed at the cabin in Dawson for another two night's time, thorough the weekend, as the Midgardians called it, and then it was time for them all to return to their duties. Jane was called by her work with the bridge, and Thor to his team and comrades . . . Sif and the Warriors Three to their duties in Asgard.

The morning of her departure, Loki watched her don her armor and leathers with a cool, blank expression. Even when he was silent, he still turned to help her with the lacing and buckles that were hard for her to reach. Though his face was carefully blank, she could feel the coiled restlessness barely contained within him. Their time in the cabin held a delicate, desperate feel to it that Sif had been painfully aware of, even as it passed them by. After all, it was easy to recover what once was away from the world and its watching eyes. But now . . .

She could feel his apprehension for what was to come. He would make well on his promise, she knew, but it was a long and hard road he chose to walk. And this part, she could help him not with. It was his stride, with his worries to bear on his shoulders alone. Even Thor spoke of the days to come with a hook to his jaw and a line to his brow, the reality of past actions and future implications alive for all to see.

And Sif . . . home was beginning to become a person and a feeling for her once more, her lungs twisting in her chest as she realized just how easy her heart was relearning old beats, her hands relearning old touches, when all could still go so very wrong. But, she did not get to where she was by cowardliness. And she would not turn craven from the fears of her heart, of all things, now.

It was with that thought she marched to the bifröst site. With that thought she held Loki's eyes as the familiar swirl of magic caught on her bones and pulled. And it was with that thought that the eternal light of Asgard appeared before her once more.

She blinked, and felt Heimdall's eyes on her as he stepped back, his sword in hand once more, ready to resume his post until he was called upon again. But it was not her brother, unblinking and tall before her, who held her gaze, but rather the Queen Frigg herself standing in wait just beyond them.

The Allmother was pacing, turning once and then again on one small spot of gleaming bridge. Her hair was done simply, held back with a mere golden comb, and her gown was a dark blue that matched the spaces between the stars around them. The dress was rich, but without adornment, with slits in the fabric to allow for ease of movement rather than the affairs of state. The heavy fabric was wrinkled from where she had worried it with her hands, the queen's piercing eyes blinking with anticipation and restlessness both.

With the ease of long habit, Sif took to one knee, and bowed her head before her sovereign. Behind her, the Warriors Three were a shadow, copying her motions.

"My child," Frigg breathed warmly. Sif felt a hand tipping her chin up, bidding her to rise.

"Your grace," Sif breathed as she stood. Her head was still bowed, but it was to hide the smile of her mouth, the light in her eyes. In her hands, she held a long rope of night-dark hair, plaited for the journey, and it was with reverence she presented the trophy to her queen."It has been done as you foresaw."

When Frigg took the long braid of hair, it was gingerly, as if by touching the gift she would cause it to disappear. She held her breath, as if even an exhale would disturb the vision before her. "Then it is true?" Frigg breathed. "I almost did not believe . . ."

"It is true," Sif inclined her head. "The House of Odin is complete once more."

"Very nearly," Frigg whispered before turning to look at her with such a light in her eyes. Beyond them, Sif could feel the unblinking gaze of her brother. There was a weight in the look. Her skin crawled with it. "It is a path, long and winding that awaits. But finally, feet are set to its walking."

Sif felt the warmth of her praise. The gratitude in her regard. "At long last, milady."

"At long last," Frigg echoed, clutching the rope of hair in her palms, as if by doing so she was touching her son himself. Her fingers slipped in a caress, and Sif felt her heart leap high into her chest at the simple love that the queen held in her eyes. After all, it was not merely Sif who had mourned. It was not merely Sif to whom Loki was to pay his dues . . .

"Come now," the Allmother held her hand out. "For you have had a journey, and I would hear speaking of its tale."

"As you wish, my lady," Sif fell into step next to the queen, feeling lighter than she had in centuries. "It happened, like this . . ."

.

.

"This is just becoming downright ridiculous."

On the landing pad high atop the Avengers tower, the deep, mechanical tones of Iron Man managed to convey frustration and scathing ire as he passed through the glass doors into the workshop beyond. "I mean, really," the computerized voice was accompanied by a pop and a hiss before the last syllables revealed the more organic timbers of Tony Stark. Sparks accompanied his movements as he struggled to force his ruined faceplate away, throwing the ruined piece of metal away to clatter against the ground.

"This is how many times now?" Tony continued as he moved on to a gauntlet – trying to aid the robots in taking off the suit, which was now ruined beyond the help of the more elaborate aides he normally had to strip the armor for him. The suit was twisted and warped, as if it had just gone ten rounds with Magneto and lost. An odd, electric green goop webbed from one plate to the other, making him look like the victim of a rather toxic spider web. "Three times in one month?"

"Four," Natasha Romanov threw in helpfully. After landing the jet, she and Clint Barton had walked in a step behind their flying companions. Her grin was a dangerous slant on her face as she watched Tony struggle, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned lithely against one of his cluttered workbenches. In comparison to her teammate, the black of her suit was untouched, and the shoulder length strands of her copper hair fell in gentle waves, unmused from the battle. Tony made a disgusted look at her general existence. "If you count him fixing the coffee machine, that is," she clarified.

"That counts as a save in my book," Clint gave with a slanted grin, catching one of Tony's ruined gauntlets when it was chucked at his head. DUM-E whirled angrily as he took the piece of the suit from the archer, as if possessive over one of the few tasks he was trusted to complete.

"That's besides the point!" Tony insisted. "The point is that the Avengers shouldn't have to call dibs on their badguys." He turned to where Thor had been only a step behind him, poking his first finger into the Aesir's armored chest. "Because seriously, dibs. And you can pass that on."

Thor raised a brow, looking down at the finger that was still touching him until Tony backed away. Still grumbling under his breath, the billionaire fished out a small screwdriver from his mess of tools, and started working on the plate that covered the top of his left forearm.

"And besides," Tony continued, recovering quickly, "Wasn't your baby brother like, total BFF's with Victor von Doom just a month ago? Why is he suddenly all anti-take-over-the-world now?" The piece he was working on fell away, squelching sickly as it hit the floor. Tony made a face at the mucousy substance that was still connected from his arm to the fallen plate, before shuddering and running a finger over the lip of the next piece, searching. "Although, I will give him that the look on Doom's face was priceless. Well . . . it would have been priceless – you know, if you could see beneath the mask, and all that. But trust me, I have quite the imagination."

Another plate was wrestled free. That too fell to the ground to join the first.

"As I have said," Thor started patiently, as if speaking to a child. Tony raised a brow at the tone, affronted. "Loki has turned himself over to the Allfather's justice, and now he wishes to pay the maring jöld to your world in recompense for his deeds."

Tony snorted, wagging his fingers vigorously to dislodge the slime from them. His attempts were met with marginal success. "Then why can't he go and bother the X-geeks for a change? Or Reed's team." At the thought, Tony's face brightened. "You know what? I would consider his debt to me paid personally if he were to go stalk Reed and his floozies."

Thor's brow furrowed. His eyes darkened. "I do not understand your ire," he admitted tersely. "Loki was an asset today, was he not?"

Tony turned an incredulous look on Thor. "Says the man. Sorry," he interrupted himself, "Ass-guardian who is not covered in green slime. And hell, but what is this stuff, anyway?"

"And is it contagious?" Clint asked as he tried to clean his fingers from where he had touched the armor.

Thor huffed a sigh. "Aesir," he corrected through tight teeth as Tony still chortled over his own cleverness. "Aesir, not Asgardian - unless you wish to be called Earthling for the remainder of my stay."

"Sorry," Tony held up his hands in mock surrender. "Aesir . . . and what exactly is your brother again? Some subspecies of a giant blue Orc, you were saying?"

Thor ignored him. "You are behaving childishly," he reproved. "And it suits you not."

Beyond them, Clint let out a snort of laughter at the role reversal going on before them – Thor never one to cross words with another where actions alone could do, and never as the 'adult' figure to Tony's childish rejoinders. Natasha blinked – humor, from the Widow at the best of times.

Tony huffed out a breath from between his teeth as he finally made it to the trigger at the inside of his elbow that allowed the rest of the suit to fall away from him with a metallic cacophony of sounds. He kicked away the last piece from his left leg with a scowl. Green caught on his toe, and he made a face as it followed him when he stepped away, stretching in a thick, green web. "This stuff can't be good for you," he muttered irritably.

Clint leaned forward. "It smells burnt," he analyzed helpfully. "Sulfuric." Tony raised a brow at him, and Clint held up his hands. "I'm just trying to fill in for Bruce," he defended himself. "Attempted science-y moment over." Jane and Bruce Banner had headed to Tromsø, Norway, earlier in that week to work on one of the secondary sites for her bifröst-machine, and they hadn't made it back in time for the latest developments with Loki. "That is a sulfuric smell, right?" Clint pushed on when he was met with silence. "The rotten eggs smell?"

"Besides the point," Tony muttered, eyes lighting before carefully dimming – trying not to show just how eager he was to run tests on alien sorcery, an opportunity to quantify the uncanny with numbers and figures and facts.

"You were mocking the merits of seiðr in battle," Thor interrupted, his thick brow curved with disapproval. "Loki took it as a challenge – one he has long since been answering, at that – and you survived the encounter whole. You should count yourself fortunate."

"Cute younger sibling antics, really cute," Tony scathed. "But we don't want to play any more. Can't mom and dad just come and take him home now?"

"He has the right to set his wrongs to rights," Thor repeated again, as if baffled that he would need any argument other than that. "I do not understand why that is so hard for you to see."

"If he wants to pay his debt against society, then have him don the orange jumpsuit and pick up trash on the side of the road with the other felons," Tony retorted. "Just don't touch my badguys." He saw Natasha's raised brow, and hedged his words. "Our badguys. Fine."

He spread his arms wide, gesturing to Natasha and Clint to chime in. "Really, is it only me here?" he asked. "Feel free to join in with something useful at any time."

Natasha took a moment before answering. Her hands moved from gripping the edge of the desk to rest on the tops of her thighs. Her right hand was very close to the long knife she had strapped there, a weapon of last resort. "You have to admit that this is an unexpected development," she finally said to Thor. Her voice was slow, calculated. "He is a risk, and caution on our part is understandable."

Tony snapped his fingers, gesturing triumphantly between Natasha and himself. "You see," he chortled at Thor. "It's too quick, too bizarre. Now, we have to find out what he really wants -"

" - I did not say that he was not genuine," Natasha said softly, her words cutting Tony off mid rant. She hesitated for a moment, leaning forward so that she rested the weight of her upper body on her hands. Her fingers moved restlessly, as if to feel the skin beneath her suit. "My switch was just as sudden. Just as severe. Sometimes the light just . . . flicks on, and you are lucky to have somebody there to believe in you when that happens."

All were silent in the wake of her words. They each had their ways of dealing with their histories. Everyone knew Tony's past, and so he was light and fast and about it. He used a self-deprecating humor that both Bruce, and, at times, Clint shared as well. Natasha handled her own past in silence, never speaking but knowing they knew. They knew as much as she did about test tubes and false memories and dark deeds aplenty – and not even Tony would mock such an admission from her. Next to Natasha, Clint's look was careful and considering. He had taken up a defensive point behind the desk in an unconscious show of support. She did not turn to meet his gaze. Instead she looked steadily ahead. Her right hand had eased away from the dagger strapped to her thigh.

"And it wouldn't be the first time SHIELD has taken on a hostile as an asset," Clint shrugged, lifting a hand to thoughtfully stroke his chin. "Hell, we have the Hulk as the muscle on our team. Nothing would truly surprise me any more."

"But he is Loki," Tony said, gentler that time, sensing the wounds, open and raw in the air. Their team was full of once was and no more, and he chose his words carefully. "Lies and trickery are his MO. So much so that he is considered to be the god of them."

"He is my brother," Thor interjected firmly. "He would not do that to me."

"He did before," Tony pointed out unkindly.

"He was not my brother then," Thor responded simply. It was truly that easy for him. It always had been.

Tony sighed, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Really, your skull is as thick as your hammer." He spun around, his eyes narrowing in on where Steve had been slowly pacing the room - carefully observing the encounter, weighing the arguments and the risks as they were presented. "Common' Cap," Tony called him out, "If anyone agrees with me on this, it has to be you. Think of the team."

Steve opened his mouth, and hesitated. A battle of conflicting feelings waged in his eyes; the safety of his team, his own intrinsic goodness and belief of that goodness in others at war for supremacy. Tony made a 'ha!" gesture at the Captain.

"See!" he exclaimed. "Even the boy scout is leery! Why is no one else being rational about this? Seriously, all the brawn and none of the brains, and – DUM-E! If you clog the drains with that crap, I will personally melt you down for screws, you hear me? You know what, scratch that. Scrap the suit entirely. I was ready for a new one anyway. JARVIS, bring up the plans for the Mark XLI - daddy's ready to play."

He snapped his fingers, and a blue grid-work of plans and specs snapped forward to hover in the air before him. He turned from his teammates, already set to work when Steve voiced his opinion.

"He's a variable," Steve acknowledged honestly. "And variables can be dangerous if left unchecked. I'd have him as a full asset, or completely out of the way. This middle-man routine is going to get someone hurt."

Tony snorted, turning to face him again. "But are you telling me that you are buying his line of bullshit?"

Steve made a disapproving face. "Language, Tony."

And Thor had had enough. He let Mjölnir fall to the ground with a dull thud, stepping forward so that Tony was forced to look at him. He walked through the blue light in the air, the equations and schematics wrapping around the scaled steel of his armor.. "I thought that you would understand the need for atonement in another," Thor's voice was low, and pointed. Perhaps even disappointed. "Or were you yourself not once a master of steel and its forging before you turned to the defense of your people?"

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Who told you? Never mind, don't answer that. I will speak to Miss Lewis later." He stepped forward, meeting the Thunderer's gaze boldly, even though he just came up eye-level to the demigod's chest. "Yeah, I turned over a new leaf. But that was a lifestyle – girls and drinks and partying like it was 1999. But I was harming my brain cells, no one else's. And the weapons? Yeah. They did a lot of bad in the wrong hands, but, again – that was a lifestyle, a way of thinking that had to be changed. I wasn't trying to take over the world with my Merlin-esque sorcery. A world, I'd like to say, that I am pretty fond of being run the way it is. I think that I have won the right to be leery."

"We all have, Thor," Steve put in kindly. He stepped forward so that he was shoulder to shoulder with the Aesir – not a threat, but a shield. "You have to admit that this is unexpected for us."

And Thor would still not break Tony's gaze.

"Let me ask you this," Tony finally said, all edges of sarcasm and scorn gone from his voice as he drove his argument home. "You claim to love this world. You have given up living as a prince in a zany outer-space palace – for now – in order to mingle with the mortal kids and keep them safe. Now, do you trust your brother with the world you love so much? Do you trust him with the lives of this world – with the lives of your team?"

And Thor's answer came without hesitation. "I trust my brother with my life," and his belief was a strength then, a resounding timbre that was all walls and stone unyielding. "My belief in him is absolute."

Tony's mouth turned. His smile was sad as he patted his arm. "You know what? I just feel sorry for you then. I can't say that Loki is the type of guy to deserve that trust." He turned from Thor, and slid the specs for his new suit over to follow him.

And Thor watched him for a moment, a long moment, before turning and heading towards the door. He was not followed.

.

.

By the time Thor made it to the roof, the sun was just finishing its descent, and the stars were starting to appear.

He took in deep breaths, one after another, his great lungs expanding and contracting with the motions. His fingers were restless, making fists and then loosening as he paced back and forth like a caged animal. Behind him, the shadows shimmered, watching, before Loki stepped out from their shield. Thor blinked before smiling wanly.

"I had thought many times that you were near, lurking in the shadows," Thor said in greeting. "Were you?"

A long muscle worked in Loki's throat. Thor watched him consider a lie before he answered, "Yes," in a careful voice, as if waiting for scorn or censure in return.

And Thor just smiled, pleased – as if his answer had confirmed a riddle in his own mind. Loki shook his own head before stepping forward to lean back on the railing next to his brother, his arms crossed lazily over his chest. He was dressed as he had been during his time spent working with Jane Foster – dark fitted jeans and a black turtleneck, green scarf and long coat worn over all. Thor raised a brow at the Midgardian wear before Loki shrugged. "It has its appeal," he answered the unspoken. "And I have grown fond of it over time."

Thor shook his head before leaning forward, looking at the patchwork of the city around them – a chaotic cluster of steel and light. Where Asgard was all elegance and grace; beauty and strength, New York gave the impression of the buildings trying to climb, one over the other in order to reach the skies. Much like humankind themselves. Thor thought. Sometimes, the noise and the clamor threatened to overwhelm him, and he would miss the wild; the hum of the ocean, and the deep woods that waited just beyond the palace walls, the great trees there older than even Odin himself.

Thor sighed, feeling a weight settle like a vice over his temples. Far was it from him to argue his fights with words rather than steel, and he felt . . . drained after his latest bout with his teammates. "I did not think that it would be this hard," he admitted, half to the empty air over the city below, half to his brother by his side.

And Loki shrugged, an elegant wave of black. "I expected nothing less," he admitted ruefully.

Thor raised a brow, looking over at his second. Without the sunlight, he was pale and wan. The skin below his eyes was tired, even if the green above was lit with the thoughts he bore within. His jaw was hooked with determination.

Thor fought a heavy pang from his chest. This was done for him, he knew. It was not done for absolution or deeds of old atoned for, it was for him. For his pride and his wishes. If it was left to Loki, he knew his brother would rather just hide in the shadows until his sins were forgotten. He was patient, and he would rather wait out the turning of the stars before ever setting foot on Midgard again rather than face the wrong he had done.

Yet, instead . . .

"Why, brother, must you always think the worst of people?" Thor said rather than voicing his thoughts and their weight. He watched as Loki flinched as to the word brother, and he felt a new determination fill him. He would find himself called such often by his tongue, Thor decided, until he had no choice but to accept the word for its truth.

"And why must you always think the best of people?" Loki retorted, the words quick from his mouth. Unconsciously, his arms had tightened over his chest, like an animal going to ground from the cold. And Thor smiled, hearing the exact moment when he had ceased to speak of his comrades, but rather . . .

"Is that an apology I hear?" Thor answered instead; his voice soft, his words prompting.

And Loki sighed. The tense muscles in his arms loosened. "You may take it as you wish," he said as if brushing away the attentions of a fly, and Thor chuckled, the sound low and warm.

"Brother," he watched the line in Loki's brow furrow. "I have missed you."

A moment of silence past. Thor could not tell if it was emotion in his brother's eyes, or a reflection of the starlight above. But at long last he whispered, so low that Thor had to strain to hear, "And I you."

Chapter Text

The markets of Asgard were abuzz with the sounds of morning.

Shop keepers opened their doors and set their wares in the streets. Carts creaked and voices rose one about the other as bargains were struck and deals were made. Alongside the cool, opal tones of the buildings, the trees in the boulevards were touched with rust and red in the colours of autumn. The fountains sang as they poured into the waterways that crisscrossed through the city to the Great Sea beyond. They babbled and flickered like liquid starlight underneath the glimmer of the cosmos above them. Goðheimr was all the beautiful alongside the functional, even in the lowest of places, and Sigyn Grímarsdottir inhaled deep the scent of spices and orchard fruit and knew contentment.

The last days of fall and the first days of winter would call the Late Meet between the Álfar king and the Allfather – the first to transpire in four seasons since the close of the bifröst. For the last Meets, Odin Allfather had to travel on his own power between the Yggdrasil's high branches, and emissaries from the other realms had had to await his convenience to meet. Now, the bridge was restored, and Asgard was set to greet visitors for the first time in far too long.

So Sigyn walked past the butchers and the farmers stalls, and instead saw the tailors and merchants who boasted of Álfish silk and Dwarvish leathers; of mist-cloth from the sea worlds of Asgard's own fourth moon; and winter's breath from the spinners high in Niflheimr's skies. King Gandalf's visits were excuse enough during the best of times for a new gown, but now . . .

Sigyn let her fingers trail over a bolt of star-silk, and felt the corner of her mouth turn up, pleased by the texture against her fingers.

Her consideration, and peaceful morning, at that, was broken by a voice from further inside the stall. "Lady Grímarsdottir," a voice as clear as bells greeted her. Sigyn stood up straighter, making her shoulders a line as she turned to face the other woman. "Fancy seeing you here. And yet, I should not be surprised. Master Leif's wares here are renowned the Nine Realms wide, and no one would ever say that you did not hold your tastes to the highest of standards."

"You flatter me, Astrid," Sigyn replied. "I was simply giving into the temptation of a new gown."

"And with Álfheimr meeting on Aesir soil once more, such frivolities are to justified," Astrid gave a smile. Sigyn forced her own in return, not caring for the shape of it. Astrid had been born in the same spring as Sigyn (as so many had, that spring after the Great War), but already she was married to a high ranking man of Odin's advisers. With three sons to her boasting, and all of her beauty still remaining, she often held her head above her peers – and Sigyn in particular. Over the years, Sigyn had learned to care for her but little, feeling self-conscious of her own hair – blonde, but a reddish shade nearer to copper, with green eyes where most of Asgard coveted shades of blue - in the presence of the other woman, with her hair like spun gold and eyes as blue as a cloudless sky. So she stood up straighter, and tilted her chin up, wishing that she would speak whatever taunt she had prepared for the day and be done with it.

"And all understand why you would wish to look your best," Astrid continued, her voice a syrupy purr. "After all, Odin Allfather has extended his favor to his second-son again, and, exile or not, it stands to reason that he shall be in attendance as well – for long has Loki held the favor of Gandalf's house, the friendship of Gandalf's heart."

Sigyn bit her tongue in order to keep her smile in place. She had expected some words along these lines, and she was prepared. "Indeed, I have heard of Loki's return to Odin's graces. It brings me joy to hear - for too long has the Allmother been without both of her sons. A tree is only as strong as the sum of its roots, after all."

Her fingers tapped over the bolt of star-silk before her. Her own father Grímarr was high in Odin's council, having made his mark in the Allfather's circle in the days of the Great War, when Jötunnheimr waged its war with the stars. As payment for his service, Odin had spoken of his second-son in a cradle marriage to Grímarr's daughter. Although such words between parents were contingent upon the wishes of the children when they came of age, Sigyn had passed her early years assuming Loki as her intended, and had done little to entertain suitors elsewhere. Although there had been a certain . . . freedom, with Loki gone, allowing her to anticipate a life past the one her father was determined she should have, she had accepted her path in life. And a divergence was just that, in the end.

"Ah, but did you also hear," and here Astrid's sugary smile turned rancid. The blow then. "That Sif Týrdottir herself traveled with Thor to the Mid-realm to return his brother?"

Sigyn did not understand. "Sif has long been in friendship with both of Odin's sons," she said carefully, For Sif was promised to Thor in much the same way Sigyn had been to Loki. It had been the wish of her father and his, and yet . . . Sigyn felt trepidation bloom in her heart, thick and heavy.

"And yet, one son in particular," Astrid drew one curved nail over the same bolt Sigyn had been admiring. The corner of her mouth fell flat. "Would you believe that the second-son and the shield-maiden have been lovers these long centuries? And her journey to Midgard was as much for her heart as it was for Thor's himself?"

"A lie," Sigyn felt herself replying out of reflex as much as anything else. "We were promised -"

" - the same way Thor and Sif were promised?" Astrid clucked her tongue in sympathy. "Look how easily Thor threw those wishes away, and for a mortal woman, at that."

"She who mended the Mother's branches is no mere mortal woman," Sigyn found herself defending – as much out of a true annoyance over the slander of the Lady Jane's name as she did to give herself a moment to think. To process her words and cultivate her answer in return. "And I thought you knew better than to listen to the gossip of the court. That same gossip would have you believe that Loki is Sleipnir's mother and that Odin walks the Heart-realm in the guise of a portly old man with gifts for the mortal children." She snorted, raising a brow in pity. "Astrid, I thought you knew better than that."

Astrid's gaze turned sharp. "Ah, but you see, my dear friend, it is from a most reliable source that I do bear my ill news."

"Name it then," Sigyn challenged.

"My sister has long been a favourite of Fandral the Dashing -"

" - current favourite," Sigyn interrupted.

" - and," Astrid continued on as if she had not heard her, "he confirmed the rumor himself. He just returned from Midgard two twelve-days ago, where he accompanied Thor in his quest to answer the Allmother's weaving. He said that the shield-maiden was quite unlike herself - full of feeling and conflict. And that she and Loki shared a room the nights that they were together. One may let ones mind lead from there. How weak of Týr's daughter – after all, no sooner had the sentence passed from Odin's lips was Sif opening her arms to the second-son again, even after all he has done . . . "

Sigyn opened her mouth to refute, but was unsure of how to shape her words. The Warriors Three were close in friendship with both the princes and Sif, and Fandral would not let such news slip unless it was the truth about his friends. He would not, and . . .

She thought of a hundred such instances over the centuries before - of Sif with her hair cut low and growing back black Of Sif with her shield that gleamed golden with magic's might . . . She thought of Loki then, his eyes watching . . .claiming, she now realized. How Sif had smiled whenever the court called her the intended of the first-prince. For it was a son of Odin she held close, but not . . .

For a moment, Sigyn could not breathe. "Enough," she finally hissed from between her teeth, all pretense of civility gone. "Your words are slanderous, and I will hear no more of them."

"Poor Sigyn," Astrid crooned. "With such a decision to make. For Loki shall return to Asgard, whether it be to this feast, or permanently a century from now. What will you then do?"

And Sigyn pursed her lips, for once acknowledging the validity of one of her questions. Astrid did not wait for her reply, instead gently touching her shoulder in a pantomime of a sister's affection before taking her leave from the stall. Sigyn stood with her shoulders stiff and her hands like fists over the bolt of star-silk.

What would she do with this news? she wondered. For if Loki made his choice, and it was not her, there was little she could do – their promise was not binding. It was nothing more than a wish of fathers, and such things were honored more out of obligation than feeling, and . . . Her father.

Her father.

Sigyn felt her gut twist sickly at the thought of his reaction to her news. He had been so insistent of her marrying into the house of Odin, and Sigyn had allowed herself no others in order to honor that wish. Grímarr would . . .

No, she decided fiercely, he would not. The fight was not over yet, and Sif was not Loki's bride with ring and vow. She was simply a rumor, a close childhood companion. Sigyn could still lay claim to what was hers by right . . .

And her father . . .

No, best not to think of the price that failure would bring. Sigyn narrowed her eyes, and waved for the shop keeper. "I shall take the bolt," she announced before gesturing for her lady to handle the purchase. "All of it." She had much to accomplish before King Gandalf came to treat. Much indeed.

.

.

Sif knew that something was different from the first moment she stepped into the warrior's yards that morning.

Throughout the long centuries, she had grown accustomed to the stares, the eyes that followed and watched and waited. And yet, the looks leveled at her this morn were different. She felt them between the plates of her armor, deep enough to look through to bone beneath. The stares were one thing, but it had been centuries indeed since she had had to abide with laughter at her presence.

She stiffened when she saw smiles hidden behind hands and amusement held deep within twinkling eyes. She walked with her mouth hooked and her fist white knuckled about the hilt of her glaive. Her shield pulsed as with warning, feeling the shifting in the ranks around her. Something had happened. Something was not right.

Feeling a threat in the air, she climbed into the ring first. It was cold that morning, and her breath misted on the air. On the branches above, the last golden leaves of fall were clinging to the trees with desperate fingers. The fountains whistled through the air, night-ice glinting on the rim of the basins before it melted underneath the warmth of the day. Sif made her mouth a line; her words a blow, pulled tight.

"Come now, are we not a slow bunch of maids this morning?" she gave her challenge. "Who shall face me? Or do you all have too much of winter in your bones to answer me?"

Silence met her words. At the side of the ring, the Three were already gathered, and Volstagg stood, making to answer her challenge. His gaze flickered to those onlooking much as hers did. He had noticed the change as well.

Yet, Hrodgæir beat the strong-man to her. Sif schooled her face to impassiveness, only raising a brow. "And I see a brave man before me where I would have claimed craven before," she gave a sly smirk. "Come now, Hrodgæir, if you dare." She gestured to the empty ring.

"Alas, my lady," Hrodgæir bowed before her, the motion, chivalrous and grand, taking the edge of the snake in her eyes. His fair head bobbed in the rising sunlight. His icy blue eyes held a gleam. "I am afraid that I speak for all gathered when I say that you have us at an unfair advantage. Thus so, we shall unfortunately have to pass aside from facing you this day."

Sif let the butt of her glaive fall into the dust. She leaned on the shaft as she raised a brow. Volstagg laughed from beside her, but the sound was forced. "If her advantage is brains and speed, then you speak true," the giant chuckled. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to stand down, Hrodgæir."

Hrodgæir inclined his head. His smile was a blade in his face. "And yet, I was referring to the Lady's use of the uncanny. It is an unfair advantage to the rest of us, and we shall humor her no longer." Hrodgæir looked up, meeting her gaze boldly. "Or do you mean to tell us that your lover's seiðr is not the true reason for your strength throughout all of these years?"

Sif blinked, taken aback by the change in attack, different than what she had been preparing herself for. She opened her mouth, indignant, and replied with all of the fury in her veins. "I have never used of his might in order to garner my own. And to that I swear by Hel herself; may my soul be hers should my words be false."

"Ah," Hrodgæir's words were sharp – an attack. "Wrong answer, my lady, for you denied of your involvement not. Obviously, he did not too bequeath his eloquence of tongue."

She had not. Sif paled, feeling the battlebeat in her veins turn to a defensive stance. Warily she eyes Hrodgæir, wondering on her next move when Volstagg chuckled from next to her. "Truly, Hrodgæir," his tone disapproved. "Is the Lady not warranted her privacy? There is not one man in Odin's ranks who would dare think trickery the reason for the rise of Týr's daughter." His voice dared any to challenge him. The raised brows spoke true, though – better would the men of Asgard account her strength to unnatural means rather than her own might, and for a moment Sif saw red.

She had worked for centuries. She had fought side by side with most of those in gatherance, and never once . . . She felt a pang in her side, and called it hurt after a moment of confusion. How . . .

"Loki too is close in kinship with Thor," Fandral added from Volstagg's side. "Next you will be saying that Thor's might is due to his brother's magicks, as well."

That drew a laugh from a few of the onlookers. It did not do to stem her wound. She bared her teeth. "If you wish to question my might," she said lowly, her voice dangerous. "You may step up and do so as a man, Hrodgæir, and not as a coward who uses his words as barbs, rather than blows." The irony of her words was not lost on her, and for a moment she hated the people she had been brought up alongside, with their single-minded views and simple-minded prejudices. "If not, step back, and favor us all with your silence."

"Alas, lady, but I must pass," Hrodgæir shook his head in mock regret. "You cannot fault one for wondering, after all. The lie-smith is adapt at his arts, and his treachery runs deep. One would not be surprised to find my words as truth."

"I shall give you truth," Sif stepped forward, throwing her shield and her glaive to the side. "No steel. I can prove your lies with my fists."

"And how do we know his enchantments are not just in the weapons you bear? They may be bone deep," Hrodgæir let his gaze draw over her body, long and slow. Insinuation dripped from his mouth as his eyes lingered where he would not have dared before. Sif knew a hate in that moment like none she had felt before. She half feared that he would answer her challenge, lest she do him a true harm.

Instead, he turned on his heel, and left her standing in the ring. A long moment passed, and then the warriors who had been watching – many whom she respected, whom she had fought alongside and bled in defense for, turned as well. There was disappointment in some of the gazes that past, and that burned even more than the suspicion. For even if Loki was not the reason for her might, there was still the fact of his crimes and his deeds, and she was now held in name with that, even after . . .

She stood up straighter, determined to not let this be the thing that brought her low. Loki's sins were Loki's sins, and she would not hang her head for them. There was so much more than the class of warriors knew, so much more, and the only one who had the right to judge Loki had done so . . . and granted forgiveness.

There was fury in her veins as she turned to snatch up her glaive. She needed the touch of seiðr in her shield. She needed its pulse against her back, its assurance . . .

"How did they know?" she muttered when only the Three were left. "For centuries we have kept this secret. And now . . ." She whirled on her companions, her eyes narrowed. "Fandral." His name was a blow from her mouth.

She turned, and saw Fandral in his frills of blue fabric and finely decorated steel. His fair face was flushed with abashment. Volstagg looked on incredulously at the younger man. Hogun was silent as he stepped aside.

Sif marched forward, shoving her friend until he was pressed up against the ropes of the ring. "Who did you tell?" she thundered, near a match to even Thor in his fury.

"One or two souls, only, I swear," Fandral defended himself. "I did not see this as a result -"

" - because you did not think," Sif retorted hotly.

"It is true, I did not think that you would wish to carry on in secret," Fandral returned, his voice rising to match hers. He did not try to break her hold on him. "You have kept this secret for centuries, Sif. Centuries. Even from us." And finally, there was hurt in his voice, drawing her ire up short.

She froze, her hammering heart in her chest drawn to stillness. She relaxed her hold on the straps of his armor, but she did not let go. She recognized her error, and how it had struck deep where she had not even considered it to land. "I . . ." she stammered, hating the inelegance of her tongue in that moment. "We . . . this was never the plan," she finally tried to explain. "We started in silence, and then there was never a proper time to break it. I . . . I had my path before me. I had my name to make and my glory to seek, and I never . . . I wanted to be known by my own merit rather than my relationship with a prince. I was selfish . . ."

She released him, stepping back so that she could look at all of her friends - Volstagg with his sympathy; Hogun with his silent support; and Fandral with his wounds in his eyes. "I . . . I think I hurt him too," she whispered. "He always assumed Thor was the reason for my silence, and yet he never told . . . He never said a word, and then he was dubbed traitor and fallen, and my grief was mine to bear alone . . . I should have told you. I wished to tell you . . ."

She looked down at her feet, ashamed, when she felt strong arms wrap around her. Volstagg's embrace was massive, swallowing her, but she settled into the hold as if she were a child without bones, suddenly needing the affirmation of their friendship like she needed her breath.

She felt Fandral's hand at her back. He patted her armor, his own look bashful on his face. "I am sorry, as well. Your secret was not mine to tell."

"But it is told now," Hogun said gravely. There was a touch of a smile at his mouth – affirmation from him, as well. "For the better, perhaps, after the worst will pass."

The worst, Sif felt another pang – of hurt, and then of anger black.

"Time is all that is needed," Volstagg agreed as he set her down – he having drawn her off of her feet with his embrace. "Yours is a respected name, and after the shock wears off, that shall be remembered. His . . ." Volstagg sighed. "Loki has picked a difficult road, but at least it is being walked."

She fought the urge to flinch, knowing that he spoke words of truth. She was a daughter of a race of immortal people. They could forgive much. Forget much. But all after so much time . . . And how she was already so tired of waiting.

