Safety in Numbers

I . where do we begin

His famous sentence, "When do we start?" had ended up here, shoulder blades pressing dangerously against a thorny wall, sweat snaking down his temple onto his fiercely carved cheeks, and his inner chest feeling the building pressures of a racing heart. Sooty hair as wild and as long as that on the back of a stallion clung his sharp, inverted features as the Dökkálfar's footfalls rounded a corner too close for his comfort. There was no comfort on a war-torn front, much less a sense of security. Every move was do or die, and Loki could feel those fight or flight instincts gathering along his strained muscles. Another glance at the blood bath soaking the pale and dark terrain ushered in a sense-no a need to retreat. The green and ebon' leather cladded trickster slipped his lithe, lanky form into the shadows to avoid the unwanted attention of his enemies.

Cunning, spring eyes stole one last glance to the left, looking to the west as thunder and lightning rolled across the rocky, desert terrain. The clashing of Mjölnir against Malekith's fire-forged sword, Hrotti, was godly and terrifying. Loki could feel the sound waves striking against his bones, causing a mild searing pain along his forearms and tibias. Thor's face was distorted into primitive howl. Malekith had crossed a line by taking possession of the mortal, but this fight was more than just about some petty, little girl. The unfortunate fate of Frigga had made this a personal war, even for Loki.

He was not about to be careless like Odison. A personal war required tact, taste, and cunning; everything Thor lacked. So, he casually fell into the wall, trading a devastated terrain for limestone floors and low, oppressive ceilings. Old tapestries, rusted armors, masterless swords, and gruesome skulls decorated the walls. How tacky...

The trickster strutted down with his pride seeping out from his pores and adding a slight improvement to his ragged appearance. At least now he looked more like a battered soldier instead of a fleeing coward-he was someone with a plan. The storm outside had was a magnet that had attracted all spare soldiers, leaving the fortress empty. Eh, Thor was good for something after all, ha! A tired, egotistical smile broke across his sweaty, thin lips.

Loki rounded a corner and descended into darkness...

Each step took him farther away from the storm of swords and lightening and towards a wall...? The first indication was his foot striking a metallic surface; followed by curious fingers running along the smooth surface. A staircase that ended in a wall? His cracked lips twitched with anticipation. A velvety spell leaked over his silver tongue and into the damp air while he pressed his hands harder into the wall.

Nothing?

Loki repeated himself and pressed further without any difference. Confused, curious, he ran his fingers over the unyielding wall more delicately, trying to figure out this magic that could trump his own. But something above was ruining his thoughts, and its loud noise was getting louder and louder, and closer and closer. He spun around, ducking a sword and slitting an achilles tendon through the soft, leather back of the dark armor. The guard slunk forward and allowed the clean access to severe the spine in a quick swipe!

His sooty hair clung to his forehead in a wicked mess, and he had to run a free hand through his curly locks to clear his vision. Loki bent down to wipe his dagger clean on the tan cloak of the Dökkálfar. A pool of muddy blood began to collect around the sickly pale but muscular creature in dark armor. The white eyes were still open, still confused, still unsure of how his enemy got the better of him so hastily. There was something curious about the Dökkálfar soldier. A hand has slipped through the soft, metal door. He stood straight and stepped over the carcass.

Long, tangled fingers dipped into the metal and felt a cool liquid running over his coarse skin. He pressed further into the liquid to feel the bitter warmth of a nearby hearth. Recoiling his hand, Loki gazed down at the fallen Dökkálfar before promptly kicking the loose arm out of the doorway. When next he pressed, the metal wall was hard and unyielding again. Interesting...

He sliced the left ear off the Dökkálfar and placed the ear within his pocket before slipping through the soft metal doorway. The other side blinded him, and he had to raise a hand over his eyes in order to see while he adjusted. 'Twas a humble, snowy room without much decor or life. A bitterly warm fire lied to the eastern wall. Something stirred towards the west, and his emerald eyes shifted to the curiosity. In the corner was a pile of alabaster pelts and blankets, and before them rose a maiden fairer than any wedding dress.

The woman was the color of virginity, from her frosty, bleached skin to her stringy, ivory hair that fell to her waist. There were only small hints of color to her lithe, barely hourglass body. The sockets around her eyes were slightly redder, slowly darkening towards the rims of her almond eyes; this enhanced the washed-out, violet irises. She pursed her salmon lips at him while narrowing her gaze to a glower.

In fact, the most colorful thing in the room was her sunset-hue, ruffled hi-lo dress that did nothing for her frail figure. The thick ruffles hid her small-to-average breasts and tiny hips. He scoffed at the finding, unsure why Malekith would go to such lengths to hide such an average woman. That also made this strange maiden more interesting. Loki had never come across a creature so exotically pale in his experiences. The closer he came to the maiden, the more curious she became for raised ridges like the lines on the Jötnar were traced onto her paper-thin skin. But she was most definitely not part of the Jötnar race. She lacked everything else that defined her as a giant, or for that matter anything immortal. She did not exude magic like most mythological creatures, leaving him to theorize she was mortal.

This strange creature did not resist him or even attempt to rebel against his presence as he stopped a few steps in front of her. There were chains binding her wrists behind her back to the wall. Well, that said a lot about her personality... "Who are you?" Loki demanded evenly.

