CHAPTER THREE: UNEXPECTED TURNS

Loki awoke, strangely, in a soft featherbed, covered in cotton sheets that smelled of fresh water and the tiniest hint of rosemary. His clothes were gone, leaving him bare as a newborn beneath the thin blanket. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking around the room. It was cluttered mainly in tools that he did not recognize, pieces of curved metal, and a burning fire. He smelled oils and sulfur, grateful to have exchanged the stench of excrement for them. And on the other side, staring at him as if he were one of the strange devices beneath him on the desk, was an older man with dark brown curls and a crooked smirk.

"Morning, princess." he said with a wink. Immediately Loki pulled the blankets up to his chin, glowering at the man as fiercely as he dared. "I didn't touch you, you precious virgin flower, so save the venom. Also, you're welcome for removing those chains." He stood, turning to face Loki. His shirt was sleeveless, broadcasting the muscled arms and toned shoulders. He wore the leather apron of a blacksmith, skin and clothes darkened with soot as if to emphasize it.

"Where am I?" he demanded in a proudly calm voice. His host removed his gloves and cracked his knuckles one by one, deep amber eyes staring at him curiously. Loki curled his body in on itself, feeling just like he had under Farbauti's gaze. Except where she brought fear by power, the mystery of the unknown made him wary around this man.

"You're in the stronghold of the Seven Dwarves."

"The what?"

"I agree, the name's pretty awful. I didn't choose it." he added, hooking his leg around a small stool and kicking it so that it skittered across the stone floor and stopped just a few feet from where Loki sat perched on the mattress defensively. He sank down and propped his elbows on his knees, staring at Loki pensively with his intertwined fingers forming a prop for his chin. "But, enough about us; for now, anyway. A better question is, who are you?"

"Why?"

"Because you wore those chains. Only the Jotuns know how to use perolium, that even I haven't figured out. But we know those runes. You're dangerous enough that they needed to block off your magic. I want to make sure I'm not making a mistake by bringing your ass in here."

Loki swallowed, his years of training his face to hide his emotions coming in especially handy right now. "I am Loki. Loki…Odinson."

The man had noticed his hesitance, as evidence by the way his eyebrows moved up his tanned forehead, but decided against acknowledging it. "Right. Odinson." he mused. Loki cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter.

"And you? I demand to know you name."

Loki wanted to curse his word choice when the ends of his mouth curled up. The soot-covered man shrugged casually. "I was liking this whole 'aloof stranger' ordeal, but if you must know my name, so be it. Anthony Stark: inventor, crusader, love-maker; though that last part does not apply to you in the slightest, so stop looking at me like that." He smirked and stood, cracking his knuckles. "Well then, Loki. I had Clint fetch a nice change of clothes for you, and once you're dressed we'll take you to our rather illustrious leader. Of course, I say that, he's more like a grizzly bear. Barbaric, a bit cruel." Stark shrugged casually.

"I see."

"Right. Since you're such a precious little thing I'll wait outside for you to get dressed."

Loki didn't move until the door had been firmly shut by the rather odd blacksmith. He looked to where Stark had gestured, to a trunk just by the foot of the bed. A pair of black trousers and a white shirt were folded neatly atop the wooden case just at his feet. Loki reached for them and carefully pulled them on. His shoes were gone, and none had been left to replace them; the stone floor was surprisingly warmer than he'd expected. He opened the door carefully, finding the blacksmith leaning against the wall with his apron folded and clutching in hand. Loki couldn't help it as his eyes drifted to his chest, locking onto the glowing blue beneath his shirt, just over where his heart would be. He quickly averted his gaze elsewhere as the man leaned around him to simply toss the protective cloth onto the floor of his room and pull the door closed.

"Try not to be so obvious." he said, and then turned his back to the Prince without so much as another word. Loki kept his eyes averted from the man's back as he followed him down the wide corridors, making note of every window and door that could be used as possible exit routes should he find himself in need of one. His analyzing ceased when Stark stopped before a polished oak door and threw his fist against it several times.