She sighed through her nose, frustrated as her thoughts threatened to devour each other in circles again. For now, there was nothing she could do but wait. Wait, and continue to prove herself.

. . . she was used to fighting unwinnable battles. This would be no different.

"Now then," she stepped back, wiping the feeling from her eyes until only the battle remained. "You denied me my sport," she turned to Fandral, taking her shield in hand again. "You have my leave to now rectify that wrong."

Fandral sighed, looking to his companions for rescue before finding none. "I see the lady's forgiveness is as sweet as it is swift."

"Which I intend to prove thusly," Sif smiled dangerously, flipping her shield in a salute. "Now, my friend, if you please . . ."

.

.

Sif did not quit the training rings until late.

She fought Fandral until he cried that he could take no more, and then Hogun quietly slipped into the ring with her and gave her a challenge of formidable speed and even quicker thinking. She was hardly winded from besting Fandral, and she took three of the next five matches from Hogun. Volstagg fought her last, and it was not the easy, educating blows she was used to from the weapons-master, but rather the strength of a giant who had known arms since before she was born, and she reveled in the challenge. By the time they declared their draw, sweat beaded on her brow, and her linens clung to her skin beneath her armor. Her glaive was slick in her hand. The battle was sated and content in her veins.

. . . for the moment.

She had gathered quite a crowd throughout the day – watching eyes ever coming and going like the roll of the tide, and the whispers and curious glances brought an added burst to her blows and speed to her step every time. She told herself that the whispers bothered her not; that she felt nothing from the sting of words, and yet . . .

She walked from the rings with her head held high, and with the adrenaline and the anger fading, she felt only weary. A hurt prickled at her skin as the stares followed her. And for a moment . . .

But no. She tilted up her chin, and did not look back.

She went through her motions for the evening, cleansing at the bath houses before donning a simple tunic and leggings for the night. She did not take her sup in the public halls, instead dining in her mother's suite of rooms, wishing that Gná was back from her duties as the Allmother's messenger as she had not since she was a young child. She wished for her mother's counsel, and . . . she wished to tell Lady Gná from her own lips before the rumor was heard on the streets and confirmed as truth.

That thought brought a rise of trepidation that she had never felt before an oncoming army or armed foe. She pressed the feeling down, making her mouth a line as she pushed her plate away, hungry no more.

When she laid down that night, she tossed and turned uncomfortably, unable to find her rest. The lines of her sheets and the shape of her pillow were foreign to her, granting her no repose, and a bitter smile touched at her lips when she realized why she could not find her peace. She had slept alone for four winters now, and after a mere three-day of sleeping by Loki's side once more, she was already unable to find her slumber alone. She tried hugging a pillow, but the effect was ill in comparison. She sat up, huffing through her mouth as she glared at the abused pillow. She punched the pillow next, trying to shape it into something more pleasing, but all she did was disturb the feathers within.

Resigned to a sleepless night, she got to her feet. She replaced her night-gown with her day wear, and slipped into her boots. Her fingers were restless with the dance of the cosmos beyond; the witching hour thick in her veins.

She left her rooms to walk through the empty palace halls. It did not take long to find the familiar paths stifling while she walked their ways alone. Air, she needed air . . .

When her step took her down the bridge to Heimdall's Observatory, the only one who was surprised was her. When she was younger, she would often sit with her half-brother through the long hours when she could not sleep, and Heimdall would abide by her presence in silence. The chamber of the byway hummed and crackled with an old, elemental magic, and she felt the enchantments snag at her veins, feeling where she had long grown used to the touch of seiðr before. She inhaled, and found peace.

She sat down at the very edge of the bridge, letting her feet dangle into the abyss of time and space below. Like a blow, she remembered the times when she had sat with Thor and Loki such as children; each one daring the other closer, daring each other to prove themselves on the edge before they were taken by the was between ways . . . And now she looked down, and felt her heart rise in her throat when she thought about what Loki had seen on the uncharted ways. She wondered who had caught him when he fell. And she thanked the Mother for keeping him safe on her boughs. She prayed, and felt Yggdrasil's stars for eyes gaze on her before falling away.

If Heimdall could see the direction of her thoughts, he said nothing. And Sif gathered her legs back on the bridge, folding her knees and hugging them to her chest as she let her mind calm. As she let her memories rest.

"What do you see?" she finally asked.

"The stars dance," Heimdall answered after a moment. "There was a birth in the heavens tonight."

He evaded what she truly looked to find. She raised a brow, but allowed him his feint. "And which star is new?" she asked, gazing at the untamed swirl of the cosmos around them. She could see no new star. Loki by her side would have been able to say which was newly born. He would be able to walk the ways to see the birth in person. Sif swallowed against the memory – of light and life and such might that she had not been able to speak around her awe.

"It is not yet visible in Asgard's skies," Heimdall answered her. "But it is there. And it shall be bright upon its rise."

"Where shall it be then?" she asked. "So I may know where to look."

He inclined his head, not lifting his hands from the sword of the byway. She remembered back to when she had first been able to walk and understand his relation to her – how she had thought him to be one of the Giants in her mother's tales before the truth was told to her. How he had not smiled at her words, but something in his eyes had risen to humor, unblinking as they were.

In the space between Álfheimr and Vanaheimr she saw. A star of enchantment then.

"Can . . ." her tongue was thick in her mouth as she thought of her words. She shaped her question. "Can it be seen from Midgard's skies?"

"In the open places, where the stars can still be seen, they can see its light already. Where we shall see its youth, the light they see is a memory of old," Heimdall answered after a heartbeat. "They need only recognize the gift of what shines above them for that which it truly is."

She nodded, her chest tight. She wondered if Loki had noticed. Loki who counted the stars and knew them by name. "I am glad to hear that, brother."

Heimdall inclined his head, but said no more. And Sif breathed in a breath of magic and the heavens and knew peace until the dawn.

Chapter Text

The blue skies above Manhattan stank with exhaust and fume. Red and gold glittered in the midday sun, teasing as they ran flashing circles above their pursuers.

And Tony Stark huffed out an agitated breath as he targeted on suit and snapped, "Sit, junior. Daddy says, sit." With a wince, he let out a salvo of shots, hating every true hit that pockmarked his fleet of armor.

"Just firing like that is ineffective, Tony," Steve's voice rang in his ear. "We're going to have to take them all down. You won't be able to get these back in one piece."

"I was afraid you were going to say that," Tony sighed, seeing red as he thought about the many, many ways he was going to get Doom back for this. Sure, the mad-scientist-sorcerer had had his green cape handed to him, but this . . . this was uncalled for on the pay-back scale. This was just downright ridiculous.

And the day had started so promising, too. He had awakened that morning to the sight – of all things – of one of his suits walking around in the kitchen, making coffee. After blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to remember if he had done anything the night before to warrant such a hallucination, Tony came to the conclusion that yes, what he was looking at was real, and yes, something was Not Right.

Of course, when the suit had opened fire on him a moment later – along with all of his buddies, Tony's suspicions had been confirmed.

The son of a gun had bespelled his suits. Victor had bespelled his suits. All of them. All forty of them. There were few things in life that filled Tony with a true and honest rage. Actually, his triggers were pretty simple. Insult him – that, he could deal with. Hell, he probably deserved it more than half of the time. Insult his mother – well, Maria Stark had been a strong woman with an acidic tongue – a fit match for Howard and his ways - and she could kill with her words. All with a sweet smile, heels, and pearls. That thought only amused him. Insult Pepper – sure, that made him angry like nothing else.

. . . Mess with his tech, though . . . he was now a few levels of fury past furious.

So far, the suits seemed to be taunting him; flying elaborate patterns and daring him to give chase. They hadn't done any real property damage – a billboard here, a crash through a vacant building there. But he had Fury on the line, and he was - you guessed it – furious, and behind him, the United States airforce was en route to subdue the threat of the Iron Man suits.

And he'd be damned if he let his gear fall into the hands of the DOD. Nope. Wasn't happening. He'd rather see them all to ash first.

. . . he was sure that Hammer was sitting back and laughing at his expense from prison. God, but Tony hated that man. He hated him almost as much as he hated Doom. As much as he hated magic. He never went through the Harry Potter phase. He had teased Rhodey relentlessly for his Tolkien obsession (he only read the books after Rhodes had called him Fëanor in a fit of pique in order to understand the reference, and hee hee har har, Rhodes, very funny). He thought fairies were for hippies, and Tinkerbell for little girls. Elves made fudge stripped cookies, and Dwarfs were just that – anyone below five feet tall.

And now . . .

"Alright," he conceded the point to Steve. "Let's take them out."

"Okay," there was a note of sympathy in the Captain's voice that rankled Tony's nerves before Steve turned master and commander on his team. "Alright – Thor, you target as many as you can from above with your lightning. Tony – see if you can drive them in low for Nat and I. Clint – well, you are one step ahead of me."

From a truly dizzying height that Tony did not want to think about without the power of flight, the archer had already felled the nearest suit – who died a bright and brilliant death before falling in a shower of golden debris on Manhattan below.

And Tony was not fighting a tear. He was not.

"Fear not, my friend," and dear god, but Thor was trying to comfort him. "Your suits of steel are children of your mind. You shall rebuild, and the second birth shall be better than the first."

"Thanks, big guy," Tony got out while trying to evade three of his suits on his tail, and damn, but they were fast. Of course they were, he reflected moodily - he had build them.

"Ack, that's close," he said aloud, cutting a corner tight as the suits did the same. "JARVIS, you're targeting right?"

"Indeed, sir," the AI answered smoothly as Tony turned and unleashed a series of blasts while JARVIS calibrated – stunning his pursuers, but throwing them not from his path.

The missiles finished all three, but there were three more on his tail as soon as they were gone. Talk about an equal playing field, Tony reflected sardonically - he was going to be jumpy every time he passed a motionless suit for weeks now . . .

Above him, Thor's lightning bolts were having the undesired effect of supercharging the suits. Tony winced, wishing that he had not built that relay in after the first time the Thunderer had hit him before that first team-forming battle. But his reflections were cut off by the fight at hand. Annoyed, Tony realized that he couldn't handle more than a few suits at a time, and he was having difficulty taking the battle to the Captain and Natasha below. While they were creative enough in handling the suits that came their way, they were making small progress. A very small progress.

Clint was the only one making any dents in the melee, and Tony winced at how easily his specialty arrows were wrecking havoc with the suit's systems. He would have to alter that with his new suits, he thought distantly - the part of his mind that was always equations and reactions and three steps ahead filing the thought away for when it would be of use to him.

Yes. New suits, he thought. It was best to think positively now . . .

"You are not making a dent fast enough," Fury's voice snapped in his ear-piece.

"We are doing the best we can, sir," Steve was the one to reply. Tony caught a flash of red, white, and blue from below as the Captain threw his shield at a suit directly overhead. While it threw the suit off course, it did little more as Steve reached up to catch his shield as it returned to him. Next to Steve, Natasha had a suit on the ground, and she was ripping wires and circuits from its chest with a determined expression that Stark recognized from long association - she only got to that level of grim when she was enjoying her job. She was enjoying her task just a bit too much, Tony thought as he narrowed his eyes childishly.

"You're not fast enough," still Fury returned, calling Tony back to the conversation at hand. "I can only hold off the jets for so long. You do realize that the higher ups have been all but salivating at the teeth for an opportunity like this, don't you?"

"Everybody wants me, what can I say?" Tony replied distractedly. "JARVIS, any luck getting through to the self-destruct code?"

"Negative, sir," the AI sounded oddly . . . peeved as he spoke. "The circuits are speaking in a language I cannot communicate with. They are being . . . quite unresponsive."

Damn magic to hell and back, Tony thought surly. All of it.

There was a flash of green in the corner of the HUD that drew his gaze and held it. A familiar curve of gold appeared next, and Tony groaned aloud. And speak of the devil, at that, he thought peevishly. "We are kinda busy here. Tinkerbell," he scathed aloud, watching as Loki tilted his head sardonically from the nearest skyscraper and smirked. "We don't need company right now."

"Oh, I can see that you already have quite the crowd," Loki responded directly into his ear-set, and Tony glared unseen.

"Hey, spells off my tech," he protested, running a system check to throw the demigod from his suit.

"Because that is working so well for you already," Loki replied smoothly, and Tony seethed. His search came up empty - but that was not too surprising. Machines didn't tend to communicate well with voodoo - as was example by his suits running haywire around him.

"Brother," Thor's voice was heard next. He had paused from the battle long enough to chastise his sibling. "That was uncalled for. You are being unkind."

"My apologies," Loki replied after a moment, though he really, really wasn't sorry Tony saw from the grin he flashed.

"Loki," Fury's voice was a command in his ear. "You are ordered to stand down and turn yourself over to SHIELD custody. One move, and we will be forced to take counter measures."

"Counter measures?" Loki replied. "Indeed, that does sound ominous. As you wish, Director, I shall not move from this spot."

Tony had a bad feeling. A very, very Bad Feeling.

"And yet . . ." Loki tilted his head again, and even from his vantage point above, Tony could see the way his eyes glowed a telling shade of green. "JARVIS," Loki greeted, speaking into his headset – and his alone, Tony suspected. "What a fascinating ghost in the machine you are," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He did not speak to Tony, but again to the AI. "If you would not mind, I should like to provide my assistance."

There was a moment's hesitation before JARVIS' reply. "Sir?" the question was plain on the AI's voice. For a blessed moment, Loki was silent, letting Tony process.

"Anything is better than it falling into hands I'd rather it not," he finally said. His voice was clipped from his mouth – but he'd be damned before he gave the alien god a glimpse at just how much this was going to hurt.

Loki grinned, and Tony had the niggling feeling that he was biting off a comment that was going to make Tony rethink his entire course of action as the HUD before him took on an edge of green. "I see," JARVIS said to apparently nothing, and Tony fought the rising urge to panic. Because he did not see. He did not see at all. "This may work."

"What may work?" Tony finally gave up on keeping the insecurity out of his voice. "Just . . . be gentle, you hear me? Not a scratch."

"Not a scratch," Loki's voice was a low purr in reply, and Tony did not trust him a bit. "You may wish to stand back," he said next, all mischief falling from his voice as it took on an edge that Tony associated with power and spells. Instinctively, he took up a defensive position before realizing that Loki spoke to the team, and not just to him. In reply, they slowly assembled on the ground below, weary and waiting. Clint and Natasha both wore carefully blank faces, observing and calculating. Where Clint had an arrow notched, he did not pull the string tight. Natasha had her arms loosely at her sides, but her feet were a shoulder's width apart. Her stance was strong, and he knew better than most that it would take but to blink before she could move on the offensive. Thor stood with Mjölnir loose at his side, a grin slicing his face into halves. Steve stood at the forefront of the group, a coiled energy in the set of his shoulders and the line of his spine. His face was hard and watching, the hand on his shield was braced as if ready for use, and Tony snorted. Of all the backers to have on his side . . .

Red and gold flashed by him in a mechanical whirl, and Tony snapped his head around to follow the nearest suit as it moved. "Sir, we are ready," JARVIS said, and Tony felt a pang as he reflected that he wasn't sure who exactly the AI referred to as sir.

"Then do it," he gave the order either way, and the HUD before him turned green.

When he blinked again. The suits had stopped their elaborate patterns. Instead they sputtered and bucked wildly on the air, as if fighting the touch of an unseen hand as they were pushed this way and that. Not an unseen hand, Tony realized after a moment . . . they were fighting themselves. The suits spasmed as if trying to go one way, even as the repulsors flared in the opposite direction, aiming them contrary to their goal. When the one nearest to him past by, close enough to see clearly, he could see the eyes glow a bright, unnatural green, possessed by a force greater than their codes and programing and circuits . . .

He was inside of the suits, Tony realized dumbly. All forty of them.

He snapped his eyes down to where Loki had been standing. He was kneeling upon the roof, his head bowed with concentration, muttering underneath his breath. His eyes were closed, but, were he to open them, Tony knew they would glow with magic as well.

Fighting down an uncomfortable sensation in his gut, he stepped back, and let the God of Mischief and Lies take over that which was dearest in the world to him.

The suits struggled, but it took little time for Loki to override Victor's spells. Von Doom was powerful, but he was no Norse god, and Tony watched, dumbstruck, as the suits lost their battle against themselves. Finally they turned and started to land, one at a time in an orderly line before where their team had gathered below. Victor had given; he had lost.

"Sir, we have full control back," JARVIS spoke into his ear, and Tony blinked, calling himself to order. Right then.

Steadying himself, Tony flew down to where the suits had gathered, each one dead and standing. The green had faded from their eyes, and the unnatural movement had fled from their limbs. He stared critically, but could see nothing amiss to the naked eye. "Run a full series of specs," he ordered to be safe. "I don't trust Victor farther than I can throw him." Nor Loki, he thought, but did not say. Even he wouldn't look a gift horse too closely in the mouth, and he was grateful to not have to destroy all of the suits, at the very least. He chose to cling to that thought and nothing else.

For the moment, at any rate.

He looked around, and saw Natasha's raised brow as he fussed over his returned suits. He did not even bother to hide his relief as he cooed and smiled over each and every one in turn. Steve finally relaxed from his taut readiness, letting his shield fall loosely before him as he smiled. The smile was even worse than Natasha's amusement, and Tony quickly curbed himself as he approached the next suit, keeping the sweet talk to himself as he looked the armor over as best he could before returning to his workshop.

Thor, on the other hand, did not bother to keep one of his thoughts from his face. His smile was wide and beaming, hanging from one ear to the other. When Loki disappeared from the rooftop to appear again in their shadows, Thor turned and clenched his massive fists, as if to keep himself from embracing the slighter man. Tony felt a queasy sensation at the thought, used to Thor's easiness with affection, but not . . . It was just weird, he decided. Twilight zone level weird. Loki had yet to look at any them in the eye, instead he sneaked a glance at Thor from underneath his eyelashes, and Tony fought a frown in reply. He sought no approval but for Thor's, it would seem, and at the thought, Tony paused, weighing the variables before him over the lines of old equations, and finding himself coming up short. It did not add up.

"Thanks, Tinkerbell," he still forced out, somewhat stiffly – but the words were spoken, and that was what truly mattered in the end.

"It was . . . refreshing," Loki replied after a moment. "It has been too long since I have had to unravel another seiðrmanðr's work, and Victor's mark is . . . unique." His grin was sharp, as with memory, and Tony really didn't want to know.

But, they weren't finished, it would seem.

"Loki, I thought I told you to stand down," Fury's voice came striking over their headpieces.

Loki raised a brow. "You mean on the roof? I did not move to give my aid, good Director."

Tony fought the urge to snort, before checking himself. Encouraging the other man would not do. Especially as a squadron of black armored SHIELD soldiers quickly flooded the intersection they had been standing on, weapons held at the ready. "Loki, you are under arrest for a list of crimes committed against the Earth. You are to surrender," Fury said next. "Accompany the men in front of you freely, and you will not be harmed."

Loki raised a brow, as if the thought amused him. Tony tensed, expecting a fight. He wasn't the only one, he noticed – Natasha fell into a subtle offensive position, weight braced to move. Steve's hand tightened on his shield. Clint notched an arrow, even though he did not draw the string tight.

Only Thor did not move for his weapon. Instead he stood at ease; oddly expectant, oddly trusting.

Loki's gaze flickered to Thor once. He blinked, and Tony could not read the thought that rested there.

And finally . . . he exhaled. He held out his wrists as the squad leader stepped forward, manacles in hand. Tony peered closely, but Loki's eyes were a pale shade of green, absent of spells and trickery. Instead he . . .

Submitted?

Behind the faceplate of his mask, Tony let his mouth fall open in shock. He fought the urge to point at his teammates and then at Loki, as if to make certain that they were seeing the same thing he was.

"I so yield," Loki took that final step forward, glancing at Thor one last time before training his gaze to stare resolutely ahead. The manacles clicked into place about his wrists, and Loki did nothing more than clench his fists once before letting his fingers relax, his hands boneless at the touch of steel.

The officer hesitated, as if as surprised by Loki's reaction as Tony was. The helmeted head turned, still looking for an attack.

Loki inclined his head. The smirk that touched the tight line of his mouth was more familiar, but only just. "Please," he bid the officer. "After you."

The squad fell into formation once he was cuffed, falling into step around Loki with a military accuracy. The Avengers followed more slowly, raised brows and quelled questions held behind tightly closed lips. Only Thor smiled and walked forward with confidence, his step full of assurance and . . . pride?

Tony hovered before the ground before directing the suits to fly home once more under JARVIS' aid. And, inside of his helmet, he shook his head.

Pepper, he thought with some amusement, you will never believe what happened at the office today . . .

.

.

The SHIELD headquarters were abuzz with activity.

Boot soles clicked and thick black uniforms rustled as officers and personnel filed by on their business. Their faces were turned to distorted smears of reflections by the gleaming, slate colored walls, and the dull, matte black floors. The lighting was bright and fluorescent, turning everything underneath its touch to stark shades of dark and light, leaving no room for anything else in between.

Thor followed Loki and his escort until he could no more, watching as the tall form of his brother disappeared down the hall that lead to the detention levels. Thor stood at the crossroads, unsure of what to do next – aware that his loyalties too were at an impasse, but soon . . . If the Nornir were merciful on his fate . . .

At his elbow, a cool hand touched his armor. He turned to see the Director's second in command waiting for him. Lady Hill was near tall enough to look even him in the eye, and her eyes were clear shade of blue that reminded him of the immovability of glacier ice. Thor inclined his head to her.

"The Director would see you now," she said, a command in the lines of her voice. She did not wait for a reply before turning, and Thor followed.

Nick Fury's office was like any other on the base, a square room with four dark metallic walls and a bare concrete floor. His title meant nothing; the space was the same size as the one Agent Coulson used, which was in turn, the same size as any of the cubicles down in the lowest levels of R&D. There were no windows, not in an institution this guarded, but monitors did line the walls in a pantomime of a view to the outside world. Most were blank for the moment, but for one – which showed a circular glass chamber. A cell, made specifically with his brother in mind. Thor raised a brow, curious when he remembered how Tony had said that they had made progress in an anti-energy that should neutralize the potency of Loki's magic. Thor held his doubts, but it would be impolite to speak of them now.

The only visible guard outside of the cell was Coulson, standing with a mild face at a loose attention, his hands laced lazily behind his back. Only a fool would so trust that pose, Thor knew after long association. A fool indeed.

Checking the wards and systems was Tony himself. He was out of his armor, but his hair was still mused from his helm. He had come straight away then, Thor thought. The Man of Iron was understandably weary as he looked into the cell. "Is that a new haircut?" Tony was filling the air with a light chatter when Thor brought himself to listen. Loki did not even blink in response – too busy was he looking curiously around himself. Thor fought the urge to smile, knowing that look as he did . . .

"Because really," Tony tapped a command on the control panel, and a sheen of blue energy danced over the glass before dying. "You should get your money back. Actually, I've been meaning to mention this to you for a while now – you are much too pale for all of that black. It makes you look washed out. Have you ever thought of lightening your hair? Or tanning? I know a guy, and -"

The rest of Tony's drivel was cut away when Fury waved a hand, sending the image and the sound away. He had been standing tall and silent since Thor had entered. Now he moved to sit on the edge of his desk, his chin held thoughtfully in his hand.

Thor took a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs before the desk with a wary eye. The bulk of his body barely fit, but he tried to stretch his legs out and fold his arms in a confident, comfortable manner - matching the ease of barely restrained hostility that the Director normally gave off. Where Coulson wore his strength in a mild mannered shield, Fury was more his namesake, and few were the commanders Thor knew who could best him on the field of battle.

This mortal held his full respect. So Thor bowed his head, and waited for him to speak.

"Alright," Fury said, his voice deceptively mild. "You officially have my attention. What is your brother's aim?"

Thor leaned forward, gathering his words to himself. Too often, this was Loki's field of battle, but now the words were Thor's, and he would not ruin this chance with his own thick tongue. "He wishes to make peace," Thor started with the simplest of truths. And it was, in a way. Just not for the reasons Fury thought. "He wishes to pay the bone-price for his crimes."

Fury raised a brow. "You know, on Earth, we pay for our crimes a little differently."

"You have him in custody now," Thor pointed out. "He surrendered willingly after offering us aid in a battle we could not win without losses – and now he has done you the courtesy of not breaking free."

Fury snorted. "He has not escaped because he cannot escape. We have been designing that particular piece of taxpayer's dollars since the first time he stepped foot on our radar."

"And it will matter not," Thor said simply. "There are few places on the Mother's branches able to hold him. Even on Asgard, perhaps only the Vault itself would be strong enough to contain him. Or the void itself." The gaps of time and space between Yggdrasil's branches. But, even then, Loki had fallen from a great height only to walk again.

But that memory brought with it only pain. Thor pushed it away until a time when it could be of use to him.

"Even if that proves to be true," Fury leaned forward, his one-eyed gaze intent. "Why should I not sentence him to serve the rest of his natural life in chains? He has harmed this world more times than I can count, and hundreds of innocent of died because of his . . . misdeeds."

"He has been judged for those crimes," Thor did not turn aside the fact of his brother's guilt. "As the chief Lawsayer of the Realms, my father has judged him, and imposed upon him his sentence."

"And yet, he has not been judged by any court on Earth," Fury was not quick to buy that.

Thor inhaled, wondering how to say what he wanted to next. Although they ere similar in appearance, the ways of thinking between mankind and the Aesir were as different as day and night. He tried to explain, "In my home, disgrace comes only with loss. There are few who would judge his sins as crimes would he have proved triumphant. He slew the Jötunn king, and for that – the people approved. He failed in conquering the rest of that world, and for that, the people scorn. He was raised to war, and for centuries . . . for centuries he learned only his scrolls and spells, and took the derision that bought. He only . . . he only tried his hand at the conqueror's yoke after certain revelations were made. After events transpired so that he felt the need to prove himself – to prove himself worthy of Odin's name once the blood-tie was for naught."

And Fury listened with a careful, detached expression. "And yet, as fascinating as Viking philosophies are, things work a little differently here. We do not laud our conquerors. Caesar? Napoleon? Hitler? Eventually, they all fall, and we count the world a better place in their absence."

"Then let him repay his debt," Thor stated again. "He has wronged you. He has tried to take what should not have been taken, but he can be more use to this world in its defense than in toiling away a sentence of captivity." Thor sighed. "His debt is great. A part of me thinks that he would even serve the time you would impose, as surface as his 'bondage' would be."

Fury sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. He was considering, Thor saw. He wished to say more, but was unsure of how to press his advantage. He chose silence for the moment. And then Fury said, "How do I know that I can trust him?"

And, at that, Thor returned his look boldly. "The same way we trust you." The answer was unspoken. They did not.

And Fury smiled a smile full of teeth. "As you are aware, I use my assets where I can find them. This team is full of more . . . violate forces. People that other higher ups in my line of work would sooner see put down and their threat neutralized rather than used to their full potential. But Loki . . . he is a variable even past what I am used to trying to harness."

"If need be," Thor said, his voice tight as he prepared to speak the last card he had to pay, "I will offer my sword only by side of his."

And Fury waved a hand, unimpressed. "Stand down, Odinson, you've convinced me."

And Thor blinked, taken aback. Fury took a moment to enjoy his surprise. "Know that I am not an easy taskmaster," he still warned. "One false move, and I won't hesitate to put your brother down like a dog – I won't even play around with trying to find a cell that can hold him." The threat was as a naked sword, and Thor nodded, accepting.

"He will not give you cause to," Thor vowed, his faith an absolute from his lips. And, at that too, Fury took a moment to process before shaking his head. He pressed the intercom on his desk. "Coulson, you can bring Loki here."

"That's the thing, sir," Coulson's voice bore a tremor of stress at the corners. Thor straightened upon hearing it. "He should be already -"

" - here," Fury said tersely, glaring at the shadows over Thor's shoulder. "How nice of you to join us."

Thor turned, and saw where Loki was stepping out of the shadows, half of his body still incorporeal, all black mist and the swirling violet and green of his seiðr. "Brother," he greeted.

"Inescapable," Fury snorted. "I'll be having a word with Stark." The question in Fury's gaze was unmistakable.

"Oh, you mean the cell?" And Loki's mouth drew up in a half grin. He matched the Director's challenge with his own. "Now that would be telling."

"Brother," Thor's voice slanted with disapproval. Loki merely raised a brow as he glided over to the seat next to Thor. He folded his long limbs into the chair with a liquid sort of grace, at odds with how Thor still rocked uncomfortably in his own seat. Fury watched him speculatively; as one may watch a serpent.

"I take it you heard everything I said to your brother here," Fury said.

"Indeed," Loki answered.

"Then you know that I will accept you on a trial basis," Fury's voice fell as blows. "If you take even a step that I don't agree with, know that I will not hesitate to send you to your Lady Hel myself."

"I so understand," Loki inclined his head.

Fury tightened his mouth; his jaw was a square line. He turned to Thor. "Loki is your responsibility," he commanded next. "He does not take a step into these facilities without express permission, and then only when accompanied by you. Any further . . . mischief caused while he is on Earth, I will hold you personally accountable for."

Thor nodded. "I so accept the task."

"Well then," Fury's mouth stretched in a dangerous grin. "Gentleman, you are dismissed."

Thor nodded, and got to his feet, granting Fury a shallow bow as he left. Loki followed in Thor's shadow until they passed into the hall beyond, and only when Fury was left behind did Thor's face break out into a splitting grin. "Brother! We have been victorious!"

"We may have a different definition of the word," Loki remarked mildly, but there was the beginning of amusement in his eyes for his brother's joy.

"Nonsense," Thor waved a hand. "We fought, and were made successful from our efforts."

"I think your good Director is thinking more along the lines, 'keep your friends close, and your enemies closer'," Loki disagreed.

"A start," Thor waved his hand in dismissal. "And a great start it is."

"That may last only until Fury devises a way to hold me permanently."

"He will be toiling for some time to come, then," Thor returned. And Loki sighed, unable to prevail upon such blatant optimism. Still, his cheeks flushed, pleased by Thor's unquestioning faith – in more than just his power as an enchanter.

"It was a valiant attempt," Loki said as to their crude first effort at a cell. "They think of this world in particles and waves – and seiðr too they try to explain as such. It is fascinating, that they are a people who can split an atom in two, but they cannot feel the ground underneath their feet. Even you can feel this world's heartbeat, as blind to magic as you are."

Thor turned to look at him as they walked, a knowing in his eye that Loki knew not what to make of. He raised a brow, giving him leave to speak of whatever thought had just crossed his mind.

"They intrigue you," Thor finally stated. There was naught of a question in his voice. "This realm fascinates you."

Loki blinked. "I do not mind coffee terribly much," he avoided answering truly, and Thor laughed – a large, booming sound that Loki stopped upon hearing. It had been . . . too long, he finally admitted that truth, if only to himself, and pushed away the fist from around his throat lest he could not breathe with it.

"Indeed, it is just the coffee that draws your interest," Thor let him his falsehood. "Nothing else."

They walked in companionable silence until they left the base. An easiness came to them both away from the rooms without windows, the metal and machinery without pulse or soul.

Loki tilted his head once in the natural light, considering. "The Director," he finally said. "Have you ever noticed . . ."

"Yes," Thor answered immediately. "Yes I have."

"How very interesting," Loki murmured thoughtfully.

"Although I do not think he gave his as a token to Mímir," Thor gave, a playful slant to his voice.

"Still, the resemblance is uncanny, in more ways than one," Loki gave.

"And he without a millennia to his name," Thor shook his head in silent laughter. "And yet, Fury is not the fiercest battle to stand in our path. There is another one before us. One that my words will not be enough to quickly win."

"Your teammates," Loki gave somberly.

"My comrades," Thor agreed.

Loki did not sigh, but there was a weariness that hid in his eyes. Determination shone too, and that Thor chose to see above all else. "If a bone-price is to be paid, I may as well do so where I did the most damage," he tried to speak with humor, but failed.

Thor rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, again knowing that this was done for him, and him alone. He felt pride swell in his veins. Pride . . . and such a hope.

"It is nothing that time cannot cure. A first step has been taken, and time we have much of," Thor tried to encourage.

And Loki only sighed. "I would rather fight a herd of bilgesnipe," still he disagreed.

Thor smiled in return. "You may find the task to be one and the same, brother. One and the same . . ."

Chapter Text

If there was a place in the world to make a person believe in the possibility of a god, it was Tromsø, Norway.

The island city was set in the middle of a glacial straight, far north in the Arctic Circle. On every horizon, mountains reached up to touch the sky, their white fingers eerily bright against the permanent twilight that engulfed the city during the latter months of the year. While Jane Foster had decided that she could live without seeing the Midnight Sun ever again – her sleeping habits having never fully recovered – the days of blue half-light and starry night time skies were amongst some of the most wondrous sights she had yet to see in her life. It reminded her of Asgard, truth be told – complete with the Aurora Borealis dancing in the sky to mimic the swirl of the cosmos above Goðheimr. It was easy to see how a race could so devoutly worship the unseen from a place like this, where the heavens were seemingly close enough to touch.

Besides that, Tromsø was an astronomer's dream come true. The cold mountain skies gave way to breathtaking starscapes at night, allowing for a clarity of vision Jane had yet to find in few other places on Earth.

While Jane's primary machine to help the bifröst maintain its connection to Earth was in New York, safe underneath Stark's protection, she had two 'anchor' devices, as well. One was set up in Tromsø, on the roof of the university there; while the other was in Anchorage, Alaska. Together, each machine created a point of entry for the bifröst in Asgard to 'hook' onto so that the bridge could be created. It was a patchwork solution, at best, but at least it was a solution until the bridge could be restored to full working order. The bifröst was made of an ancient magic, and she was just starting to wrap her mind about the science of the matter.

For now, her machines had been . . . temperamental, was the best way she could put it, as of late. They rotated and spun as if trying to make contact even when they were not being ordered to do so, compulsively gathering the energy of the byway to them as if wishing to draw a traveler, but were unsure how.

Jane was determined to master the power spikes – and soon. Heimdall had been practicing with the repairs she had put into place, and they were ready to try their first bridge to a realm other than the Earth. In theory, they should be able to use her machine as a satellite of sorts – taking the bridge from Asgard, routing it through the Earth, and then on to whatever destination they had in mind. They had yet to try out their theory in fact, but Álfheimr was a good a place as any to try that first time. Other places in the Realms . . . well, suffice to say, there were many things in Thor's world that she did not precisely want to let into hers.

Their timing was planned down to the wire, as well. It was the end of the harvest season on the Realm Eternal, and the last sun of autumn and the first moon of winter - the Late Meet - marked the day when Asgard would meet with the dignitaries from Álfheimr, and renew the treaties of friendship between their peoples. While Odin had been making the journey to Álfheimr under his own power for the last few seasons, it was time for King Gandalf to make his way to the High Realm once again, and Jane was determined for everything to be in top working order for that visit.

