A/N: So, after sitting on this for a year or so, I'm finally getting around to posting a new fic only. I should point out that Thor 2 hasn't been released in the country I live in (and won't be until February), so this fic takes place after the Avengers, but AU to the events of Thor: tDW. Unless the events of Tho2:tDW happen to nicely fit with this, which I doubt.

Chapter 1

For the longest time, all Loki could feel, all he could remember was the pain. It seeped through every pore in his body, cutting into flesh and grinding into his bones. It consumed him, mind and body, until it was drowning him. He was tired. Tired of trying to rise above it and fight against the tide.

He had tried bidding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move and escape. He had waited…

And waited…

And waited…

And waited…

As time trickled by, and the pain became so much more than that, threatening to destroy him, he realised that escape was just a fickle dream. There was no door to freedom or window of opportunity. He was trapped, doomed to a downwards spiral until his captors finally went too far and shattered him beyond repair. Sometimes he would even wish for his not-brother, anyone, to come and rescue him. In the end, he was left to wonder if Thor had even noticed his absence.

But there was still one small glimmer of hope, just because his body couldn't escape, did not mean that his soul could not. If he could separate the two, then he could trick his bindings and slip away. His body would be left here to continue enduring the Chitauri's torment until he could reclaim it. It was dangerous, unnatural; he had no guarantee of him being able to fashion a provisional body on the other end, but his soul alone was better than nothing. He would take being half a creature to a dead one. The likelihood of tearing himself apart was high, but if he did so, then at least he would still be free of his torture. So collecting himself as much as he could, he set about his task.

It was much like skinning a rabbit. One had to peel their soul away from the body. The first 'incision' was painful, even by his new standards; the body is so much more loath to lose its soul, than to be relieved of its flesh. The process was long and delicate, laced with pain that struck within the core of his very being that no physical wound could reach. It screamed of the desecration he was performing on himself and had it be any other situation, he would have given up within seconds of starting. It distracted him from his reality though, except for when exhaustion forced him to stop. Better to be slow and get the task right.

He was unsure of how long it took; days, weeks, or years. Day by day he eased his soul away from his body until only the final section was left. Then something jerked and dragged at his existence, and he realised he was being pushed towards death. He panicked. He frantically pulled with all his might. He let out a feral scream as he ripped apart his soul, leaving a chunk of it within his dying body. He felt himself flung away, reeling from the violent separation. He tried to gather his mind together as it slipped away. He needed a destination, to hide himself from prying eyes, a temporary vessel and… There were other things he was sure, but they were beyond his grasp, so he focused on those three. He groped at his magic as he tumbled through the universe while juggling his thoughts and spells. Location. Somewhere safe, where he could hide away. His mind latched onto one that flittered through his head (not head, he didn't have a head) from a long buried memory. The queerest place to settle on: Norway.

(&)

For some people, waking up is never a pleasant experience. For a certain young boy, perhaps seven, maybe younger, on this one occasion this was doubly true. He was awake long before he opened his eyes, but the world made no sense. There was a noise, unrecognisable as anything other than a deafening mess. He wanted to raise his hands to cover his ears against the assault, but his body refused to respond to his desire. Perhaps he had no body to respond to him. His mind seemed to fall in on itself at that thought.

No, it moaned, that wasn't possible. He had to have a body otherwise he wouldn't be here, would he? Wherever here was.

Open his eyes; that's what he needed to do. Then he would be able to see he was here, in person, with a body.

He focused and tried. However, his world remained nothing but darkness and noise. Or was it just darkness. Or just noise. He couldn't tell which anymore; they merged until they were one and the same, mixing in with his emotions to create a cocktail of confusion. An indistinguishable black hole within his head…if he had a head.

"Open your eyes," he commented to himself, but it was immediately swallowed by the void. Still he repeated the phrase, not caring if he could not hear it, because at least having the thoughts comforted him some.

