DISCLAIMER: Except for those created by God of Lies, all charters, plots, etc. belong to MARVEL and their respective copyright holders. This disclaimer applies to the fanfiction Of the Heart in its entirety, including all chapters and descriptions.

When stars are born are they cast out

to wander cold and lonely lost in space,

a loveless point of light that can't return,

forever fixed within one place?

When love is lost and dreams are cast

like bruised and battered pieces left to die,

when hands that reach out are betrayed

how can my tortured soul survive?

-Sail Me Away, Lestat

"I took you in, raised you as my own, and all I asked for was loyalty. But you turned your back upon me and upon your duty and now not only your family, but the whole of Asgard suffers for your crimes!"

Odin stared at the figure chained before him.

"I gave you my loyalty and my love. You betrayed me." Was whispered, but it went unheard in the sympathizing uproar at the king's statement.

"You are hereby stripped of your titles and magic and will be cast out of Asgard."

"Father, no!"

"Let the histories be cleansed of this taint upon my house and upon our people."

"This is not right! This is not FAIR!"

"You have committed murder, you have committed treason, and maligned your family's name. My decision is just."

The Allfather's staff hit the floor with a ringing thud of finality and there was a rumble of approval from onlookers. A trio of guards marched to flank the prisoner.

"Please…" The strangled, desperate plea knifed through Odin and, just for an instant, he slumped back into his throne as if he had suffered a physical blow. Then he straightened, stood and regally swept out of the room, never once looking back.

"You are confined to this ship, Loki Laufeyson. No trouble, no mischief, or I will send you straight back to Asgard. Are we clear?"

"Yes." Came the hissed reply.

The once-villain was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, leaning one forearm heavily against the glass conference table, fists clenched and knuckles white. Gone was the golden armor and snapping aura, replaced by a simple green tunic and black leather breeches. A deathly pallor clung to him like an ill-fitting robe and it was clear by the dimmed emerald of his eyes and the lankness of his raven hair that there was something terribly wrong.

Fury turned from the prince's glare and addressed Thor, "You're absolutely sure he has no magic?"

Thor, who had squeezed himself, armor and all, into the chair next to his brother's, shot the man in question a worried glance.

"Yes," he said quietly, "father has made sure that he can not do anything but maintain his…ah…appearance." He waved a hand at Loki's skin.

Fury grunted in acceptance, but remained standing over the two Asgardians pensively. Finally, he sighed, swept up a folder from a side table, and plopped it down in front of Loki so hard a few bits of tangled hair flew upwards.

"This is a general guideline for your time here. I suggest you read it." He tapped it once and then shoved it till it was almost touching the prince's arm. "Except for sleeping and bathing, you will have an escort with you at all times. Her name is Agent Doter. If I catch you even once without her, it's back to Asgard. If you attempt to hurt her, I will kill you myself."

This earned him an eye roll. The Director shook his head and turned to leave.

"Please do not complicate your time here, Loki. For your own sake." Was shot over his shoulder and then he was gone, the door swooshing silently closed.

The pair sat in tense silence for a few seconds and then Thor clamped a comforting hand on Loki's shoulder. "Brother…"

"Don't…" The hand was shaken off but at the sacrifice of balance. The shuddering prince collapsed forward, barely catching himself before he face planted on the tabletop.

"Please, brother, let me help. You are in such pain…"

"I have never been your brother, and I never will be. Leave me be, Odinson."

The God of Thunder reached out again, but paused and then let his hand slump back into his lap. His blonde mane swept forward as he bowed his head, hiding his pained expression. Thor had expected Loki's betrayal in Svartalfheim. There was even a point when they were battling against each other that he thought that he had lost his brother both mentally and physically. So much had been lost – the honor of his people, the peace of his beloved home…his mother – that the last shred of hope he had once clung to for his brother was ready to slip through his fingers.

But Loki had proven himself. And in recompense Odin had given his wayward son the same opportunity as his brother – a chance to start fresh on Midgard. To learn a lesson that was still sorely needed. And Thor now knew that Loki had the capacity to learn that lesson. For a fleeting moment in the Dark World, he had seen the man he once knew glimmering in those emerald eyes. It offered such a small opportunity, and many might say not even that, but it was enough for him. And by the Allfather, he was determined to make Loki see it!

Suddenly, Thor snapped out of his chair, rounding the table to stare Loki in the eye. However, the Jotunn kept his gaze pinned to the wall, looking straight through the warrior as if he were nothing but air.