. . . after all, there was nothing like a member of a royal family being lost to the ether of time and space to put a damper on diplomatic relations. Just saying.

To double her frustration, Jane was doing her work with a massive migraine pounding behind her temples. While she was used to the jet lag when traveling to Norway, this was just plain ridiculous. She had had near a week to regulate her sleep cycles, after all – this was going on for much too long.

She taped her pen against her notebook, trying to distract herself from her body's rebellion, but was only met with a marginal success.

On the rooftop with her, his legs sticking out from underneath the machine, was Bruce Banner. When meeting Thor's teammates, she had not expected herself to bond so easily with the hero types – expecting brawn and strength and a minimal interest in the mechanics of the world as she had met in Thor - but Bruce proved to be an easy, mild mannered soul who just understood the way things worked at the elemental level. He spoke her language near as well as Tony Stark – who, witticisms and narcissism aside, was becoming a barnacle like attachment in her life. He had officially dubbed her a lab-bro, in his words, and as such she was held to the strict structures of the bro-code - also his words. In the end, such a title included several all nighters in the lab and the requisite of 'wing man' whenever Tony drug them out for drinks. Never mind that his flirting was harmless now, charm and charisma still rolled off of him in waves, and his outlets for that were as many as they were varied.

"Soooo," Bruce said, drawing her away from her thoughts. His voice was muffled by the machinery above his head. "Your boyfriend and his kid brother . . ."

" . . . yeah," Jane answered.

"That's . . ."

"I know."

"Then he's . . ."

"So it would seem," Jane shrugged.

"Huh," Bruce gave, sliding out so that she could see his face. There was a smudge of grease over his left cheek, and his black hair had fallen forward in a boyish way over his glasses. His smile was crooked on his face, never quite reaching his eyes. He had an easy, awkward charm about him that had put Jane instantly at ease, no matter what else lurked beneath the surface of his skin.

"That's good," he finally settled, nodding his head simply as he got to his feet again.

"It is," she agreed, walking to the other side of the machine to see if the readings had changed from their efforts.

"Huh," Bruce said, glancing at the charts from over her shoulder.

"Ah . . ." Jane's brow curved in question.

"Then that's . . ."

"Not good at all," Jane finished for him, scrolling through the numbers. This did not make any sense at all . . . "She's being so temperamental," she muttered under her breath before pressing her first two fingers to her right temple. If her head would just let her think . . .

"Jet lag?" Bruce asked, noticing the gesture.

"The worst," she answered, still frowning at the readouts.

"It's been bad this time," he agreed. "It's making it hard to concentrate right now."

At that, Jane turned and raised a brow. Because of Bruce's . . . companion, he rarely felt out of sorts. Nearly everything from simple aches and pains to the common cold was absorbed and endured for him by the presence lurking underneath his skin. She tried not to be obvious with her staring as she looked for the tell-tale edge of green his eyes would sometimes take, before reminding herself that she was being rude. Beside, she had seen a bilgesnipe before. Bruce's Mr. Hyde was elementary after that.

His eyes were clear, she finally deducted. It was just him and his headache. That was . . .

But she was distracted by an incoming message.

She looked over to the Stark-phone she had perched on the concrete ledge of the roof, and swept the signal through.

"Are we set?" Tony Stark's voice came over, muffled at first before the static died out. "We are ready on this end."

Jane set her pencil between her teeth so that she could scroll through her readings with both hands. Her eyes narrowed, and she wished that she had Darcy with her – for having not a lick of science in her veins, she was invaluable when it came to finding patterns, and she caught on remarkably fast. Her assistant had grown through the ranks to become one of SHIELD's assets, but she still remembered her humble beginnings enough to help Jane whenever she could. Darcy and Erik Selvig made up the second half of Jane's team at the third site in Alaska, and was awaiting Jane's word, as well. "We appear to be level here," she said. "We had some hiccups when we first tried the signal, but they seem to have leveled out . . ." her voice sounded unsure to her own ears as she scrolled through the readings. She couldn't put her finger on what precisely was wrong.

"Are you ready for the test run then?" Tony asked. "Or do you need a delay?"

Jane shook her head. "We don't have time for a delay," she said. "The Late Meet begins within days, and I want this fully functional by then."

"You're the boss," she heard the tapping of fingers on metal, and knew that Tony was like a child before a candy store with the thought of what they were about to do.

Jane smiled fondly, and tucked her pencil back into the sloppy bun she had made of her hair. Her breath misted on the cold afternoon air, blue in the half-light around her.

"Alright, we are set here," she announced.

"All is clear at the secondary anchor," Darcy reported from the third line.

She could hear Tony's sharp nod. "And we are going to full power at the mothership in three, two, one . . ."

Jane bit her lip as the machine flared to life before her, the great circular gears shifting and spinning almost like they would in Heimdall's observatory far above them. At first, everything was stable – the machine sparkled with a familiar, radiant spectrum; a rainbow of color and light as it answered the Gatekeeper's call.

"The readings are normal," Bruce reported, watching the numbers scroll by.

"Here as well," Tony reported.

"A-okay here," Darcy confirmed from her position.

Jane inhaled.

"We've made contact with Álfheimr's coordinates," Bruce said. There was an underlying note of wonder in his voice, his eyes were all five years old and amazed at the thought of worlds beyond their own, all myths and legends and we are not alone.

It was a feeling she understood completely. Jane smiled wide enough to burst as she felt the wild spin of magic as it sung on the air, louder than the pounding in her temples. "It works," she nearly laughed. "It's really working!"

And then -

"Wait a moment," Tony sounded distracted. "I am dealing with an odd reading here."

"And something very wrong here," Bruce's worry was more immediate, and Jane immediately saw why. Where before, the beam of energy the machine had launched into the air had been a myriad of colours, it now glowed a bright and electric green. Her first reaction was Loki, and how?, before she took a second glance. The light before her was not Loki's, she decided. Loki's magic was a bright, earthy green. Like spring. Like growing things.

This before her was a sick shade. An unnatural shade. Like venom and the flames that accompanied chemical fires.

Jane instantly stepped back. "Shut it down," she ordered. "Shut it all down."

"If what I am reading is accurate," Tony sounded like he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "It looks like you may have picked up a hitchhiker. There is a life force in the readings I'm getting from you. Two of them . . ."

Anxiously, Jane studied the cone of light as it died, and sure enough, the green flames parted to reveal a woman . . . a rather lovely woman, at that. All delicate, graceful features and cruel green eyes. She had waist length blonde hair that was held from her face by an angled band of steel cut in sharp geometrical designs, colored a green that matched the rest of her attire – a distinctively Aesir styled set of armor, complete with circles of power, braided leather skirts, and guantlets on her forearms that stretched up past her elbows.

She was . . .

. . . no one Jane had ever met before, she finally decided. She had met most of Odin's elite while working on Asgard. She would know of another shield-maiden, she thought. Unless the stranger before her was of Brünnhilde's fold, she gave. She had met the Valkyrie captain once, but she had met none other of their celestial rank, and she couldn't say yay or nay for the woman's identity before her.

But . . . the woman stepping out of the light from the bridge had flat teeth when she smiled, none of the sharp points she had seen behind the Valkyrie's lips. There had been a note of not quite human about Brünnhilde - and then, there was the great set of golden wings she had, at that. The woman before her bore neither such trait. Even more telling, there was the flare of seiðr burning about the woman's hands, leaving Jane to wonder. Asgard had too few of its mages, and none with the power she saw in the woman before her.

Behind the woman there was a positively hulking brute of a man, taller even than Thor, with a barrel like chest that reminded her more of Volstagg if he didn't enjoy the feast as much as he did. The man's head was clean shaven and his torso was bare chested against the cold. He was dressed only in dark brown leather leggings and thick boots. For armor, he wore a skirt of leather and metal squares from his waist, and thick black braces wrapped around the massive curve of his forearms. Runes and tribal symbols decorated his chest, black in colour, but taking on shades of red and green when he turned into the light. Such markings were foreign to Jane, who had known none of their like amongst the Aesir. The lines of his face were hard, his eyes were shadowed red in the corners. He carried a battle-axe, bigger than Jane herself, in one of his huge fists. Foreboding ate at her veins, even before the woman started to speak.

"Midgard," the woman breathed. Her voice was a rich, sultry sound on the winter air. "At last we have succeeded, my friend."

The strong-man at her side said nothing, but the woman did not look as if she expected him to. While positively tiny in comparison to the man, it was obvious who held the position of command in their relationship. She glided forward with an elegant step, her eyes transfixed as she ran one pointed red nail against the surface of the machine that had opened the way to Earth for her.

Jane sucked in a breath. "Hey!" she found her courage bolstered by her ire. "I don't know who think you are, but that is highly sensitive -"

Jane found herself being flung back by an invisible hand. Her back connected with the brick wall behind her, stealing her breath as she fell into an ungraceful heap on the ground. "Silence before your elders, little one," the woman did not even bother glancing at her as she spoke.

From where she had fallen, she could hear her Stark-phone still alive with chatter. "Jane?" Tony's voice was shaped with worry. "Jane, are you there? What's going on?"

Another wave of the woman's hand, and the phone went up in a death of green flames. Jane pressed a hand to her head, the throbbing behind her temples seemingly spasming in time with the woman's spells.

When she was able to open her eyes again, she saw Bruce addressing their visitors. "Hey there," he had one hand in the pocket of his parka, and the other he waved in a gesture of greeting. He was leaning forward, his shoulders hunched unassumingly, and yet Jane felt her bones turn tight at the shade of green in his eyes. Not around my machine, she prayed. Please, anywhere but here . . .

"It's obvious you aren't from around here," he continued amiably enough, "But here on Earth, you have to ask before you touch someone else's stuff. And you just can't take what you want. It's called stealing."

"Stealing?" the woman stretched the syllables of the word out, as if Bruce only amused her. "Skurge . . . see to the man. I have work to do."

The hulking brute of a man – Skurge - stepped forward, his battle-axe held loosely in hand. Jane felt her heart rise up into her throat. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said, rising to her feet - whether to run herself or to try and protect her life's work if Bruce had an . . . episode, she was not sure. "You won't like him when he is angry."

A low chuckle was all that her warning was met with as Skurge advanced. The woman turned an icy green gaze on her. "Silence, mortal!" she commanded, and Jane felt a tight feeling settle around her throat. She tried to speak again, but found she could not. Her tongue was silent to her.

She glared silently as Skurge advanced, backing up as far as she could. Carefully, she thumbed the panic button she always carried in her pocket – after being with an Avenger for so long, certain safety measures had to be taken, after all, and stepped back . . .

Skurge took Bruce by the neck and lifted him high in the air, as if amused by the lack of strength he put forward in resistance. Jane felt her heart hammer. Fear rose thick in her throat as she watched the way Bruce struggled – not with Skurge, but with himself. His entire body was tight, his eyes squeezed shut. Jane did not want to see what color they would be when they opened.

Skurge threw him, and Bruce's back hit the ground with a sickening thud. His head cracking upon the cement, and Jane winced. Hang on, she wanted to tell him. Help is coming, just . . .

But her throat was sealed, and Bruce was far away. The fall had rendered him unconscious, she noticed, but far from being relieved, her panic doubled. Bruce could not control his body when in such a state, and . . .

Jane glared at the woman poking around her machine, oblivious to the danger she had just put them all in. Beyond her, Bruce's skin had taken on a rather worrying shade of green.

Okay, maybe this was a little worse than a bildgesnipe, she reflected. Her fingers found the brick wall behind her, as if trying to get back even further still.

The first bone popped beyond her, resetting itself at an unnatural shape. Organs shifted and skin realigned, and Jane tried to swallow down her panic.

Okay. Very much worse than a bildgesnipe, indeed.

.

.

"I lost contact," the words were scarce from Tony's mouth before their communicators were all buzzing with Jane's distress signal.

Something had gone wrong, very wrong, Loki instantly saw on the faces around him. And it was not hard to figure out what. Any crisis situation resulting in Jane unable to fight, and the good doctor unable to tell friend from foe if his second self took him . . .

"How fast can one of the jets cross the ocean?" Steve was the first one to take charge with the situation.

"Uh, I built it," Tony said, as if the answer was obvious. When the Captain only glared, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. Not fast enough, Loki translated, even as Tony said, "Fast enough."

The whole of the team had gathered to see the bridge make contact with Álfheimr's surface. While Loki had not been formally introduced to his new teammates, Thor had thought this a neutral situation as any for them to interact beyond the field of battle. A situation, he had a vested interest in, at that. As one who walked the ways, and who had helped Jane in the earliest stages of her research, Loki truly did wish to see her succeed at her task - for more than just Thor's sake.

His presence had been met with everything from chilly silence (Tony), to mild curiosity (Natasha and Clint), and wary acceptance (the Captain). While it was better than downright hostility, the silence that he was treated with set Loki's teeth on edge. Rather he would meet with a battle he could fight, with blows or words, than this awkward limbo in between. The unease filled him with amusement next. He had spent too many centuries with Thor, truly, to loose his fine patience for this.

"Any flight time will not be fast enough," Loki said before the Captain could answer. Thor looked at him , and instantly saw what he intended to do. In answer, he clasped a hand high on Tony's arm, and then reached over to do the same with the Captain's.

"If you would all hang on," Thor chirped brightly.

The Captain uncertainly took Natasha's hand, who took Clint's. Loki in turn held on to Thor, who closed his eyes in anticipation, and then -

A snap, a crackle of energy, and Loki drew them all into the nether-realm before they came off of the pathways in the shadows of Jane's machine. Tromsø's crisp mountain air greeted their lungs as the humans stumbled forth, their first introduction to traveling in such a way landing them with stumbled steps and gasps of surprise before they schooled themselves for the situation that greeted them.

"How about you give us a warning next time?" Tony was the first one to gain control of his breathing as he snapped over at Loki. "Eugh, I have magic on me," he complained, wiping at his arms and patting down his sides as if that could do away with the invisible touch of seiðr so simply.

"What the hell was that?" was the more angered reaction from the Hawk - who had doubled over after stepping as far away from Loki as he could, his hands braced on his knees. His face was a pallid and sickly shade of green. Loki fought down the faint feeling of sympathy he felt before looking away - inter-dimensional travelling did not agree with some stomachs. Especially the first time. "How about a warning next time?" Clint tried to compose himself.

Loki fought the urge to roll his eyes as Tony continued to wipe the 'magic' away, before turning to do the same with Clint. Clint pushed the other man away with a scowl.

"My apologies," Loki gave blandly. "But we do have a bigger problem on our hands. And when I say bigger, I do mean bigger."

Beyond them, Bruce's transformation was in its final stages. The Hulk's body was caught in a tight arc as the last of Bruce's control was handed over to his second half. His mouth was open in a silent roar, and his green eyes were alight with a primordial rage as he braced himself against the transformation. Loki felt his heart skip a beat at the sight, the power in the air from the beast near intoxicating.

"Alright then," Tony's voice lost any edge of playfulness as he thumbed the bracelets at his arms – his emergency armor slinking out to cover his body with crisp, mechanical acuteness. He glanced over at his teammates. "Ready to play catch the Hulk?"

Brightly colored, and flashing red and gold in the blue half-light, Tony took to the air right above them. "Here Hulk-y," Tony whistled down at the beast of his friend below. "Go catch the stick!"

At his words, Clint had recovered enough to fire off a brightly colored arrow – an arrow that sparkled at the tail, designed for just such a purpose. The Hulk smashed his massive fists on the roof, and roared out his challenge before giving chase. Tony took flight right behind him.

"Game on then," Clint shook his head, and went to follow, Natasha not far behind him.

Loki looked away to where, standing at Jane's machine, a tall, blonde woman looked on with undisguised awe. "Such magnificence," Amora the Enchantress breathed, and Loki winced at the honey and wine tone of her voice. There were a few things he had not missed about Asgard, in retrospect . . . "I had not known . . ."

"And many have paid for that unknowing with their lives," Thor declared firmly, his voice like thunder. "You put more than you know in danger."

"Oh, Thor," the Enchantress breathed. "You do not truly mean to be angry with me? I who have loved you so faithfully all of these years?"

On the other side of the roof, Jane raised a brow, and Loki felt at the simple spells than bound her tongue. He unraveled them with a flick of his wrist.

Jane sucked in a breath. "Thor," she called, her voice a rasp as she coughed her words out. "The machine," her voice held a note of panic.

Of course, Loki wanted to smile. Faced with one of Thor's . . . admirers, and she thought only of her work.

"Fear not, my Lady," Thor called over, gallantly stepping into the role of chivalrous knight for his lady fair. "Amora shall be taking her leave very shortly."

At that, the Enchantress laughed. "I fear to disappoint you, my love, but I must. There are higher powers than the name of Odin on the Mother's branches, and I have one I cannot disappoint. Let me have the mortal's toy here, and you may go unscathed."

Thor drew Mjölnir in reply, his threat clear. "I'm afraid I cannot do so."

"A pity," Amora breathed, her eyes glowing as she called her powers to her. "Skurge dear, you know what to do."

The half-Jötunn man needed no such order to take the first swing at Thor. He was already stepping forward even before Amora breathed her command, eager as he was to take out the object of Amora's fascination with his own devotion to the Enchantress. The black runes at his chest were aglow with energy as he roared his battle cry – Amora's spells for his speed and strength mingling with his own natural ability to grant a truly impressive foe, one to command both his brother's attention, and the Captain's at once.

And Loki stepped forward to meet Amora. The air crackled with energy around them, like the air charging before a storm, and a sharp grin pulled at his mouth. Indeed, it had been too long – much too long since he had had a proper row with a true seiðrmanðr (Victor did not count, with his mortal blood and his mortal spells; his power bought at the cost of souls from a demon of the shadow-world). He would enjoy this.

"Second-son," Amora's greeting lost the welcome it had held for Thor. "I had heard that you had crawled your way back into Odin's good graces."

"And I heard that you had fallen from them," Loki returned. "Who thinks to command you, Amora? Normally, you work for no one's cause but your own."

"It is power that draws my eye, sweetling," Amora's voice was all but a purr. "Or have you forgotten?"

"Oh, I understand what power is," Loki allowed a crackling green energy appear around his hands, straining at the leash he set upon it. "And that is why I am curious."

How did you get here? He thought, but did not say. Who has sunken their talons into the byway, and how has he been able to remain unseen?

The first volley of energy from Amora's hands, Loki dodged easily enough. He batted away the second and the third before sweeping a wave of green flame in return. Amora caught the flames in her hands, cradling it before whispering her own spell and returning the flames tenfold. Loki walked though the green tongues, not even bothering to turn them away as he felt for the elements inside of the attack and untangled them without conscious thought.

In this way, they were evenly matched, he reflected. Amora, the daughter of Kamilla the Norn and a black-sorcerer of the Dark Álfar, drew her natural strength from the elements, much as her Álfish kin did. Much as Loki had learned to do. But she had more . . . unnatural talents learned from years of dark studies and travels on far off realms, much as Loki had, as well . . .

She started muttering under her breath, her syllables clapping in time with the sound of thunder on the air – Thor taking more drastic measures against Skurge beyond as the good Captain went flying.

Loki smiled sharply in reply, feeling his own powers flare to meet her own. Ah yes, he thought, it had been too long indeed.

.
.

Honestly, it had been too long since she last had a roof side chase like this.

Tromsø was all relatively short buildings, the highest she skipped over no more than five stories tall. The trickiest part of keeping up was the snow on the rooftops and the ice on the railings, which made handholds tricky and wrecked havoc with her footing. Blue light threw twisted shadows all about them, eerily showcasing the pale stars in the noon sky above. Natasha inhaled the winter air; feeling as her lungs stretched cold and thin and full, and she could only describe the feeling that filled her as home.

She was slower than Tony with his power of flight; slower than Bruce who could jump buildings in a single bound. Clint managed to keep up reasonably better than her, swinging from roof to roof and firing off signals in the air to help her follow behind them. In the end, the flares were unnecessary. She followed the trail of damage left behind in Bruce's wake like a paint-by-number piece. Natasha just connected point to point.

He was leaving the city, she noticed after a moment. Whether it was Bruce who was consciously trying to steer the Hulk away from where he would do the most damage, or the Hulk's animal instincts trying to go to ground, to escape, she did not know. Perhaps, in the end, it was a little bit of both.

When she finally caught up to them, the Hulk was roaring – not at Tony as he darted around and above him, or Clint with his arrow notched, but rather at the long stretch of water that laid between the island-city and the mainland beyond. The mountains caught the sound and echoed it back; a horrible, primordial bellow that Natasha could feel in her bones. Her voice settled in her throat in reply, an unnatural enough sound to match, and the part of her that was created and other . . . The not human part of her heard the rage in his voice and echoed it . . .

She clenched her fists. She forced her heartbeat to calm.

"Alright, big guy," Tony was trying to calm his friend from above. His voice was coaxing and patient, as if he were talking to an erring child and not his best friend when in the black hold of his rage. "Let's just take this a step down now."

Bruce roared in reply. The tendons in his throat stretched with the force of the sound as he smashed his fists together and then on the ground in a warning. His refused to turn from them as he paced back and forth on the shore, glaring out over the water from the corner of his eyes. He flexed his weight, as if wondering if he could jump the straight in one bound. He probably could, Natasha calculated, but he did not have enough room for the running start he would need . . .

"We can't let him go back to the city," Tony said tersely. "We need to subdue him here."

"Great, we can use Natasha's knives and my fireworks," Clint retorted. "Do you have a plan past that?"

"Lullabies?" Tony suggested. His voice was distracted in a way that said that his mind was going a hundred miles a second. "I was just going to keep him cornered until his heartbeat dropped – give Bruce an opportunity to come back through."

But, if anything, the Hulk was becoming more and more agitated as the seconds passed. They did not understand, Natasha thought. The Hulk's thoughts weren't human. They were animal, they were instinct. They surfaced not when Bruce was angry, but when he was stressed, when he was feeling threatened. The Hulk protected Bruce, no matter the cost, even while becoming the thing Bruce feared the most about himself.

The Hulk turned bloodshot eyes on them, and then glanced back towards the city again. Natasha felt her throat catch before she settled her skin with purpose. She would not let this become one more in a long line of regrets for him, she decided. She would not . . .

Clint was right, though. She was nothing more than a pair of daggers – useless. A pair of sidearms – useless too. Speed – slightly more useful. Cool detachment and calculation . . . she could get by on that.

But she was not invincible. She was just better; just the best amongst the realm of the human and the organic . . .

. . . but she was not this, no matter how she had been created.

The ice was slick, but Natasha was fast and the winter had born her – grabbing one of the flares from Clint's holster before igniting it, waving it before her like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.

"Hey!" she yelled, grabbing the Hulk's attention. Her heart was hammering, but she kept it hidden beneath her skin. She focused on the tips of her fingers, instead, cold from where her gloves were exposed to the Arctic air. She focused on the Hulk's – Bruce's - eyes following the flare she held in her hand. He took a step forward.

In reply, Natasha stepped out onto the frozen bay. The ice cracked ominously underfoot, but it did not break. She danced over a long fault line, listening to the water as it rolled underneath.

"That's it big guy," she cooed. "Just a little more . . ."

The Hulk scented the air over the frozen water. She waved the flame in her hand, even as Clint yelled, "Natasha, are you nuts?" and Tony fired off something about Russian and unbelievable into her headpiece.

She took the mic from her ear, and threw it onto the ice.

"Come and get me," she turned her voice into a challenge instead, forgetting the soft, coaxing sounds she had first tried to use. Instead, she mat his gaze head on. She leaned forward, her chest full with her exhale, her neck exposed in a taunt.

And then she turned a from him.

She turned. She put her back to him, and walked away.

She felt, rather than saw, the Hulk swept his fists against the ice. He had understood her. He was answering her.

The first step he took onto the ice cracked the whole shelf. She could feel the crosshairs as they broke underfoot. She made her grip on the arrow a fist. The second step he took, she could hear more than she could feel. The Hulk's low growl reverberated across the ice, she could feel it from her boots, up her legs, vibrating in her spine. It ended as a rattle at the base of her skull. A shiver went through her in reply; a sick twist of adrenaline and something else. Something more.

A growl formed in her own throat. She wondered if he could hear it for what it was.

He stomped. He had heard her. He was answering her.

So, she counted.

One . . .

Another step.

Two . . .

One more . . .

Three . . .

The ice cried under the strain -

And the Hulk gave up his cautionary steps. He leapt towards her, just as the ice lost its battle to hold itself together, shattering to be reclaimed by the water beneath. As quickly as she could, Natasha moved. She threw the sparkling arrow away, and darted to where the ice was whole, barely touching down before she was off again, one step ahead of the unnatural and the forces of nature that were stronger than their all, before realizing . . .

She was not fast enough.

She could feel the Hulk's breath on her neck, even as the ice gave beneath her. She felt her feet meet water, colder than she had been expecting. Too cold, lethally cold, and a snaking tendril of fear warned her that she was going in. She prepared herself for the fall, she prepared herself for the shock, and yet . . . it never came. Behind her, his greater weight sinking him faster, she turned to see the Hulk's eyes – brown and warm and Bruce -

- and then, a massive fist came around and backhanded her, sending her flying over to safety again. She tucked her body into a roll, but she could not find her footing again as her back collided with the shore. The force of her landing took the breath from her lungs. Her skull cracked sickly against the ground, and the force of the blow was enough to cause her head to bounce back up and hit the ice again on its way back down. She blinked the black spots from her eyes, fighting the pull of unconsciousness just long enough to see a long white arm – human and cold – rising from the water before she let the blackness take her.

.

.

Seiðr crashed with seiðr on the cold glacial air.

Loki gave his spells, only to find them returned, one after another. He sent his doubles, only to have Amora slice through them to find which one was real. He sent wind and green fire and harnessed Thor's rains until they were deluges, sweeping the Enchantress' feet from under her. And she still stood tall. She tired; but her spells were still potent, her strength unyielding.

Yet, underneath the distraction of the battle, Loki searched.

He led the Enchantress through their dance, toying with her, matching her blow for blow while he sent his senses out along the ways. Amora and Skurge had not come from Álfheimr, he deduced almost immediately. They were on the byway already, waiting for the path to Midgard to open. They had been sheltered on the Yggdrasil's ways, blind from all eyes, but how?

"How did you get here?" finally, he hissed the question out.

"Poor, lost little boy," Amora cooed in answer, her chest heaving as she fought to fill her lungs with breath. "How are you still so blind, even after all of these years?"

"If I am blind, then make me see," he ground the words out, pushing her back again. The green orbs of energy from his hands took on shades of violet and the darkest of blues with the strength of his casting.

"There are paths over the branches that you, even with all of your gifts remain blind to," Amora seethed, struggling to dissolve the spells as he threw them towards her. He kept one step ahead of her, keeping her on the defensive, not letting her break through . . .

"And who showed you these paths?" he questioned. "Who controls the way you walk?"

"I control my own path," Amora growled, and Loki stumbled backwards from the strength of the spell she sent in return.

A grin split his face. His nose bled from the strength needed to break through her attack. "At who's behest?" still he pried.

Another blow came, as strong as the first. But Loki was ready for it. "Mine own," Amora's reply was vehement. "I know how to pick the winning side. I know how to espy the hand of power. And when that hand falls, and naught is left but for me to claim the prize he would give to me . . ."

She let her gaze fall to where Skurge was still holding both Thor and Steve at bay. Her eyes took on a look of longing, naked and needy.

At the look, Loki understood. He pushed aside his pity, instead whispering, "Why would you want a love that must be yours by force? Why would you want a heart for yourself when it must be yours in chains?"

"You know nothing," she snapped, and ah! Her next spell held the force of her powers. She was wearying, throwing everything she had out onto the table. She would not last much longer now.

Loki smiled a sharp smile, full of teeth.

He stretched his senses out, feeling the ruptures in the ways where Amora and Skurge had walked. It had been . . . it had been long since he had walked between the Mother's branches. For so long, the ways had been closed to him. She had showed him her face not, for he had not deserved . . .

So now, he bowed his head, and prayed.

Please, he whispered, and felt the Yggdrasil's stars for eyes turn on him. He felt the touch of her boughs against his brow. He felt her power as it become his own; filling him, becoming him, and he saw . . .

Shadows?

There were shadows, racing up and down the Mother's boughs. On her great starry expanses, beings with claws raced and hid where no eyes could see. Loki could not make out their features. He could not understand their aim. Was what he saw true? Or merely a reflection of his own self? His own fallen powers? He did not know, he finally admitted, and that moment of doubt was as a blade between rib bones, more painful than any attack Amora had thrown against his physical body.

He swallowed, trying to listen, trying to see. He could hear the eagle caw at the height of her limbs, he could feel the worlds of ice and flame from her roots below. How the world of flame pulsed, he felt, as with a heartbeat, and Loki saw -

- and was snapped violently back into his own body. Back into the present.

"Thor!" he called over. "Be ready."

He saw as Thor stepped up his blows, not understanding, but trusting -

- and Loki felt the door to the path they had came from. And he opened it.

A violent portal opened before them, a view to time and space appearing against the backdrop of the Northern Lights in the true sky above them. Mockingly, Loki smiled at Amora. "A thousand apologies, my lady," he bowed, and then he pushed.

Weakened and weary, Amora was powerless to counter his blow. She dug her feet into the roof, her hands moving in complicated patterns as she muttered her words of power, but it was no use. The void claimed her, and Thor had only to marshal one violent swing of Mjölnir to send Skurge flying behind his mistress, lost to the ways between ways once more.

Finally, Loki let go. The portal disappeared, a horrible sound filling the air as the energy collapsed upon itself. The sky calmed. The smell of ice and glacier snow once again filled the air.

Exhausted, Loki leaned forward against the backlash of energy from the portal collapsing. He had to fight to catch his breath, his skin still tingling from the aftereffects of attempting to harness such a power. Little shock waves danced over his armor, teasing at the crease of his elbows and playing at the back of his neck. The tips of his hair smoked. His cape was tattered and torn, but it was worth it. They had won.

He knelt down on the roof as he attempted to collect himself, but when he next opened his eyes a strong hand was reaching down to help him stand. Loki glanced up, expecting to see Thor, but instead saw the Captain's kind face peering down at him. There was an acceptance in his gaze. An understanding.

Loki hesitated before taking his hand, and let the other man pull him to his feet.

"That was . . . impressive," Steve said. His voice was more that of the awkward child Loki imagined he had been before Erskine's serum than the commander he knew him to be. "I've never seen anything like it."

"It was nothing, I can assure you," Loki tried to brush it off, but the green sparks at his hands gave him away. "Truly."

Steve smiled, but let him his lie.

Loki looked over to find Thor fussing over Jane, who was in turn fussing over her machine. Loki reached out with his senses, but could discern no other disturbances about her work. The shadows on the byway were gone. Loki could feel them not.

Over their communicators, Tony's voice crackled. "We felt that all the way at the edge of the city," his voice was gruff, but there was an edge of feeling in his words. A question. "How are we doing?"

"The threat has been neutralized," Steve answered, still standing at a ready attention before Thor and Jane, not completely trusting the silence in the air. "And the Hulk?"

"Bruce," Tony answered, "Is in need of a change of clothes and a hot soak, but he is okay. We may be needing to cut a check to the city of Tromsø though. I hope these buildings had good insurance plans. Really, there should be a subsection for Hulk-damage in most major cities now."

Steve snorted out a laugh. "It's nothing you can't handle for him, I'm sure."

They could hear Tony's shrug. "What are billionaire friends for, but to pay for the messes you make while playing as a giant green rage monster?"

Steve shook his head, but there was a smile on his face as much as he tried to hide it. "Meet back here. We will fix him up as best we can before the jet arrives."

"Will can do," Tony confirmed, and then signed off.

Steve walked to the edge of the roof, awaiting the rest of their team, and Loki stood between him and Thor and Jane, uncertain of what to do now that there was no one left to fight. He turned his gaze up, and wondered if his actions had been seen from the heavens. He wondered how much of a dent he put in clearing the red from his ledger, no matter how slight. He wondered if Odin saw, even as Heimdall watched.

In reply, the stars were only silent.

Chapter Text

For a race who held eternity in their veins, they could hold on to a piece of gossip like a circle of elderly Dwarf matrons.

Sif tried to hold her temper, but she could feel it escape her, no matter how iron her control. Her anger lined every blow she gave, every taunt in the rings she uttered. She tried to shield her friends – her dear friends, who deserved none of ire – from the worst of it, but she still angry words seeping through her pores to lash out, even when she would bid them silent. Sleep had proven fleeting for her, and as a result, she now spent most of her nights in quiet observance with Heimdall. Watching . . .

Waiting.

Now noble warriors and lords were pouring into Glaðsheimr from Asgard's providences and moons, all eager to assemble together for the Late Meet with Álfheimr. As always accompanied such a gathering, the week leading up to the Meet itself was filled with the Games. Every day, from sun up to sun down, there were tests of strength and courage - everything from log tosses to archery competitions and armed combat in the rings. As a child, she had been allowed to spar with Thor and Loki in an indulgent way, given her father's name and the war he had begotten in her blood. But the thought of her joining the ranks of Odin's own had been unthinkable, and in the fiftieth spring of her third century, she donned the armor and helm of a man and made her mark in the Games before the Early Meet in disguise. When asked to remove her helm for the Allmother's token, she had revealed herself for what she was, and had not looked back since.

. . . that summer, she had asked Loki to cut away her hair. It had grown back as black as the night, and, in that too, she had known such a pride.

Now, even so many years later, the Games were still enough to grant a racing to her heart. While normally, the training rings and arenas were empty but for the warriors who practiced there, the crowds were now varied and vast in order to watch the combatants. There were children racing about everywhere - young boys, not yet old enough to join the Games and win honor for their houses flocked the sidelines, their wide eyes and eager faces a refreshing sight to many of the veteran warriors therein. Little girls stayed quiet at their mothers sides - although some even raced about with the boys, laughing out songs of knights and ladies in their wakes. Ladies of the court lined the paths like glittering butterflies. Many were the wives of those competing and those who were not were young women with eyes turned to suitors. The men in the rings chose their favourites, and wore their ladies tokens with pride until it seemed as if the long fields and gardens behind the palace smelled more of fine soaps and oils than it did of grit and perspiration as the fair folk of Asgard came to see the men compete.

Normally, Sif was expected a healthy gathering when she entered the ring, and she always had a crowd cheering her name – both men who admired her fortitude, and woman who appreciated the name she spoke for their sex. Her comrades came to see her triumph, and her foes to see her fall.

Now . . .

