Hey there. Yes. I took my time.

I am resurrected! I rise from my chaotic grave of medical texts and press works! Ohohohoho...

Anyway, moving on. This second story was inspired from Only Lovers Left Alive... well, partially. Just the thought of spending an eternity with someone. I've also been burning too much time in YouTube, streaming through videos. I came across a video about Roman slavery, so yeah...

Oh, and before we begin. I'd just like to answer that generous comment...

Chiafun: Thanks for the comment. Actually, I was aiming for the grade-school-like-like head canon of Dramione shippers. So we can roughly say that he has been crushing on her since they were first years. That would mean, he's been fancying her all throughout her relationship with Thor. Ouch... Rival-zoned Loki.


Decrescendo No. 2: To Waste Away a Literal Eternity with Someone

She wakes buried under a grave of green sheets caked with dirt and dust. How many years have passed? A century? Two centuries? No matter…

As she sits herself up, she notices the absence of light in the room.

After further inspection, she realizes the lack of a presence keeping vigil.

She is alone.


"You are far too eager for death."

"I am not. I merely stopped minding its constancy."

He does not question the rudeness of her answer. It is her small resistance- a sure sign of her now barely there rebellion against his authority. He hums, combing his fingers through her newly tended brown locks.

She winces- a reflex.

His leg is pillowing her head and she is not too keen of their position. It is far too intimate… far too dangerous.

"An apt response. You have just trumped the most valiant Roman general. So, will you give me the honor of knowing your true name?" he asks, fingers still working through her hair in a mesmerizing rhythm.

She gives him a covert intrigued look. How can someone like him be one of the Roman Emperor's Triumvirate? And they call him a wise? Him? A man who is incredibly clueless of the cruelty of an unsheltered life? Still despite of her better judgement, she indulges him. Without meeting his eyes (for looking at your master straight in the eyes is considered an act of defiance, which can earn a slave like her plenty of lashings, and her master's idea of lashing is no ordinary) she answers.

"I have none, Dominus."

His fingers stop, "Pardon?"

"I have no name."

He pauses, clearly weighing his next actions. And then, "Yes… yes. You do not need one. Names attach a soul to another… names complicate things… names can trigger unwelcomed feelings… names confuse and lets one fear the unknown merely because one knows what the unknown is called. Hence without one, there shall be none."


It takes her a whole hour to find the motivation to move. One by one, she plants her small feet down to the equally dust-laden carpeting.

Spider webs now serve as extra layer of curtains- an unwelcomed ghastly white overgrowth against her once abhorred crimson drapes. The heavy cloth may be far too gaudy for her tastes but she cannot bear the thought of wasting their apparent beauty to the eight-legged abominations.

It is a wonder how she herself is not caked with filth, nor covered with the same finely-threaded webs.

Perhaps that man left her with a swathing of spell as a last act of apparent generosity.


The blade traces the expanse of her left arm.

"It will hurt", he murmurs.

Her master's chambers remain in its usual impressive splendor underneath the moonlight and through the ominous shadows cast by the nearby fire. The curtains are drawn, letting in the merciless chill of the dark night. There is not a trace of the characteristic metropolis stench she had come to associate to "home". Her master's villa by the sea bathes in the air of salt, sand and tang with a hint of fish. It is a paradise away from the tumultuous status of Rome.

Although befuddled of his remark, she bites back. "Then it will be nothing new."

He draws a perfect slant across her forearm. Blood wells out of the injury.

"It will hurt much, much more… more than what you are used to", he bends and licks the trickling ruby red liquid. Her eyes follow the flick of his tongue.

He straightens up, not meeting her gaze. With the same blade, he makes an identical cut across his own forearm.

Blood bubbles out- red and true like hers.

He holds out his injury, finally meeting her inferior muddy brown eyes with his shimmering emerald ones. "Your turn."

"Dominus?"

"Lick and swallow."

A wave of chilly breeze blows, sending shivers up her naked back. She squeezes her eyes then complies her master's command.

He is a cruel man. That she knows for sure. But never has he once used her sexually. She reckoned that it shall remain that way for she is valuable in other aspects. No. Not because of her small, breakable build nor her inadequate assets. She is a valued slave because of her knowledge. She knows how to read and write. She knows literature and culture (not so much in arts). She knows science and she knows the heavens. She is wise and her master had taken the habit of asking her questions.

Her knowledge and wisdom keeps her safe from sexual advances… well, until tonight.

He summoned her into his chambers past decent hours and commanded her to undress. Undress she did. He throws away his own valued toga and pulls her to the center of the dark room.

Now here she is, an odd blend of unease, fear, curiosity and chill.

