NOTE: while not a vital thing to know, I feel I should tell you in this 'verse, Randolph isn't the expert consulted about the hammer. That's someone else. just FYI.
enjoy! always happy to hear from readers, btw!
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Professor
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Luke presented his brand new passport to the attendant at airport check-in with a broad grin. "It's new. Today," he told her. "I got to be a citizen and everything. It was so exciting."
She smiled at him. "Congratulations. But you're leaving so soon?"
"But then I get to come back," he told her with relish, and she laughed, but kindly.
"Enjoy your flight, Mister Rendell. We hope to see you home soon."
At the jetway entrance, Luke turned around to look back. "I feel as though I am abandoning her again," he murmured.
"Her?" Natasha repeated.
He took a moment to answer. "Arendelle."
Natasha wasn't sure he'd meant a personification of the country or someone in particular, but either way his mood shifted as soon as he saw the seats. "This?" he asked her dubiously. "This is where we are to sit?"
She looked at him; he sounded like he'd never been on a plane before. But in case she was misunderstanding, she pointed, "Here. Eleven-D and E. You can have the aisle since you have long legs."
"But these are so small," he complained.
Heaving a sigh, she sat down in the window seat. "It's coach class. And you didn't pay for it, so sit down."
He finally took the seat, and he sat very tense during taxi. His fingers clutched the arms of the chair when the grinding noise of the flaps going down vibrated through their seats.
She leaned closer. "Are you afraid of flying?" she asked, trying not to be mocking but clearly failing by the incensed look on his face.
"This... craft is primitive," he bit out, "and noisy. Barely improved upon a design from sixty years ago. It is amazing they fly at all."
Her lips twitched into a smile. "You're scared."
"I am not. I am quite logically concerned that we will plummet to the ground and die."
Chuckling, she laid a hand over his very tense one. "It's okay. I can hold your hand if you like. We'll be fine. It's very safe to fly these days."
"Safe," he repeated in scorn. "Primitive death contraptions."
"So curmudgeonly," she teased lightly. "It's a short flight, Luke, we'll be in Paris soon."
"And then we have to fly another of these monstrosities to Seville," he pointed out and sounded plaintive. But before she could answer, the engines revved up and they were taking off.
His grip on armrest tightened beneath her hand, and his lips tightened as if he was suppressing the urge to vomit. He was truly bothered by flying. She rubbed the back of his hand, as the plane lifted up in the air. "We're on the way."
When the flight attendant came by, Luke tried to decline anything, but Natasha ordered him a gin and tonic. The attendant saw he was distressed, despite his attempt to pretend he was fine, and she brought it quickly with a sympathetic smile.
"You work on this aircraft?" he demanded of her incredulously. "I salute your courage."
"It's not so bad," she said and suggested, "Think of it as no different than a bus. We'll be in Paris before you know it."
Downing the drink helped him ease his grip on the armrests and he drew a deeper breath. To her surprise he didn't seem to have a problem looking through the window, as they followed the coast. His problem wasn't fear of heights, only the plane itself. "The land doesn't change," he murmured. "Politics, people, these things are similar, but they do change. But the land is the same."
"You've been to Arendelle before."
"In my youth."
"That's why you came back. Were you born there?" She knew he'd told Arendelle that he'd been born in Genovia, but that was obviously a lie.
He shook his head. "No. A place not that dissimilar," he murmured. "But far less welcoming."
A northern or mountainous European country with dubious politics or war, she translated silently. He had to be near her age, born after 1980, in the Soviet bloc perhaps, with a youthful visit to Arendelle as soon as the borders opened? Or perhaps he had visited with parents who were diplomats or performers. Arendelle kept good records, so she would have SHIELD analysts figure out some possibles. There couldn't be that many.
She was gradually narrowing down his identity, and yet, as they approached Paris and he downed his second drink to handle the landing, she glanced at her companion and remembered Fury's interest. What did Luke know about the 'lightning' that wasn't? And was he involved with it?
SHIELD beat them to Seville, as she saw Sitwell through the glass outside the small border enforcement and customs area. Seville was also a military base, and likely a quinjet was parked there, out of sight. Luke was still at passport control and didn't see Sitwell, but she wanted to roll her eyes or stab an irritated text message about how he shouldn't be in view at all, in case Luke could recognize him.
But thankfully Sitwell moved off before Luke joined her, and she was all smiles. She rented a car so small Luke's knees touched the dash with the passenger seat as far back as it would go, and drove it to the university. They found their way to the office of Professor Randolph. He did not appear to be there, and Natasha picked the lock when Luke seemed as if he was about to force it open.