"Fury!" he shouted to the person within. "The guy's awake."

"Then stop yelling like a damned Neanderthal and bring him in!" came the reply from the other side, the deep voice muffled by the thick wood. Loki cocked an eyebrow as Stark turned to face him and held an arm out, as if to gesture that he should open the door himself and go in first. He frowned disapprovingly as he twisted the doorknob. Behind a polished oak wood desk sat a dark-skinned man, his bald head reflecting the flickering candlelight. He looked up and frowned—possibly glared—at Loki. He set his papers down on the surface of the desk and stood, pacing in a wide circle to look Loki over as Stark shut the door behind him, hovering in the back of the room. He wore thick black cloaks that covered him from neck to boots and billowed around his feet when he moved. An eye patch covered what had to be a ruined socket, the glistening scar tissue around it only supporting Loki's suspicions.

"And who, may I ask, are you?" he demanded, walking circles around him. Loki craned his neck to keep the man in his immediate sights.

"What gives you the means to demand my name?"

"Loki Odinson." came Stark's traitorous voice from behind him. Loki whirled to pinion him with a glower, instead finding himself to be glaring at his inquisitor.

"'Odinson.'" There was a tone to his voice now, a tone that Loki didn't like so much. He narrowed his eyes. "We were informed that the younger son had perished in the takeover."

"Your informant was wrong." said the clone behind him. Loki could only smirk at the reflective skull as the man whirled around, grabbing what looked like an odd L-shaped club from his belt and pointed one end at the magically-created imitation. Stark had grabbed the wooden coat rack by the door. "What on Earth is that thing you're waving in my face?"

"It's true." he said, more in wonder than surprise as he hid the rather crude-looking weapon. Loki's clone vanished, leaving behind only the residual mist of yellowish-green mist that soon dissipated as the man called Fury turned to stare at him. Stark returned the large wooden pole back to its station by the doorway.

Loki, however, did not catch the rest of his words. One moment he was trying to see through the ever-shrinking tunnel of blackness that overcame his sight. The next second he was half-lying on the floor, looking up at an upside down yet obviously concerned face. He'd fainted, he realized with growing embarrassment. The use of magic to make one clone—one measly doppelganger—had wrenched from him the energy to stand and remain awake. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, ignoring Stark's insistence to aid him.

"Next time, you should make sure you have the energy to show me up." Fury said, the faintest traits of a sarcastic smile on his face. Loki glared but said nothing, his vision still not yet focusing. He once again pulled away from Stark's helping grasp. The man looked offended, holding his hands up as if to say "fine, have it your way."

"I'll remember that." he replied thickly as the door opened and Fury turned to face a woman with short brown hair. She was dressed in all black, same as him, but she wore no cloaks. Instead, to Loki's bewilderment, she was dressed in a long sleeved shirt and trousers whose ends ducked into the laced boots on her feet. She carried an envelope in her hands, sparing him only a fleeting, curious glance. She didn't seem at all interested at the pale, sickly looking man clinging to Fury's desk to stay on his feet. "Hill. I thought you were on patrol."

"I was. Then I was approached by a messenger." she said, handing it to Fury. She crossed her arms as he deftly broke the wax seal (which was nothing more than a clumsily dribbled line across the opening) and unfolded it. His brow furrowed over his one eye as he read it, frowning at it as he would a misbehaved child.

"Send out Rogers." he finally said. "He can pick his team."

Hill nodded, took the note, and left, saying no more to anyone. Fury instead turned his attention back to Loki, who had caught his breath and his head. He stood straight now, brushing his hair from his face.

"Stark." Fury said to the lurker at the front of the room. "Find this man a room. Let him get some proper sleep and we'll send food. Once you're fully rested, we're going to put you to work."

Work? Loki didn't quite like the sound of that. "What kind of work?"