Now, the shifting eyes and whispered words were as they had not even been that first year she had sought to prove herself in the Games. The whispers were lined with teeth, the stares edged with accusation. Worse than the men who fought her just to prove that they could triumph over the bespelled maiden (and how she seethed to see her centuries of practice and hard won skill brought down to nothing more than uncanny spellwork – just so the men she bested could pour a balm over their smarting pride), were the ones who would not fight her out of fear for the presence they would awaken the wrath of . . .

Such was the superstition amongst the Aesir that they believed Loki to be lurking in every shadow. He was becoming a nighttime story, told to warn children of the consequences of disobedience, told by the young maidens to scare each other before the fireside. And Sif tired of it. A flame crackled, and the simple maids chattered that Loki was angry within. A grey cloud fell over the tourney sky, and that too was blamed on Loki. Everything from a poor harvest of crops, to one stubbing one's toe was blamed on his unseen presence, and Sif was past full to the brim from the simple-mindedness of her people.

"Come, who will face me next?" she called out her challenge. She stood in full armor, a parade set that she would never wear in a true fight, polished to a gleam. A helm of three pronged wings was balanced on her brow, a great red gem set in the middle, gleaming the colour of spilled blood. Her long hair was plaited in a thick braid down her back, tied off with green ribbon – a silent rebuttal to the whispers around her.

She waited, but no one stepped forth. She caught the eyes of a few brightly colored maidens, some younger than herself, who whispered behind their hands. Their oiled braids gleamed in the sunlight, their soft gowns fluttered on the air like a flock of exotic birds. Sif brushed a strand of sweating hair away from her eyes, and raised a brow at her audience.

"Aeolf?" she tipped her glaive in a salute to a familiar face – a stocky, strong man who had watched her accent through the ranks with silence. He was not as fast as her, but he had a left handed hook that put even Thor's to shame, with an eagle's quick sight in battle. Sif had bested him before. Sif had fallen to him before.

"I am afraid that I cannot, milady," Aeolf answered gravely, and Sif tilted her head.

"Can not, or will not?" Sif challenged. "Come, face me, Aeolf. You have many times before, and few are the warriors whose steel I respect as yours." She stabbed the butt of her glaive down in the packed dirt of the ring. The intricate etching on the base of the blade caught the sunlight.

"Perhaps he does not see the honor in such a match, Shield-maiden."

A voice from inside the crowd floated to Sif, deep and lovely, and she stood up straighter upon hearing it. She looked, and saw Sigyn Grímarsdottir when those assembled parted for her. The noblewoman was dressed in shades of bronze and burnt orange in honor of the ending harvest, the colours setting off the dark honey shade of her hair and the green-blue gaze of her eyes. Sif hooked her mouth. She tightened her hand on her blade as if Aeolf had entered the ring with her.

"Sigyn," she greeted, inclining her head. "Perhaps you would do me the honor then?" A few chuckled at her words. Most did not.

Sigyn raised one perfectly tapered brow. Sif tilted up her chin to the look. "Perhaps he does not see the honor in battling a maiden," she said instead, ignoring the invitation.

Sif let her teeth show. "This maiden has proven herself time and time again."

Sigyn inclined her head. "And yet, you have now been shown for what you truly are. It is wise and good for him to stand down."

Sif turned to Aeolf. "You," she finally let her anger seep into her voice. "You fought by my side when we took the fifth moon back from the Dark Elves. You fought with me too when Thyrm was felled. When Ulik the Stonehand was laid low. Truly, do you think me to be nothing but the smoke and shadows of sorcery?"

"Loki too was at each of those battles," Aeolf's reply was careful. There was an honest consideration on his face. He was not sure what to believe.

Finally, Sif felt her ire run over. "He was there fighting for you. All of you," she turned, letting her words wash over the crowd like a wave. "He fought for Odin's name with spells and trickery and without him, the outcomes of those battles may have been much different – as much as any of you would deny it. Am I stronger because of him? Yes. But in the same way any of you are made stronger by a fellow brother in arms. I trust my back to him; I find my courage made stronger by his. If there is the mark of the uncanny in that, then I truly do not know what to say."

"And yet, one son is disgraced for his trickery, and one is not. You would stand against Thor, even avowed as you were?" Sigyn was quick to point out. Though it was a point Sif had heard whispered, none had yet had the courage to say it to her frankly. Sif stood tall against the words, admiring her tenacity, if nothing else.

"Loki has been judged by Odin, and walks his path. Do you wish to question the Allfather's judgment?" Sif returned. "And Thor has made his choice. The match of his heart is not me, and yet, I am happy for the attachment he has found."

"Better the mortal for him!" a brave voice called from the crowd, and Sif felt her blood heat with its every beat as others took up the call, gloating over the fact that their prince had escaped marriage to such a tainted bride. She glanced over, and saw Sigyn's pleased grin. It was a grin she knew from Loki, she realized after a moment - the satisfaction when a foe was brought low. A foe . . . or a competitor.

Sif was baffled by the revelation. Her life had taken her far from Sigyn's in shape and act, and she did not know the other woman well. The whole of their interaction over the centuries were nothing more than a few jealous barbs from Sigyn's mouth when they were much younger, but Sif had understood them for what they were back then. In the old ways, Sigyn was avowed to Loki as much as Sif had been to Thor, and Loki had honestly tried to acquaint himself with his match before falling away from her. Sigyn's interest in Sif had waned as Loki's interest had in Sigyn, and Sif had only heard of her in passing since then - she was an honest and clear voice in the court, even if some would say she took her father's side all too often, and yet, Sif had never known her to sink to the level of outright taunting. Could it be the cradle-match she sought to claim? Sif wondered. For such vows were so rarely blinding that she had not even given Sigyn as much as a thought, assuming that the other girl had found her attachments as Loki as found his. And yet . . .

Sif tried to recall, but could not remember Sigyn ever entertaining a suitor. She would have to ask Fandral, who knew such things better than her, and yet . . .

A woman scorned, Sif thought with a note of trepidation. Or not yet scorned, but determined, Sif finally decided, and at that too she felt the fight build in her veins.

Are we jealous Sigyn? Sif thought, wishing to bare her teeth in challenge. Jealous, and yet, you were not there when his mouth was bound with golden twine. You were not there when he learned he had winter blood in his veins. You have not traveled to Hel and back for him . . .

And she was not the one to help him pick up the pieces now. Sif breathed in deep with her anger, and let it go with her exhale . . . If Sigyn thought that Sif would abandon Loki's side because of the weight of the whispers around her, then she would simply waste her breath trying to fan the flame of the rumors higher. It was a valiant effort, a logical first blow, but Sif would not let it pierce her armor.

Aeolf stepped forward in the silence that followed. "I would give you your fight, my lady," he finally said. His words were gruff, but there was trust in his eyes. He remembered as she remembered, and he would honor what was before his eyes rather than that which was whispered to his ears.

Sif looked on him with a gaze of barely disguised thanks. "I shall go easy on you, kind sir."

"I would take a loss from the shield-maiden with honor," Aeolf returned. "If she could manage it."

Sif stepped forward, and let thoughts of Sigyn and all others fade from her mind. In that moment she was only the war in her heart, and its call to arms.

She bested Aeolf, but by then the whispers from the crowd were loud and frankly heard. She could get no other to stand against her, and finally she quitted the ring in rage. Rage . . . and a more tender bruise of hurt inside as she tried to channel the betrayed feeling she felt at the turn of the crowd's opinion. She stalked away from the grounds, but could not find a path to offer her feet solace. The palace ways were crowded with stares and visitors. The markets with gossipers and wondering eyes. The wild past Goðheimr was filled with memories, and the bridge of the byway . . .

It filled her with longing, Sif realized. More and more, home was again becoming something found in a presence, in a feeling, and Asgard was slowly unraveling the bonds it held over her heart. Over her soul.

She did not even greet Heimdall before taking her seat at the edge of the bridge. She swung her legs over the side in a challenge. She crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes over the stars. She huffed out her breath, and felt some comfort from the childishness of her actions.

Heimdall was blessedly silent. Yet, he always was.

Until . . .

"He has been accepted," he gave his Sight without her asking, and her heart jumped in her throat. Her brother had not yet volunteered information on Loki's self-proclaimed quest, and when Sif had asked, he answered in riddles. He had not disapproved. He had not approved. He had merely watched – he a rare being in the realm with the ability to see each and every side to the tale. To see those black deeds along with those good and bright.

For a moment, Sif did not breathe. "He walks amongst them?" she sought more.

"He walks alongside them," Heimdall inclined his head. "But not amongst."

Sif understood the difference. She fought the urge to stand, to pace the width of the chamber like an animal clawed. "What else?" she asked hesitantly. "What else do you see?"

A heartbeat. Sif felt her hands make fists.

"Discontentment," Heimdall finally said.

Sif nodded her head. It was to be expected in Loki, she reasoned, and -

"Discontentment in you," Heimdall reproved, and Sif's head shot up. Her eyes widened in question.

She opened her mouth to argue before thinking the better of it. He saw all, even that which she did not wish for him to see. He saw all, even that which she could not see herself.

"It has been . . . taxing," she finally allowed the admission, rather than protesting.

Heimdall did not blink. He did not try to comfort her and tell her that time would heal all things. He did not speak of her determination and might and unflinching ability to fight the fights that needed fighting. Instead, he said. "And yet, you fight a battle that cannot be won here."

He did not speak of the ranks of the Aesir, she understood. Discontentment, he had said . . .

She had a war to wage with herself first. And, right now, that could not be done on Asgard's hallowed ways.

"I thank-you, brother," she whispered, but when she looked, Heimdall had already turned his gaze back to the stars.

.

.

The worst part, Bruce reflected with a grimace, was always the morning after.

Skin settled over skin and bones remembered their lines as they fell back into place. His joints seemed to ache at every point. He could not stretch the kinks out of his shoulders. His back was bunched tight, as if tensed protectively over the shape of his spine. Mine, it seemed to say, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get the muscles there to relax. There was a pounding in his temples, worse than the rather pesky (and not alarming, he was not alarmed) headaches that had been dominating his skull as of late. His vision had a sheen of green to it, he knew, which would fade throughout the day, but still . . .

. . . the fact remained that he was not alone. His heart pumped a fast beat, working too quickly in his chest - as if moving blood enough for a much larger creature. No matter how he breathed, Bruce could not get his pulse to slow. The Other Guy was not sleeping, but not intent on control, either. He was simply there, a rumble of alien consciousness in the back of his mind . . . the inexplicable ache to his bones and the stretch to his skin.

Worse than the lingering effects of his transformation, Bruce was sure that he would never be warm again. Never. Even though a good twenty hours had passed since his swim in the Norwegian straight, he still had a chill he couldn't quite shake. He was surprised that his breath did not frost the air when he exhaled. Bruce rubbed his palms together, and fought the urge to breathe into his skin. It would do little good. The winter was stuck bone deep, and nothing but time would warm that away.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and they had gathered together for – as Steve put it – team bonding time. Tony called it superhero calisthenics. It started as simple exercise and sparring, but it always tapered away to silly antics, food and spirits - and movie night, more often than not, with Tony's self proclaimed quest to get Steve up to date on all that he had missed during the years he had slept. Last weekend was Jaws, but earlier that day, Bruce had seen Tony with the Star Wars movies - the good three only. Bruce had snorted at the choice, glad that Tony was going to wait on the Game of Thrones marathon he had planned. Steve wasn't quite ready for that, and as long as they had their . . . guest member of the team with them, Bruce didn't particularly want to give him any ideas.

On second thought, he wondered if Star Wars was such a good idea either . . .

Typically, Bruce didn't participate in the exercise portion of the day. His plan of attack in a crisis was relatively simple, and he would not practice at his control – letting the Hulk out little by little and reigning him back in before his vision went green - while so close to so many breakable objects. It wasn't such a wise idea for him to step into the boxing ring and let someone hit him, either, and so, he sat to the side of the room and caught up on his readings – sorting through data and analyzing numbers – while his teammates paired off with each other.

In the furthest ring, Thor and Steve took turns trading blows, each nearly equal to the other in build and strength. Thor looked like he enjoyed the sport more than even playing Super Mario – which was saying something, for those who knew of his and Tony's epic rivalry with the game. Steve too looked pleased to have someone to hit who wouldn't crumble at his full strength, and Bruce made a face at the amount of sweat the two were producing without even breaking stride. Thor's hair was limp and wet in his eyes, and he pushed it away without scarce a thought before catching the Captain's fist and returning the force of the blow with his own.

More down to earth than the clash of the titans in the far ring, was Clint showing Tony some tried and true hand to hand tactics in the ring closest to Bruce. While Tony could be a force with the suit, without he was . . . well, not on the same level as the rest of his teammates. He could get by well enough in a fight, but he was not getting any younger, and the lifestyle of his early years had taken its toll on his body, no matter what changes he had made. For the last few months, Clint had taken him under his wing to get him into fighting shape while Natasha simply watched from the sidelines. She had trained Clint years ago (older than them all, she had declared Clint sloppy and inept when she had first joined SHIELD, and the 'training' sessions had been an outlet for each of them when Natasha was scarcely allowed from her room without a full squad of SHIELD personnel following her. A full squad, and Coulson too - who was worth a squad all his own.), and now she watched and observed quietly. She was not a kind teacher, Clint had admitted ruefully, but a good one – and he had saved Tony some pain and bruising by taking on his training himself.

When she had tired of watching – or had simply seen what she wanted to see – Natasha turned from the ring to look at him. When she had first entered, she had not asked him how she was doing, but had instead handed him a steaming mug of tea. He sipped at the cup, and first tasted chamomile, for calmness. She could have used peppermint leaves for the same effect, but that brew would not have carried the same warmth. He next tasted lemon balm for anxiety, and a biting undertaste of devil's claw, a herb that helped with aches and pains.

She did not need to ask him, he understood the message loud and clear. She saw, and she knew, the mug stated. Her gaze had followed him as he drank, watching for the moment when his eyes sorted through the leaves and then following the twitch of amusement that had touched his mouth before he tucked it away. He was not quick enough, though. She saw, and a matching look touched her own mouth as she looked away. Bruce had sighed once her back was turned, not wanting to encourage . . .

. . . encourage what exactly? A gesture of friendship? The understanding of a comrade?

Either way, it was close, too close, Bruce thought, and -

- she had come to stand a mere pace from him, interrupting his thoughts as she peered down curiously at the readings he had spread out before him. He wondered what she could make out of the numbers, knowing that she understood more than she let on when Tony went off on his tangents, but unsure of how much. His gaze turned up to find the line of her hair, where a few wayward strands had fallen forward from where she had tucked them behind her ear. It had grown longer over the months he had known her, he noticed. The strands fell just past her shoulder in waves now, right above where her arm was wrapped and bandaged, the skin beneath kept tight from -

- the ice was breaking, breaking, and she did not bear his second skin as much as she was her own Other. And he had moved, swinging his arm and flinging her to safety -

- but not safely so, he thought with a pang.

He forced himself to swallow. In his chest, his heart was a mad beat.

"How's the arm doing?" he asked, gesturing choppily at the bandage.

Her smile was quick in reply. And sharp. "Improving," she answered. "I heal quickly."

But not quickly enough, he thought, but did not say. He did not answer the unspoken.

Instead, he took another sip of tea, and tasted the devil's claw as it bit at his tongue.

She watched him, something about her gaze reminding Bruce more of a jungle predator than anything more human. He didn't know whether to be terrified or fascinated by the look, and so he settled for a perverse blend of temptation and self disgust – along with a rather heaping dose of his sixteen year old self that was all wonder and star struck fascination when Christine Crawford asked to borrow his lab notes all over again . . .

His heart skipped a beat in his chest, and he felt as the Other Guy pressed against his skin. Curious, but not a threat. Natasha simply peered at the shadow of green in his eyes, and did not back away.

From beyond, they had not gone without notice. Tony was speaking into his water bottle as if it were a microphone, his voice a hushed whisper. "Now, we can observe the mating dance of the viridi furore beluae and the black widow in their natural habitat . . ."

Natasha raised a brow, and turned to look at Tony. Tony immediately looked over at the nearest wall, ever innocent as he turned to drinking from his water bottle instead. The crinkling lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed him, though, and Natasha grinned a sharp grin as she walked towards the ring and slipped lithely through the ropes. "On second thought," she all but purred. "I think I will give you a break, Clint."

Tony threw his bottle down. "The bruises I will bear for science," he sighed wistfully. He leveled a stern look at Natasha. "Just as long as you can explain to Pepper where I got them, you are free to do as you would like with me, Miss Romanova," he grinned a wolfish grin, and Bruce watched as Natasha gave him a droll look in return. But her head was tilted, her movements were slow and easy. She was relaxed. She was amused.

Amused, and yet, Tony was down in three moves. He groaned from the mat. "I don't think I deserved that," he protested, petulance clinging to his voice.

Natasha rolled her eyes in reply, saying something in Russian under her breath that Bruce was too far away from to translate. But Clint laughed from outside the ring.

As did Loki.

While they had all been ordered to 'play nice' with the demigod, and he in return, Thor had been the one spearheading the efforts for them to 'get to know' his little brother. Loki was tight lipped and silent for the most part, keeping to the shadows and pacing the outskirts of the room while the team went about their business as if he were not even there, and their routine had yet to be broken.

Tony narrowed his eyes, the playfulness falling from his stance. He had been the one most vocal in his disagreement of adding the Trickster to their team, even as a last-resort weapon, and he had yet to be convinced otherwise. So far, Loki had yet to respond to the myriads of barely veiled barbs, taunts, and threats that Tony fired off, and Bruce had to hand it to him for his unflinching ability to ignore the other man.

Bruce would have thrown him from a window already. The window of a very tall building, at that.

But the moment was done, and Loki was caught. He raised a brow, realizing that he had shown himself. In the far ring, Thor had stopped his spar with Steve, looking over at his brother as if expecting something.

"Where did you learn Russian?" Tony challenged, managing to make even the simplest of questions sound like an accusation.

Learn thy enemy, Bruce waited for him to say. Instead, Loki did not even blink before replying smoothly, "Grigori Rasputin, summer of 1903."

Steve gave a snort of laughter from behind them. When he caught the raised brows of his companions in return, he flushed. "I understood that one," he admitted bashfully. "I didn't realize he was . . . serious."

Tony just stared at Loki with hard eyes, calling him on his claim. Loki rolled his shoulders elegantly. "I walked the land with a different goal in mind, but the rumors reached me of a mystic and a healer, and I sought them out for truth. He was nothing but smoke and mirrors with a twisted definition of godliness . . . But, he did have some rather interesting theories on poisons and protective spells. Spells which served him well enough, but did not save his life completely, so it would seem."

Tony recovered first, shaking his head as if to push away the reminder of just how ageless the beings were before him. "Gotcha," he gave. "You had bad taste in friends then as you do now."

"As excellent as your own tastes have been," Loki finally replied testily. "Or so I have heard."

"Hey, do you want to go, blue fairy?" Tony stepped forward, slapping his gloved fists together in a challenge.

"You wouldn't last a round," Loki let his gaze flicker up and down before he smiled. Beyond them, Thor and Steve both stepped forward, ready to break up whatever fight ensued.

"Tony," Steve came into the ring besides Tony. "It's not worth it."

But Tony shrugged the Captain's hand away. "I'll put on the suit," still he challenged Loki.

"The Lady Potts would not approve of the mess we would make of her tower," Loki responded blandly. Thor's look of disapproval was sharp in return, but Loki ignored it.

"Then I'll build her a new one," Tony retorted crisply. "Billionaire, remember?"

"Tony," finally, Steve's voice was sharp. "You need to stand down. Whatever his past doings, he is helping us now -"

"Oh, the chick with the green glowing hands?" Tony retorted. "Her little performance there screamed Loki all over it. I bet he had her attack just so he could defeat her and play the hero."

Loki snorted. "If you knew Amora, you would know that she would rather court a cave troll than aid me so."

Thor too stepped forward. "Your taunts are unkind," he spoke to Tony. "Loki aided us truly, and I will not see him slighted."

"Am I slighting you?" Tony came to the ropes of the ring, so that he was eye to eye with the Trickster. The height of the ring made it so that he was taller than the other, and for once he stared down at Loki. "Do you feel slighted?"

Loki stepped forward, and Bruce tensed. There was a very real violence in the sorcerer's gaze, and he considered leaving the scene entirely. It never did good to throw a grenade at a time bomb, and that was exactly what this team was at the moment -

- until a voice interrupted the tension that had billowed in the air around them. "I would fight him, though, if he would have me. It would be a truer match than the Man of Iron here without his steel."

Bruce turned to the entrance of the gym to see none other than the Lady Sif coming forward. She was dressed in maroon and silver, wearing armor only in the form of bracers about her forearms, a skirt of leather and metal squares about her waist. Her shield still crackled with the golden energy she had used to travel – she having a means of moving between the ways that her brethren did not possess. Beyond them, Thor looked clearly relieved to have an ally on his side, and he stepped forward to clap the warrior woman on the shoulder.

"Sif," he greeted, "It is good to see you. We were not expecting you."

"It is the sixth day," she said in answer. Her eyes flickered down before meeting Thor's gaze again. "I knew you would be at practice, and the First Realm has proven to be . . . bereft of sport this day, even though the Games go strong." Her mouth curved in distaste, and Thor looked on in question. A question that would be answered later, and away from them, Bruce saw when Sif narrowed her eyes at her friend.

Still inches from Tony, Loki was very carefully not looking at the Aesir woman. Bruce watched with interest as Sif turned her head from Thor and addressed him again. "Hear me, Odinson?" her voice was sharp, but there was a fondness underneath. Real and bare. Bruce turned the shape of it over in his mind, curious. "I would give you my challenge," she repeated once again.

A heartbeat. Loki met her eyes, and for a moment Bruce felt an itching sensation up and down his spine, as if he should look away. "I accept, my lady."

Loki did not bother trying to move Tony from his place – who was glaring at Sif as if they were all children and she had just taken away a favored toy. Instead, he moved to the far ring, and Sif followed, her strides smooth and deadly. There was a fierce set to her eyes that reminded Bruce of Natasha. She looked forward to the fight to come.

The team followed just a step behind the immortals . . . curious as only humans could be, and even Bruce put down his data sheets in order to move closer. Beneath his skin, he could feel the Other Guy rumble, wondering as to the stink of violence on the air. He was curious, but content to watch, and Bruce muttered a mental sit, boy in an attempt to keep him so.

They did not use weapons due to the size of the ring. So, Sif put her shield and her glaive behind, and faced off against Loki, each one circling the other for a moment before trading slow, easy blows. Each fell into loose, defensive stances, neither in a hurry to step forward against the other. Bruce knew Loki's style – he would lay back and let his opponent come to him before using his superior agility and speed to his advantage. He danced where his brother pummeled, and he was a graceful fighter to watch. Sif was much the same, he saw. She would have to be in order to fight the much larger, stronger beings who made up Thor's world, and the two deflected and gave their own blows in return in a dance that almost seemed to be choreographed for its simple efficiency.

On the opposite side of the ring, Natasha leaned forward to watch the fight with a careful, calculating eye. There was an honest appreciation in her eyes, a true smile on her lips as she watched them. Natasha and Sif had become fast friends the first time Thor had introduced his teammates to his fellow Aesir, and the bond between the two women had grown ever since. Natasha had a set of exquisitely carved Ivaldi blades as a gift from the shield-maiden, and Bruce knew that they were the pride of her rather exotic collection.

He drew his gaze from Natasha back to the ring. Loki did not use his magicks to gain the upper hand, and Sif seemed reluctant to unleash her full speed and strength. Instead the spar was just that – a spar, an elegant dance of give and take, and Bruce watched them with something just past his ability to grasp. They moved together as Clint and Natasha did, with the ease of those who had been partners for long years, and perhaps even more than that. They . . .

You lucky bastard, Bruce realized, trying his best not to laugh aloud with his realization. You lucky, lucky bastard.

Natasha understood just as Bruce did, for her eyes met his for a moment with a secret sort of look, and the tight set of her mouth said that she too was trying not to grin. Clint had none of their restraints, and shook his head before chuckling underneath his breath.

Only Tony looked on with a hooked jaw. He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly not amused with the show that was being put on before them.

Something shifted in the fight, and Bruce watched as Loki stepped up his attack, swinging high before sliding to trip his opponent when Sif ducked to avoid his blow. He took advantage of her moment of awkward balance to hook his right leg over the back of her knees and sweep her feet out from her. He flew down after her, forcing her to her back on the mat and pinning her hands above her head with one arm, while holding his forearm down over her throat. He let his weight sink down in a warning.

"Does the lady yield?" he asked gravely, leaning down to give his words into her ear. He was breathing as hard as she, but there was an easy sort of light in his eyes – a lowering of the guard that Bruce had seen up and weary since his first time greeting them in Thor's shadow.

Sif just smiled a challenge. She turned her head to whisper into his ear, and whatever she said loosened Loki's grip just enough on her so that she could snap her head forward to meet his forehead with a sickening crack of bone on bone. Bruce winced, never understanding the validity of such moves, even though Natasha had once smiled darkly and told him that sometimes a good head butt just felt good.

The moment of dazed surprise that she had procured was enough for Sif to reverse their positions, moving quicker than Bruce could follow in order to lean down to whispered, "Do you yield?" in a voice than challenged. Her weight on Loki's neck was considerably more so than his had been on hers. Bruce watched as he tried to breathe.

"Do I yield?" he asked, his voice echoing oddly, even to Bruce's ears. He then disappeared in a swirl of violet and green mist. The illusion faded, leaving Sif to fall forward as Loki himself stepped out of her shadow in order to tap her on the shoulder. "Had you truly caught me, perhaps I would have," Loki gave. "But by now, my lady, you would have been dead."

Sif rolled her eyes, but allowed him to help her to her feet. "Cheater," she accused, but there was affection in the tone.

Loki bowed in return, claiming the title with pride. "Then by what name would you call your own underhand move?"

"A tactical advantage," Sif's grin was sharp, and Loki snorted in reply.

Tony clapped mockingly from outside of the ring, cutting into the couple's banter with an irritated look. "Cute, really cute," he scathed. "Now, are we done turning our team bonding time into a circus?"

Bruce held his tongue as to his own thoughts – for while the fight was friendly, it was also a tactical move, showing violence in a controlled setting. Showing that Loki could keep his temper and his cool with friendly combat, at the same time saying, I am deadly, do not forget. He could be trusted, the fight tried to say, as a dragon held in thrall.

But Tony was having none of it. Steve stepped forward, looking over at his friend. "Tony . . ."

"No," Tony darted a sharp look at his leader before turning to Loki again. "No. It has to be said. What is your goal? What is your aim here?" Tony scathed, punctuating each word with a sharp jab of his finger.

"You do not believe me to be what I say I am?" Loki gave an unkind smile.

"No," Tony replied frankly. "I just want you to know that not everyone on this team is buying your line of lies. I want you to know that I am watching, and one misstep -"

" - you shall what?" Loki's voice was amused. "Kill me?"

"There are ways," Tony replied testily.

Loki tilted his head, thoughtful. Bruce tensed, felling the tension that filled the air. Tony's jaw was stiff and unforgiving. While a team (a family, of sorts) had been as new to Tony as nearly everyone else, Tony had his claws out and ready to defend whatever he saw as a threat to that unit. Bruce wasn't sure what he would call Loki yet – cautious ally? Snake in the grass? But he was not sure, and he would watch and wait. Tony would not wait that long.

"On second thought, I do believe that I would take that fight if you still want it," Loki showed his teeth. "Would you like to don your armor, or should I fight with one hand behind my back?"

Tony made a strangled, angry sound, and when he touched the bracelets at his wrists, his armor snapped into place over him with crisp, mechanical accurateness. A lighter version than the full suit he would wear, his emergency suit was just thin plating and minimal weapons, but it would be enough for here and now. Natasha and Clint were subtly backing up, and she caught his eye with a question. In reply, he looked straight ahead. He understood.

Better they got their aggression out here and now rather than somewhere more dangerous – like, in the middle of a battle.

The eyes of Tony's suit had scarcely lit up before he was firing his thrusters and flying down at the demigod from above. Loki caught the first punch he threw, and then used his hold to turn Tony over and onto the ground in a surprising display of strength and speed. What he had done with Sif had been a show, an exercise. This was more real.

And yet, the majority of Loki's blows were defensive, Bruce realized after a few minutes. He was letting Tony work himself up, frustrated by his inability to pin the unarmed man. Loki did not even call his spells to his hands, and at that too Bruce could see Tony's frustration mount.

"Is that all you got, Tinkerbell?" still Tony found to scathe, and Loki simply raised a brow in reply – infuriatingly calm.

"There is a tradition amongst the Dwarves to bind a wayward mouth with twine so as to teach one to think before one speaks," Loki said easily, as if conversing about the weather. "Have you heard of it?"

"A story told to scare children into minding their elders," Tony answered, flying in fast, only to have Loki dance between his blows.

infuriatingly, Loki held one hand behind his back, and Tony returned with a blast from his hands, catching Loki in the chest with the bolt. Loki staggered backwards before catching the next blast between his palms. He gestured and turned the energy harmlessly away.

"And yet, it is no tale," Loki disagreed with Tony's words. The next time Tony came in close, Loki caught his arms in a iron like grip, forcing the other man to watch as some sort of spell (a glamour? Bruce thought) faded from his face. A light twisted, and over Loki's mouth, Bruce could see a sickening line of scars appear, what appeared to be . . . puncture holes materializing above and below his lips in a jagged pattern. He felt his stomach drop when he realized what he was seeing.

Bruce glanced to the side to see Thor standing silent, his brow dark with anger, though Bruce could not tell if it was an emotion old or new. But he did not intervene, knowing that this was a fight that needed fighting. He let Mjölnir rest at his hip. He held one hand on Sif's arm, and while she did not fight the hold, her fingers were white about her shield. Her eyes were fierce and unkind; war, Bruce remembered, and he looked at Tony, hoping that the other man knew just how far to push . . . and when to back off.

Loki smiled, a grin that once would have been bloody and crimson had the scars been new, and said. "I made a bet I could not honor, and for my inability to control my words, the Dwarf Brokkr did this. I was not yet a man grown, and even still, Odin stepped aside to see my punishment carried out before the court. I made not a sound – to do so would have been to dishonor my father's name, and so I was silent."

Tony snorted, breaking the hold with a burst of energy from the thrusters on his hands. Loki let him go, still smiling.

"Yeah, but here's the thing," Tony returned. "You weren't his kid. You were just a devious little brat who got called on his bull. Why shouldn't he have let the imp lace you up? Why should he have cared about you - you, the stolen son of an enemy king?"

Green appeared around Loki's hands with his next blow as he took the offensive. The negative energy thrust Tony back, his back hitting the wall in a shower of motor and concrete. Tony tilted his head in response, his suit seemingly grinning. "Did I hit a sore spot?" he asked, his voice almost kind as he brushed ruble off of his shoulder. He had scented blood in the water, and was not hesitating to press his advantage. Loki was advancing slowly, dangerously, and Bruce felt the Hulk low in his consciousness, waiting for the inevitable . . ."Does that bother you?" Tony continued. "Knowing that Thor is not loved more because of his blood, but because he is simply better. He is everything that you are not -"

Tony was not able to get out another word before Loki leapt. Tony braced himself, expecting a physical blow, but instead there was a swirl of violet and black, and then Loki was simply not there.

Bruce swallowed, even as the team looked on in alarm. A heartbeat passed, and then the light from Tony's eyes glowed a telling green, even as his armor gave a sickening groan. The plates contracted and pulsed, and -

" - he's going to crush him," Steve was the first one to process what was happening. "This needs to stop. Thor?" he turned.

"I am no seiðrmanðr," Thor's voice was neutral. His eyes were hard. His fingertips where white as they dug into Sif's skin. Sif, who had had a curse on her lips and violence in her eyes, as if she wished to strangle Tony with her hands rather than Loki's more . . . creative means.

They respect strength, Bruce remembered distantly. They would not help Tony, and if Loki killed him, he was not even sure if that would be considered a crime by Aesir law.

The armor continued to squeak and groan. Tony's limbs flailed as he struggled to fight against himself. "Can't you hit him?" Steve tried next, gesturing to Mjölnir.

Bruce answered before Thor could. "Not with the suit so compromised. You could kill Tony."

Steve let out a frustrated breath through his nose, and finally Thor stepped forward. "Loki, cease this," he called out in a firm voice.

A moment passed. Sif glared at Tony before too giving her voice. "They are only words," she said to Loki. "And you shall prove him right." There was still a look of distaste on her face, and Bruce wondered how much her actions were for Thor's sake instead of a desire to spare Tony's life.

"Brother," Thor said, his voice low and quiet. "Please."

The mad fight Tony was raging with himself stilled. The armor tilted his head, as if Loki were listening, even as Tony struggled. Finally, the suit of armor shuddered violently.

And Loki appeared before them, letting Tony free.

Tony toppled forward as soon as he was released. The faceplate popped open as he gulped in breath after breath, an armored hand held to his throat. He glared up at Loki, but did not say a word. He could not, Bruce realized. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. His suit sparked and smoked around him, but he could not speak.

"Know," Loki said in a dangerous voice, looking down on him, "that I held your life in my hands, and let it go." He met Thor's eyes once, and then dropped his gaze. At Thor's side, Sif was a straight, strong line. The hand not holding her shield was a fist.

Loki gestured, and whatever lingering spell binding Tony's mouth fell away. Tony breathed out a curse, and Loki turned from him. He stalked to the exit with an agitated stride, only to be stopped by Agent Coulson at the door.

Bruce started, not having heard the other man enter. He wondered how long he had been there watching them, but it was hard to tell from the neutral, placid expression on his face. Coulson inclined his head cordially when Loki made to pass, but stepped into his path again, preventing him from leaving. He spoke to the team, though, saying, "Director Fury is requesting your presence." His request was anything but. "There is something outside that you ought to see."

Loki made to pass again, and Coulson said, "All of you," with a pointed look at the demigod.

Loki raised a brow, as if in challenge, and at that too, Coulson did not blink. A silent battle was waged, and then Loki took a step back. After he was sure that Loki would follow, Coulson looked back at the rest of the team, pointedly meeting Tony's gaze. Tony was mulish, but the edge of threat had gone from his eyes. Bruce let out a breath, but didn't think that that particular fight was over. Only time, and proof to follow words would win that battle, and he couldn't say that he wholly blamed Tony.

Or Loki, he thought with an uncomfortable moment of truth.

But, the good Director was calling, and his introspection could wait until later. Bruce got to his feet, and fell into step with his teammates as they all followed Coulson out.

.

.

Coulson led them to the roof, and almost immediately, Bruce understood why.

The sky above them was swirling and grey, crackling with a powerful energy that Bruce had come to associate with Jane's attempts to open the bridge between the worlds. The storm above them was dissipating, meaning that a guest had just arrived on Earth's shores.

