Loki spent most of his days underground now. Manhattan, he found, had a thriving network of people like him. Magic users, lost, damned, cursed people, he found them all, befriended them easily. A man who could manufacture money would never lack friends.

But friends weren't what he wanted. Rachel was enough for now, and these poor sick used-to-be-people were a poor substitute for her. What Loki wanted was memories.

There were charms that could be purchased, charms that worked, but only in small ways. One might open a single day of memory, and you'd never know which it was until you went through every day in the blank memory book that was your head. Or the memory might be revealed in a dream.

He had enough bits and snatches now to know that at least some of what he saw in his nightmares was real. There were other worlds, a city in the sky. Asgard. It was tainted in all his memories, covered in a nearly visible layer of scum that stank to him, making him want to turn his face and pretend he'd never heard of it. Something terrible must have happened to him there.

The charms weren't enough, though, so he was working on bigger plans. Deals and back-deals. He found he was talented at getting what he wanted. Promises, lies, dripped off his tongue thick and bright as blood. This, he knew, was the kind of person he used to be. Gods, what had he been? Some between-world drug dealer? A mercenary wizard, a vizier? In some of the flashes he'd gotten back he saw himself beside a king. Rachel had intuited that he'd been a "really important" person Before. He never doubted it.

Days, he worked. It was gritty, dirty work, rewarding in its way because he was good at it and felt he was getting closer to the goal of discovering his own identity. But nights were the best.

Nights he spent in Rachel's bed. Rachel's arms. Warm and soft. Rachel's mind. Loving. Forgiving.

She knew he was up to no good, slinking off out of sight and reappearing at odd hours, sometimes wounded, sometimes angry, sometimes carrying a box of money or, in one unforgivable slip-up, a box with blood dripping out of it. He'd had to erase her memory that time. It had hurt him immensely; deceiving her was no pleasure.

Gods bless her, she understood. Understood that he was not of this world, that he had to do things he could never tell her about. She craved his presence, his love. Someday, his goodbye. Not too soon, one could hope.

The sight of her big, silly smile under the sheets drove him wild. Her arms around him, her joy, her ecstasy when she came and her pride at being able to please him. The frown on her face as she chased down those notes on the piano.

And her continued unwillingness to accept his money and go see a play with him. That itched, it really did, but he had to admit he loved her more for it. Damn her and her honor.

Wherever he went once he found out who he was, it was sure to be some place she would not follow, even if she could.

Loki was a terrible person. Really, worse than he'd dreamed that first time he discovered he liked telling lies. Often in the underground he killed without hesitation. Told lethal lies with a huge, friendly, innocent smile. Kissed and groped a few women who preferred that type of negotiation, though so far he had managed to avoid having it go further.

Some nights he was downright shocked by his own actions – often committed instinctively, like the time he sent a torturous lightning bolt down the throat of a Gremlar demon who tried to swindle him. The thing had burned to death before it crossed Loki's mind that perhaps he was overreacting.

He had trouble sleeping that night, wondering: If he had done that so easily, how many others had died at his hand before he found himself in Manhattan with no memory?

Rachel was there, every night, to comfort him without questions.

Until one day she wasn't.

Paper littered the floor upon Loki's entry to the apartment he now thought of as theirs.

Fluff was everywhere – fluff from the couch he'd slept on so many nights, now slashed to pieces. In the corner, the Mickey Mouse mug, shattered, beside Rachel's few other dishes and silverware.

Loki's heart crashed into his ribs. Had he ever been this frightened, Before?

He flew to their bedroom, literally flew, though just a few feet. Noted for later: Another power. His own magic often surprised him like that, appearing when he needed it most.

The bed was in the same state as the couch. Rachel's few possessions were strewn around… the computer was gone…

As were all of Loki's possessions. His clothing, a watch he'd left on the dresser, his razor in the bathroom.

Whoever had done this had been looking for him.

As he searched he screamed Rachel's name. No answer, of course, they must have taken her… But there was something… a scent, a sinister scent.

Back in the living room he found it: Blood. On the piano keys.

No. No, no, please, but he couldn't imagine what god he was pleading to. None would listen to him, monster that he was.

"Rachel!"

He set his mind free, searching for her, for that light, fluttery mind he loved. The mind-reading didn't work at long distances. Please, let her be close.

His search radius was quickly extended as far as it could go. Not far, not far enough, they'd have her miles away by now…

But there. He heard her. Felt her.