The office was small, hemmed in by full bookshelves, and cold from the air conditioner being on in such a confined space. There was a single window and a large desk with a computer and piles of papers.
There were photographs of larger statues and carved stones and a dagger on a display stand on the shelf by the door. Near the desk was a whole shelf of similar books - all copies in different languages of "The Rabbit's Guide to the Universe." Luke swept a finger down the shelf, looking at all the copies, and he turned his attention to books with older bindings, looking at each one before piling it on the desk.
"What are we looking for?" she asked.
"The original," he answered curtly. "He has it. He must. I want it."
"Are we stealing it?" She didn't particularly care either way, but she was curious what Luke's answer would be.
"He is returning it to its rightful owner," Luke answered with cold precision.
Five minutes later, it was plainly not there. She surveyed the mess they'd made of the office. She suggested, "Perhaps it's at his home. Or in the university library. But it's not here."
"I will have to ask him where it is." Luke's voice was calm and resolute, with an undertone of cold threat to it that suggested he was not going to tolerate resistance or objection. She didn't offer any, either, but made sure she was with him to keep him under control.
The professor lived in an apartment in one of the walk-ups not far from the university. Getting in the gate was easy, and they went up the stairs to find 313.
Natasha knocked on the door loudly and made sure to stand in the fisheye, putting on her 'eager student' face.
The professor called something muffled from within, and then she heard footsteps approaching on the other side.
But Luke didn't wait; he put a hand on the door and pushed. With a terrible screech of metal, the deadbolt was shoved right through the wooden housing of the door as if the wood was cardboard. Natasha was stunned by the display of strength - he hadn't even seemed to exert himself. How strong was he?
Luke sauntered through the open doorway. "Professor Randolph. It is time you and I spoke."
Natasha didn't know what she expected but the balding man pressed up against the wall, was not it. He wasn't Spanish, but more paler northern European originally. And he stared at Luke with wide eyes, terrified of this person who crashed through his front door.
When Luke got a good view of him, he stopped and said, "Oh. Now I see. Professor of Norse Mythology. Very droll." He paused and lifted his chin, squaring his shoulders, and seemed to fill the hallway. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded, in a voice grown haughty and cold.
"I… do." Professor Randolph closed his eyes, brows knitting, before his whole manner collapsed into defeat. Then he straighted up from the wall, put one fist across his chest in a salute, and bowed his head. "My prince."
Natasha barely kept her eyebrows from climbing into her hair at the title. Prince? Prince of what?
Luke seemed to take it as expected that the professor would call him that. "Excellent. You have something of mine. I want it back."
Randolph didn't need to be told what that was. "This way. I… didn't think you would return," Randolph explained, and started down the narrow hall.
"It was something of a surprise to me, as well," Luke said dryly as he followed the professor, leaving Natasha to shut the door as best she could. The hall opened up in a large main room, with several windows and a balcony overlooking the back garden of the building, and a high ceiling. There were many books on the shelves that lined the inner walls: some arranged neatly, others more haphazardly.
The professor peered at her curiously, frowning. "You are… not one."
"No, she's not. This is Natalya; she helped me get here. We've been keeping secrets from each other," Luke introduced her, and she almost choked on how true that was. So he did know something was up. But Luke didn't pursue that, instead asking Randolph, "Where did you get it?"
"It appeared during a rare books auction," he explained. "No one else knew what it was. So I bought it."
"It belongs to Arendelle," Loki said harshly. "Not you."
"Nazis would've looted and destroyed it," Randolph protested. "I kept it safe."
Nazis? She frowned at him skeptically, but Luke didn't seem to notice anything odd.
Randolph opened a safe hidden inside one section of shelves and pulled out a leather-bound book that he handed to Luke. The binding didn't seem familiar to Luke, who took it frowning, until he opened it. "Oh." He drew in a sharp ragged breath, and touched the page gently with his fingers. His knees buckled and he thumped down on the edge of the sofa, too enraptured by the sight of the page to remain standing. "I thought it was lost," he whispered, and his eyes grew wet. His fingers trembled, caressing the page. "This is the only thing on this world left of her."
She figured it out then; the book was connected to his daughter. It wasn't the content that was important; it was sentimental because of who had owned it.
"I know," Randolph said gently. "That was why I had to save it."
Luke bit his lip, and gasped out a sobbing breath, holding back tears. Natasha remembered the grief he'd shown in the valley and knew this was a part of that. She moved up closer to see that this book, unlike the printed copies, appeared to be written by hand in runic letters with small ink illustrations.