Curiously, he peered through the wall of black and grey clad agents and soldiers to see the tell-tale gold of Asgard's own guard. Four of them stood in an honor formation, their sun coloured cloaks billowed in the stiff wind left by the bridge, their bronze helms and tall spears glinted from the light of the storm above.

Leading the guards was a woman, a regal woman clothed in a flowing, champagne coloured dress. The metallic folds of fabric fell in graceful folds over her body, clenched tight at the waist and wrists by bronze metal bracers - the armor more for looks than any true protection. The woman had a mass of golden curls atop her head, which were held into a loose, flowing style by pins topped with great clear stones, so brilliant that Bruce hesitated to call them diamonds. Her hair was the same shade as Thor's, he realized after a heartbeat, even when touched by silver in some of the strands. Her eyes were old and wise, a counterpoint to the relative youth of her face and figure. Bruce looked at her, and instantly felt a peace wash over him. A soothing, mothering spirit filled the air as the woman turned her eyes over him and his companions.

In front of the woman, Fury was already going through the social graces - bowing low at the waist, and kissing the back of the woman's hand when she offered it to him. He radiated smooth, gentlemanly charm - a side of Fury that Bruce never would have thought to attribute to him before. Next to him, Tony was already grinning wickedly, and he knew that the Director would never hear the end of it from the other man.

"Your Grace," Fury said, and Bruce felt understanding hit him. This was -

- sure enough, he looked over to see that Thor wore a tender, soft look on his face. He dipped his head in low bow when he caught his mother's eye, and by his side, Sif's bow was lower in respect to her queen.

Tony let out a low, impressed whistle. "I don't mean to be all Stacy's mom here," he said in a stage whisper. "But Thor, you never told us just how absolutely smokin' the good Queen Frigg is for her age."

Thor blinked, as if he had never considered the thought before. His face was a hesitant grimace. "Indeed . . . she is lovely," he said his words like a question.

Tony sighed wistfully. "Really, if we were not both in mutual, emotionally fulfilling relationships . . ." he tilted his head, considering. "You know, Pepper would probably forgive me this once. Hell, Pepper would probably share -"

Thor turned an ill shade of green, even as he plastered a polite expression to his face. Bruce tried to keep a straight face, determined not to smile and encourage his friend, he would not. Thor came from a race where a sewn mouth was a suitable punishment for a loose tongue. He'd hate to think what the punishment was for flirting with their queen.

And yet, Frigg bore Tony's tactlessness elegantly. The team bowed respectfully, and she inclined her head in return, her eyes glittering with her amusement. Once their introductions had been made, she came to her point quickly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her gown as she spoke. "I come bearing an invitation," she said. "As this has not been a path my messengers have walked in a near millennia, I decided to deliver it myself."

She gestured, and one of the golden guards stepped forward to hand them each a small, neatly bound scroll. Bruce undid the dark blue ribbon to find a message of elegantly penned runes upon the parchment. He raised a brow, but before he could ask, the words translated before him in a dance of light as if the scroll understood what language suited him best. He looked over, and saw a neat row of Cyrillic letters on Natasha's invitation and his curiosity was immediately struck by the sentient ink.

"The Late Meet is an annual time of peace and treating between the Realms," Frigg explained. "This Meet, the Álfar King comes to treat with Asgard on our own soil, and we wish to use this time of peace and celebration to open our doors to the might of Midgard. We wish to open up communications with all who reside on the Mother's branches, for the first time in far too long."

Fury inclined his head. "Your Majesty, we have been assembling a retinue of ambassadors for just this occasion. Perhaps they would be better suited -"

" - With your ambassadors we will meet and treat when the time comes," Frigg interrupted smoothly. "And yet, good Director, it is strength and deeds of arms that my people respect the most. It is your heroes whom I shall show to my people first. It is they who will gain the respect of Asgard and the friendship of Álfar. After this, your ambassadors will be most welcome among our midst."

Frigg concluded with a warm, maternal look that she cast upon them all, and once again Bruce felt that heavy and warm feeling fall upon his shoulders. Fury bowed once more, and said, "Your Majesty, we thank you for your graciousness."

But Frigg was not looking at their leader when he spoke. Instead her eyes had found the shadow to their team. Loki had stood carefully beside and just behind Thor, avoiding the Queen's gaze. She too had not sought out her lost son, but now that her message was given she found Loki's gaze, and Bruce immediately saw why she waited. There was a softening about her eyes for a moment, a naked and raw look on her face before she carefully tucked it away with a politician's practice.

"My son," she greeted simply, the words hushed from her mouth. No one gathered had to guess as to whom she addressed.

For a moment, Loki looked lost. He looked down before finally meeting Frigg's gaze. After a long moment, he took a step forward, his movements slow and hesitant. He took to a knee as he bowed low and respectfully, touching his hand to his heart in a gesture of fealty. It was a bow Bruce doubted he would give to anyone else. "Allmother," he whispered gravely, and Frigg blinked at the title from his mouth.

She held words aplenty in her eyes, but she would not say so before such a gathering. She turned, the movements slow reluctant, and inclined her head to the first guard. The guard called for the Gatekeeper, and Bruce watched as the now familiar storm of the bifröst reached out its hand from the heavens above.

Loki held Frigg's gaze until he could no more, and then the sky was hushed above them.

When they turned to head back inside it was with a thoughtful, quiet atmosphere as they each processed what they had just heard. Natasha fell into step next to him, still running a thoughtful first finger over the scroll she held in her hands. Her head was tilted, her eyes full as she considered what she had just saw.

Bruce inclined his head towards her, and whispered. "I trust him."

Natasha did not blink. When she met his eyes, her own expression was thoughtful, considering and pointed. A hunter's gaze. "I want to trust him," she finally said, not breaking his gaze.

He looked away first, shaking his head with a sardonic thought. "Or," he acknowledged honestly, "he is simply the best liar I have ever seen."

"There is always that," Natasha gave, the corner of his mouth hooking.

"So . . . we are going on an intergalactic field-trip?" From behind them, Tony was the first one to comment on the most recent turn of events.

At Tony's side, Steve shook his head in fond exasperation. "So it would seem."

Tony fist-pumped like a high schooler before clapping his hands in glee. "I can't wait to tell Pepper," he grinned. "She needs to help me pick out what to wear. Thor, what's the dress code for a shindig like this? Are we talking black-tie affair, or Lord of the Rings cosplay?"

Thor blinked before answering Tony's questions as best as he could. In front of Bruce and Natasha, Loki walked with Sif. He was silent, any of the light in his eyes dim as he thought about the possibility of returning home. At his side, Sif was a bulwark to him. A silent support. Bruce could not imagine the thoughts passing there.

Behind him, Tony gave out a whoop of delight at something Thor had said. With a longsuffering sigh, Bruce looked heavenward and wondered if this had been the brightest of ideas.

Chapter Text

For Jane, packing was always a chemist's mixture of chaos and disorganization. She could count on one hand how many times Darcy had tried to help her organize herself before giving up, throwing her hands in the air and proclaiming her hopeless. But her routine was her routine, and as much of a mess as her suitcase was, she rarely forgot anything, and she knew where everything was.

Well . . . she knew where everything was when she was done packing, while packing was a different story.

At that current moment, her suitcase was more notebooks and odds and ends than actual clothes. But, she reasoned, Asgard was always very enthusiastic about dressing her when she visited (and after being Frigg's doll once, she never bothered putting up much of a fight. The woman had had two sons to raise for centuries, and Jane's mother had passed on before she was able to make a memory of her. A part of her cherished the fawning she received from the older woman, even if it did land her in many a yard of rich fabric), and so she didn't bother packing much besides the necessary undergarments (advanced in some ways, remedial in others, Asgard did not understand the beautiful simplicity of a bra), and comfortable clothes to wear when she wasn't decked out in star-silk or sky-weave.

She spun about in place, glaring at the mess in her room as if that would help her find her culprit. Her favourite Albert Einstein bedtime shirt, who currently did not wish to be found . . .

"Ah ha!" she proclaimed aloud when she found the shirt behind the bedside table. She had thrown her clothes onto the bed after her shower the other day and then shoved them to the side when bedtime rolled around - and she hadn't bothered to pick them up since then.

She threw the shirt over to join the growing pile within her suitcase. She bit her lip, wondering if she should attempt organization this time before deciding that she would just shove it all down enough to get the zipper closed. It had never failed her before.

Satisfied with her decision, Jane tapped her chin thoughtfully and looked around the room, wondering what she had done with her toothbrush.

Ah, she had packed it in with her soldering iron. Right.

Now, her hairbrush . . .

Jane did another turn about the room before glaring at her suitcase. Did she pack it already? She crossed her arms over her chest, and hated that she could feel her hands shaking from where she tucked them in against her body.

"You are nervous," Thor said gently from where he had been carefully sitting away from her mad swirl of activity. His words were not a question.

"Am not," she automatically defended, before wincing at how quick her tone was. Liar.

And centuries spent with Loki meant that Jane didn't stand a chance. Thor merely raised a brow, and smiled encouragingly, waiting for her to share whatever was burdening her mind.

Jane sighed. She let her arms fall to her side. "Fine," she gave. "I'm nervous.""

Thor frowned, considering. "You have met my parents already," he started, a logical first move for him.

"That's not it," she was quick to assure with a smile. Queen of a race of space-vikings or not, Frigg had truly put her at ease during her time on Asgard. Jane respected Thor's mother, and had come to truly value her advice and company. Odin . . . Odin kept his thoughts and his opinions close to his chest, but he had never shown outright disapproval, at least. Jane couldn't tell if that was because he truly approved of Thor's choice, or if he was simply waiting for his firstborn's passing fancy with mankind to die away. Whether for loss of interest, or the more inevitable touch of time . . .

Her hands fisted as her throat rose in her chest. While Thor had brought the issue of immortality up more than once, he had not broached it since seeing her hesitance with the idea, and Jane couldn't say why she was more thankful than not. But, that was a conversation – an argument - to be had with herself and him another time. For now -

- she found her brush saving her place in a textbook at her feet, and threw that at the pile with a victorious look.

"Then what is it?" Thor asked, ever patient. He caught the hairbrush from where she misjudged her aim, and placed it gently into her suitcase.

"It's just . . ." Jane gestured, waving her hand in a circular motion as if that should explain everything. Thor still looked on, perplexed.

She sighed, and plopped down on the bed. She folded her knees, and rested her elbow on her thigh so that she could hold up her head up with one hand. Her temples were throbbing again, but she willed the pain to the background in order to concentrate on the mad swirl of her thoughts. "This is the first time traveling to Asgard that I won't be going for my work on the bridge," she said carefully, trying to put her feelings – her very insecure, very mortal feelings - into words. "I will be there on your arm as your . . . what is your people's way of saying girlfriend? Or better yet, human woman who stole their prince -"

Thor moved to sit next to her. The bed sagged under his weight, but he was warm and so very large when compared to her, and she let him hold her. His arms swallowed her, and she buried her head against his chest. " - they shall say no such thing," Thor countered her words. But he did not say that they would not think such a thing. "You are she who mended the great Mother's branches. You are she who reminded my people of the strength and might of mankind, renewing my people's respect and interest in your race. You, Jane, daughter of Foster, have been a bridge between two peoples, and I . . ."

She lifted her head from his chest to see such a pride lighting his eyes. He held the side of her face with one massive hand, running a callused thumb over the high of her cheekbone as his fingers carded through her hair. There was such a look of adoration on his face, so much so that she felt small against the feelings he wore bright and open like a second skin. She swallowed, but found that her throat was large and tight, as if she held a stone next to her voice. She wondered, for a moment, if this was how Loki had felt in the shadow of Thor's love. Even with the proof of it before her, she still wanted to pick his feelings apart; to dissect and decipher how and why . . .

"Besides," Thor said on the wings of her thoughts. "You shall not be the one that my people will be the most occupied by this trip, my Jane."

Loki, she thought with a pang.

She looked up as Thor's hand fell from her face. His eyes were glazed, lost in thought and far from her. She leaned against his shoulder, not saying anything as she let him gather his thoughts.

"It will be good to see him home," Thor finally said, his voice a whisper drawn from his throat, as if anything louder would have shattered the words, making their meaning untrue. It was such a fragile hope he clung to, and yet . . .

Jane wrapped her arms around him best she could, feeling his chest rise and fall with every expansion of his lungs. He leaned against her, and she held him up, for once being a strength to him as he so often was to her.

Not another word was spoken. She simply closed her eyes, and listened to him breathe.

.

.

"Riddle me this, my dear Watson, but what does one pack when visiting the palace of a Pantheon of space-Viking gods?"

Bruce raised a brow in reply. "A toothbrush?"

From the other side of the workbench, Tony snorted through his nose before doing a double take. "Wait, you are serious?" he sighed in mock pity. "You need to think bigger, my friend. Much, much bigger."

Bruce shrugged. "I don't want to give them any ideas about humans and bad hygiene - that had to be a misconception if they only knew us from the Dark Ages."

Tony tilted his head, acknowledging his point, and Bruce rubbed at his eyes. He had been doing his evening meditation (and how that had given the other man a laugh the first time he found out. But it did help, and more than that, he simply enjoyed the routines.) when Tony barged in without knocking and dragged him down to the workshop. Bruce hadn't bothered arguing with him; seeing at once where the other man was fidgety and rambly with more than his usual restless energy. Bruce knew Tony better than most, and could tell that he was trying to wrap his mind around something. Something that he wanted to share.

So Bruce sat, and waited patiently for him to open up about whatever was bothering him.

"Besides," Tony muttered absently. "Pepper takes care of stuff like that for me. She always has, even before," he shrugged, taping the sides of his skull with both of his index fingers in a quick beat. "I have too much else going on up here to remember toothbrushes."

"I'm sure she's honored to be of such use to you," Bruce deadpanned. "Nothing says I love you to a girl more than pack my slippers."

"But of course it does," Tony turned to him, as if bewildered by how Bruce did not understand the particulars of their relationship. "She is the only one I trust to be the rest of my brain. You only get so much space up here. I have to fill it with what counts."

Bruce sighed. But . . . that was Tony for you. And he liked the other man. Really, he did. Most of the time . . .

The rest of the time, he was an excellent way to practice his self-control.

"Now, I mean, what of this," Tony made a grand, sweeping gesture about the workshop, "should I bring? We have to travel light, but still . . . A few goodies can come along."

On the other side of the bench Bruce was sitting on, DUM-E gave a hopeful chirping. He raised an arm, as if volunteering for the trip.

"DUM-E," Tony raised a brow. "I don't trust you outside of this room, let alone on another world. You are sitting this round out, Junior."

The robot made a dejected sound, and Tony's face softened. "But the suits could use some polishing while I am gone. The floor too - it's looking a bit dingy. Can I trust you with that?"

The robot gave a happy whirl before immediately spinning around as if to fetch a mop and rags - but, unfortunately, he ran into one of the metal shelves on the wall before making it to the closet, and crashed with a spectacular dissonance of sound.

Tony winced as DUM-E gave a whirl, as if to assure them that he was all right.

"And that," Tony nodded his head sagely. "Is why I do not want you on a bridge through time and space. Knowing you, you'd end up in a netherworld of some sort, and that would jinx the trip real fast."

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before looking up. When he cast his gaze around the room, his look was solemn, lost in thought.

Bruce decided to help him along. "Are you nervous?" he asked point blank. He had lost the need for subtlety a long time ago, figuring that - nine times out of ten - things worth saying were just better off being said point blank.

"Nervous?" Tony snapped his fingers and clapped his hands together in an agitated way. "Me? Never."

Bruce raised a brow. He waited.

"Well, maybe . . . Not nervous," Tony spun and pointed a figure. "Just . . . agitated? Excited, is that it? Too many endorphins are misfiring right now; I can't put a name to them. Not all of it's adrenaline, though."

Bruce looked at him, clearly unconvinced, and at the look, Tony walked over to the bench next to the one he was on, and laid down as if the wood and metal was a psychiatrist's chair. He folded his hands neatly over his chest, fiddling his thumbs together as he did so. Bruce didn't bat an eyelash. It wasn't the first time Tony had used him as such, and he doubted it would be the last. A part of Bruce was warmed by the trust Tony had in him - knowing that there were all of three people in the world whom Tony would to talk to this way. The robots did not count. They could not talk back.

So Bruce waited, and let him speak.

"We are about to visit another world," Tony said. His voice was slow, every syllable carefully thought through before spoken. Gone where his mile a minute quips and too fast to follow lines of thought. He really wanted Bruce to listen . . . to understand. "We are visiting the home of gods, on another world, an incalculable distance away from the earth. We will be leaving the Earth far behind. God, I feel like I'm loosing it when I say it out loud. Pepper actually laughed before realizing I was serious. Not that I can blame her. This is something out of a comic book. Or bad sci-fi channel reruns."

"And you feel . . ." Bruce prompted.

"Small," Tony said in a soft voice. "So very small."

Ah. And that was the heart of it.

For the whole of his life, Tony had accustomed himself to being the center of anything and everything, no matter where he went. In any given room, he was the wealthiest, the smartest, with the pick of any woman he wanted. He had been confident in his superiority; he had worn his arrogance like armor in that time. Then, Afghanistan had happened. Iron Man had happened, and Tony had taken on another set of armor. He had been indestructible while wearing the suit. There had been nothing he could not defeat.

Now, they were dealing with gods and monsters and aliens - metahumans, even, and Tony was far from being the biggest fish in the pond. No longer was he indestructible, no longer was he without equal . . . and no longer was his life just his own.

"He could have crushed me like an ant, and he didn't," Tony forced the words out. He winced as he spoke. Bruce remembered the sound of crushing metal as the eyes of Tony's suit glowed green, his mouth bound with a flick of a sorcerer's wrist. "He spared me . . . and I have to wonder why."

"Because it was immoral, and wrong, no matter how much of a dick you were being?" Bruce pointed out.

Tony raised a wounded brow in return. "I'm not talking just about that - I am talking about before. All of those times we thought that we had him beat, when we thought that we saved the world . . . Think about it, what have you seen him use his magic on the most?"

"Wardrobe changes," Bruce responded easily. It had long been a subject of amusement amongst the Avengers. "And his trick with the clones."

"And that is nothing. Nothing, when compared to what this guy can really do. I did a few readings on Loki when he was in the 'cell' I made, and you know what? My tech could not compute whatever energy he was outputting. We literally don't have a way of putting it into mathematical terms without inventing a new way to shorthand quite a few zeroes. So yes, he scares the hell out of me." Tony snorted, shaking his head in bewilderment. "And I can't understand why that doesn't scare anyone else more."

Bruce shrugged, turning in his seat restlessly. Tony rolled his eyes, noticing his reaction. "Obviously, good doctor, you have a trick the rest of us don't possess." He gave a half-laugh before his expression sobered again. It turned serious. "And now, that makes me wonder . . . if he was treated the way he was . . . if all of those stories about sewn mouths and banished kids, entrail ropes and poison, are true in some shape or another . . . Are they scared too? The Asgardians, I mean - the Aesir. This is the guy who is supposed to bring the end of the world - the end of their world. I've thought long and hard about it, and I think that they are just as scared as I am."

Bruce was silent for a long, long moment as he thought about how to shape his reply. "But . . . he hasn't brought the end of the world," he pointed out. "He didn't kill you, even when he could of. He has done no more damage to this world than say - Doom or the Red Skull or anyone else we have faced. It shows a level of control on his part, I think. A level of awareness . . . So much of Loki was always been more of a wounded animal, lashing out, over anything truly evil, and now . . ."

"Now you are saying that he can be healed by hugs and a few praises of 'good boy' from a couple of key people in his life?" Tony's voice was incredulous.

Bruce's answer was not. "Yes."

Tony scowled and ran a hand through his hair, not liking the answer he was given. He got up from the bench and paced the workshop in front of Bruce, as if he wanted to say more, but was unsure of how to say it. Finally he came to a stop, and sighed.

"His dad did that." Tony's words came out quick and choppy, as if by saying them aloud he would make them true. "His dad let them lace his mouth up like a shoe. Now, my old man may have been a bit uninvolved in my life - a bit married to his work, a bit hung up on Captain America, but . . . I can't imagine . . . Bet or not, cocky arrogance or not - political loyalties and whatever kind of a bond Asgard has with the Dwarves . . . He's still your kid, even if he is adopted. I don't understand."

"Then why didn't you say that yesterday?" Bruce asked as gently as he could.

Tony snorted. "I'm not going to get all touchy feely with the God of Mischief and Lies. If he decides he wants to pull something - which, I'm still not completely convinced he doesn't - then I want to let him know that he will have to crush me completely before laying a finger on this team."

And that was the heart of it, Bruce thought. He dipped his head in understanding. For so long, Tony had just had himself to care about, and nothing else. He didn't have friends past the superficial - Rhodes aside, and he had not one lasting relationship with a woman in any sense of the word. He did not have a family, he had hardly had one even when his parents were alive. He did have a corrupt father-figure in the form of Obadiah Stane, but that had done more harm than good. As it was, Bruce had never once heard Tony mention his fallen mentor. It was a hurt he kept closed up inside, tight behind his armor. Now, he had a woman he loved, and friends he really, truly cared for. Their team was a family to him, as much as if they were related to him by flesh and blood, and anything that came close to harming that he was bound to greet with an open hostility. He viewed Loki as a threat to that unit - reformed or not - and he would continue to do so until he was given consistent, irrefutable proof as to otherwise.

Personally, Bruce saw more in common between the God of Mischief and his friend than he saw differences, but would not say that. Not yet, anyway. Tony would figure it out soon enough.

"Well, I think you got your point across," Bruce said. "Just . . . I would try to keep your words in line while we're in Asgard. The sewing your mouth shut thing was no joke, and the last thing we need is a diplomatic incident on our hands."

Tony winced, and put a hand before his mouth self consciously. "Yeah, best not to push my luck. Good PR or no PR. Got it."

"If you don't have anything nice to say," Bruce started.

Tony leveled a cross look at him. "Understood, mother. There is no need to spell it out for me."

Bruce snorted, but there was amusement in his eyes when he looked up. Tony looked down at his feet before looking over to him. There was something soft in his eyes for a moment. "And thanks . . . for listening, you know?"

Bruce rolled his shoulders. "Any time. Listening to your issues makes my own stresses not seem that bad."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Now, I feel like we should do something über masculine to make up for the heart to heart about feelings. Really, I feel like I need a shower now - wash them off and everything."

Bruce shook his head, unable to stop the snort of laughter that escaped. "That one," he said instead of answering. He gestured to where Tony had been designing a new firing system for the repulsor units at his hands. "Definitely bring that one."

"Ah," Tony snapped his fingers, understanding. "Weapons and robots. Definitely more manly."

He turned back to the gears and trinkets on the table before him, and their conversation was all but forgotten . . . for the moment.

.
.

It was just past the noon hour the day following when they stood upon the roof, and called for Heimdall's gaze.

There was an intake of breath from all in the group as the sky swirled tempestuously above them, the clouds coming together and then turning as for a storm. Thunder rumbled, answering Thor's call, and Sif could feel as her brother's gaze fell to Midgard. Behind her, she could all but taste the excitement and nervous apprehension in the air as the mortal portion of their group prepared to travel to a world beyond their own for the first time. They reminded Sif of children, easily amused by tricks preformed by mummers in the streets. Distantly, she remembered her own first time travelling across the boughs, so very long ago, and she could not completely fault them for their joy. Indeed, the power of the byway was wondrous indeed, and the paths alongside the Mother's branches. . .

Sif felt her chest turn tight at the thought of returning home. Home, with Loki at her side as both shield to bare and arm to lean on. Home, with Loki walking through Asgard's hallowed halls, shadowed against gold and bronze and the elemental play of the cosmos above. He was not made for the earthiness of the Heart-realm; he was more, magic and mysticism and the ether that made up the very stars. And she . . .

. . . it would be good to see him home, she finally settled, trying the rein in her thoughts before they seeped through her expression as easily as speech.

Loki, in stark contrast with the rest of their party, looked on the maelstrom above with a barely concealed trepidation. He was pale as the bridge touched the earth. His flesh, which had been recovering some of its healthy glow, had taken on a pallid shade of grey as he stared at the sky. He transferred his weight from foot to foot, wishing to take a step back, but staying resolutely in his place. He had been silent ever since hearing Frigg's invitation the day before, hardly answering her when she tried to talk about the journey to come. Even now, he ignored the hopeful glances Thor continued to throw at him - each time looking at him as if expecting to see his own joy reflected back.

He was nervous, that much she could clearly see. He was nervous, and . . . she would call it fear if the emotion didn't seem so wrong to name with him. But it was there - naked and apprehensive in his gaze, and she wanted nothing more than to stand as a shield before his heart until he had no reason to feel so once more.

. . . but, such was the price of return. Such was the price of atonement.

Do it quickly, she thought, like removing a bandage from a wound. The air would sting at first, but then, it would heal . . .

In the end, though, Loki did not run. He did not answer the near animal like instinct to flee she could see flickering in his eyes. He did not call his shadows, he did not slip from their gazes. Instead he stood resolutely by their sides, and let the bridge swallow them.

Where Sif had stood a step to his right when Thor called Heimdall, Loki closed the distance and took her hand as they were pulled up through the stars. She held on tight, fisting her fingers about his own until the grip was nearly painful. The cosmos pulled at their bones as the bridge swept their feet from the earth, and the humans laughed in simple wonder at the glory of the byway around them . . .

And then they were standing as sure as if they had not just been flying through the starways just a moment ago. Sif felt him let go of her hand as they blinked, opening their eyes to the golden dome of Heimdall's reconstructed chamber. He stepped back from her, and she let him.

Loki drew in a breath. Sif held her own.

In the middle of the group, Tony was the first one to react - letting out a low, impressed whistle at the sight around them.

"Oh, my god," Tony's sentiment was echoed by Darcy, who was pushing her glasses up her nose to better see her surroundings - the gold of the observatory, the celestial swirl of the heavens above . . . and Asgard itself, shining like a sun of gold and silver at the top of the Mother's branches.

Before them all, Heimdall removed his sword from its sheath in the bridge, and stood before the doorway that led to the city beyond.

"Is it true that he can see everything?" Tony asked under his breath. There was a note of guilt in his voice, even when washed through the mechanical tones of his suit; a nervous outlet for the questions and facts and figures she could imagine were swimming through her eyes - much as they had with Jane the first time she had brought the other woman to Asgard.

"With discretion, I'd imagine," Bruce's reply was a whisper. When Sif looked, his gaze was simple and calculating as he took in his surroundings. He tilted his head, the wide cast to his eyes the only sign he gave that he was awed by his surroundings. Natasha wore a similar look on her face, while the Captain simply looked up at the stars with a look of simple, childish wonder, his mouth agape and smiling as he fidgeted in place - like a little boy who was not yet allowed to run forth and explore.

Thor looked behind, but his gaze was not on his companions, but rather, on Loki. Loki, whose knuckles were white and whose mouth worked to swallow as if around a knife.

Sif stepped forward with him, and let the battle come.

"Mortal travelers," Heimdall's voice was a low rumble in his chest. "On behalf of Asgard, I give you greetings. You may enter, should your hearts be at peace towards the realm that would welcome you."

One by one they filed passed, walking out to where an honor guard of golden soldiers awaited them. Loki made to pass last, but as he did, Heimdall stood in his path, blocking his way.

Loki tilted his head at the Gatekeeper, his face carefully neutral. But Sif could feel the fight pouring from his skin. "May I pass, good Heimdall?" still he asked, tight lipped and wary.

"I shall not let any enter who so hold violence for this realm in their hearts," Heimdall said simply. Though his voice had altered not in tone or inflection, there was a challenge in his words, nonetheless.

In reply, Loki inclined his head. "Then look, Gatekeeper, and see what you will see."

Heimdall remained still and unmoving for a long, long moment. But finally, he stepped aside. "You may pass," he said gravely, bowing his head. The great prongs of his helm cast a long shadow on the ground before him.

Loki bowed his head stiffly in return, before brushing past the Gatekeeper to the bridge beyond. Sif watched him closely, and she could see the moment where his step stilled, where his lungs paused in their breathing. His face was carefully neutral, but his eyes widened about the edges at the sight of Asgard golden and eternal before them.

Home, she thought again. And she knew, that if but for a moment, Loki felt the same.

They were escorted across the great prismed bridge by their yellow cloaked guard. Once they crossed, it seemed as if half of Asgard seemed to have taken to the streets in order to bid their visitors welcome. The corridors that led to the palace at the center of the city were crowded with the curious and the well wishers both, everyone from gutter side serf to noble members of Odin's court. There was always fanfare accompanying Thor's visits home from Midgard, but this was different - this was more. This time they brought the might of Men with them, and curious eyes peeked from the market ways and from balconies and the floating sky-buildings above to see the children of the Heart-realm. Cheering and applause followed them as they passed like a wave, greeting their step and retreating with their leave until they were scarce able to think from roar of noise around them.

She watched as children darted through their group like small fish through a reef, skirting past the terse attention of the guards in order to observe their visitors up close. They chattered with quick, wide-eyed words, intrigued as they were by Steve's brightly colored shield, by the mechanical plates of Tony's armor. She heard more than one hushed whisper mention the Destroyer in hallowed tones, and Tony tilted his head higher at the praise even without understanding the reference. Questions fell in rapid succession from the young ones before they were turned away by the guards to the parents waiting with scoldings on tongue, but Sif could not help but smile at their antics, remembering the days when that had been her.

She smiled, and then hold the look on her face as forced when the attention of the crowd fell to Loki. A hush followed the cheers as they passed, and then the whispers would sound louder than all . . . Sif looked, but Loki simply tilted his head as to the cool disposition of the crowd. He would grant them no reaction save for the hands at his sides turning white knuckled with the weight of their words. He was allowed home by Odin's grace and forgiveness, but he may as well have been brought home low in chains for the accusing stares of the crowd. The animosity she felt rolling off of those gathered settled under the plates of her armor like an itch. She could taste their words on her tongue, and the taste was bitter.

"You have never cared what they thought before," she said lowly from the corner of her mouth, drawing close enough to his side for him to hear her. "Do not let them matter now."

A smirk touched the corner of his mouth in reply to her words. "Is that concern I hear, good lady?" he asked with a lightness he did not feel. "Indeed, you even sound angered for my sake."

She rolled her eyes, but let him his words for the shield they were. "My indignation is righteous for the slight to the Allfather whom I serve, indeed you are correct," she replied haughtily.

"And it is just Odin's good name you would defend?" he challenged. The green of his eyes was very bright underneath the turbulent sky.

"I would see your name restored," she said simply. "They do not know . . . they do not understand. They never have."

Loki shook his head. He refused to eye the crowd, instead he looked ahead to where the palace stood massive and looming over all else. His throat worked, and Sif let her ire cool, knowing that he no longer heard the whispers at his sides. They meant nothing to him. All he cared for lied ahead.

And that fight would be more real than any crowd of wayward tongues in the market ways.

They crossed another bridge, the water crystal and rolling underneath them with a life of its own. The walled the golden ways to enter through the grand gates that lead to the royal ways. The courtyard before them was framed by a hall of massive sentinels; golden, gleaming statues of heroes of old who held up the mass of the structures above them with strong arms. Their blank eyes were pitiless as they passed, but Sif could feel their stare.

The gardens were colored with rust around them, the golden colors of autumn fading to the darker shades of orange and bronze so close to winter's time. From Frigg's orchards she could smell the ever-apples as they budded, and the last fruits of the season as they were gleamed before the frost. Courtiers in graceful gowns and cloaks passed them by with curious eye, along with lords and warriors clad in the colours of their houses and their fine steel. Pages and servants and messengers passed to and fro without even a glance, all going about their business with a hurried, practiced step as they headed their separate ways.

Sif inhaled deeply as they came to a stop in the courtyard. In a breathless, simple moment, she swore that the light around her seemed to be brighter than before. Even the shadows seemed to stretch deeper in their effort to reach the one returned to them. Loki still kept his eyes trained steadily ahead, meeting none in the eye, but neither looked away. He would not stare; not with his heart open in his gaze when so many looked upon him and watched, but she saw the step of return in his stride.

Home, her heart sang. Home, home, home . . .

They were greeted by the palace keeper, an old and matronly woman in the deep blue and red of Odin's colours. She clapped her hands, and at her signal, servant girls stepped forward to show them all to their rooms before the banquet that would be held that night; both to celebrate the end of the Games, and welcome their visitors from Midgard. The following morn, King Gandalf and Odin Allfather would settle to the business of the realms, but, for that night, merriment and fellowship were to be rejoiced over as new friendships were made and hopes for the future were spoken of by all.

They would all be given time to rest and refresh themselves before mingling with the populace, and for the brief reprieve, Sif was glad.

"Come," she tugged at Loki's hand when he made to follow the rest. "You are no guest to need a guest's rooms."

She turned, her feet walking to a familiar path. For only a moment did she feel a hesitance in his step, and then Loki followed. Over his shoulder, she caught Thor's gaze before they left. He was smiling softly, the magnitude of his brother's return touching him as much as it touched her, even if in a different way. She inclined her head in reply to his look, sharing her gratitude . . . and her promise.

"To where do you lead me, good lady?" Loki asked, even as he walked easily down the halls beside her. It was an old path to them both. A familiar path.

"Did you think that we had a room awaiting you in the dungeons?" she teased.

"The Vault, at the very least," Loki said, and she could not tell if his words were spoken serious or in jest.

"Be careful, there is still time for that," she returned, eyes twinkling. "Best that you behave whilst you are here so as to prove such measures needless."

"I shall keep that in mind," he bowed his head gravely, and she looked over to see a long muscle in his throat bob with feeling. He was not as unaffected as he spoke.

"Besides," she said carefully, "even the dungeons would have better accommodations than the . . . box that you call your own on Midgard." The SHIELD appointed apartment he used in the Tower was nothing but four grey walls of nothingness, with a small kitchenette and a door leading to a tiny bathroom on the side. Sif had taken one long look at her surroundings before turning her mouth in distaste. Like living inside a blade, she had thought, and just as sharp. There had been no comfort there, no sense of home. The cubbyhole of a place he had carved out for himself on the ways between ways - one of the few paths he had access to while the Mother was still none too fond of his life choices, had not been her idea of proper living either. "You can't see the stars from here," she had said to that one, and in the end he had taken her back to the SHIELD apartment to pass the night.

He had showed her pizza, which was truly another treasure of Midgard. They had watched a whimsical, fascinating movie called The Wizard of Oz on the two folding chairs he had in lieu of a couch. He did not sleep that night, and she had stayed awake with him, carefully talking about anything and everything other than home.

"The box serves its purpose," Loki said neutrally. Even still, there was a note of distaste on his tongue. He had not liked it either. He always did like his fine things better than Thor, she thought, and while he could do without them, he did not like to. It was always a matter of teasing between them.

"If you plan to continue to use it as such, it shall require a more welcoming décor," she said stiffly. She did not like the thought of him returning there.