Slowly he scraped his eyes open and his stomach lurched horribly with relief…no, not relief. That was wrong, but he was sure relief was in there somewhere. It was nausea that made his stomach writhe. However if his stomach churned so violently, then surely that must mean that he had a stomach and, by extension, a body. His vision was a muddle of shapes and colours, making him queasy. Nothing seemed to have a definite shape, whirling and morphing while the colours blended together and separated, creating new shapes to confuse and scare him. Yes, he was scared. They were terrifying, the way they made no sense and how he didn't understand and…he didn't know what else. He was scared though. His head spun and his breathing quickened, additional proof that he had a body. Another roll of his stomach caused him to snap his eyes shut.

Deep breaths, he tried to take deep breaths anyway. Eventually he calmed and ventured to open his eyes once more. Again he felt the wave of dizziness, but this time he refused to be dragged under the surface. He wanted to get up and see and hear. So, he took a shape, or a colour, he wasn't sure which, and focused on it. He lay there and he focused on that one thing until the swirling slowed, the edges stilled and a stationary, permanent figure formed. As that object fell into place, the shapes and colours around it started to become anchored to the world. It was blurry and unclear, but the more he stared, the more defined the edges and details became. It was like bringing a telescope into focus. As his vision righted itself, he found that so did his other senses, as if they his body was slowly remembering how to function.

The roar dimmed, as sounds separated, alerting and informing him to the surrounding world. If only he could bring his head together enough to understand what it all meant. Not only those two senses, but he began to feel again, physically. Something cold and hard pressed against his skin, from his cheek down the side of his body. He managed to acknowledge that he was curled up on his side. Something cold and wet, rain, struck his skin. With feeling came movement, if only a little; a twitch of a foot and the bending of clumsy fingers. A smell assaulted his nostrils...wine...vomit…alcohol and…rot, all mingled together in the damp air.

Every minute his world came more and more into focus, he could recognise objects now. Across from him stood a tall brick wall, stretching high into the sky, and to either side of him stood two huge boxes, 'bins' the part off his mind that supplied all the strange words to him whispered. The paved ground was wet, puddles were growing and it wasn't particularly clean. Rubbish was scattered over the ground and in the pools. The surroundings may not very exciting, but he knew he had a body for certain now, he just didn't know where that body was.

Body…

He rolled a shoulder and then moved the attached arm. He had little control over the movement, still half numb it flailed wildly. He watched in bizarre fascination. Back and forth, then dropping it to the ground. He stared at it. Hmmm. He pressed his palm against the stones below him and slowly, so very slowly, sat up. He held up his hands and stared at them. He wiggled his fingers. Then he stared some more. They were small, very small. Were they supposed to be this small? This seemed wrong, but his scattered mind couldn't register this beyond, 'oh', let alone as something important. He was just too dazed to really acknowledge anything.

He turned his hands over and wiggled his fingers again. He stared and clenched his toes. Wiggled his fingers, clenched his toes and blinked. A small giggle escaped him. He blinked rapidly, wiggled his fingers, clenched-

A loud bang from the bin to his left made him jump, bringing his game to an abrupt end, if he could call it a game. What was that noise? A rat? A dog? A snake? Maybe. There was a muttered curse. Not a rat then, unless rats could talk. Rats didn't talk did they…no, that was silly. A person, but why would a person shift around the filth and waste?

Shifting his weight forward, the boy crawled sluggishly onward on his hands and knees. Peering round the corner he looked up to see what appeared to be a pile of clothes with what was most likely a person inside, shift around in the bin. It chuckled and straightened.

A head appeared; it was aged and weather worn, with a large bushy beard, a man into his winter years. His hair was grey with a few streaks of its original black peeking through the mass. Dark brown eyes surveyed the flat circular bread in front of him. "Was'ers," the man muttered, "Al' uv 'em was'ers. No' goo' 'nough fa faceless, bu' goo' 'nough fa Ol' Sam. A'ways was'ing fa Ol' Sam ta pic' up."

English? It was garbled, but most definitely English. That brief tingle of confusion was replaced by a jolt of annoyance. "Missed!" a small, almost inaudible voice hissed from a deep, and yet distant, part of mind. He frowned in confusion. Missed? Really? Was he aiming for something? Missed what? Was he supposed to be somewhere? He didn't know.

"Woo's 'is?"