It was her, her mental "voice," though he would not have recognized her mind if he had not been specifically searching for it. There was no happiness there, no joy. Pain and terror, that was all.

The fire escape was where he found her. Practically where they'd first met. She had crawled out, bleeding, and somehow made it down ten flights of stairs before he landed at her side, caught her up in his arms, held her while she cried.

A flash of that familiar joy burst through her mind once she recognized him, relieving him immensely. He did not know what they, whoever they were, had done to her, but the turmoil she was projecting had been so thick he'd been afraid they had ruined her – tortured her until her mind, her self, was destroyed. It was possible; he'd been at the torturing end of that scenario more than once.

Her face was a bloody mess, one eye swollen shut, her mouth a giant purple bruise. Worse were her hands.

Loki had to breathe deep to keep from crying himself when he saw them.

Crushed, completely. Probably they had stuck her hands on the piano keys and slammed the lid down on them. It's what he would have done if he wanted to wreck the life of a pianist.

She would be lucky to keep the hands. Some of the fingers might need to be amputated. She would never play again.

Worst was the knowledge that he couldn't help her. All the magic, all the spells and powers he'd acquired – none of them would help the slightest bit in healing her.

Fool. Idiot. He had so many enemies. Hell, he'd acquired thirty this week; surely he must have thousands more out there from Before, looking for him. They'd found him. He just hadn't been home. How could he have failed to put some kind of protection on the apartment? Their lives, Rachel's and his, had been so separate, or so he'd thought. He'd assumed too much. Assumed it was possible to have a separate life of murder and mayhem by day, love and comfort by night.

Rachel was crying, shaking. In shock.

She tried to say something. He leaned close. Terrible to admit, but it was true – he didn't want to read her mind. Having skimmed the surface, he couldn't bear to see, to know what they'd done to her.

"They said… they said you were needed. They said to give this to you. You'd know what it meant."

Her eyes dropped toward a necklace he hadn't noticed, dangling across her chest. A medallion, really. One side bore his name in the language of Asgard, which Loki read without noticing he had never seen it before. The other side bore the picture of a goat. It meant nothing to him. But he didn't want it touching her. It went into his pocket.

He carried her the rest of the way down the escape, hating her grunts of pain at each step. The hospital staff were easily convinced that he was her husband and that she had injured herself moving furniture. A ludicrous story. They wouldn't have bought it, but he helped their pathetic brains along without a shred of hesitation, frantic to see her treated.

The verdict: She would recover. Nine of the fingers could be saved – the right pinky would go – and she'd be in surgery for hours.

Time enough for Loki to track down whoever had done this.

Magical residue lay in swaths all over the apartment. Probably all traceable, but slowly. The medallion had to be the most important clue.

It was covered in Rachel's blood. The sight of it, the reminder, almost undid him; he sank to the floor, back against the wall, breathing hard. Gods. The tipped-over piano bench brought back the memory of the first time he'd kissed her; her too-thin, bird-boned arms pressed against his chest. He'd thought, then, that she looked frail. That same frail little body had been in someone else's hands, malicious, crushing hands. No doubt it was some hired demon thug – three feet taller than Rachel, five times heavier. How frightened she must have been.

The few magical artifacts and materials he had that would help with a spell to unwind the medallion's secrets had all been taken. He would have to use his own magic alone.

An hour of chanting and pressing his will upon the medallion, and he knew he had it. A blue aura shone around it, soft as fog, bright as a firefly. It needed only a catalyst.

With his own teeth he tore his wrist open and let the blood flow over the polished bronze. The pain was nothing, literally nothing to him; he was unaware of it.

Heat. The medallion was burning. Burning his hand, his eyes, his brain.

And Loki remembered.

All of it.

Who he was – "really important," indeed.

What he was. A frost giant, an Asgardian, Laufeyson, Odinson, but more than that. A wizard. A fiend.

A god.

A god on the run, but a god.

How right Rachel had been.

On second glance, with his real eyes unclouded by humanity, he found the signature of the Aurlochs, an Order with which he'd had some dealing on Earth – musclebound cretins, the lot of them – unmistakable. They hadn't covered their trail at all. He was needed, they'd said, and they had expected him to find them.

Who sent the medallion? Not the Aurlochs, surely, they weren't smart enough, but someone giving orders who knew of his situation. Someone who wanted something from him, no doubt. Nobody ever gave him anything for free, except Rachel.