"Are you offering your woman's touch?" Loki smiled, his mouth all sharp lines around his words.

"If need be," she vowed stiffly, and while he did not laugh in reply to her words, something about the shape of his eyes did lighten.

"Here," she turned to her right, pulling him down the hall that led to the royal suites. The wards on the entrance to the corridor shimmered and recognized her, allowing her through. Loki too they admitted, and upon seeing so, he looked up at flickering barriers, a brow raised in silent surprise.

She did not say anything as to the look he wore, instead she tugged on his hand to draw him down the hall to the last set of double doors. The bronze relief on the doors showed Yggdrasil's massive roots, wound about a dragon great and strong before they pierced the nothingness of the dark Ginnungagap below. The handles to the doors were fashioned as roots, continuing on from the etching of the tree before morphing into the shape of coiled serpents, their emerald eyes staring into the shadows, glinting as if aware of those who stood before them.

And Loki turned to her, questioning.

"Where did you think I was bringing you?" she asked, her smile hanging bright and teasing upon her lips.

"I did not know," he answered honestly. "Your rooms, perhaps."

She raised a brow. "You think highly of your chances," she retorted, but there was a glint to her eyes as she spoke.

He turned towards her, a challenge in his eyes, and she felt a low, warm feeling light in her bones at the look. It had been long . . . too long, she reflected, taken aback by the sudden surge of longing she felt rise within her. Their nights in Canada had been innocently spent, and she had not even taken a kiss when they had parted, as if . . .

. . . as if she were scared, she finally admitted with a tight lock of her jaw. As if she were scared; craven and cowering at heart.

Loki watched her closely, his verdant eyes seeing more than she would have him see before he stepped back - a small mercy, and touched a hand to the serpent handles. He pushed, and broke gaze with her only to step inside.

He waved a hand once within, and a ring of soft light appeared from the candles on the walls. Sif looked at his face rather than at her surroundings, knowing the sight that would greet her. She waited.

"But this . . ." was all that Loki could whisper, looking around with wide, bewildered eyes. Sif raised a brow at his dumbfounded expression of surprise, tucking the memory away for later times - for but rarely was it when he would allow himself to be seen as such. "This is . . ." he turned to her.

"It is," she confirmed. "Not a thing has been touched."

His rooms were the same as he had left them all those long years ago. Books were still stacked in their corners and odds and ends decorated the expanse of his desk down to the spilled bottle of black ink that had long since dried over. There was a scroll hanging over the arm of one of the large couches that rested before the hearth. The ashes in the fireplace were the same from the last fire burned there.

The rooms were a memory as much as they were a hope, and now . . .

"Your mother ordered that not a thing be touched," Sif explained, watching as Loki walked over to run his fingers over the fanned display of daggers that hung on the wall just to their right. "I believe that the maids were relieved. They were too afraid to enter, the Queen's instructions or not."

Loki snorted softly. Many a hapless maid had fallen victim to the wards he had set about his quarters over the centuries, and they had long ago learned to leave his keeping to himself.

"She foresaw, even then," he muttered, walking further in and turning about, as if he were a trespasser on another's space.

Behind him, Sif stalked forward as if the rooms were hers and hers alone. "I believe," she countered, "that the Allmother hoped, rather than foresaw . . . even then."

She walked forward as Loki stood still. She moved to the balcony, pushing aside the long green drapes that hid the outside from view. Beyond the palace, the cosmos was shifting in color, turning to warm tones of orange and red as the sun started her descent in the sky. Behind her, she heard as Loki walked slowly from the sitting area to the alcove that was his desk and research, touching this and that as he went.

He next turned from the main room to walk down the small hall that led to his bedchamber, trailing his hand on the stands of books that lined the hall as he passed. Some of the spells awakened at his touch, revealing things not seen before. Sif felt something tight about her throat as she saw his hiding places made real once more. It had been a bittersweet pang in those months after his fall - to find his spells unraveling, tomes and magician's artifacts appearing here and there as his hiding places fell away - everywhere from the dining hall to the warriors yards and hidden groves in the gardens. He even had a stash in Odin's own council chamber, and she had had to bite her lip to stop the high, anxious sort of laugh that had threatened to escape her when a pile of Loki's books had materialized in the middle of the Allfather's reports, startling the Diar Agnar mid sentence. The revealed hideaways had always waited for her or Thor to clear them - the palace hands refusing to touch anything and everything once belonging to the second-son.

At the memory, she let the curtain fall closed. She followed him behind him, letting her feet tangle with his shadow.

She entered the bedchamber a step after him, content to watch as he touched a hand to the gilded wood that made up the frame of his bed. The post was etched with wolves, one after another giving endless chase to the orbs that topped the poles in a pantomime of the sun and moon. At his touch, the wolves on the posts seemed to dance, their jaws opening to howl at the false moon above. Sif watched him, an old, familiar pang tightening her lungs at the familiarity of their song. How she had smiled and looked on in simple wonder the first time he had showed her that spell. She had been young then, very young, and she had kissed the smile from his mouth that proclaimed his pride over having impressed her. She had tasted magic on his tongue then, and known a thirst for the flavor ever since then.

"I remember much about that final day," he said thoughtfully, breaking her from her memories. His touch was gentle as he drew the very tips of his fingers over the silver and black furs. They were rumpled, the pillows and green sheets mused in careless disarray. "I remember I did not sleep. And, the day before . . ."

She swallowed, her throat tight as she guessed what he would say.

" . . . I had nervous energy the morning of Thor's coronation, and I did tidy my things before I left. The bed was made." He spoke simply, as if commenting on the color of the sky beyond them. But she heard the question as he tilted his head, curious.

She locked her jaw, her cheeks flushing with color before she reached out to touch one of the carved wolves closest to her. It seemed to open its jaws wider beneath her touch.

"I found rest slow in coming when I thought you dead," she said simply. Her throat was tight, her mouth dry. She did not say that she had cried herself to sleep those many nights, curled deep within the furs as if to hide herself away. She did not say that once Thor had reached Loki's rooms before her, and they had spent a long night of rumination and shared memories before falling asleep, the one tangled about the other with their grief. She did not say, but then my shield awakened, and I knew better. She did not say that she had stormed in that day and threw as many things as she could, shrieking with blind, consuming rage as she swept his books too the ground, and tore the journals he had been scribbling in to pieces. There were still holes in the walls to where she had thrown his daggers, skewering the tapestries that hung to the right of the hearth to the wall. She did not say that she had wept bitterly in the mess she had made before composing herself, putting everything back exactly as it had been. Her awkward stitches still held together one of the drapes she had torn in her violence. She had rebound his journals as best she could without seeking out the help of one of the palace scribes. His books were hopelessly confused now, but they rested on their shelves again, at least.

She had mourned, and he had taken his own anger and grief to the Heart-realm. Sif had not entered his rooms again after that.

When she looked up, he was standing very close to her. His face was blank, unreadable, but the faint light from the candles caught in his eyes. He wore his grief openly in his gaze, and she looked up to let him search her eyes unhindered. He brushed his thumb over the high curve of her cheekbone in a tender motion, as if brushing away a tear that was no longer there. He was very, very close to her. His touch was cold, but inside she felt only warmth.

"I am sorry," he whispered.

She cared little to ever hear those words from his mouth again. "Do not be," she said, hating the tightness of her throat when she spoke. Her first syllable was dry on her tongue. "I have many more pleasing memories to recall in these rooms, and it is those I choose to remember."

"Such as?" he questioned, but his eyes had darkened. He remembered, just as she did. The hand cupping the side of her face fell so that his thumb touched the corner of her mouth. There was a question in his gaze, a hesitance, and Sif remembered wolves singing and the light from his magicks as she had turned -

- she had not kissed him in too long, she finally decided. Far too long.

At first, he was still and unmoving at her touch. She kissed him softly, trying to recover some of the simple innocence of before, even as she tried to ease away the tight set to his shoulders, the unbending steel of his spine. Still he was rigid before her . . .

She drew away, a question in her eyes. He flushed before looking away. His throat worked with his words. "I am -"

" - if you say sorry again, I shall have to do something violent," Sif promised, a note of annoyance rising in her voice - a note of challenge. And he had tried to hard as of late to press himself into the role of complacent and unaffected. He had too often bowed. Now, she watched as the dark cast of his eyes overwhelmed that hesitant and penitent, she watched as he surrendered to it. As he moved to take.

Atonement and questions of worthiness fell away, swallowed by the simple selfishness that dwelt behind. He wished to kiss her, and so he did, his touch dark and possessive and claiming as he kissed her hard enough to bruise. A thrill stole though her at the contact, the hunt lighting in her veins and calling her to arms as only war itself could. She kissed him back with a greedy fervor to match, her hands sneaking over the shape of his arms and the planes of his back, relearning old caresses anew as a part of her all but sang.

Finally, she thought, tasting blood as his teeth tugged at her bottom lip. Heat lit, dark and consuming at the core of her as she swept her tongue over the taste and pressed closer. His fingers were digging into her hips, hard enough to bruise, but she simply leaned into the possessive hold and thought more -

- only to have him draw away in an abrupt motion, stepping back a half step to look over her shoulder to the room beyond. Her hands made fists in the leathers of his collar. She settled off of the toes of her feet, resting on her true height as she tilted her head to the sound beyond. They were not alone, she realized after a moment, her head clouded and her thoughts hazy.

. . . but, she could think of only one who would seek him here. At the thought, the heat that had flooded her veins cooled.

Sighing, knowing that she would have no more of him until later, she smiled ruefully before stepping back. She smoothed her hands over the maroon and silver of her tunic before reaching up to try and smooth her hair where Loki had sunk his fingers. She gave up, and reached over to where she had made a considerably more tangled mess of his hair. There was only so much she could do, but he was presentable, at least.

She smirked in amusement, and he pressed his lips to hers in a short, hard kiss before drawing away and mouthing, later.

"You make many promises as of late, my lord," she teased, running her hand through the shorn strands of his hair one last time. "I shall see that this one is kept."

He kissed the back of her hand as they both made to leave. "I look forward to that, my lady."

In the main chamber, running an elegant hand over one of the open tomes on the desk, was the Allmother herself. She was dressed in a simple, dove grey gown, her hair worn loose and untamed down her shoulders - as she often did around her family. Her family.

Sif looked, and saw that all of the previous playfulness and confidence had fled from Loki's face. He was as a child before the warm gaze of his mother (his mother, heart bound rather than by blood), and Sif swallowed thickly at the look, the pang in her chest sharp enough to match the open and raw look that suddenly bloomed upon his face.

Frigg's look softened as she looked from her to her son, and there her gaze lingered. "My child," she whispered simply.

She held her arms open at her sides, an invitation in the gesture. But Loki stayed rooted to the spot, eyeing her as if he were an animal wounded. He swallowed again. Sif settled her weight back on her feet, and calculated the simplest way to slip away and give them the privacy for the reunion they needed . . .

When Loki did not come to her, Frigg came to him, wrapping his stiff frame in an embrace. A heartbeat passed, and then two. The fight fled from his bones as he melted against her, muttering mother into her hair. Frigg closed her eyes at the simplest of words, the easiest of endearments, and her arms tightened about her son.

Sif paused at the doorway before leaving, her heart full and rising into her throat as she looked once more behind her. When she slipped into the hall beyond and shut the doors, she leaned back against the wall behind her. Her heart thundered against her ribs as a giddy, easy joy bubbled in her chest.

Whatever the rest of the night would bring, Sif decided, they would face it. And they would triumph over it. Together.

Chapter Text

The hall of Fensalir echoed with the soft hum of her weaving.

At her loom, the Queen of the Aesir worked, pulling at shuttle and thread to weave together both the present and the future. She glimpsed at fleeting things as her visions unwound. Familiar faces, both old and new, appeared and disappeared within the cloth alongside those fearsome and those strange. Golden thread spun from her fingers as she worked, softer than any material crafted by literal hands as she worked the gift of her Sight with the ease of long practice.

She found herself humming as she worked, giving voice to a soft, ancient tune from times long gone by. It had been years aplenty since she held a cradle song on her lips, but she let the notes rise and fall in time with her weaving, the song seemingly carrying her visions as much as the loom before her. She let the familiar repetition of her work lull her. In the back of her mind, a faint, nervous energy coiled and choked her thoughts with knowledge of the events to come that evening . . . but, with the loom, she was able to forget, if but for a moment. She was able to move past her feeling so . . .

And so she weaved. She summoned her Sight . . .

- and saw the clear visage of her son, her eldest boy, as he kissed the back of his lady's hand in a moonlit grove. All around him were the trees of Idunn; the trees of immortality and godhood. He asked her for forever, and before Jane could answer, the weaving shifted -

- and she saw a sacred grove, an old, primordial grove. In the middle of the clearing there grew a massive tree of ancient power. The tree wrapped it's trunk protectively around the wooden well of the Memory-keeper, its great boughs shading all within its reach in a physical manifestation of the Mother Tree and her power. Before the well, a man tended to the grove with the gifts of his hands, muttering as he worked. He felt her presence, and from his side, his head nodded in acknowledgement as her consciousness passed him by. The well before him hungered, even as it gave, and from its depths, a familiar gaze stared.

Her fingers stilled over her work. She looked away.

- and instead she saw a time from now. She saw her son, her second child, as he looked down at a carefully wrapped bundle in his arms. His look was peaceful, soft and contented in shape, such as she had yet to truly see him bear – even before his fall. The look did her mother's heart glad. A part of her rejoiced at the tuft of black hair and the uncannily bright green eyes she could see peaking from the face of the babe he held. "Hela," he said softly, such a love colouring his voice, and a part of Frigg's heart ached, even as it soared.

The threads moved together once again. They shifted.

- and she saw the three fold daughters of War as the journeyed away from their moon to seek the shadows between the stars. They searched for something, and their pace was frantic. Frigg looked to the first, and watched as the Shepardess met her gaze through her visions and raised her hand. There was something they would share, Frigg knew, and she stretched her thoughts, bidding them to turn their journey to Asgard as soon as they could. The Shepardess dipped her head, even as the Rider gave a curse and the Soldier bared her teeth to something unseen in the distance before the connection was cut, and -

- at the last, she saw the father of fire as he slept on his burning world. His eyes were closed underneath a heavy enchantment so as to keep him from ever harming another soul the nine realms wide. On the moon above the realm of fire, his heartbeat echoed, slow and thundering and waiting . . . But it waited as the dragon had waited, Frigg thought. And now, the dragon was no more.

Throughout the centuries, often were the times she wove about prophesy. It no longer had the power to move her to fear.

And so, she cut the thread. And stared again.

Her work continued for she knew not how long. She only knew that the candles had burned through its marks when she was drawn from her thoughts by another presence joining her own. A familiar shadow stopped at her back. The weight of a familiar hand rested on her shoulder.

"You are singing," her husband remarked, a warmth to his voice that she had not heard in many a years time. "It has been too long since last I heard you thus."

She felt her heart skip a beat, as if she were still a maid stealing glimpses of her own future in her weavings. She let the shuttle fall from her hands in order to lift her right hand to cover his own. She squeezed. "I am happy, my lord," she said simply. "I do not think that I could keep from song if I tried."

A moment passed. "It has been too long," he said, and she looked over her shoulder to see a shadow in the one eye of his gaze when he spoke. A shadow, but a shadow that lifted, she thought.

"Too long indeed," she agreed, and in her heart she thought Loki, and spoke true.

The same thought rested at the forefront of his own mind. She could read it in the new lines about his eyes, the tight set of his shoulders. Heavy had been the burdens of Asgard's king as of late, and now . . .

She swallowed, willing the fist around her throat to loosen its grip. She had spent time enough in sorrows. Time enough in mourning. Now, she only wished for the rest of healing. The joy of recovery.

. . . for all whom she loved and held dear.

"I thank you," Odin said after a moment. In the silence of her hall, his voice was a loud sound. She tilted her head to the shape of it, hearing both husband and father – and an unsure one, at that, rather that the voice of a lord and king. It was Odin as she knew him, and she tightened her grip about his at the sound. She did not ask him what he spoke of, instead, she waited for him to find his words.

"There are times," he started softly, almost hesitantly, "when I have been a good king . . . a good enough king, at least, but at the expense of being both a good husband . . . and a good father." He stopped for a moment. She watched as a familiar line at his throat worked, as if unsure of its motion. "Many are the times when you have tried to tell me so, and I did not listened . . . Even still, you have stood by me, throughout everything."

"Where else would I stand?" she asked softly. "I am bound to you by heart and vow, and I knew the burdens I would take when I took your name. You are bound to this realm before your family, and you have always made the decisions you thought right by all."

"Right by all, but with the expense of much," he said softly.

She breathed, thinking of a child stolen from the ice, taken out of fear for a prophesy of endings. She thought of the years of hesitance and uncertainty, the fear of loving too dearly the very thing foretold to bring ruin to them all. She . . . she thought that he understood now. After so long.

"Our kind are blessed with many years," she said wryly in reply. "There shall be time to mend all things."

Before her, her loom pulsed a soft telling gold. In its weave laid many paths, for the future was not always one set road. It wound and shifted as choices were made and lives were lived. The future she saw, but many fates were hers to see, and always was it unclear which path was theirs to live in life.

And now . . .

"The road is before us," Odin said on the wings of her thoughts, and she nodded in agreement.

"And it is walked by all," she finished. "You do good by our son, Odin. And now, he may do good by us. It is as it always should of been."

Although the first steps had been taken, she saw many, many futures . . . and, at times her heart hurt in her chest for the trials her son – her family – still held before them. But, for every black deed she beheld, she also saw a light at the end of the road. Such a light. It only required patience and endurance to reach that end.

A moment passed. She watched as the turn of Odin's gaze turned from pensive to curious. His brow furrowed, and she watched his question as it took shape.

"Týr's daughter," Odin said thoughtfully. "You told me many winters ago that the shield-maiden favored my son. You left me to believe one over the other without setting my insight to the right."

Frigg raised a brow. The corner of her mouth turned. "You believed that Thor's charms would recommend him before even thinking about the other. I left you to think what you wished to think." The rebuke from her mouth was gentle.

Odin snorted. "It is a lesson learned, my wife," he bowed his head in acknowledgement. "War is bound to war. I had long assumed that Thor would take Sif to wed - and for more than the promises their father's made."

"And what is war without trickery?" Frigg returned. "All too often that is forgotten – and by more than just you."

He sighed at her words, and she knew that she had touched upon another matter of which he wished to speak. "And now, Asgard whispers," Odin said.

Asgard, Frigg sighed inwardly. As much as she cherished the realm she served, there were times when its ways – its violence and pride and minds of fire and steel - made her weary to the bone.

"When does Asgard not?" she tried to project a lightheartedness into her voice, but was not completely successful.

She watched the new lines about his eyes as they creased, mirroring her own look. "I cannot control the murmur of the crowd," Odin said at last. "In time, the whispers will fade."

"As they did for Loki?" the words left her mouth before she could think to pull them back. They garnered no immediate answer, but there was truth enough in the silence that followed. Finally, Odin sighed.

"Many things about our way of living warrants new scrutiny," he gave. "We can start that path tonight. With you, and your visitors from Midgard." For the first, the start of a smile touched his mouth. He had understood her actions for what they were.

She turned her eyes down in a picture of innocent humility, but her husband was not fooled. He never had been. "I thought to give the mob two things to talk over, it is true." She could not keep the grim satisfaction in her voice.

"Many heads in my court will not know which way to turn," Odin said, acknowledging her strategy. "Between your mortal heroes, and Loki, their heads shall all but fall from their shoulders with staring back and forth."

"Hopefully, their tongues will also fall in tangles," Frigg said frankly in reply. Ire lined her voice like teeth. The loom before her flushed a darker shade with its weaving, answering the frustrated anger she could feel low in her bones. "If only their words would fall as well."

"My clever queen," Odin said warmly in reply. A general over a soldier now, he appreciated battle tactics in their place, and that was precisely the game she was playing. "Some say they know not where Loki learned his double edges and feints, when the true culprit stands right before all to see."

She sighed. The hand over her shoulder tightened in a wordless support as she leaned her head against his arm. "I am tired of being clever," she admitted. Her voice hung from her mouth like an exhale. "I am tired, Odin. Tired of the Diar and their squabbles, and the courtiers and their tiffs. I am tired, hearing how Freyr in Vanaheimr is offended that we invited Gandalf to treat first; even though the Vanir met with us just a moon before the destruction of the bridge and the Álfar not. I am tired of the real concerns in the realms - Surtr sleeping a measured slumber and Gandalf's warnings of Queen Álfyse's restlessness in the shadow-woods. Her pet Malekith grows bolder and bolder still with every passing winter, straining at his leash, while our peace with Helblindi rests at a knife's edge with Loki's return - and I cannot even begin to think of that without having to worry about how our own court works against each other like dogs over the bone of your favor." She did not say that she wanted to be a mother and hold both of her children close. She did not say that she had carved out an excuse of state to have her youngest son home with his family - where he belonged, where he had been away from for far too long. She did not say that her arms felt empty, and just her few words with Loki earlier were not nearly enough to fill the void his absence had left behind. Instead, she forced her mouth to shape a tired grin, knowing that Odin would not be fooled. "There are days that I would rather just turn the court to toads rather than deal with their ways. I have fewer and fewer silvered words left within me, I fear."

"They are a necessary evil," Odin said gently, but he did not disagree. She allowed herself a smile, wondering if she was the first to picture Lord Grønn and his inner circle as bellowing bullfrogs as well . . . He would look much unchanged she gave unkindly. "And still -"

His words cut off abruptly, and she opened her eyes at the change. Her heart skipped, knowing worry as she took in the hard line of her husband's gaze and followed it down . . .

To the cloth in her hands.

"Shadow," Odin said, the one word hard from his mouth. "But it is . . ."

"Everywhere," Frigg breathed. She turned from Odin in order to touch the cloth her labors had produced. The whole of the golden thread, softer than clouds and warmer than sunlight, had turned a dark and fearsome shade of grey. The pictures within showed nothing but an unnatural blackness, swirling from shades of pale smoke to the darkest of starless black. She cast her Sight along the threads, but each path was the same. Each view was shrouded in shadow, fraught with mists and dark things.

"But that cannot be," she said. She picked up the wand and the shuttle again, weaving anew, but still the thread before her was grey, still it was shadowed . . .

"Odin?" her question was a sharp one upon her tongue.

His gaze was unreadable, as ever. But she could espy the narrowing to his single eye. The clenching of his jaw. All was not well, she knew his thoughts as well as her own.

"I shall alert Heimdall," he said. "We will double the watches."

She made to stand from her seat, but was pushed down by a strong hand. He did not want her to worry, she read the glance that rested there, but yet -

"The feast," she questioned. "Is it wise?"

Odin hesitated for a moment. She counted out one heartbeat. Then two.

"Too long has it been since the Álfar walked these halls," he said. "What is in motion is in motion, and we shall not stop from our gathering to wait for its coming. We will be wary."

She swallowed against the feeling she felt build in her throat. She had not seen shadow cover her visions in such a way since the time of the Great War. Not a life had been taken by an enemy's hands in the halls of the First Realm in a near millennia, not since that awful time. And now . . .

It would take the wits of a fool to attack Asgard when it was to the brim with its power – both of its own might, and the might of Álfheimr . . . the might of Midgard, even. A foolish being . . .

. . . or a powerful one, she admitted. She tasted the dead burning of ash on the back of her tongue.

"Weave." Odin said softly. "And see what you can see. The evening shall bring with it its own cares, in more ways than one."

Loki, she thought with a pang. "It is a first step," she said softly, trying to cling to that and nothing else.

"And it will be done swiftly. Like removing a bandage from a wound," Odin agreed. She felt his hands squeeze at her shoulders, sharing his strength, before he turned away. She listened to his footsteps fade before turning to the golden cloth she held in her hands, made black by the shadow's might . . .

Yes, she thought, foreboding creeping into her throat like claws. I must weave . . .

.

.

Throughout his years with SHIELD, Clint had attended a number of ritzy shindigs in more countries than he could care to name. In some ways, they were all the same - the grand, opulent rooms. The lights, the glitter, the high and the fashionable decked out in their best and ready to impress. And yet, contrary to every preconceived notion he had build up in his mind, the feasting hall within Asgard was like nothing he had ever seen before.

The hall itself was a monstrous cavern of a room, all curving walls of bronze and gold turned a warm shade of orange from the hidden torches flickering softly from their sconces. The ceiling was up past where even his sharp eyes could see, and instead of looking down on the goings on around him, as was his wont, he was milling with the people far below, wondering exactly where the ceiling ended and the sky above began.

For once, he did not feel out of place in his uniform. The purple and black ensemble fit in perfectly with the myriad of interestingly colored collections of metallic shades and stained steel worn around him. He had known Thor for almost a year, had met his buddies a time or two as well, but he never would have guessed that Fandral and Hogun were both of an average size for their race . . . nor that Volstagg was not the largest in attendance. When they had first walked in, after the archaic awkwardness of being announced to the room at large, he had leaned in and asked Thor if any of those in attendance were the Frost Giants who figured so heavily in his stories. Thor's eyes had twinkled as he whispered back, "bigger," in a tone frank with amusement.

Clint stared, even though he told himself not to as a particular behemoth of a man - Aesir, he corrected himself - walked past him to step up to the long line of artistically displayed food to heap what looked like half of a wild boar right onto his plate. Plate? It was more of a platter. And were those tusks still attached? he wondered as he stared at the poor dead thing. The lumbering man stalked away, and Clint shook his head. He was near certain that Thor had to be mistaken. That guy there had to be a Yotam . . . Yotam? Was he saying that right. Or were they called Yoden? Was the 'y' even right, or was that with the 'y' sounding 'j' that the northern dialects sometimes favored - Joden, would it be then then? Clint racked his brain, but his mind was helpfully fuzzy in return. He'd have to ask Tony before the night was through - say what you would like about the billionaire, but he did his research well.

"You're staring, soldier," came the light, amused voice from behind him. He instantly stiffened, caught in his open mouthed appraisal. Hurriedly he tried to force his face into something else - anything else - as he turned to see Darcy, a barely restrained amusement lighting her eyes. She was dressed in a blue gown similar in style to the ones the other lady's wore, clenched at the waist with a metal facsimile of armor, with weathered bronze cuffs at her wrists and right below her shoulders as well. The gown was almost the same as the one Jane had on (and hadn't that been quite the surprise to see the doctor, who normally wore scuffed, sturdy boots, and wore her hair pinned up with a pencil when she did anything to it at all, coifed and glimmering and regal as she stood by Thor's side for all to see), and he wondered if the matching was intentional. Some of the ladies in attendance had similar setups with their attendants, and all seemed to dress to a colour coordinated by their family line . . .

It was something to think over another time, Clint interrupted his rambling thoughts. As soon as it was redirected, his brain helpfully pointed out how the blue complimented her pale skin and the dark shade of her hair. And it was flattering fitted in all of the right places . . .

. . . yes . . . very flattering, his brain stuttered to a very articulate halt. He had to forcibly tell his eyes to stare front and center and stay there.

But Darcy just smiled a smile of the cat and the cream, letting him know that she knew . . . and was okay with it? That she was complimented? Thanks but no thanks? Nearly a decade spent reading people - from Coulson's minute tells to Natasha's even more barren expressions - was suddenly gone in a puff of smoke before him. He was nothing but the boy in the circus trying to buy cotton candy for Cindy the trapeze artist all over again, and -

Focus. He needed to focus.

A voice suspiciously like Tony had started to laugh in the back of his mind. Clint gave the voice an unkind gesture.

"So, the purple?" Darcy gestured at his ensemble. "I like it."

"Thanks," he managed to choke the one word out without sounding completely ridiculous. "This is more for the PR than anything else," he explained away the more elaborate costume. "Apparently the public wants their heroes in masks and spandex." He choked back the words that said that the purple had been the colours he and his brother had worn during their high flying days. Barney had loved the shade, and Clint hadn't the heart to argue that he liked blue better . . .

For once, thoughts of Barney didn't bring a clenching in his gut as they used to. Instead, it was with fondness he wanted to share the memory.

The twisting in his stomach came then, but for another reason entirely. This time, his mind muttered caution and dangerous, while his skin itched and said he was too close to the ground and falling closer still. Too close.

"Well, you are doing the general public a disservice by not indulging in good . . . PR more," she let her eyes flicker up and down, an appreciative look tugging on her mouth, and Clint fought the honest to goodness urge to blush like a schoolboy at the appraisal.

Smooth, the voice like Tony in his mind laughed. Very smooth.

But it wasn't the first time he had stammered to an idiotic halt around her, and for some reason she always came back for more. After the metal robot had attacked New Mexico, he had been ordered to stay behind, even after the rest of SHIELD had cleared out. Jane Foster and her team had been under his protection until they were later moved to a more easily defended location. During that time, Jane's assistant had made it her sacred duty to make sure that her boss didn't work herself into a coma brought on by all night attempts to rebuild a star-bridge on nothing but the power of a coffee induced ability to stare unblinkingly at row after row of small numbers, and the sheer determination to do what everyone else said couldn't be done.

That distraction included tequila and more drunken karaoke than Clint ever wanted to see again. That distraction had become his distraction as he nursed one beer at the bar the whole of the night - until, after a handful of such nights, Darcy had plopped down on the bar stood next to him and informed him that he was either a very, very bad stalker, or working up the urge to ask her out. And so, if he wasn't going to go for his knife, she would offer him the chance to buy her a drink.

Of course, his real motives had been out of the question, and he had been blindsided by the close up of curves and a wickedly self assured smile, and he had bought her a round before realizing that the words came out of his mouth.

By his third time 'observing' she had talked him into karaoke. By his fifth time, she had asked him point blank if he was called Agent like the other guy they had dealt with, or if he was more of a muscle and brawn deal. That evening had ended with him scamming a ridiculous amount of money off of the other bar patrons playing darts in demonstration of his 'superpower', and the next day he had been reassigned.

Ironically enough, that had been the same day Loki had came to Jane Foster disguised as Luke Olson, and now, here they all were, over a year later.

. . . more than a year later, and he was still not looking down at her chest. He was instead looking straight where her eyes were doing enough staring of their own.

. . . yeah.

. . . exactly.

He cleared his throat, and made to comment on something else - anything else - when he saw it. Him. Them.

Coming towards them was Sif (and hadn't that been its own source of fascination, watching the warrior woman flow through the social necessities of such a gathering at Loki's side, bearing the whispers even Clint could hear and the slanted glances that even Clint could see with a grace that would do even Pepper Potts proud), and a tall, regal man at her side. The man (and Clint tripped over the classification in his mind, his tongue thick with the insistence of more) was graceful and lithe, seemingly gliding over the ground rather than walking upon it. His face was beautiful, with high cheekbones and a small pointed nose. His lips were full without appearing to be feminine, while his hair was a long shade of silvery blonde, nearly white, and bound into an elaborate plait down his back. Two locks of hair were braided in front of his ears, showcasing the tall points that rose nearly higher than the crown of his head. Points that reminded him of . . .

Álfhiemr, Clint translated dumbly . . . Álfar . . . Álf . . . Elf.

Elves.

His inner ten year old self was threatening to something very bad for the image of Earth he was trying to present - namely, dancing in place and clapping with unrestrained glee. During their time travelling from place to place as children, he and Barney had filed their days with books and far off places, gleaned from the collection of Tamara the fortune teller - and Tolkien had been one of their favourites authors to read and then reread again. And now . . .

I am about to meet an Elf, he thought, trying to keep his breathing under control as he realized that Sif and the stranger were coming up to him. Darcy stepped back a half a pace, the smug smile on her face telling him that she had remembered that bit of personal information he had let slip an age ago, and now . . .

He collected himself, taking in a deep breath that he normally reserved for his trickiest of shots. He inhaled with his tension, and when he exhaled, he was still.

Sif inclined her head as she approached. "Friend Hawk, Lady Lewis," she greeted with a smile, gesturing between them and the Elf -Álf?, he wondered. Álfar? - at her side. "I have been asked to make introductions between you and Faradei Gandalfson, twelfth son of Gandalf, prince of the Light Álfar."

Gandalf, his mind processed dumbly. Gandalf like . . .

. . . more like Tolkien's Gandalf was more like this Gandalf - a tall and regal man with braided hair the color of dark steel, and green armor forged to resemble leaves and branches over his body. Clint could see him through the crowd where he talked to Odin and his wife at the head of the room.

Clint inhaled, and Sif continued. "Stories of your skills with the bow have reached even the Álfar lands, and Faradei has been most anxious to make your acquaintance."

"It is a pleasure," Clint bowed his head slightly, keeping in mind the title of prince, before thinking the better of it and reaching out his hand.

The Álfar looked down at his hand for a moment before understanding, and when he shook his hand, his grip was strong and sure. "Indeed, the pleasure is mine," when Faradei spoke, his voice was lilting and graceful, something that Clint felt more than heard. He tried to process the sound in his mind, thinking of the old tales - stories that spoke of spirits of starlight and nature who loved brook and forest and stone - even as he shook his head in disbelief. Behind him Darcy muttered breathe with a voice that smiled.

"I know that now is not the time, but," when the prince spoke, his voice was quick and hurried. His fair cheeks were flushed, his eyes lit with a gleam, and Clint wondered curiously just how stories of them had traveled to incite such a look, "I was hoping to beg a demonstration of you during your time here."

"A demonstration?" Clint stammered out.

"Indeed," Faradei inclined his head. "You are an archer, are you not?" When he smiled, Clint noticed that his teeth were pointed, rather than flat. It was at odds with the fairness of his face, but it fit, in a strange way.

"Indeed I am," Clint was quick to respond, telling himself that he would not brag or show off - he would not.

"Faradei here has taken the title of Master with the longbow every Meet for near a century now," Sif revealed. "This last eve, he won the title for this year's time yet again."

Well, maybe he would show off then . . . just a very little. "It would be my genuine pleasure," he said, and Sif nodded her head, satisfied as her eyes flickered over the crowd again. They had scarce stayed still in her time apart from Loki's side, and now they narrowed, a thin look of distaste invading her features.

"I am sorry," she said, though her voice was stilled. Though she stood by them, her mind was already far away. "But I must take my leave of you. If you would excuse me."

"Of course Lady Týrdottir," Faradei bowed his head, letting her pass, and she smiled briefly at them before turning, war in her stride as she marched to where a man with pale blonde hair was talking to Loki. Clint looked, and even from a distance it was clear that it was not the friendliest of conversations.