"You are my brother. In your heart, you must know it is true. All the battles, Loki, all the blood lost, all the adventures shared, do they mean nothing to you?" He was met with silence. "Look at me!" Thor smashed his hand onto the table, causing the whole thing to shudder and Loki to finally focus on him.

"You are my brother." Was said with such pained conviction that Loki dipped his head back down, cowed.

"No." He replied, much more weakly, but Thor was already out the door, his angry strides taking him halfway down the hallway before Loki was once again closed in.

He barely had enough time to compose himself before the door swooshed back open and an agent slunk in. Loki flicked his gaze over her. His nursemaid was the epitome of plainness. Agent Doter was of average height, had dirty blond hair and watery blue eyes and could only be called passably attractive. And though she was slim enough, she wasn't even granted the privilege of wearing the streamlined suit that other female agents wore. Instead, she had on a bland, navy shirt and pants combo with a S.H.I.E.L.D. logo scrappily patched onto the sleeve. All in all, she screamed 'underling'.

Giving a mere minion power over such a supposedly dangerous enemy was just insulting. Loki furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes, a bit of the former flash and life glinting through. The agent gamely ignored the killing glare and stepped forward.

"Er…hello," she raised a hand and wiggled her fingers, "I'm Agent Fran Doter. I'll be with you for your time here at S.H.I.E.L.D." When she got no response she continued, "I'm supposed to take you to your room now."

Loki glared at her, hunkered back into his chair for a moment, then let an angry breath out through his nose and stumbled up. He leaned heavily against the table for a moment and then shoved himself forward.

"Uh…" The agent floundered, looking between him and the packet on the table. Finally, she threw herself across the glass, swiped the manila folder, and hurried to catch her charge.

As they twisted their way through the massive ship, it was clear that Loki's strength was beginning to flag. Fran slowed down, hoping he would accept the gesture without his pride being piqued, but he stubbornly pushed onward. Finally, about two floors away from his room, he caught his foot on a crack in the floor grating and, balance gone, sagged against the wall with a grunt. When it became clear that he couldn't stand back up on his own and, in fact, planned to stay there angrily trying to simmer a hole through the metal he was leaning on, Fran spoke up,

"I know you don't want any help, but I've got to get you to your room, okay?" She paused and then slowly reached for his arm. She didn't get more than a couple inches towards her goal before the prince roughly swatted her hands away, almost backhanding her in the process.

"Don't touch me."

Fran gave him a long look, and then said, "It's either I help you or I call Director Fury. And do you know who he'll call? Agent Romanov or Agent Barton. Or both."

Loki chuckled, "You, threatening me?" He sneered at her and then growled, "Do it. Call them. What has it been, ten minutes since you started looking after me?"

But the agent refused to rise to the bait. She shook her head and then pulled a phone from her pants pocket.

"One last chance, Mr. Laufeyson." She said calmly, almost kindly. "Please, just let me help you. We're almost to your room."

His reply was to spit at her feet.

Fran backed away, rubbed at her forehead, and then stabbed the dial button. Fury picked up within two rings.

"Agent Doter. What's happened?" His tone was laden with sarcastic frustration. Clearly, he had been expecting his star detainee to try something, even this soon.

"Mr. Laufeyson's collapsed in the west D hallway and he's refusing assistance."

A pause and then, "I see. Thank you for informing me, Doter. I'll send Agent Barton over there to assist. Are you by the cafeteria?"

"No." Fran looked around. "Well, we're about two blocks down and around the corner."

"Alright. Try to keep him contained until the Hawk gets there."

"Yes sir."

The line went dead and Fran slipped the phone back into her pocket, then she reluctantly turned her attention back to her charge. He had slid all the way down to the floor and was sprawled in a panting, glaring, heap. The agent backed all the way against the opposite wall and settled into tense silence.

Soon, the forceful stomp of boots could be heard and then Hawkeye came striding around the corner, his trademark weapon slung over a rather casual cargo pants and t-shirt ensemble. A pair of sports sunglasses were haphazardly perched atop his head and an ear bud was dangling from his ear. He must have been given orders to drop what he was doing and run, if the scowl on his face was anything to go by. However, as soon as he recognized Loki as the crumpled mess before him, a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

"Oh, ho ho ho ho. This just made my year." He closed the distance and towered over the shaking villain. "You look halfway dead. Why don't I help that along?"