"Well, you'll just have to wait and see, Odinson." Unsure if the quick flick of his eyelid was supposed to be a wink or if he was just blinking, Loki followed Stark out of the room deciding he didn't like Fury.

"Your fearless leader?" he asked when he was sure they were out of earshot of the man. Stark snorted, rubbing his nose with a sooty knuckle.

"Yeah, you could say that."


Sif had never felt so exhausted as she clutched her husband to her, hand slowly threading through his matted, tangled hair. Like many nights, he'd woken up tossing and turning, screaming for his brother. She didn't understand him. He preached hate for the Jotuns, talked of wishing for the end of their entire race, but when it came to mentions of Loki—most often from Fandral or the precious few who had sworn their silence of that day—he put a stop to any ill-spoken word against him and insisted on finding his brother. Whether it was him, or his body.

He ignored any rational argument that to hate Farbauti and her people was to hate Loki, too. He threatened death at anyone who demanded he forget the brother he'd loved. Only recently had he admitted to knowing Loki's true bloodline. His friends had looked betrayed, unable to meet his eyes as they silently left the room. Sif had not spoken a word to him since that tense meeting, yet here she was—not only sharing his bed, but holding him as he tried to fight the images still flaring behind his closed eyelids.


The next day Loki found out what "work" meant. He was taken to the deepest floor of the stone fortress, the dungeon. It was damp and cold, a draft blowing through its carefully carved corridors from an unknown opening to the surface. Torches were lit to guide them, the orange flames throwing flickering shadows across the emptied cells. The iron bars had been taken from their posts, leaving empty holes standing before small, curved hollows in the walls.

"You do not keep prisoners?" he asked casually, trying to find somewhere to look other than the beam of blue light that emitted from Stark's chest. Said smithy shook his head, eyes glancing about at the empty cells anyway.

"Why would we?" he asked. "We're mercenaries, not sheriffs. Our enemies, we either kill or bring to their tormented victims for justice."

"Justice? You mean death."

"We don't get involved in politics like that. As soon as we get our money, we're a non-partial, uninvolved third party to them."

"Oh, of course. If I you don't mind me being so bold, do you ever stop and question why the person being hunted by you is being hunted in the first place? Or do you even stop to consider they may have their own reasons?"

"Actually, I do mind." Stark said, his tone implying that any more questions would result in physical pain on his part. Rather than take the chance of accidentally blowing a hole into the man, he instead shut his mouth as Stark grabbed the only unlit torch on the wall and pulled it down. The hidden lever moved without any problem, and the wall before them slid away, revealing a brightly lit room. Stark pulled the awestruck Prince inside, and the hidden door fell back into place.

The room was lit by several dozen lamps suspended from chains that crisscrossed above them, leaving no corner to hide in shadow. A man was stooped over one of the strange clubs Fury had held, except it was mostly in pieces. At the sound of their arrival his head snapped up. He wore a deep purple hood that covered most of his face. What wasn't hidden in shadow was shielded by a black mask. His chin moved as the muffled voice behind the mask spoke.

"Good to see you again, Stark." it said. "Who's he?"

"Bruce, this is your new assistant. Loki, this is Bruce Banner, our magical device experts." He paused as the men exchanged a brief handshake.

"I don't recall asking for an assistant." he said. "Ah, not that I'm not grateful for it, Loki."

"Why is your face covered?" Loki asked. That question earned him a swift and painful punch to the back of his skull. The pain reverberated down his neck and up to his temples.

"Keep your mouth shut," Stark snapped. "Bruce, he's all yours. Abuse him however you like." With that charming line, Stark took his leave. Rubbing the swelling bruise on his head, Loki glared after him. He wondered if leaving Farbauti's castle was the right choice. Stuck to work in this underground room was no different from being stuck in that tower. The only difference being that he was now following orders of a strange masked man, his magic rendering him unconscious if used too much or too often. Life was not going to be easy for him here, either.