The boy suddenly realised that 'Old Sam' was looking straight at him. He breath hitched, his fear spiked at the hostile and suspicious gaze directed at him. He scrambled to his feet and tired to scurry away, but his legs were still too clumsy and sluggish. Instead of escaping, he stumbled and hit the ground. He cried out as the stone struck his flesh and scrapped his skin away. It hurt and he sniffed back a sob.

'Pathetic,' that deep-distant part him seemed to sneer, only making him want to cry more than ever.

He felt the man loom over him and he slowly, shaking ever-so-slightly, turned to sit on his backside. Wide terrified eyes meet narrowed angry ones. A growl made it past the old man's lips.

"Ma foo'." That was fine by the boy; he didn't want food that had been thrown away into a filth tip. Who knew where it had been and what it had touched. The words could not be formed though, his mind blank. "All ma. Can' 'ave eny."

"I do not want any!" The child cried out, words finally breaking free.

This seemed to mollify the vagrant, for the moment, but suspicion still lay in the dark eyes.

"Where'd ya clofes go?"His voice still held a snarl.

The child blinked and looked down, his fear forgotten in his surprise and shock as he found that he was indeed naked. How? Why? He'd never even noticed. He felt his face heat and he curled up in an attempt to hide his body from the stranger's eyes.

"I-I-I- do not know."

"Dunno? How'd ya no' no?"

"I-I do not know."
"Ya s'upi'?"

It took a moment for him to understand the butchered word and when he did, he honestly was not sure what his answer should be. Was he stupid? He supposed he must be if he couldn't remember anything, not even where his clothes were. However, his mind rebelled against the notion of him being an idiot. He was not an imbecile…was he?

"I do not know."

"Wha' ya name?"

The boy swallowed, his mind beginning to once again race in panic at his complete and utter lack of knowledge. It scared him, for some reason, more than Old Sam did... "I do not know."

"DUNNO!?" The man shrieked, causing the boy to shrink back. "DUNNO!? DUNNO!? Ya no 'n'thin' boy!? Say 'n'thin' else? Jus' dunno?"

"No. Yes." He really wasn't sure what he should say. "I cannot remember."

The old tramp stepped next to him and before there was any time to escape, snapped his hand around the child's bicep. He yanked him roughly to his feet, drawing him so close that when he spoke his hot breath washed over the child's face with a stench of alcohol that threatened to choke the youth.

"Ya lyin' ta me boy? Ya 'ere ta tric' Ol' Sam? Faceless men sen' ya?"

"No," his voice wobbled and tears fell. "I swear I do not remember. I awoke not two minutes ago. I do not remember a second before that. I swear."

He desperately stared into the narrowed brown eyes, silently begging them to believe him. Slowly the old man placed him down again. The snivelling boy wiped his eyes with the back of hand, though he hardly needed to bother with the rain hiding the evidence from his face, as the old man watched him.

"Got no clofes?"

The boy shook his head again. Old Sam removed his thick coat and then removed his old, stained and worn khaki shirt. He dropped it on top of the child.

"Pu' i' on."

The boy rushed to comply. It reeked, there was no escaping that, a fusion of liquor, vomit and something he could not identify. It turned his stomach, clogging up his throat, but it was better than nothing. At least he was covered now, shielded from eyes and protected against the rain and cold…to a certain extent.

"Dun' wanna be walkin' roun' wif no clofes."

The boy's fingers fumbled with the buttons, his fingers still lacking the dexterity required to do it smoothly.

"Sic' men ou' there, sicka than Ol' Sam. Evil men. Take ya, like demans, like they di' ta ma Sven." The old man's voice broke, tears threatening to fall. The words came out raspy and broken as he continued. "Ma poor boy, ma beautiful boy. Too' hi' from us. The' faceless men came an' too' ma gal. She were betta off wif me tha' them."

The vagabond's expression suddenly changed, as if remembering some important matter. He shuffled back to where he had dropped the flat bread on the floor, unnoticed by both of them. Rushing back, he held it out to the boy, like a child holding out freshly picked flowers to his mother. The comparison caused a horrible pang inside of him, which confused him to no end.

"Foo'. Ea'."