The taste of rust and salt assault her senses. She has always wondered how cannibals and predators fare in the taste of human flesh. Still, even after having a lick, she wonders the same. She is far too busy concentrating on her task to ponder on the lingering aftertaste begging to be noticed.

A flurry of rapid Latin words and a burning sensation crawling up the pits of her womb…

It is the otherworldly pain- a pure, unfiltered abuse of her every sense. It burns. It bites. It corrodes.

She blacks out.


Her state of undress does not stop her from drawing the curtains. It is time to behold the outside world.

She stands at the center of the room and holds out both hands; the curtains open; the windows and the door open; the cake of century-old filth rolls out of the room; the fireplace, the chandelier and the candelabras light up. Animation, not life, brings the estate in the middle of the Scandinavian forest back to activity.

It is one of the paltry tricks that man taught her.

"Now, let us see what has become of the world", she twists her body to the direction of the opened window and looks.

Silhouette of spires, glass and box-like architectures peek above from the foliage of the dark virgin forests, to the skyline of early spring Scandinavia.

"Queer…" one step in front of the other. Still, in the state of undress, she places both hands on the dark wood frame of her window and peers out the modern world.


"You will need a new name", says the man in front of her.

They are aboard a boat crossing the Baltic sea, away from the life he had once lived as Loki and she had once (forcibly) lived as Sigyn. It is a cruel ruse to exist as evasive gods to a people (who has now fallen) living in the bizarre culture of wars, plunders and sailings.

"Oh?" she rearranges her skirts.

Hundreds of years with him, and she still cannot fathom why he chose her.

"We are settling down on the land Hadrian built that wall on…"

"With the Angles?"

"I am quite sure that they go by the name "English" now. "England" is the name of the country."

Hundreds of years ago, when she was his slave and he was her master, she feared him using her for sexual purposes… so much that she trembled at the thought of being in the same vicinity as him. But after that fateful night, her fears were reduced to mere imprints of the past. He would never dare, she reckons.

So she can forego all clothing in a space she shares with him and still, she would feel safe. He would never touch her in fear of her being upset, leading to her death and his.

Not that she never tried to kill herself.

She had her fair share of incarceration and bondage because of her attempts. But now, centuries later, she warmed at the thought of the privilege of watching the earth grow old and witnessing the rise and fall of different civilizations.

"Jane."

Her head snaps to his direction. He is behind her, sitting cross-legged on the cabin bed- arms crossed and one hand cupping his chin in perusal.

"I heard it is a common name."

Jane, she tests it with her tongue. It shall be the name she will carry for the rest of the next centuries.


After a thorough investigation of the estate, she concludes that she has been alone for a long time.

However, as her hand traces the walls and the columns, she feels the steady pulse and thrum of him. He never left her unprotected. And now that her senses have fully returned, she can smell that even the breeze blowing into her property is heavy of magic. It is the same smell- rust, salt, sand and tang.

Has he forgotten her?

Has he abandoned her to her own devices?

No. She should not be too sure. A century- or two- is but a short time.

She makes a decision to go out of the estate and see the world.


Her hand traces the letters imprinted on crisping page. It is a valuable tome.

With rapid scritches and scratches, she inks her own thoughts on the stack of papers.

The door slams open. In strides a tall man, perhaps in his mid-20s, dressed in expensive furs and real gold.

She doesn't speak. She continues her activity.

"The bloody Spanish has brought the inquisition to England! I should have acted years ago and sailed for France!"

She doesn't reply, opting to be the calm one in the room.

"Did you hear me, Jane?! That quim of a housewife will be burning Protestants left and right!"

Jane rolls her eyes, finally averting her attention from her work. "Are you even a Protestant?"

He lets out a sigh. "No."

"Then Luke, do stop the useless yelling."

"But-"

"We leave for France… if that is what you want."

"Our trade-"

"Will be fine even if you manage it from France. Ships do not stay on land you know. They sail."


Jane roams undetected in the nearby city for quite a while. She replicates the clothing of the first woman she meets- an ensemble composed of some loose breeches, laced closed footwear and loose button up shirt left open to reveal a body-hugging sleeveless garment. It is a far cry from how women used to dress. It is different, but in a good way.

A lot of things have changed.

There is a new song of freedom singing in the air and it intoxicates her. Centuries she had borne, shackled by something in every dawn of new age- first her enslavement, then her immortality, followed by her femininity and the last one, her radical ideas.

But now, it seems that the world has moved.

She takes in every detail of the human city she is exploring- the people, the vehicles, the establishments, the food… even the animals. She tastes the present time's cuisine… only to be disappointed by the clinging aftertaste of his magic- the taste of rust, salt, sand and tang.

Absentmindedly, she looks up.