Loki knew he was a different man now, and he reflected with his fresh new mind on that girl. Human.

His brother had fallen in love with a human, and Loki had laughed and laughed. Threatened to kill her (or worse) to torment poor, dumb Thor. As if Loki would have bothered tracking down some mortal.

Then, anyway.

Now… Loki could understand Thor's reaction to the threat.

He understood equally well that Rachel and he were not meant to be together. That today was the day she'd feared: The day he remembered who he was and disappeared without a trace.

Not just for himself. His feelings for her were confused, muddled – he was seeing her through the eyes of the Loki who had lived in this apartment, who had made love to her a hundred times, who had been damaged, empty.

Loki was not that man anymore. He was not… He was fairly certain, anyway… that he was not in love with the girl, friend or not.

But.

She had helped him, and he would remember.

And that promise. A promise to say goodbye. He would honor that as well.

Hours later, sensing she was awake, he teleported into her room without ceremony, wearing his full suit of green armor.

Her whole body jumped at his appearance, and she ground her teeth and moaned at the damage the movement did to her recently-set bones.

No words, though, Loki noted.

What had he expected from her? Accusations? For leaving her, for getting her hurt, for scaring her? Yes, he supposed he had. Loki had never learned to trust people, with sound reasons, and he couldn't be expected to put hundreds of years of habit away for the one good, trustworthy person he knew.

"Rachel Honeycutt," he said. His voice would be different to her. The voice of a god, not a man. The appearance of a god. She would know, she would understand.

"Loki." Her tear-filled eyes swept him up and down. "I knew you were something special."

"There are three more things you should know," he said, keeping himself cool, never going near her. Imagine if he were tempted to comfort her. To kiss her.

"I'm listening," she said.

"First: The men and creatures that did this to you are dead. There was a misunderstanding; they were sent to seek me, and thought you were my plaything. They believed I would not mind them meddling with a mortal, that I would understand you were in the way. They imagined that letting you live was all I could reasonably expect. I have corrected these misapprehensions."

If he had hoped she would smile – even he didn't know what he hoped for from her – he was disappointed. Of course; Rachel couldn't be made happy by the thought of other people suffering. Not even the monsters who had tortured her into the hospital.

"Second: I owe you a debt."

"You don't – " she began, but he cut her off with intentional rudeness.

"I do. And I pay my debts. Within twenty-four hours a woman will appear at this door. Old, with red hair and a black cloak. This woman owes me a debt. Do as she orders you. Your hands will heal, as will your other wounds. Your finger will regrow within the turn of the moon. You will play piano again."

A shudder went through her. Relief rolled out of her mind in heavy waves. However hesitant she had been to accept his counterfeit money, this was one gift, Loki knew, she could not refuse.

"Third."

He hesitated. The words would not come.

"Third… you have been… my friend. Thank you, Rachel Honeycutt. That is another debt I owe you, in addition to your help. For that…"

Clack. Clack. His metal boots echoed on the hard hospital tile as he approached the bedside stand. Upon it he placed the medallion – altered, small as a coin and silver now, and woven through with Loki's own magic.

"If you ever need me again – and this will only work once – place a drop of your blood upon this coin. Turn it in your hand three times and say my name. I will come. Once."

She understood. He could feel it. She also understood that he was not going to say one word of love, drop one affectionate gesture upon her. He could not afford it. Neither, obviously, could she.

Look what his love had brought her.

"You were my friend too, you know," she said, her swollen lip cracking with the effort of speaking. Loki winced inside. Outside, he remained an armored statue. "I guess I owe you for that. So know, Mister Knight in Shining Armor…" she laughed, and he couldn't resist a tiny smile. "If you're ever in trouble again, you can come to me, and I'll be there for you too, okay? Not sure how you'll find me. I don't have a magic coin and I'm changing my phone number after this. But if you find me…"

"I will," Loki said. "Remember, Rachel: I found you once already, without knowing so much as your name. The details are not important, but when I fell, that day you found me, I sent out a call. Like a magnet, I suppose. I knew I would need help, wherever I landed. I knew I would be weakened, damaged, though I could not know how much. So the spell I cast sent me to the person, any person, who would help me best. You were chosen, Rachel. Thank you for being that person."

"Thank you for saying goodbye."

Apparently unable to hold back any longer, Rachel let her tears flow.

That was Loki's cue to leave.

He had a kingdom to rewin.

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The End. Thank you for reading. Always review.

Love, darkwinggirl