"One of Malekith's girls," she answered rather sweetly, too sweetly actually. He hated the sweetness because her voice burned his ears. She sounded like a well train dog than being sincere, but at least she was telling the truth.

"Spare me your wit," the trickster retorted as he stepped forward to wrap his devilish fingers along her mandible. "Or I will not spare you..."

She gulped, a natural reaction to brutality. A cloud of hesitation set over her eyes, which was readily cured with a quick tightening of his hands. "Sigyn Njörðrdóttir," she whispered through his tight grip. He slipped backwards, eyes widening, and mouth parting. "Do you feel guilty for not listening to me, Odinson?" she inquired innocently and with haste.

"I am no Odinson!" Loki hissed with a rampant, burning hatred in his irises. The bastard squared his shoulders as another growl and scowl built up along his fine lips. "And you are not Sigyn Njörðrdóttir. She is not your age, and she is dead. Now-" He cupped his right hand around her throat. "Who are you?"

"You think I am lying? I had that beaten out of me soon after I arrived here, Prince Loki," she stated rather plainly, as if it were not a big deal. Her eyes drifted, reflecting the fire in her pupils as she considered something. Sigyn licked her lips. "I suppose, why take my word? I am but a lonely whore for Malekith and his guests until he has better use of me," the maiden added. "You would not know much of me. We only shared some feasts together, and I was but a child back then... So I would not have caught your eyes like the other highborne ladies."

Loki clenched tighter as he felt he was being mocked by this woman. "I knew of Sigyn Njörðrdóttir; she attended the nameday feast of Thor the night she disappeared," he clarified with absolutely certainty. "She-"

"She came to you terrified, asking for help against the voices in the shadows that taunted her. The prince muttered some words, and he promised her that he had put a protective charm over her and to run along with the other children... But here I am." His grip had loosened once more, and his stare gave away his astonishment. She kindly looked upon him with soft, tender words. "It is easy to lie to children, my Prince. I do not fault you for your actions. After all, who would have believed a young child then?"

"She was immortal like all of us," Loki corrected coldly. This woman was wrong. He was right-he was sure.

"Until everything that makes us immortal is stripped out of us," she chimed. "Then you become what I am..." The maiden's round chin touched her protruding collar bone, ashamed. "Nothing more than a mortal husk-"

"It's a dead end!" shouted a gold-cloaked Asgardian.

"Malekith shall come," Sigyn breathed fearfully. "You best be going, my Prince. He shall attempt to kill you for speaking to me."

Loki sneered, "I am a better magician than he."

"Would you be willing to bet your life against that statement?" she mumbled.

"I fear no one for I am the best in my trade," he proclaimed so proudly she was sure that his pride was his downfall. "And, why would you act so concern for my life? You do not fool me, woman." He glared down at her as if she were nothing but an ignorant, bratty teenager who knew nothing about the real world or life.

"I would not dare challenge your silver tongue!" Sigyn whimpered, recoiling from him as she prepared for a smack. The pathetic woman stared at the ground with her lids closed and body trembling. "It is-I have been trained to please until Malekith has a better use for me, which I suppose will be soon since he will be in need of new alliances and supplies after today's catastrophe."

His heart winced at her words, a situation so similar to his own that a spark of sympathy dripped into his venomous, bastard blood. Whatever empathy he had had felt did not show through in his words or actions. "Or not," Loki retorted. Curious, wide eyes met a set of calculating, mischievous, dark eyes that glimmered with a plan. He trailed his fingers over her bony shoulder as he circled her, stalking his prey, his prize. The back of his hand slid down her spine before coming to rest on the chains that bound her. A cold shiver ran over her body as she felt his warm breath over her right ear, giving him a satisfying pleasure. "Run or scream, and I shall slit your throat, Sigyn," he muttered tenderly like a lover.

She nodded before a heavy weight on her wrists was lifted. The clatter of the chains was muffled by the blankets and pelts beneath their feet.

He brushed by her, expecting her to follow, but she remained fixed in position, running her tender fingers over the mangled scars on wrists from the chains. Loki watched as she stared at her own freedom with awe and terror. "I would think you would be pleased," he hissed.

She waited a quiet moment before responding softly, timidly. "I am grateful for the weight to be lifted, my Prince," she said, raising her soft eyes to meet his own. "But, I have never been free of my chains-just handed from one captor to the next." She said all these bitter truths with a calm, sweet voice and a pleasant smile. "I am a piece of property, used when useful, and put away when not. I am sure that you know those shackles do not fall away easily."

Sigyn knew. She must have. News spread quickly across the realms, but somehow he had had his doubts that anyone outside the royal family knew the inner workings of the royal Asgardian family. Those doubts were now shattered, broken, exposed. Loki scrutinized her before his eyes melted into cool, emerald embers. An old, icy heart began to drip with liquid water inside his tight chest cavities. He flicked his head away from her gaze. "Do not speak to me like that, whore," the trickster swore. "I am no one's property." Loki raised his head proudly while his fists became tighter and tighter. "I am the authority of my own destiny."

"Yes, my Prince," she answered coolly but cheerfully. He could hear the sound of her bare feet slapping against the alabaster floors as she approached. She stood behind him, head bowed, and eyes to the ground in respect of her superior. "Where do we begin?"

"Jane Foster."