He hefted one foot into Loki's stomach. There was a solid-sounding thud and then the Asgardian let out a choked, "Oomph!"

Clint reached down, grabbed hold of Loki's tunic, and hauled him up, slamming him against the wall so violently that the fabric ripped. He brought his fist back, preparing to strike, but two hands wrapped around his own.

"Agent Barton! Stop!" Fran desperately tried to tug his fist down.

Clint blinked at the agent as if trying to remember why she was there. "This bastard deserves death after all that he's done."

"He was judged and punished by his people."

"Well, that wasn't a god damn 'nough!" His arm was shaken free and a flurry of punches were thrown before Fran got another grip. Using her weight as leverage, she forced him to a shaky halt.

"Can't you see how much he's suffering? Please, Barton."

Clint finally looked at what we was holding onto. By this point, Loki's head was dangling back, eyes glazed, and he wasn't even trying to shield his twitching torso from any more blows. The Hawk let him go and he dropped to the floor heavily. Both agents winced when his skull hit the metal with a clang.

"He's been stripped of his magic," Fran said quietly. "How would you like it if someone wiped away your ability to use that?" She nodded her head at his bow and quiver. Clint's hand drifted up to his chest to grasp the quiver's nylon strap and for a moment, both were silent.

"I'd still like to kick his ass though."

Fran let out a relieved breath and threw up her hands. "Fine by me. In fact, it would be fun. Just wait until he can fight back, huh?"

He shot her a sour look but stepped back, shaking out the tension in his hands. The gesture seemed to declare the incident over for the soldier and they both reluctantly turned back to the lump on the floor.

"Agent Barton…"

"I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other for the next while, so please, just Clint."

"In that case," The agent daintily thumped her chest, "Fran."

"Pleasure."

They shared a smile of professional camaraderie and then Fran turned her attention back to her charge.

"Clint, I think we should take him to the clinic." Fran bent down, rescued Loki's briefing packet from where it had been dropped, and then carefully slipped a hand between Loki's head and the metal grating.

"And have him harassing the medical staff?" Hawkeye snorted. "No way. We take him to his room and call a doctor if absolutely necessary."

"I…" With a grunt, the prince jerked his head away from her hand and shoved himself back into the wall. She sighed and frowned down at him. "Alright. Can you lift him by yourself?"

Clint gave a nod and then pounced, wrapping Loki's arm around his shoulder and hefting the man up. The prince made a few feeble attempts to free himself, but ultimately, in the face of a determined Fran and an unyielding Hawk, all he could do was hiss and act as dead weight as he was dragged up two floors, into his room and tossed onto the bed.

Clint was already halfway across the room before Loki had stopped bouncing. He watched with arms crossed as Fran struggled to get him to settle. It wasn't much of a fight - the trek across the ship and the beating sapped the last little bit of spunk the prince had left. Within minutes, he had passed out, much to the worry of his agent.

"I still think we should take him to the clinic."

"He's fine." Clint deadpanned. "The question is," he watched her flit nervously up to Loki, measuring the pulse at his neck, "are you?"

She finished her count, nodded, and then looked around the room.

"Oh gosh, yeah. I've just…" She spotted a comfy looking armchair in the corner, latched onto it, and started dragging. "gotta get this thing over by the door and I'll be good."

Clint shook his head and pried the piece of furniture from her, easily carting it the few feet needed. After he settled it in a nice, strategic position, as far away from Loki as one could possibly get in the small bedroom, he rounded on her.

"Fran…" he gave her a look.

"I know. And I'm fine. Really." She raised her hands exasperatedly. "Do you think the Director would have assigned me to him if he didn't think I'd be able to cope?"

"Alright." He said in a tone that carried a hint of mutinous skepticism towards his superior. "But call me if you need anything. Or Agent Romanov. We'd both be happy to help."

"Thank you. And thanks for…" she poked a thumb in Loki's direction.

"Uh huh. I practically punched his head in." He grinned cheekily and stepped out into the hall.

"But still, thanks." Fran shrugged.

"No problem." And with a wave, he was gone.

With a small smile, Fran stepped away from the closing door and did another sweep of the room. There were a few generic books piled on a table in the corner where she had tossed Loki's folder. Only twenty minutes in service and the poor thing was already a crumpled mess. And sometime during the chaos with Clint, it had gotten a mark from her shoe stamped directly across the S.H.I.E.L.D. crest. She made her way over, did her best to straighten the packet, then picked a book randomly and settled back down to wait.