Clint watched her, unable ot look away as she made her way to Loki's side. She crossed nearly the whole of the room before Loki caught her eye and something unspoken passed between them. Sif drew up short, fisting her hands as she forced herself to stillness. He tried to pick up on their strands of conversation, but all Clint could hear was the murmur of the crowd and the rising of Tony's voice as he lauded the merits of mead and asked the Queen Frigg how he could have a couple dozen barrels delivered to Malibu via bifrost for his upcoming nuptials. Sif locked her jaw, watching with a stern, fierce gaze as Loki said something to the blonde man that had him bowing stiffly before he took his leave from the Trickster's side. Loki wore a look of distaste for scarce a moment before hiding it behind a well practiced look of indifference. A faint feeling of defensiveness rose in Clint before he pushed it away. These people had known Loki for years - centuries - longer than he had, and he was in no place to judge.

Next to him, the Álfar had observed the exchange as Clint had. His jaw was hooked. A troubled look touched his eyes before he tucked it away.

"It is good to see the second-son returned to Asgard's halls," Faradei finally said, and Clint blinked, picking up on the note of familiarity in his voice.

"Do you know him well?" Clint asked after a moment, curious. By his side, Darcy had leaned in too.

"Well enough," Faradei inclined his head. "Eir the Master-healer is sister-daughter to my father, and once Loki's powers proved to be beyond the teaching of Asgard's mages, he was sent to my father's house for fosterage for the time of ten winters."

Clint raised a brow. "There was no other . . ." he waved his hand in the universal gesture for sorcery, unsure how to roll their precise term for the art off of his tongue, "here who could teach him?"

Faradei smiled, inclining his head as he explained their ways to one new to their worlds. "Seiðrmanðr," he gave the term. "Nay, the Aesir are born to fire; steel and her ways. Their veins are dead to the elemental arts."

Understanding clicked into place, low and uncomfortable. Loki had to be born of ice, Cline assumed - having . . . Jötunn, was it, the stray term clicked - blood in his veins. He was not sure how common that knowledge was, so he merely nodded, processing what he was learning. Vaguely an old memory stirred; of reading Natasha's file for the first time, back when she had been called Natalia, stained in red and scratching with feeble nails for a grip in the world. He remembered holding his breath, his fingers loose upon the bow, unable to draw it tight, even as she turned . . .

"It is a long path," Faradei was still speaking when Clint tuned back to his words. "But it is a path that does our hearts well to see. More were those who looked on his fall with mourning than perhaps he will ever know." He shook his head, dismissing some thought much as Clint had his. "And yet," the prince's voice took on a tone of merriment, pushing aside the heavy thoughts of the past. "I wish to hear more of this land you hail from. Midgard," he said the name as if testing its syllables. "It has been too long since the gates to the Heart-realm have been open, and I am curious - is it true you ride beasts of steel, whom fly over air and sea and sky? And your music of metal and rock - how is it you convince these things without mouths to sing?"

Clint felt a smile split his face as he tried not to laugh in honest amusement, even as he looked to the side to see where Darcy had been processing what she learned the same as he.

Now, this, he could handle . . .

.

.

The feasting hall of Asgard gleamed as if it were something living; all bronze and gold and the rich earthiness of precious metal around her. In the air, the scents of a hundred delicacies mingled with the smoke from the roaring fire, burning openly in the far end of the hall. Though the smells were enticing, her stomach rolled ominously, warning her away from the food. Whether if it was from the rolling ache in her head, or from the more immediate stabbing of stress in her gut, she could not be sure.

Self-consciously, Jane held up a hand to her hair, making sure that the elaborate coil Frigg's ladies had arranged still stayed in place. She would be shocked if it hadn't - she had not used that much product since prom, and it would take an army to disturb a hair from its place. Even still, the gesture was an old, nervous one - an outlet for the energy she could feel building in her veins like poison.

Thankfully, whatever the maid had put into her hair wasn't made from bear fat, as she had first been told. It had taken her a dumb, open mouthed moment before she realized that Frigg spoke with a smile on her mouth - she was being teased in an effort to ease the stress from her shoulders, and it had worked, for the moment.

. . . for the moment.

Now, she was trying to remember the name of the Diar - Odin's circle of twelve lords who stood as Asgard's regional governors - as Thor introduced them. Inwardly, her heart skipped over the pesky rulership of Nornheimr, which was apart of Asgard's soil, yet separate from Asgard's rule. Kamilla was queen there, and she was currently talking to the Diar from the southern grasslands of Asgard - her neighbor, whom she got along with well enough, Thor said, but not as well as they should like. Underneath the Diar, there were dozens upon dozens of lords who presided over their holdings - and there was a circle of minor chieftains under that, who saw the individual villages and farmlands . . . they were not even in attendance, and yet Thor knew each and every one by name. As Jane would be expected to know.

And then, she hadn't even started trying to learn the peoples of Álfheimr - the light and the dark elves, at that - past King Gandalf, his queen, and their twelve sons.

Her head was throbbing, her temples alive as if with movement; but this time she knew the exact source of the pressure . . . and there was nothing she could do but learn what she had to learn, and learn it fast.

Stars were simple when compared to this, she thought. She knew their names and their constellations and their paths - heck, she had even learned their Aesir names at Heimdall's side - but the hustle and bustle of the court, the innermost workings of Thor's people . . . her mind was clamping down like a nervous freshman over a first exam, and she could not call her mind to her. It was stubborn and unruly, like a spoiled child, and it refused her summons to do its job and learn . . .

Her heartbeat was speeding up in her chest. She could not get it to slow.

Breathe, she told herself, just breathe. She would do her image - nor Thor's image, nor mankind's image - no good if she fainted dead away over stresses she built up in her own mind. But still, she reflected ruefully, it had been easier before. Before, she had came to the feast as a scientist, there for her mind and her work on the bridge. She had been asked questions about her work by those who truly wanted to know, and she had been able to answer with an ease and grace that she now felt far from her. Ask her about transdimensional travel through wormholes in time and space and she was good. Ask her about trade relations between the Diar of the harbor lands to the north and the Diar of the Trúfinr mountain providence . . .

She was lost.

Her only anchor in the sea of faces around her was Thor. He took his duties seriously, greeting this person and then the next with a smile and a kind remark about the listener's family. Though he may have been built for war - and flourished when there was a foe to face - he was raised for centuries to lead his people as their king, and he showed that now. She walked arm and arm with him, close enough to know of the tense muscles beneath her touch and the grim line that would touch his mouth as soon as they turned away from conversation. There was a near tangible thread of animosity in the air around them, staggering in its intensity. Her mouth was dry. When she wet her lips wih her tongue, she imagined that she could taste the black suspicion that blanketed the feast like smoke.

Loki, she thought with a pang.

Even though Thor had yet to speak to his brother that evening - leaving Loki to show his own strength, his own two feet - he glanced over at every chance he could manage. Beneath his fingertips, the thick muscles of his forearm were strained, as if he was holding back a blow. The dull fencing of words had never interested Thor, and while he could play the part his people needed him to play, he wanted nothing more than to silence every wagging tongue in the room by force. A time or two, Loki had caught Thor's eyes in return, and even with the boiling stain of his own agitation . . . he smiled. There was reassurance in the look, and that, more than anything else set Jane's mind at ease. Thor lost his rigid hold every time Loki looked at him, and Jane could only thank the other man for making it so.

In a strange way, Thor's own unease helped her manage her own. Normally, he was such a strength, such a force, and if she could be even the slightest of strengths to him in return . . .

There was something intoxicating about the thought. More than stars and crowns and lands unnumbered, and she . . .

She just needed to learn, she reasoned. And learn quickly at that. Quickly enough to decide . . .

Jane blinked against a wave of nausea that threatened to overtake her, looking down at her feet in order to stay the sudden swaying of the room. When she looked up, she saw Odin gazing unblinking upon her. He did not try to hide his stare, and she could not read the shape of his thoughts from his eye. A shiver went up and down her spine, like warning, but when she blinked, the moment was done and Odin had turned away from her.

Behind her temples, her migraine was pulsing. For a moment, she could not breathe.

"Air," she said on a shaky exhale when Thor looked down on her in concern. Her grip over his arm had turned white at the fingertips. "I need air."

Thor did not say anything, instead he turned her to one of the exits that led to the gardens beyond. There were quite a few pairs who had sought the relative privacy of the outer grounds, and Thor wove through them to an abandoned alcove, made private by a shelter of vines and stone on one side and a gently bubbling waterfall that fed into the stream below it. Jane sucked in deep, calming breathes as Thor waited for her, trying to control the suddenly restless beating of her heart. Her stomach heaved as if in warning. Her temples ached past her ability to explain. It did not feel like stress anymore, she admitted sickly.

Thor's look had taken on an edge of worry, but she could not explain with her tongue so thick in her mouth. "I know that Lord Asgrim is long winded, but I did not think him to be this offensive," he tried to lighten the tight set of her features. But even his own smile was forced. He rubbed soothing circles on her back, unsure of where her ailment laid.

She sucked in a breath, and forced her body into some semblance of stillness. "It was not that," she managed to say between her teeth. "I'd take Lord Asgrim's talks of the proper way to hunt wild boar all night over this."

Thor raised a brow. Some distant corner of her brain smiled at the look - it was one straight from Loki's arsenal, and she wondered who had adopted the look from who after their centuries together.

"If you wish," Thor's voice turned grave, heavy with the weight of his concern. "We can retire for the evening."

Jane waved a hand, sinking down to sit on one of intricately carved benches that framed the alcove. Thor took a seat next to her. Her breathing was very loud on the night air, keeping time with the trickling of the stream behind them. The smell of the late blooms in the air teased at her nose, turning her stomach.

"No," she finally said in answer. "You are on Earth all too often as of late, and I would not keep you from your people now."

He reached over to take her hands in his. They swallowed her grip, and she looked down at the sight, entranced as always. She was just so small when compared to him . . . in more ways than one.

"My people keep time differently than yours," Thor said gently. "The throne is secure, my father's reign is without dispute - there is nothing to keep me from dallying with your people for as long as I may."

For the rest of my life? she thought, but did not say. Suddenly, the pounding in her head did not seem so severe when compared to the ache that settled on her chest. An ache not of the body, but of the heart.

Thor's look softened, hearing the unspoken, and when her breath came easier from her lungs, he gently coaxed her to her feet. "Come," he said. "There is something I would show to you."

He drew her deeper into the gardens, past the familiar paths she had explored and known so far. They past tiered falls, and glittering streams and artfully arranged hedges until they came to what looked like a stone wall. She came to a stop, ready to turn when Thor gripped her hand tighter and drew her forward. She trusted him, knowing of the mysticism of his world, and walked through the wall with no resistance. They passed the barrier - at least, that was what she assumed it was when it flickered blue and green around them - before stepping into an orchard she had not seen before.

Though the gardens they had left had been cold with the last bite of autumn in the air, the air around them was as warm as summer, untouched by the chill beyond. The grass underfoot was a shade of green like light and life and growing things; green even with the silver and blue play of the cosmos above shining down on them all. The trees in the grove were immaculately pruned, their great boughs crowned with still green leaves. She could smell the apples that hung from the branches even before she could see the fruit - small, perfectly formed orbs of gold that gleamed in the starlight. She reached a hand out to the branch nearest to her, and traced a curious finger over the flesh of one of the apples, feeling it supple and smooth underhand. This was . . .

"The groves of Idunn," Thor said, a warm look touching his gaze as he turned to face her.

"Idunn," she repeated the name. "The ever-young?"

"You have heard of her then?" Thor leaned forward, interested.

Jane shrugged. "I know a story about a giant, a nut, and a falcon, but I'm not sure how close that is to what really happened."

Thor raised a brow. "Closer than you would think," he said, a slight smile tugging at his mouth as she let the apple go. He stepped closer to her, taking both of her hands in his own as he spoke. "These are the fruits that gave to my people their immortality. When the firstborn of my people were created from Buri's blood, they slaked their hunger in this grove, and from the succor of these apples they were given many years. While that gift is passed on through blood now rather than the consumption of these apples, there are times when Idunn's yield is used to grant long life to those who gain my father's favor. A few sons of men have earned such a thing in days gone by. My father even once took the ichor from Idunn's trees and mixed that with the ashes of the Deathless Moon of Múspellsheimr in order to create a legion of soldiers to fight in the war against Jötunnheimr. But, that is a story for another time."

Immortality. Jane felt an odd lurching in her chest, knowing what he was going to say even as he continued. "This fruit here was the first litteral fruit of Yggdrasil the Great Tree. They are symbolic of her deathlessness - for even should her roots be burned from her as prophesy says, she shall never truly die. And thus, neither shall we. While we can be killed as any living thing can be slain, our spirits are immortal, and they shall find their path even beyond this life. Mankind too shares in this gift - for even though you live few years, your spirits continue on in an endless cycle. You have one of these old souls beneath your flesh, my Jane, this I truly believe."

Before, even just a few short years ago, she would have heard such talk, and laughed in dismissal. The spirit and death - neither could be explained by science, as much as first breathes and life could be explained by numbers and fact. So she had left them unexplored, instead turning her eyes to the stars; equally inexplicable to some, but she had felt a connection from her earliest years, and to think that that had all been by design, that she had a soul long inclined to the heavens and their search . . .

She could not say that she did not believe it, not when she had so much proof as to the mystical and the uncanny before her now.

She drew in a shaky breath. Thor tightened his hands about her own, as if preparing to take a great leap. The touch was gentle for him, but for her it turned her skin white from the pressure. She could feel the calluses from a millennia of warfare against her skin, such as she would never know or ever hope to understand, and now . . .

"Now our people do not partake of Idunn's fruitage except at the most solemn of occasions, but for you, my Jane . . . you could partake of years equal to mine, if you would agree to do so."

"Are you asking me . . ." she could not complete the thought. It was unfathomable against her mind.

"Forever, my Jane," Thor breathed. "I am asking forever of you."

Forever . . .

Forever.

It was such a word that she, with the mortality of her mind, could not truly comprehend. It was a word without ending, a word that meant changing the very core of herself into something different, altering the very make of her being to stop the hands of time and pause the inevitable decay of humankind. It was a word that meant watching everyone she knew and cared for - Erik, Darcy . . . Darcy grow old and die. It meant watching their children and their children's children live and love and age as well. She would watch, separate from it all.

Already the thought filled her with such a pain. In an abstract moment, she understood why contact between immortals and mortalkind was few and far between. It was a protection to those who knew many years, loosing again and again and again . . .

Could she do that? she wondered. Could she really . . .

She knew she loved Thor. Of that, she held no doubt in her heart. What had been a fast and intense attraction formed over the span of two days - where normally it took her weeks to even decide if she wanted to go to dinner with a guy - had spun her through the heavens trying to find a way back to him to see if there was anything more to the wild beating of her heart when she was with him. Now, after a more proper courtship, she knew him well enough to know her own heart and feelings on the matter - and she knew that she loved him so very dearly. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. But, to spend the rest of his life . . . to be queen to a race of gods when the time came . . .

Queen . . .

Queen.

In some ways, that word was more foreign than forever. She was little old Jane Foster, simple scholar and down to earth woman. She never had such grand ambitions before, and she had never entertained them even when she grew closer and closer to Thor. She was not made to rule. She hadn't the first clue of what to do, and his people - what would they say to a tiny mortal mind reigning in their highest seat? Was that what Asgard deserved? Was that the queen Thor needed at his side? Was she truly?

Could she live to see even the stars burn out and then burn again?

The thought filled her with equal amounts of fear and wonder, and for a moment she could not breathe.

Answering the race to her heart and the hitch to her breath, her temples seemed to throb with a renewed intensity. But, there was something different this time. Jane was saved from answering when she took her hands from Thor's in order to cradle her head. The ache in her temples was screaming, while a sensation of fingers rifling through her thoughts nearly took the breath from her. This was worse . . . far worse than anything she had felt so far, and she felt a hiccup of concern over the intensity she felt. But, worse than the sensation of searching claws was the voice she could suddenly hear . . . whispering through the back of her mind like an unsettling thought, a deep unease.

She listened, and she could hear it ever so faintly, speaking in a tongue she could not understand. A tongue that she had yet to hear, even on Thor's world . . .

"Jane? What is wrong?" nearly instantly, he picked up on her unease.

"My head," when she forced the words out, they were small. Childlike. She could not speak around the voice in her mind.

For a moment, Thor looked like he knew not what to do against the intangible. This was no foe he could face with steel and fists, she could read the thought plainly across his face, but he schooled himself a moment later, and took her hands again. "Come," he said. "It is time to seek Eir."

"Really," she protested in a voice that sounded weak to her own ears. "That's not necessary."

"This has been going on for too long," Thor said, drawing her back though the barrier again. "Your mortal healers have had their chance, and they have failed. I will not see you suffer as such any longer."

In her mind, the black voice muttered, but every time Jane tried to reach for it, it dissolved into laughter. It was beyond her grasp, infuriatingly so, for this was her mind, hers. And she . . .

"Come," Thor said again, urging her faster, and Jane tried her best to keep up lest he decide to carry her back - and wouldn't that be a sight to the Aesir? Thor and the weak mortal girl he would have be their queen . . .

In her mind, the voice sounded in laughter again, and she felt a real bolt of worry lance through her. And fear . . .

Unable - and unwilling - to argue him any further, she squeezed his hand, and followed where he led.

Chapter Text

Never, even in his worst memories of home, did Loki remember Asgard closing in about him like a fist.

There was not enough air in the room around him, no matter how wide and open the space was above him. The sea was too loud as it sloshed in its cradle beyond; the stars were mocking as they called down from their perch. And the whispers . . .

They crawled up and down his skin like ants. He felt them as they bit; felt as the skin between his shoulderblades itched when his back was turned. They were heavy in shape, and underneath them, he could not breathe . . .

. . . fallen . . . traitor . . . false . . . undeserving . . .

He felt claustrophobic, increasingly on edge for how he could not run, how he could not flee. He could not even turn to the shadows as he had in his childhood days when the feasts turned too long and the room was just so hot around him. Now, he could only stand with his head held up tall, and ignore. Now, he could only stand and plaster a smile of the court to his mouth . . . how could he do anything else when Odin's eye saw all . . . when Thor watched him with such a hope . . . Sif with such a longing?

At the last thought, he felt the air turn tight around him, but for an entirely different reason.

Sif had . . . she had asked the master of the feast to announce her alongside him, their names given on the same breath . . . together. Further solidifying her claim had been her coming to feast not in the colours of wine and silver - the colors of the house of Týr, but rather, in shades of the darkest green and bronze. Colours that, had she been his bride and avowed one, would have been hers to wear in fealty and submission.

Now . . .

The first time he had seen her that evening, his mouth had gone dry. Instead of the familiar, simple gowns she normally wore to the feast - which still managed to be metalic shades that clenched and clicked into place about her body like armor - she wore a gown made of a soft, Álfish weave. Smooth and formfitting, the sleeves left her right soulder bare while a golden clasp shaped like a serpant held a long fall of fabric that she had tossed back over her left shoulder to touch the ground below as she walked. The bust was fitted, a large band of bronze and dulled gold armor fitting the gown to her waist before falling into layers of gracefully spilling fabric to make the skirt. The yards of thin fabric gave her the illusion of swaying rather than walking, and the green shone next to her ivory skin and emphasized the blackness of her hair . . .

She claimed me, he realized stupidly as she offered him her arm when he was too dumb to take it. During the years they had carried on their affair away from the eyes of the court, his name had been marginally clear. He had still been a son of Odin, and there would have been a victory in a public affirmation of their bond. But she had been silent, and those centuries had passed. Now, she made to claim him when his name was black and drawn low next to whispers like viper and liar and false. Now she stood by him as a sword and shield both, and he . . .

Perhaps even worse than the whispers was Sif's strength. Thor's hope. Odin's silent watching. He could not disappear underneath the weight of them; it was his to stay and hold his head up tall when all he wanted was to let the shadows swallow him - for centuries, if need be - before reappearing on some forgotten moon and living out the rest of his days in peace.

He reached up a hand to rub at his temples, considering casting a charm to limit the murmurs of the crowd to a dull war. A self punishing part of him refused, knowing that, while spoken mainly in ignorance, there was truth in many of the words, and he did deserve . . .

But his thoughts were drawn up short when he came up to one of Thor's companions in the crowd.

A faint, half-smile touched his mouth then. It was a stroke of wisdom on Frigg's - his mother's, he forced his mind to accept - part, inviting the mortal heroes when he was presented to the feast for the first time since his pardon. The attention of the crowd was now split; the gossiping courtiers unsure if they wanted to linger on he and his return, or the novelty of Thor's companions.

In the end, they settled for both, and Loki plastered a bored expression on his face while telling himself that Thor would be disappointed if he cast a double to stand in the corner all evening while he himself took his leave. Before, the thought would have filled him with bitter annoyance. Now, it simply kept his feet still.

Also a calculated move on Frigg's part was Álfheimr being called to dine in Glaðsheimr. Loki had spent a great deal of time in his formative years learning the arts of seiðr beneath Gandalf's own roof, and he knew he had allies enough in the high houses there. If not allies, then he had those who looked on a return to grace on his part with a hopeful gaze. It cut through the river of the Aesir's doubt and barely concealed disdain like water through rock, curbing the whispers with hope.

Well played, he thought, looking to where Frigg stood by her husband's side with a glow to her gaze that was there for all to see. She fairly beamed from the high seat above the crowd, and at that too Loki knew another weight on his shoulders – one that was all expectations and reversal and to fall now would be then end of you, you do understand that, right?

At his fingertips, the shadow's beckoned . . . It would be so easy to give in, he knew, to slip away and disappear. He was just so tired, as of late, and he wanted . . .

To add on to the weight of the night, Álfhiemr brought with them the taste of magic and the touch of sieðr in the air. The hum of the elemental arts hovered about him, tickling at his skin with unkind fingertips. Where the company of the Álfar was normally soothing, calming the hum of the Mother in his own soul, there had to be an untrained seiðrmanðr in attendence, for Loki could feel a raw power coiling on his skin like a live wire. The scent of untamed seiðr snagged at his senses, tangling with his own might to settle in his nose as a smell that he could only describe as rotting flowers.

He held a hand to his temple, trying to shut away the touch of the other enchanter. But the touch was strong, and it was an uphill battle he was fighting.

At least, he thought as he made his way through the gathering, he was not the only one unsettled by the crowd around him.

While the Man of Iron had taken to the crowds like fish to water, taking in the alien and the surreal with an impressive adaptability (this he admitted begrudgingly), the doctor - Banner, Loki reminded himself - had kept to the edges of the room for the whole of the evening. His gaze was carefully blank, taking note of the exits and lingering away from the guards with their tall spears and sun-yellow finery. Interesting too, Loki noted, was that his look was born of nervousness so much as it was of an animal's cautiousness. It was a look that was mirrored on the Lady Widow's face, who too had walked the perimeter and seen what Bruce had seen.

Interesting, he finally decided, his mind weaving together stray facts and tendrils of information to reveal a more complete picture.

Very interesting indeed.

Loki let the current of the crowd take him to the other, coming from behind and saying, "If you are interested, I could recommend several alcoves in which one may go unseen."

He watched as Bruce's shoulder's stiffened. He had not noticed his approach. But the Doctor relaxed a heartbeat later. There was a slanted smile on his mouth, but it did not quite reach his eyes. Loki had startled him, but even with the Mother's touch upon his viens, he presented no threat that the other had to fear.

Instead, Bruce tilted his head to him like an equal. His torso was inclined towards him, his body turned at an angle. Loki wondered if the challenge in his body language was intentional or not. Before, he had made it his aim to know anything and everything that would set the more animalistic half of the good doctor's mind down the path that would suit his goals, but now . . .

"If I could not trust myself in a crowd, I would not be here." When Bruce spoke, he showed his teeth. There was a bit of the sardonic to his voice, but it was wry in tone.

Loki raised a brow in reply. "Indeed," he muttered, remembering just how he had to twist and push at times to show the beast's true face. But . . . that was then. This was now. And now . . . He schooled his features, and called upon his best passive expression. He tilted his head to the right, not offering his throat to the beast, but letting him know of his intentions nonetheless. "Perhaps you would think it impudent of me, and yet, I wish to ask . . . How is your control coming?" Was it still a thin rope, holding a mountain? Loki wanted to say, but did not. If it was, he would not be ignoring the invitation written so clearly in the Lady Widow's eyes . . . The games played by those with too few years to play them, Loki wondered in private, truly baffled by mankind once more.

"Why do you want to know?" The doctor did not even bother letting his suspicion color his voice. It was written without words in his eyes. Instead, there was curiosity in the tone of his words, and that Loki could use.

"Would it matter?" he evaded the question. He watched as Bruce shuffled from foot to foot. "I know when to poke slumbering dragons and when to let them lie. I ask, because I have some experience with the brumimmir's arts, and my knowledge may prove to be of some use to you."

Bruce's brows raised above his glasses. He looked like he wished to smile. "The brummimir's arts?" Bruce repeated. "Shape shifting?" he translated.

"Quite," Loki inclined his head.

"So . . . the story about the horse?" Bruce tilted his head. "That is . . ." he waved a hand, unable to complete his thought.

Loki breathed out though his nose, looking up at the ceiling in his exasperation. "How that skald got a hold of that particular bit of idiocy, I shall never know."

The eyebrow rose higher. "Then it is . . . true?" Bruce asked.

"Parts," Loki replied, his eyes flashing in a dare as he gave a crooked grin.

Instead of taking the bait, Bruce just chuckled. He lifted his glasses with one hand to rub at his eyes with the other, and as he settled the spectacles back into place, he switched gears, answering the original question in a way that said he had been considering his answer throughout the whole of their conversation. "My control is . . . tenuous, at best," he admitted. "If Tony pokes me with a stylus, I can take it. Now, anything more . . ." he shrugged. "The worst is when I am unconscious, I have no control then whatsoever. And in highly stressed situations, that is when I would need control the most."

Again, his eyes turned towards the crowd. Loki did not need to look to know where they fell.

Most interesting . . . There was only one reason Loki knew that the other man would even begin to discuss this with him. Perhaps, subconsciously, it was an act of desperation, for he did want control, and he had exhausted all of his means to achieve it. But now . . .

Loki watched the doctor as he turned his eyes back, and knew what he wanted to do.

"There are those with the brummimir's arts who have only one animal form they may call," Loki said. "For the most part, it is because their soul is half of that second being. That form merely sleeps underneath their own skin, and so it is a real transformation when they change shapes - not like the illusions that I can call. You may find something of use in their arts . . . for this . . . Other, is apart of you . . . As much as you may, at times, feel him as an intruder beneath your skin." He looked, and thought he could see a shadow of green in Bruce's brown eyes. Bruce was not the only one interested in what he had to offer, and if Loki was correct in his theories . . .

Time would tell, he finally decided. And, if he was wrong . . .

Well, he would simply need to run very fast, and hope that he could stay out of the damage path that would come as a result.

"What are we talking about here?" Bruce finally asked, his voice wary. "Breathing exercises? Yoga? A bag of alien weed?"

"Something like that," Loki gave vaguely.

Bruce crossed his arms. His right hand came to touch his chin thoughtfully. Loki twined his hands behind his back, and let him consider.

"If I take you up on this," Bruce said carefully, shaping each word deliberately. "And you are up to something . . . you do know that I will not be held responsible for whatever follows?"

"Believe me when I say that I understand that better than most," Loki replied, his voice distracted as he watched the other. He narrowed his eyes as Bruce rubbed underneath his glasses again. On the air, the scent of rotten flowers grew. Loki could taste the magick like a choking weed . . .

He leaned forward, peering at the Bruce's eyes when his hands fell away. "Doctor, are you well?" Loki asked, an uneasy feeling rising in him.

"Never better," Bruce muttered as he blinked deliberately, as if trying to clear his eyes of a haze. "Why do you ask?"

Warning was like an ember in his gut, fanned higher, and yet -

- his attention was turned when a strong hand reached out to take his own.

"Forgive me, but I need to steal your companion away," Sif's voice was low from her mouth; any louder, and it would have been a snarl. Bruce blinked in surprise, but stepped back, his hands held up in meek surrender.

"He's all yours," he said, his eyes glittering, a knowing there that pulled the corner of his mouth into a smirk. Loki wasn't quite sure he liked the shape of the look, but did not have any more time to consider it as Sif tugged him off in the direction she wanted him to go. Her stride was bold and battle-strong. He could taste the urge to war like iron on his tongue. Sif's eyes were flames. Her ire licked against the bonds of his own control, setting his teeth on edge. "I fear that I may do something violent," she said. "I need your assistance to calm."

"And for this end you sought me out?" Loki tried to tease, but the words came out forced from his tongue. Her hand tightened about his wrist. Her fingertips would leave bruises, he knew.

Her eyes narrowed upon him. His humor had not been appreciated, but, if anything, her own unease and snapping temper had a way of putting his own at ease. He breathed in through his nose, and forced himself to calm. He forced himself to be liquid where she was fire and flame without an outlet - war without a call to arms. Right then she was the coiled anger of armies on opposite sides of the field of battle, waiting for the flag to fall. He felt her short nails dig into his skin, and could hear drumbeats.

"Hrodgæir looked quite put out when he left," Sif said instead of answering him. Her voice was a blow, waiting.

He did not give her a reason to war. "He spoke where he should have been silent. He shall learn eventually," Loki's grin was unkind. But Hrodgæir was an old foe, an old battle, and this was not the first time that Loki had thought more . . . creative measures understandable for the fight at hand.

Sif raised a brow. "What did you do?" There was no censure in her voice. An understanding dwelt there, perhaps . . . and a hint of sullenness that she was not the one to put the other man to silence.

Loki let his teeth show. "I spoke a simple rune over his wine. He will awaken with quite the rash tomorrow. It shall itch horribly."

She tilted her head. If she tried to show exasperation, it died a quick death on her face. "Shall it heal?" she asked instead.

Loki rolled his shoulders. "Not without intervention. But Eir knows a potion to reverse the effects, and she shall not betray my name."

"Mischief-maker," she sighed, but there was affection in the name – satisfaction, too. While not the punishment she wished for Hrodgæir, it would have to do. In a decade or two, she would be able to taunt him into the ring again, and there she would take a more fitting token, as befitted War. The thought made Loki smile as Sif continued to lead him.

In the end, she pulled him to the center of the hall, where the floor was full of dancing couples, all spinning before the musicians that played to the side of the high table. She needed movement, he understood. She could not carve out ruin with her fingertips, not now, but she could take this ounce of blood to slake her thirst. She was not made for stillness in that moment.

"Unfortunately, I cannot call a plague upon them all," he tilted his head, smiling as she drew him straight to the center of the dancing. She held her head up tall as he placed a hand at her waist. The hand in his own made a fist. Her jaw hooked, even as her eyes narrowed over his shoulder, daring any to comment on her choice of partner. Though she could scarce feel him through the metal at her waist, he moved his fingers in small circles, soothing.

The first step of the dance was a soldier's march. He matched her blow for blow.

"Most unfortunately," Sif gave her belated reply, her breath low in his ear. She lingered low and intimately as they spun, knowing that every eye turned to them as they moved. Black and black, green and green, pale skin and that even paler still. He knew they cut a striking couple, War and Trickery so entwined, and for a moment he could not swallow around the lump in his throat. "They have always scorned your words," Sif said, more to herself than to him. "And your actions too they would sneer at."

The music was slow and easy, a lover's song. He felt her cheek rest against his. She danced, keeping an easy time with the beat, following his lead. Her body was a slow arch in reply to the sound of the harps on the air. Any who looked would know the truth for the telling – for bodies did not lie, and she moved with his with the ease of long familiarity. She brushed her fingers over his back, she tilted her head so that she shared his breath. His pulse had sped to match her own, a rapid cadence that was not all unease and discontent, but rather heat and wanting. Too long, he thought as his hold on her tightened, as the dance became something else between them – something more. Too long indeed.

"And yet . . ." He could feel the shape of her smile against his skin as she whispered, "Where you cannot use your words, perhaps I can offer you a sword instead?"

He raised a brow, not understanding. His thoughts were moving slowly, their normally sharp points covered in a warm haze. There was only the movement, and the music like war drums and Sif -

- and then he understood. For scarcely a heartbeat later, and she was kissing him in full view of every staring eye. She wound both of her arms around his neck in order to pull him down to her, not allowing him to draw away in surprise as she made her claim for all to see. And then he did not want to draw away, for she was warm and tangible and Sif before him, and he thought only of the years and the time spent apart and being two where they had been one . . .

Where he would have merely brushed his lips against her own, she turned it into something more. Something consuming. It was a lover's kiss as her teeth scraped and her tongue thrust forward to dominate his own. It was war as Sif smiled and Sif claimed, and he surrendered . . .

She would have me, he thought stupidly as she drew away. His thoughts swam in disbelief - as if he had not had proof enough before him before. The music had ended, but Sif had still not stepped away. Her eyes were warm and full on his own before they looked beyond – taking in the stares and gaping mouths with both pride and no uncertain challenge.

Loki looked too, and was surprised at what he saw. A few understanding glances from amongst the Álfar. A half-smile on the Lady Widow's face – and one more unrestrained on the archer's mouth. Tony's low whistle broke the silence, loud in the sudden absence of sound. Frigg looked on them warmly, and Loki felt his face flush. She knew, a small voice whispered. She has known for a time, he admitted, and he let his look linger on her before turning away. Sif had still not left his arms, even as another dance started, the couples shaking off their surprise and hiding their whispers as they started to move again.

And Loki moved to match. The flute picked up a faster beat. It was a structured dance, with clapping hands and choreographed steps, trading off partners as those watching stamped their feet and gave their chanting voices to the song of the feast. What had at first been a way to quell anxious energy suddenly became something enjoyable as the rhythm sounded behind his heart. When had last he danced for merriment? he wondered. When had he last danced, and known joy? He could not remember.

Sif was smiling too – a bright and breathless look that he had not seen in too many years to count. Her smile brightened and widdened, even as Loki handed her off to Volstagg for the next spin in the music. The strong-man wore a smile on his face, even as Loki took Illna's hand from him, and they danced their set before reclaiming their partners again. The dance spun and spun and spun, and before Loki knew it, he was taking a small white hand in his own and pulling the woman handed to him to his side.

The hand tightened in a familiar shape of fingers about his own, and Loki had only a second's warning before his partner greeted, "It is good to see you returned to the feast, Loki."

Sigyn.

The warm voice was a familiar one, coming from a painted mouth that smiled in easy invitation. He looked, taking in the elegant braids of her honey coloured hair, the gown of star-silk that clung to and draped her body in turns, dazzling in its simple beauty. Her eyes reflected the light of the feast, and irrationally Loki felt a stab of panic, even as he spied out the flash of green through the dancing couples.

"Lady Grímarsdottir," Loki greeted, hating the pause that forced them to stand still as others danced around them. The clapping hands and stomping feet matched the sudden tattoo of his heart against his chest.