The raspy voice dragged the child back, and he looked down at the offered food, which was soggy from the rain-wet ground. His throat tightened. The thought of putting something that had been amongst the refuse and in dirty puddle water in his mouth, let alone swallowing it, caused his stomach to churn. He shook his head.

Old Sam's eyes flashed. 'No goo' 'nough fa ya?"

"No," he rushed out, the Words flowing out without thought as he tried to curb the old vagrant's anger. "I am not hungry, you should have it instead."

The man looked thoughtful, and then smiled at him. A dirty and calloused hand came up to rest against a pale, smooth cheek. The rough thumb brushed the soft skin underneath.

"Kin' boy. So kin' an' goo'. Li'e ma Sven, jus' li'e ma boy. He waz a goo' un. An' hansum, li'e ya. Pret'i skin, dark hai'…pret'i blu' eyes…jus' li'e hiz mama. BITCH!" The sudden outburst caused the boy to jump, but the man continued as if nothing had happened. "Jus' li'e ma boy. Ma bran' new Sven." He laughed. "Go' a secon' chance wif ma boy. Ma Sven."

Old Sam turned and threw his thick coat back on. Picking up a large bag that had previously lain unnoticed, he heaved it upon his back. Turning to the boy, he smiled.

"No name?" The boy nodded. "Now'ere ta go?"

The boy paused. He supposed he didn't. He had no idea what to do now: no memories, nowhere to go, nowhere he belonged to; he didn't even have a name. He bit his lip against the rising fear, but now it was for a very different reason: for his own uncertain life. He tried not to sob and he nodded.

"Ma boy now the'. Ol' Sam ta'e goo' care uv ya now. I'll ta'e care uv ma boy, I will." The smile widened, he ruffled the black hair, and he shuffled past to the entrance of the dead-end alley. "Come on, Sven. Be' Time."

'Sven' remained where he was, still chewing his lip while nervously watching the beggar. He didn't know whether he should follow the old man or not. He'd be lying if he'd said that the man didn't scare him; he didn't really want to be stuck in his company. He wanted to go somewhere nice and safe, where a woman smelling of roses would wrap her arms round him. They would sit by the fire and she would sing him songs while her fingers combed his black locks.

His eyes watered again and a sob broke free, followed by another. What woman? His mother? He didn't have one, did he? The thought made him feel sick, more than the idea of being lost and alone.

"Be' Time, Sven!" The voice was impatient.

He tried to blink, to clear his vision. He wanted to stay where he was, to curl up and hope against hope that someone would find him and take him to where he was supposed to be. What if no one came, though, and he was left all on his own? He would die, wouldn't he? He didn't have a choice; following was better than staying.

Sniffing, he wiped away tears and followed Old Sam from the dark and scary alley onto a bright shopping road - a market of some kind, perhaps. Like a lost puppy, the newly-named Sven followed his master down the road. They passed a building with an open door, men spilling out and a loud ruckus from within, the men grouped together, 'singing' at the top of their lungs. Watching them as he passed, trying to glimpse what went on inside the walls, Sven noticed that several seemed to be wearing some kind of uniform. Short sleeved shirts that were decorated with vertical black and white strips and numbers on the back - he could not see the front. The men seemed happy, sloshing their drinks around.

Turning his head away, Sven quickened his pace to catch up with Old Sam. The bellows of drunken men followed him down the street as the rain beat against his skin.

"We are the Geordies,

The cock of the North.

We all hate Man Utd,

And 'Boro of course.

We all drink whiskey,

And Newcastle broon.

The Newcastle boys are in town.

La la la la la la."

A/N: I feel I should very quickly point out that Old Sam isn't supposed to have a Geordie accent. Just garbled English.

So, that's the start of it. I hope people enjoyed it. If you did, I'd love to hear from you. If not, I'd love to hear what you think I can improve on it. I'm really not sure what people will make of this… Though please, please, no spoilers or comments about Thor tDW, I'd really like to avoid spoilers. :(

Anyway, the title is taken from Radiohead's song by the same title.

The beta reader for this fanfic is You May Call Me Goddess - Bitch Goddess