Within an hour, Loki's face had flushed and his breathing had become ragged. The agent got up and tentatively pressed a hand to his forehead. It was warm, but not too bad. She pulled the covers over his shoulders, did her best to tuck him in, and then made her way into the tiny en-suite bathroom. Getting out the first-aid kit from underneath the sink, she took out a packet of acetaminophen and filled a glass of water. Going back over to the bed, she gently shook Loki until his eyes cracked open. Holding up the pills, she slowly stressed,

"You need to take these. They're medicine for your fever."

"No." Was all that was said.

"Mr. Laufeyson, I'm serious. If you actively let this get worse, it could become fatal."

Loki started laughing but it quickly turned into pained gasps. "Then…let me…die…you idiotic…human."

An expression of deep sorrow flickered across Fran's face and then it hardened. Her fists clenched till they turned white and the acetaminophen packet popped open from the pressure.

"I could, but I think it would be more fun to shove these pills down your throat."

"Try." Was petulantly spat.

For a second, it looked as though the agent would jump him, then she deflated. Her face gentled and her tone was unnervingly unflappable as she said,

"Okay."

She disappeared into the bathroom and came back out with a handful of ice packs and what looked like a plastic tissue container filled with water and washcloths. Ignoring Loki's growls, the agent cracked the ice packs and stuffed two in his armpits, one under his neck, and one under the covers on the thigh nearest her. Then she wrung out one of the washcloths plunked it on his forehead. Ignoring the whisper-soft and obviously involuntary moan of relief from the man, Fran snagged the bathroom wastebasket and set it next to the bed with a decisive thump. Task done, she settled back down to wait.

Loki, either too comfortable or too sick to start tossing ice packs around the room, drifted off within seconds.

Two hours later, the vomiting started. Fran already had the trashcan in front of the prince when he shot up in agony. He trembled and heaved for over an hour and then, as if someone had flipped a switch, it all stopped. Beyond rational thought, Loki curled under the covers in relief and to try to shelter himself from the ache in his back caused by all the muscle clenching. As the agent moved to take the trashcan into the bathroom, he weakly grasped the back of her shirt,

"Don't," he sighed brokenly.

Fran paused and then sat on the edge of the bed. She let him slip his hand around her wrist and watched as he drifted back to sleep. Once she was sure he was out, her free hand slid into her pocket. There were no more ice packs and the cool water was practically useless against the fever that had been steadily climbing. At this point, giving him acetaminophen was laughable, even though he'd probably down it without incident. Her finger hovered over the button that would connect her to the clinic.

And then Loki rolled away from her, weakly tugging her arm with him.

Fran stilled, shut her eyes and took a deep breath. When she let it out, she sagged, as if she were doomed, and than twisted herself into a more comfortable position.

This was a bad, bad idea. He should be taken to the clinic where he would be poked and prodded and most likely react like a threatened cobra, but monitored and cared for. It was not good to show him such kindness, give him this much leverage on her. But she was going to do it anyways. Her hand came out of the pocket and tentatively started rubbing his back.

It took quite a while to finally get him to relax enough to let go of her but once free, the agent carefully shifted herself off the bed and marched out the door. When she barreled back into the room ten minutes later, there were two huge trash bags full of ice slung over her shoulders. She went straight into the bathroom with her load and dumped one immediately into the bathtub, spreading it out and packing it down so it filled the bottom neatly. Then she powered back into the bedroom, screeching to a halt when she reached the side of the bed. Girding herself for the breach of modesty, she hesitantly reached for the covers. There was no good way to do this, though she hoped that her charge was out of it enough not to realize exactly what was about to happen to him.

Whipping the covers off, Fran deftly scooped an arm under his shoulders and dragged him off the bed, her other arm keeping his torso as steady as possible. She managed to get him into the bathroom without waking him up and though the agent was alarmed that he was so far gone, she was also relieved to avoid any fuss. He settled into the tub with an unconscious whimper. It was a tight fit – his lanky body barely crammed into the space and by the time the agent managed to tuck his legs in, the ice was already melting. She quickly dumped the other bag on him, making such a huge pile of ice chips that all she could see was his head where it rested awkwardly against the tile wall. After gently taking his temperature and getting rid of the garbage bags, she perched herself the toilet and prayed that her charge would be okay.