"Please, my lord, you need not be so formal if you wish not to be," Sigyn's smile was real and open, and Loki felt a tightening in his chest as he remembered Odin introducing them as children. Your bride to be, the Allfather had said. He remembered the days he had spent getting to know her - long afternoons talking of books and philosophy, and then a fumbled, stolen kiss in the armory as he tried find a spark in his veins. But for all of his liking – Sigyn's quick mind and easy manner making for a fine enough companion – he had never once felt a stirring of passion for her. He had never once felt consumed.

She would have made an equal for him, he thought. She would have been a fine wife and a worthy mother, but she would not have swallowed his soul. He never would have felt the urge to war with her – both with and against, and he knew that he would have tired of her had they bound themselves together. He was not cruel enough to bind a woman with such a vow, no matter the promise between their fathers, and he had fallen away from her even as he grew closer with Sif. And now . . .

"Milady Sigyn," he inclined his head, meeting her wishes half-way. Even the smallest of boons felt as a betrayal. He looked, and saw narrowed eyes and green fabric flutter through the crowd. He exhaled.

"The years have treated you well," she said, a twinkling at her eyes letting him know of her true meaning, and he felt his mouth stretch. A blade she would be by the side of he who claimed her hand, he thought. But not a blade as he needed it.

"I could say the same for you," he returned. For Grímarr had been slow in Odin's graces, last he had heard, and the advisor's stung pride would have been well assuaged by such a match for his daughter. Even as the dance picked up again, and Loki took Sigyn's hand, he could see Grímarr watching them from the crowd. Grímarr was a tall, lithe man, with dark grey hair swept back from the high line of his hair to fall straight and unadorned about his shoulders. He had sharp features - almost avian in shape, with a beak of a nose and the sharp eyes of a hawk. Handsome as the edge of a blade was beautiful to look upon, he now watched them dance now with a low, hungry look in his sea-green eyes, and Loki stared back openly. In the air around him, the scent of rotten flowers grew, cutting through his concentration.

He was not the only one who had notied Grímarr's gaze. Sigyn stood up straighter beneath her father's regard, squaring her jaw even as she tried again. "Many have been the whispers about your time away from the First Realm," she said to start.

"And many are true," he did not deny.

"So you are to be blamed for last year's lackluster yield from the fields?" she teased. "Your presence too caused Lord Gronn's horse to throw his shoe yestereve? The blame is to be yours for the tear in Lady Aud's gown before the feast began?"

Loki shrugged. "It ruins the mystery if I am to tell all of my secrets."

"And yet, know that there were those who were glad to hear of your return," she said softly. Her hand tightened about his own as if she were gathering herself. She would not look again at her father, and Loki did not find Grímarr's gaze either. For Sif was glaring out Hel-fire as the dance brought them closer again, holding him in her gaze. Loki raised a brow at her, uneasy in the situation he had found himself in - an entirely new situation, if he were completely honest with himself. For he had never been Thor with his admirers, nor Fandral with his conquests. He had never truly been sought out, and he had never set his eyes to seek. Perhaps it was strange for a people of so many years to love once and only once, but he had never found the need for more past the arms he had found. Sif was a force, he knew, but he was more than ready to spend the rest of his years as a center in her storm.

The dance turned, and he counted, waiting -

- before a new hand took his own, cutting through the pattern of the dance to free him from his hold with the other woman. He looked down – and down - to find a pair of piercing grass green eyes staring back at him from a pale, freckled face. The small woman had a mop of red curls atop her head, twisted back into what could be called a courtier's coif if he had to give it a name. Still, the knot of hair gave off more wildness than elegance. Amused, Loki raised a brow at the middle-strand of the Morrígan's three fold cord, taken aback, but not completely surprised as Macha began spinning him towards Sif again.

The woman was shorter than her sisters, the top of her head just barely brushing Loki's shoulder. It was hard to lead her through the dance's steps when he had to stoop so, but Macha didn't seem to mind his lack of grace. Instead, her smile was slanted on her face; the hand she rested on his back perhaps went just low enough to be teasing.

Sure enough, amusement shone bright and teasing in the horse-woman's eyes when she spoke. "You looked like you needed an escape, Odinson," she said, her gravelly voice bright with her mirth.

"You have no idea," Loki muttered wryly, shifting to catch her hand before she could move it any lower down his back. If anything, Macha looked even more amused as she flexed her fingers in her grip.

"An old flame?" she pried.

"You may say so," he gave.

Macha raised a brow, watching where Sigyn still watched them from the edge of the dance. She didn't say anything further on the other woman as they came closer to the line of observers in the crowd. Near the forefront of those gathered were two more familiar faces; the other two strands of the Morrígan's three-fold cord. He looked at Annan, who was first. The eldest sister held a shepard's staff in hand, but her mahogony colored hair was up in an elegant coif, a simple gown of rough fabric worn in defference to the feast around her. Badb, the youngest, kept her red-black hair straight and loose around the broad line of her shoulders, and wore her thick armor even still. Her ashen skin was turned a dull shade of yellow underneath the lights of Asgard, and never before had she looked more like battlefield-death to Loki than she did then.

"What brings the daughters of War to Odin's hearth this eve?" Loki asked. On the air, the faint tremmor of dissonance, of not belonging grew. It strummed at his skin like fingers, prickling and awake.

In reply, the horse-woman's eyes were tired and drawn, and instantly Loki felt unease curl against his spine. All was not right, he knew as Macha gave up the pretense of dancing entirely as Sif came to their side, her brow raised a question. Loki took her hand in his, even as he pressed his other hand against his brow, trying to stem the pressure that was steadily growing there. In the air around him, the scent of rotten flowers grew. The untamed power in the air licked at his senses, stronger when he stood so near to War and her daughters.

Loki was not the only one to take notice of their guests. "Milady Morrígan!" Thor called, his voice rumbling like storm-noise as he made his way over from where he had just returned from the gardens, Jane at his side. "How good you join us to feast this eve! Indeed, I did not know that my father called you from your moon. Truly, this is the best of things to have you with us."

Annan's smile was small in reply. It did not touch her eyes. Loki looked, and saw the white knuckles over the staff of her hook. The lines around her immortal eyes were tired. At her side, even flame-tongued Macha was silent. The look she gave to her first was steeped in a real worry. All was not right that eve.

Loki stepped forward, suddenly restless with the threat he could feel in his bones.

"My lord Odinson," Annan bowed her head to Thor. "Your welcome touches me, but I am afraid that we have not come for the feast of Odin."

Thor's great brow crinkled. He did not understand. "Is all well?" he asked, picking up on the near tangible feeling of dread the Three wore in the air. Loki felt spells gather at his fingers, but to what end, he was not sure. All he knew was that something was not right. Something was off. He could taste it on his tongue. He could feel it as it built.

At Thor's side, Jane was pale. The warm color of her eyes was cold and ashen. She hung on to Thor's arm, not as his lady, but rather to keep herself upright. Around her, the scent of wild magic grew. It turned as in decay.

"I am afraid not," Annan answered Thor. "We bear news for your father. There has been -"

But her next words were cut off by the sound of Heimdall's horn from beyond. All in attendance looked up at the sound; some exclaiming audibly at the Gatekeeper's call to arms. An enemy approached Asgard's borders from the byway, the horn said. Someone dared to attack the First Realm from its own bridge.

Loki felt the feeling of wrongness rise to a fever-pitch in his mind. For a moment, a dead wind howled through his mind, sweeping, searching . . .

And before him, Jane's eyes rolled back in her head. The dead wind came as an exhale from her mouth, and she crumbled to the floor. Startled, Thor swept forward, catching her as she fell. He knelt down with her, startled as consciousness parted from her. "Jane?" he asked, even as a gasp came from further on in the crowd. Loki looked, and saw where Bruce had fallen the same as Jane. In the air around him, the untamed magic all but howled before giving, collapsing in on itself.

"Jane!" Thor exclaimed, patting her cheek to try to restore her to consciousness. But her eyes were unopened. Her pulse was fast and her breath was drawn, even as the Einherjar gathered their arms, the guards assembling - both to control the crowd and to march on the bridge beyond.

"Leave her to Eir," Odin's command cut through the crowd as he came to stand by his son. In Odin's wake, Frigg pushed past, kneeling down to look over Jane. "We are needed."

"The bifröst," Loki muttered, closing his eyes against the backlash of power that still loitered on the air. Thor looked down at Jane, and then at his brother, even as Eir made her way through the crowd. "Brother, leave her to the Healer. If Jane's work is -"

"Yes," Thor cut him off, rising unsteadily to his feet as Heimdall's horn sounded again. Not lightly would the Gatekeeper give his call, they all knew, and there was no time to loose. "I hear, and I answer."

Gently, Thor handed Jane to his mother and the Healer. His large hand lingered at the curve of her cheek before he stood, the storms raging in his eyes. Loki stood, gathering himself before falling into step behind his brother. Sif took up her march at his side as Thor's mortal companions fell into step, bristling and angry behind them – the call to War raging in them all.

And beyond them, the Gatekeeper's horn continued to sound.

Chapter Text

Heimdall's Observatory was still crawling with shadows by the time they reached the bridge, their weapons drawn.

Over the walls, ghostly creatures screamed in reckless abandon, their talons grasping for purchase on the bronze colored walls. The clawed and struggled for handholds and footholds, and yet it was no use.

"Heimdall," Odin's voice was a thunderclap, more powerful than even Thor's. "Who made their way through?"

"Draugr," the Gatekeeper did not blink as he gave his reply. He twisted his sword in its sheath, and the chamber rumbled ominously. But no more of the creatures made their way through. Their cries still echoed from the cosmos beyond. "They were caught in the shadows from the Álfar's travels."

"How?" this time, Odin spoke in an incredulous whisper.

"They moved past my Sight," Heimdall said. His hands flexed once about the hilt of his sword, the only sign he would give as to how disturbing the truth of his words was to him. "They walked where I could not see them go."

"Draugr?" Thor echoed. "But they have been asleep since the Great War. What you say passes the realm of reason, Gatekeeper."

Loki was silent as to Thor's words, instead looking at Odin's face. Sif watched the exchange, hating that the Allfather did not blink, that he did not look on her brother's words as surprise.

"Fine, I'll bite," Clint said from the back of the group. He was thrumming the string of his bow as if it were a harper's instrument with his restless energy – he having come upon a fight where there was no enemy to grant blows to. "What are draugr?"

"Undead Viking spirits," Tony was the one to answer Clint's question. He spoke as if reciting the information from rote. He blinked at the looks he received. "What?" he asked defensively. "Didn't anyone else do their research?"

"Quite," Thor gave after a moment, "but not quite the way your stories would tell the tale." He was moving his weight from foot to foot, unable to hold still when he wished for action – for results. Sif felt her heart clench when she thought of the Lady Jane with her eyes closed and her body boneless, her breath still as if in death . . . She clenched her own fist about her shield, sharing her friend's pain as her own. Her shield pulsed softly, whispering of foul magicks and tainted things . . . She could taste the cloying stink of dead flowers on her tongue. Her nose ached with the stench. "During the Great War, Odin breathed life into the soil of the Deathless Moon – a barren world of Múspellsheimr where the heart of Surtr is buried. He created an army from death – the draugr, to live and die as warriors who could not know pain or fear or death. And then, when their task was done, and Jötunnheimr had fallen, they were returned to slumber.""

"All but for one," Loki said softly. His eyes were glowing an eerie, uncanny green – the seiðr underneath his skin reacting to the pulse of seiðr in the air. He was picking at the calluses on his hands – a trait he had been unable to train away since their fledgling years. "Thorolf the Restless, who refused to return to sleep once bidden."

"Who now slumbers on the Morrígan's moon in a forced stasis," Odin brushed away Loki's words. "His unholy power is far from our worry."

"Slumbered, Allfather," came a deep, strong voice from the entrance of the chamber, and all looked to see where the Morrígan had followed, Annan grave and grim as she stood before her sisters. "Thorolf the Restless did so slumber."

Sif tensed at the other's words. While she herself was War; her strength and might and losses, the Morrígan were born of war and the fertility of the blood spilled upon the battlefields. In some respect, they were as sisters. In others, Sif could admit to not understanding another as she did the three fold cord of unnatural sisters.

"He has been fighting our wards since he was laid to rest, Allfather," Annan said, a tired note lining the edge of her voice. "This you have known, and yet . . . He has had help. He has been fed. Someone from the outside – a seiðrmanðr. He would need support from the outside to risk being so bold in moving the After-walkers through."

"Your bridge crawls with the stink of the Restless," Badb whispered, her voice a low rasp from her throat.

"How can you have not sensed it?" Macha asked incredulously. She looked at Loki, and raised a brow. "Or has your time on Midgard so dulled your senses, second-son?"

Thor waved a hand, cutting through their words before Loki could speak in answer. "And yet, I do not understand – how would that effect Jane?" at last, he wavered over the shape of her name. He could not keep the unease from his voice. His face, normally so expressive in joy and anger both, was twisted into the look of a child, a lost, panicked look that Sif cared for but little on her friend.

Coming up on Thor's left was Natasha. For all of the elegance of her evening wear, her hands too were fists. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes – forcing herself to stillness, listening where she wanted movement and action. "Or Bruce?" she added, and where Thor's voice had taken on such a feeling, her voice did the opposite. She was stillness and glacial ice in that moment – not an emotion resided in her voice.

"Eir is seeing to your Lady, and your companion," in that moment Odin's voice sounded old . . . old and tired. "Of a more pressing matter is the seiðrmanðr. He would have to be close in order to summon such a force. We may still be able to give chase."

"Closer than you think, Allfather," Annan said. "The seiðrmanðr in question would have had to dine with you this eve. He walks amongst you, wearing the fair face of a friend while weaving his trickery unseen in the shadows."

A heartbeat passed. All were silent for but a moment, and Sif could feel as the animosity in the chamber turned from an outside force to one within. Loki, she realized with a pang. They would suspect Loki . . .

Surly enough, each gaze in the room had turned to Loki. Sif could feel the menace on the air, the static charge of feeling that was like the air before lightning struck.

"Of course," Tony was the one to speak first, the tones of his voice glacial. "Undead Viking zombies – it has his name written all over it."

He took a threatening step forward with his words. There was a hardness in Clint's eyes, reflected in Natasha's gaze. Steve's arms were crossed, and Thor . . . Thor opened his mouth as if to speak in his brother's defense, but even his great believe wavered. Instead, his gaze took on a look of such a pain . . . Betrayal sparked in his eyes as he moved closer to Loki's side – a hand held out as if he were unsure of whether or not he wished to strike his brother or put a hand on his shoulder.

"Loki?" Thor asked, his voice a wound from his throat, and -

Sif looked, and saw that Loki was looking at them all like a deer caught before a hunter's bow. She saw where his face flashed before drawing to stillness. And she thought only he could not. He would not . . .

Would he?

But he looked, and saw only her doubt.

She watched where his mouth opened, ready as he was to defend himself, before he closed his mouth and decided against words. She watched where he closed himself off to anyone and everyone, and instantly, she stepped forward, an apology on her lips -

No, I did not mean -

But it was too late, he stepped back from them, and disappeared into the shadows.

"Loki!" she called after him, her voice sounding desperate to her own ears. "Loki, come back!"

Thor came to her side, and he too wore his worry on his face for all to see. A dozen conflicting thoughts flashed through his eyes – worry for Jane, and worry for his brother, and underneath all, such a doubt . . . A betrayal.

"Loki would not do so," she turned and uttered her words as a truth. She dared any to say otherwise with her eyes. "There were many in attendance tonight. It could have been anyone."

Thor's mortal companions did not share her confidence, she could see. But she could not blame them for their doubts. She could only stand with her hands held as fists and believe.

"He has not left my Sight this eve," Heimdall's voice was a low rumble, heard in their bones as a defense for Loki's sake came from where she least expected it. He spoke to Odin alone. "He is not the enchanter you seek."

Tony snorted. "Of course, he is adapt at making people see what he wants them to see," his voice was all but a snarl from his lips, and Sif felt the battle-beat light at her veins. He spoke so out of concern for his companion – his brother in arms, and yet, so did she.

"Father," Thor protested. "I do not think -"

"Enough," Odin held up a hand. "Either Loki was the enchanter we seek, or we shall need his help in ascertaining who summoned the After-walkers this night. Guards," Odin looked to where the sun cloaked warriors waited upon the bridge. "Return him."

The guards bowed, and turned to do as bid. Sif watched them go, thinking that it would not be easy for them to return Loki if he did not wish to do so, but before she could ask leave to accompany them, Heimdall tilted his head.

"Eir calls," the Gatekeeper said to Odin. "Your presence is needed, Allfather."

Thor's head snapped up. "Jane?" he looked to Heimdall. "How fares she?"

"She awakens," Heimdall said after a moment. "And yet, she is not alone."

Worry, sick and bitter twisted at her throat, and Sif instead found that she was one step behind Thor and his companions as they made their way to the Healing Chambers. Behind them, deep in the crossroads of the bridge, the moans of the After-walkers sounded.

.

.

Loki tore through the ways between the ways with a wild abandon.

The restless screams of Thorolf's shades followed him as he immersed himself in the shadow realm – searching through the ether that made up all the worlds with claws made to tear. He bared his teeth to the roar of magic in the air, he narrowed his eyes, and sought out the dark threads that connected the gross creatures on the byway to an enchanter's touch . . .

He inhaled. He smelled the rot of decaying flowers and burnt flesh, and thought only, let him come.

The feasting Hall was alive with the touch of magic, and he searched through each and every spark of life that made up those in attendance. The crowd spoke in open murmurs. Worry was worn in eyes, and restlessness quivered underneath the skin of those who wished for movement and more.

Distantly, he could hear as his mother sought to control the crowd. Her powers were subtle, but they settled over those gathered like an embrace, calming nerves and soothing tempers with few even recognizing the fine way they were played. For a moment, Loki turned into the soft caress of her powers, and breathed in . . .

Only to exhale, ready to search again.

Every one of the Álfar in attendance bore the touch of seiðr about their souls. Loki searched, but could only feel the natural connection to the elemental forces that made up the world. He could not find malice. He could not find decay.

And so, he narrowed his eyes and dug deeper.

Next, he searched amongst the Aesir. He could feel the familiar raging souls; the spirits that were made of fire, set as eyes and sworn shields upon the height of the Mother's high boughs.

. . . and finally, he could feel the Yggdrasil touch her starlit boughs against his senses.

My son? She rumbled into his thoughts like thunder upon the horizon. What is it who you seek?

I seek he who thinks to set shades as insects about your limbs, he whispered. He who thinks he can walk your ways in shadows, away from the sight of all.

He could feel her stars for eyes upon his spirit. He felt as her all seeing gaze fell upon his soul . . . And he bared himself. He let her look. He let her see the desperation in his veins, the low burning anger he could feel gnawing at his bones. He let her see the hurt in Thor's gaze, how it pricked at his own skin as a blow . . . he let her see the doubt in Sif's eyes, how upon seeing so his breath came as an ache in his lungs. He let her see the question held by all.

And rightly asked, was a more piercing pain than any other thought. It was deserved. It was warranted . . .

Please . . . he whispered. Let me see.

The Mother did not reply, but he could feel as his senses stretched. He could see everything now; see the shadow-realm made light and bare before his senses. He looked, and could see what he could not before – he could see which of the Álfar gathered had brummimir's halves, he could even see a maiden or two amongst the Aesir with Valkyrie souls, yet to be gleaned by Brünnhilde for her rank of celestial warriors. He could see . . .

And he could follow the touch of the unnatural, the touch of that which was made of grave soil and dead winds. He could smell the stench of decay; taste the flavor of rot on his tongue as he pushed . . .

Only to step out of the shadows in one of the hidden corners of the gardens.

He took a moment to adjust from the shift from the intangible to the physical world before looking around, instantly expecting to see a foe to fight. But there was no one near. He stretched out his senses, hearing as one fled, but he paused from giving chase, instead looking down to find where a glowing gem had been cast in the enchanter's haste to retreat.

Raising a brow, Loki stepped forward, and reached down to where an great violet stone of an amulet had been hastily hidden behind one of the ornate benches that lined the path. The gem pulsed with power, as if it had a heartbeat of its own. He hesitated before touching the amulet, feeling the sick power that fed it, or rather . . .

This is how the seiðrmanðr has been feeding Thorolf, he realized. They were connected, the Draugr-king and this gem.

But who . . . Who in Asgard would be helping such a creature? Who, and why?

It was a question that would have to be answered at a later time, Loki finally decided. For the amulet pulsed in his hand – a brilliant, uncanny light seemed to seep through the facets of the stone, trying to escape. And, if his theory was correct . . .

He needed to get to Eir. There was no time to waste; not if they wished to find their enchanter at the cost of Thor's companions.

Loki looked down the garden path and inclined his head. Well played, he sent the thought to his cloaked adversary. But only just. Next time, you shall not be so lucky.

But the night was silent in reply, and Loki stepped back into the shadows without another glance behind.

.

.

The healer's chambers were awash with commotion when they arrived. Eir's apprentices ran to and fro, carrying everything from warm cloths to warded totems and potions and healing stones.

The Master Healer herself presided over Jane and Bruce at the front of the main chamber. Eir, born of both Álfheimr and Vanaheimr had been one of Frigg's companions to accompany her from Vanaheimr to Asgard when she had wed the Allfather as his queen. She was old enough to have delivered both the Allmother in birth and Thor himself – though one could scarcely tell from looking at her. She had a kind, maternally face, only the crinkles at the corner of her eyes betraying her age. Her skin was a warm shade of brown, and her hair the color of the soil after the rain, done into a long braid that hung as a thick rope about her shoulder. She wore the white robes of a Healer, dyed a deep scarlet about the sleeves and neck to denote her rank.

But now her brow was creased, and her gentle aura sparked with power and command as they entered. Sif paused at the doorway, feeling the brunt of the Healer's powers as they danced across her skin.

Thor had no such moment, instead marching to where Eir did her work. He stood between both Bruce and Jane, taking Jane's hand in his own even with her body spasmed violently, as if a force beyond Jane were trying to move her limbs and give breath to her lungs. Her eyes were open, but they were a glazed, grey color, absent of the warmth and glow that Sif normally associated with the mortal woman.

Sif felt her hand tighten about her shield, as she stood useless against a foe no blades could strike.

On the bed next to Jane's, Bruce was fighting the same fight, but his convulsions were more subdued. His face was a grimace, but his eyes remained closed. Sif bit her lip, and watched as they both fought. As they struggled.

"What is happening?" Thor looked to Eir, his wide eyes desperate for answers – for action.

Eir's voice was sharp in reply. "A spirit," she answered as she tried in vain to cast another charm about Jane's struggling form. A blue light bloomed over her chest, spreading as if it had wings, only to shrivel as if consumed by smoke and fade away. "He searches for succor in two holds. In your Lady's mind, and," she gestured to Bruce, "your companion. He has the ease of it in the mortal's mind. And yet, there is something in his skin that fights the transfer. It has been near an age since I have met a mortal with such a strong beast-soul, and I can do more harm than good helping him right now."

Natasha and Tony stood right at Bruce's bedside, while Steve and Clint stayed back and out of the way as best they could. Natasha was staring down with a mask of a face as Bruce struggled, but her knuckles where white when she leaned forward to brace her weight about the gilded edge of the bed. Tony's mouth was working as if he wanted to do something - anything more than he was.

Eir's eyes snapped to Odin before she gestured impatiently at the Allfather. "Here," she said without preamble. "I need your help." She placed her hand on one side of Jane's face, her long fingers touching both the curve of her cheekbone, and the dip of he temples.

Odin obeyed Eir without a word, rank forgotten between them as he placed his weathered hand against Jane's pale skin. Eir was concentrating, chanting, and Odin's eyes had taken on a bright, uncanny shade of blue, much like Loki when he worked his enchantments, and Sif watched, fascinated . . . For while his role as King tied Odin to the Mother in the most literal of ways – allowing him the full extent of her power and pride – she had scarce seen him work his magicks. Odin was their warrior king, and he subdued with a sword and ruled with a spear . . .

Jane's struggles took on a new edge. Thor was forced to back away as she thrashed, all without a sound before she sat up straight and let loose a long, keening wail, an eerie sound that reminded Sif of lost souls and searching spirits. She clenched her shield tighter. She felt the seiðr there as it pulsed in reply.

But then Jane stilled. She remained upright, her body calming from her struggles to take on an odd, jerky animation. She looked around the room with curious, detached eyes, still glazed a milky shade of grey. She tilted her head, an inhuman expression that had all in the room stilling. Eir and Odin backed away as she started muttering underneath her breath in a harsh sing-song language that Sif recognized as the Hel-tongue. The black speech of souls.

On the bed next to Jane, Bruce continued his struggles. His companions looked torn between trying to help him, and watching Jane as she looked down at her hands as if they were foreign to her.

And finally, Jane smiled. It was the eeriest expression Sif had yet seen in her long life.

"Thorolf," Odin said, coming to stand before Jane so that he looked her in the eye. The room hushed in the wake of his words. The torches flickered on the walls with the force of the Allfather's might. Sif could feel a chill as it bit at the air, and she was not sure which force within the room was to blame. "You were confined to your sleep in payment of your crimes. Why do you now walk the Realms anew?"

Jane tilted her head to the right. Her hair fell down from the elaborate coils she had worn for the evening to fall askew across her eyes. She blinked as a crooked grin stretched across her face. "Allfather," she greeted, and her voice all but slithered. It was not Jane's voice, but . . .

Thorolf, Sif realized dumbly. He was inside of her. He was speaking through her.

And the thing that was not Jane laughed. The sound crawled up and down her bones like insects. She turned, and saw where Tony bore a look of disgust. Natasha leaned forward over Bruce as if just her presence could keep the thing that was Jane from Bruce as well.

"You cannot take away life once given," Jane clucked her tongue at the Allfather as if chastising a small child. "Or did you forget? For so easily does the House of Odin fail to honor its vows . . ."

"I do not forget, Thorolf," Odin returned. "You gave up your right to a true soul when you took lives that were not yours for the taking. You walked outside of the parameters of your existence."

Jane snorted. She waved a hand in dismissal. "The last breaths of dying souls? The last flickerings of fading heartbeats? I do not consider that a theft, not when it gave us succor. When it gave us warmth. Warmth, which you denied us . . . You raised us from ash to fight against the monsters from the ice, and never once thought about warmth. Flesh and blood and souls . . ." Jane's voice had taken on a lost, wistful edge. She looked at Odin, but for a moment, her eyes saw only beyond.

Odin was silent for a heartbeat. The line of his mouth had hardened. "Your grievance is with me, Thorolf," Odin finally said. "It has nothing to do with the child here."

"The child," Jane's voice purred over the word, her glazed eyes rolled back in her head, "is she who mended the Mother's branches. She knows the paths that would lead us to warmth. She knows the paths that would lead us to sustenance. And we will drink. We will feast. We will create souls for ourselves from the light of others – we will give ourselves the souls you denied us."

"And yet," Odin returned, "no matter how gifted, her mind is still a small mind. A mortal mind. Your presence will destroy her, and with her, the paths you wish to walk."

Thorolf was silent for a moment. Jane turned her head towards Bruce, and Sif could see the hunger there. The crazed look of thirst. "Perhaps, in time," Thorolf agreed from Jane's mouth. "And yet . . . his mind is no such confined space. He too knows the ways. He too has helped the child here. His mind, Allfather . . . his warmth . . . how magnificent. Alive like new growth. Alive like a great, green spring. And for we who have known naught but winter . . ." Jane inhaled deeply as a shiver went through her body like a wave. The grey in her eyes flickered, darkening like smoke above a flame.

"Allfather," Jane whispered, "We shall bring such a winter to Asgard eternal . . ."

Sif felt a weight like storm clouds brought low over the room, settling as a haze, as a chill about them all. As Thorolf started to laugh from Jane's throat, there was a commotion from right behind them. Sif turned, and from the shadows at the entrance to Eir's hall, Loki materialized from the shadows. Sif felt her heart lift as she saw the familiar green and violet mist free him, as she watched his limbs take shape and his eyes glint the green of his magicks.

But he did not look at her, she realized after a moment. He looked only at Jane – Jane who was not Jane as they knew her, and Bruce from where he still struggled, and he stepped forward. In his hand, he held a glowing purple stone. Sif looked down at it and felt her skin crawl, even as dead to the ways of seiðr as she was.

It was unnatural, the gem he held.

"Then a winter you shall know, Thorolf," Loki said as he took Gungnir from where Odin had let the spear rest. He threw the amulet on the ground, and with the staff of Gungnir, he thrust -

- the gem did not break, but a light did shoot up from the amulet in a great white flare of power. Sif turned, and saw where Thorolf struggled in Jane's body. He screamed from Jane's throat, but the light only blazed on brighter before going out completely. And Jane slumped back against the bed, boneless. Next to her, Bruce's body stiffened, pausing with one last violent tremor before he too found stillness.

All was silent. Loki reached down with a slow, deliberate gesture to pick up the amulet, aware of the unkind eyes that were torn between watching him and watching Jane and Bruce. Eir had no such inner battle, and she rushed forward to tend to her patients, muttering diagnostic spells under her breath as she sought to see the extent of the damage Thorolf left behind.

The amulet was still whole, Sif noticed, surprised. It was just a dead gem in his hands, absent of power. It slumbered . . . for now, she suspected, for such was often the way of things.

"Here," Loki tossed the amulet to Odin, who caught it before looking down to examine the gem more closely. "Thorolf does not yet have the succor to cast his power across such a distance. He needed a focal point to send his power through – an anchor of sorts. He also needed an energy source to feed him. This – your seiðrmanðr was using this, and ran when he realized he was found. You know the mark of my magic, Allfather. This was not me."

Odin was silent for a long, long moment as he turned the amulet over. His eye was still an eerie shade of blue, seeing with the Mother's gaze before he blinked, and he was Odin again as she knew him

Tony was looking incredulously between Odin and his not-son. "Of course he knew where to find the amulet – he would, if he were the one using it."

Loki raised a brow, but it was Thor who beat his brother to his words saying, "And yet, Loki would need the aid of no such trinkets if it was he who summoned Thorolf from slumber." Thor was again at Jane's side – he had not looked up to side with his second, instead, his gaze was trained on Jane's face, waiting for her to open his eyes . . . Jane's hand was very small in his own, Sif thought. So very small.

Tony shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. He kept looking down anxiously, and Sif could see the worry that rested there. She tapped the fingers of her left hand against her thigh, anxious now that the threat had passed. Anxious and waiting.

Finally, Eir straightened from her hunched examination. Her eyes were troubled as she shook her head. "Thorolf may have been pushed back, but he has not departed. Their minds are not their own, and they sleep in Thorolf's slumber. He will . . . he will try again to break through."

"And yet, this was not his first attempt touching their minds," Loki muttered distantly.

Thor's head snapped up. He narrowed his eyes. "Brother, what do you mean?"

"Her headaches," Loki said, and there was a note of gentleness in his voice that had Sif more on edge than anything else than had been said that eve. "I assume that the doctor has been suffering the same." He looked over to Natasha for confirmation. She nodded her head mutely. Her mouth was a thin line, her jaw tense.

"Have there been nightmares?" Loki asked next.

Thor paused before answering. "Not that she would tell me . . . but her nights are restless. She does not sleep peacefully. She had said . . . she had said it was a human reaction to stress. That her healers on Midgard confirmed it."

Eir muttered a disdainful word in her mother tongue as she continued her examination about Jane.

"And Bruce?" Loki asked again, raising a brow at the Healer's pique.

"No worse than usual," Natasha said, steel lining her voice as she spoke. "He wouldn't have noticed the difference, anyway."

Odin was very still as he listened, as he processed the information as it was given. "Thorolf seeks to open the bridge then. It is as he said."

Tony stepped around Bruce's bedside. "Hold on a sec – I am having trouble following this. It's too much Dungeons and Dragons meets the Walking Dead." He gave a nervous, incredulous snort of laughter. "You are saying that once-upon-a-time, you created a race of deathless soldiers who are now ticked off about being retired . . . And they are inside Jane and Bruce's mind to . . . what, exactly? Open the bridge? To what end?"

"Thorolf has been gaining strength for some time now – since the bifröst was first opened, I suspect," Loki explained as simply as he could, glancing to Odin at first as if to ascertain his permission to speak. Odin was silent in reply; his one-eyed gaze unreadable. "He wishes for a corporeal body. A real soul. He has been siphoning off 'warmth' through that amulet there, and I suspect he has been sharing with his shades, giving them shape enough to travel."

"Travel . . ." Tony understood all too quickly. "Through the bridge, you mean? And then . . ."

"Draugr can be slain not by steel or any weapon of Midgard. They shall have the nine Realms to feast upon – they gather 'warmth' from the ether of living souls, and there will be no way to fight them," Loki said simply. "Heimdall's wards upon the byway will only last for so long. Thorolf shall have to be destroyed before he gathers strength enough to . . ."

He did not need to finish his thought. They all understood.

"For now," Odin finally said after a long, uncomfortable moment passed. "The first step is Thorolf. We may be able to use the foothold he has in your companion's mind to destroy him."

"Alright," Tony cracked his knuckles. Natasha leaned forward, eyes sharp and at the ready. "Where do we start?"

"Your favourite place, brother," Loki gave a half smile as he turned to Thor. "There are scrolls I must first review. The library has old texts about the Draugr. They must be revisited now." He looked up at Odin again, and paused when he realized that he had presumed to give action and direction. Odin met his gaze, and Loki bowed his head. Sif watched where a muscle in his cheek twitched. She could not read the thought that rested in his eyes.

"By your leave, Allfather," Loki said next. Sif listened for derision, but could find none. Instead . . .

Odin inclined his head in return. "Do your readings. We shall then decide on a course of action." The Allfather turned, no doubt to seek the counsel of his Queen and the Morrígan who waited just beyond. But her sovereign did not keep her gaze as she instead turned to look at Loki. Loki who would meet no gaze but Thor's. Sif felt a whisper crawl up and down her spine, accusing, deprecating . . . She had wounded him, she knew. She had broken faith so very easily . . . jumping away from a blade as one who had just been cut only a moment earlier in battle.

But there were larger things going on right then than bruised pride and hurt feelings. The Restless rose to walk again, and she suspected that the fate of the Realms rested on the ability of Loki to recover his old stride, his old footing . . . Along with those that Thor held as his shield and sword.

Sif swallowed, knowing the battle ahead would be fight on more than one field.

"If scrolls hold the answer," Thor rose from Jane's side. He did not let go of her hand until he had to. He looked smaller, somehow, Sif thought, his great strength turning as a question; his great confidence stolen as a breath. "Then within scrolls I shall seek. Lead on brother."

Thor inclined his head, and Loki waited a moment before turning. Something passed between them – a promise, a trust, and when they turned to leave, it was Loki who walked tall and Thor who looked behind. Sif fell into step behind them all, her shield held at ready until she could mend her blow of faith.

Behind them, Jane slept in silence, while, under her skin, the Restless crept.