A metal bird of some kind zooms across the sky. A vehicle..? And they ridiculed Leonardo's ideas of flight… she smiles, thinking on how the Italian jack-of-all-trades would have reacted. What is it called?

'Airplane…'

"Airplane", she tests with her tongue. She wants to ride one.


"A revolution?"

"Oui."

"Finally, the French are doing the right thing. This will change the course of history."

"So", with practiced ease of several centuries, he raises an eyebrow. "We march with them through the Parisian streets, yelling 'Vive le France'? It does remind me of a certain farm girl you now. The one back in Rouen… Who is she again? I seem to recall that they burned her to ashes, then sainted her afterwards."

"Please Loki... Don't tell me you had nothing to do with her burning. You were the one who lighted the flames."

He bites his lower lip, willing himself not to laugh. He would have been horrified of the thought that he is currently laughing from the death that he tried to clean his conscience from. Yes. He was born in brutal times. He was Roman for sanity's sake. He was practically raised to embody sadism. He grew up finding amusement from gladiators being bloodily fed to lions. He became a man who can slit the throats of slave children without blinking an eye. But he metamorphosed far from that… his people's principles- his brother's, his father's- are wrong. Death is never justice. He aged well and he learned well. Still, the world should indulge him of his macabre humor for a while.

"I do not deny that. I am proud to have had a hand in turning her into a saint."

"Loki!"

"Loki!" he mimics her, laughing all the while. "You know that does remind me… you seemed to be too used to referring to me through my name back when we were gods."

She tilts her head, curious at his pensiveness. "Though I seemed to dislike those times… I am actually fond of them you know. And you look like a 'Loki'. It fits you."

"I do not know how I should feel with that. The Harbinger of Ragnarok and God of All Things Chaotic?"

"No. You are not the God of Chaos. You are straying to the wrong mythology… and the God of Chaos is actually the Goddess of Chaos… Strife and Discord. I am Greek you know."

"Well, you are French now."

Jane laughs, "And I am Viking, English, Italian, Austrian, Prussian and Spanish too."

"Do not forget Roman, my dear."

His response makes her pause a touch. Then, "I was never a Roman citizen. You are being forgetful."

He remembers. She was his slave… slaves were furniture. They were not people. Servus non habet personam… Loki frowns. 'But if Jane is not a person, then he's been alone the whole time?' He recalls those days when she would call him 'Dominus'- 'Master'.

"Forgetful…" he says wistfully. "That does remind me. You haven't called me 'Dominus' for a long time."

It is Jane's turn to frown now, "I've never called you 'Dominus' since Rome fell."

"Have you ever thought that I would have liked you to continue calling me such?"

Jane stares through him, pondering. "No. Never."

Those days are never easy to recall. They are painful- the embodiment of pain itself perhaps.

"Odinaltus Lucius."

She snaps back from her reverie, "Pardon?"

"That was my name", he rolls his eyes.

"Ah… yes. One of Odinaltus's triumvirate- the arrogant one who claimed to be the most educated."

His eyes narrow, "I was not arrogant… and I am the most educated. I had Greek tutors-"

"And apparently you also got your hands on a Greek slave girl who is, also, wiser that you."

"You wound me. I am older you know."

"Age does not equal wisdom."

Loki bolts up from his wing-backed chair, feigning offense. Jane stops herself from letting out a full blown laugh. He stares her down. She gladly meets his challenge. A moment later, the two of them succumbs to the storm of laughter.

The night is deep. The moon shines true through the window of their Parisian estate and their only source of light, save from the fire in the fireplace, is a single oil lamp. It is just like a reflection of that night. But the air is free of the chilled sea breeze- the smell of salt, sand and tang with a hint of fish.

"Well", he speaks after the torturous round of laughter. "I should be going back to my chambers. I need to wake up early tomorrow… visiting the port you know."

"Yes... yes…" she waves him off.

"By the way Jane."

She meets his eyes- a sign that he continue talking.

"You are Roman. You were married to me."

And he leaves her with that truth. They were indeed married back in Tudor England.


The first stop is Rome- now the holy city.

They never went back after its fall, not even when Italy gifted the territory to the Roman Catholic Church. They did reside in Italy for a bit though… even travel through Naples and Sicily. Jane was able to meet the infamous Lucrezia Borgia and her equally infamous family. Cesare had a charm of his own… that unholy cardinal. Loki was never fond of him.

She treads the path to their estate in Venice.

The building still stands, only with a few alterations made. Now, it is a hotel. She chose to stay there through the duration of her trip.

Next, she went to Germany- the territory that used to be Prussia.

Though the country was devastated by a war that transpired back when she was still asleep, it is still resplendent in its own charm. She was not able to investigate much, but she passed by what remained of their estate. Jane couldn't do much looking back, so she decided to learn about the war that almost killed off a whole race of people. She tried to know the man who rallied his own belief in change. Adolf Hitler reminds her of Napoleon.

After Germany, she proceeds to France.

Their estate there still stands, and it is still in good condition. According to the caretaker, it is now owned by a wealthy English man who rarely visits the country. She begged to be let in. With a bit of persuasion and a little bit of magic, the goodly man did.

The interior only changed a little. Her portrait still hangs at the center of the dividing grand staircase though.

After the draining tour in the estate, she strolls through the modern Parisian streets. She spends five days in Louvre. She reacquaints herself with art… and she recognizes some of the pieces as theirs. Perhaps Loki donated them to the museum? She shakes away her thoughts and she climbs to the very top of the Eifel Tower.

A month later, she takes the flight to Spain.

She feels the urge to revisit the streets where Loki and she tried to evade the angry mob who were insistent in burning them to stake. She laughs as she tosses a coin to a fountain. She then makes a quick trip to Barcelona. The wine is amazing. It soothes her parched throat. It is nothing like the rubbish they serve in random modern day taverns.

She leaves Spain within three weeks, feeling the impulse of treading the places they travelled with Marco Polo in tow.

Jane doesn't know where to go first… they did visit a lot of places after all. She changes her mind and goes to America- the New World. There she experiences nightlife, hotdogs, ratty apartments and sex-crazed noisy neighbors.

She is scanning an atlas peppered with remarks, pictures and sticky notes (how queer is that?), biting her bottom lip. She's in JFK trying to decide where to go next after a solid year in the Big Apple.

She looks up to the list of flights.

London.


Is it madness? Is it madness that pushed the two of them to break after centuries of companionship?

She does not care as she pulls on the collar of his offending shirt. For her, he is suddenly overdressed. He nips, he bites and he pries. She had never… For a woman who lived for a long time, her virtue remains mysteriously intact. She is a virgin. Even in the midst of the Renaissance, the pressure of men didn't wear her down.

She should have a shrine… she should be venerated and admired for being chaste.

A few more buttons and the two of them are as naked as the day they were born. He kisses her foot… then her knee… then her thigh… then her hip… and then her stomach. His hands curl beneath her knees, hooking up her legs to his hips.

Loki meets her eyes.

His emerald gaze burns her but queer enough, she is not in pain. He kisses her lips- solid and deep. He teaches her tongue a dance of pure pleasure. She moans, arching her little body. He groans.

"Say my name", he rasps.

She has the audacity to put a distance between them and laugh. He frowns.

"Which one?" she asks, eyes twinkling.

He frowns some more before the seeing the humor in her jibe. "Whichever you want." He smirks, bending his head to bite at her hardening nipple. She cries out.

"Loki…"


London is a busy hive of locals and tourists.

Jane doesn't bother to slow down and visit its tourist attractions. She chooses to walk, rather than ride any peculiar transportation though. She wants to take everything in.

It is nearly two when she feels the need to eat something. In the local's terms… She is peckish.

The brunette in generic sweater-pants-boots-and-beanie pulls her menial luggage across the street to a chic-looking café. She wants to check on the state of English cuisine… Perhaps this café is a good start. She pushes the door open.

Chimes clink.

The aroma is welcoming- coffee… baked goods… spun sugar… tang… salt… rust… and… sand.

Jane's senses screech. She stands alert- her back rigid.

He is here. Loki is here.

She catches a whiff of his magic.

Her eyes dart around… from booth to booth… table to table. And she sees him there.

He is still the same- all tall, dark and sinister (?) He smirks at the girl talking animatedly in front of him. He nods. He lifts up his cup and takes a sip.

"So this is where you are", and she pulls her luggage into the café.


The Scandinavian summer is delightful. Away from the stench of industrial London and the noise of Paris, it has its certain charm.

Jane is particularly taken by the foliage and the breeze.

It has been hundreds of years since she had last been here… hundreds of years since they left its security for English shores.

"This does bring back memories", she smiles as he takes his seat at the edge of her bed.

He smiles back. He pulls the blankets up to her chin, chuckling at the sharp look she's throwing him.

"Sweet dreams, love", he says as her eyes flutter close.

"Mmmm…" she hums and drifts off to sleep.

Loki stands up. He holds out his hands; the crimson drapes close; the light of the candelabras and the chandelier extinguish; his spell envelops the sleeping girl in the four-poster bed, protecting her as she takes the nap that will probably last a century.

They have been evading this for almost two millenniums.

But now, she is far too spent. She has to sleep.

And sleep she does… she rests for the two of them. She rests for a whole century.

FIN.


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