"Can I get you coffee?" Randolph asked her in a soft voice, trying to let Luke be. "I made some, just before you arrived."
"Yes, thank you," she said. Randolph nodded his head and went into the adjoining kitchen to bang around with cups and sugar bowls.
Natasha set a hand on Luke's shoulder. "You all right?"
Luke nodded and sniffed. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, breathing more easily. "She was so happy when she saw this."
Randolph returned with a tray which he set down on the side table, at Luke's elbow. Natasha made Luke's coffee with two sugar cubes, and handed it to him. He gave her an absent muttered thanks and sipped at it once, before putting it aside, still focused on the precious book on his lap. Natasha sat beside him with her own coffee.
"According to the inscription, you wrote this yourself," Randolph said, seating himself in the armchair opposite. "Is that true?"
"She wanted me to make my own book," Luke murmured, drawing a finger across the page. "So I did. I gave it to her and her daughter. It infuriates me to see copies of it lying on a shelf as if they're worthless."
'Her and her daughter' – his daughter's mother? But he should have said 'our' daughter, in that case. Perhaps the daughter was not his by blood.
But that was not the only mystery in the words. Luke had written the book himself? Those precisely inked runic letters were his hand? She was having trouble believing that. The book looked ancient.
"Not worthless," Randolph corrected. "It's not worthless to disseminate information. You taught me that."
Luke's face lifted sharply, surprised right out of his mourning. "What? I did?"
Randolph gave a tentative smile. "We were correspondents for a time. I was a student at Paris, Rolf Eremus."
Luke's gaze slid sideways as he frowned, trying to recall, then he had it, exclaiming, "He was you?" He burst into laughter. Randolph's smile widened and he relaxed, seeing that Luke wasn't angry. "You knew who I was?"
"Not at first. I thought you were an extraordinarily gifted scholar. We were supposed to meet in Paris, if you recall. I saw you, before you saw me, and then, yes, I recognized you."
"Yet you avoided me. The only one of your own kind on Midgard. Why?"
'Own kind' – that was odd phrasing. In conjunction with calling Luke a prince, were they part of a government or people in exile? Many had suffered under the Nazis and the Soviets, too.
Natasha stayed out of their direct notice, so they would keep talking and reveal to each other what they would not reveal to her.
"I was terrified," Randolph admitted. "I feared you'd force me back."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because I… am a deserter. I came with the Beserker army," he admitted. "I left them to stay here."
"Then?" Luke asked, sounding astonished. "You came then? That was the Kree Incursion, yes? You have been in this dull realm so long?"
"It isn't dull, my lord. Not to me. I was a stonemason before I joined the army. That was dull. But here, there is so much change. So much of interest to learn and to teach. I wanted to stay."
Luke glanced down at the book, frowning as he pondered. "Well, even if I were in a position to force you back, I would not," Luke said, rising to his feet, the book clasped against his chest. "You saved Elsa's book, and for that you have my gratitude. It is a pity you did not reveal yourself to me in Paris; I would have liked to know I was not alone."
He stepped away and she saw the flash of realization hit him, as a grin spread across his face. "Of course!" he laughed. "The Warrior who Stayed! Was you!"
Randolph nodded agreement reluctantly. "It was. But I am no warrior, now. I took up arts of peace long ago."
"No wonder you stayed here," Luke said and shook his head, still chuckling. "So I am not the only one with a legend. It never occurred to me to consider the source of that tale. I was more interested in the future than the past." Then he narrowed his eyes at Randolph. "Is it you I should blame for all the ridiculous tales they tell of me?"
Randolph flared back in worry and fear, raising his hands defensively. "No, my prince! I swear, my task has been more of true translations and history. I invented no tales, only collected them."
Luke seemed a bit dubious of that, but let it go. "I hope so."
Natasha knew at that point that there was no ordinary story that would explain everything they were saying. There was something very strange about both of them.
Luke set down the book carefully and wandered over to look at the shelves, either curious or bored, or both. "Are these your own scribings? These collections with other names?"
Randolph chuckled. "Yes, some of them. As many as I can find. A scholar is expected to have books, so it never seemed much risk."
Luke made a sort of non-committal noise, and kept prowling the books. Natasha watched him, with a sense of rueful affection. At least there were not so many books as at the library.
She reviewed what she had heard so far, but she wasn't sure how it all fit together. Arendelle, some military action called the "Kree Incursion" which she'd never heard of, Nazis… She needed to look at some of the books on the shelves herself, or at least pull out her phone and search some terms, but then Luke stopped, and tucked his hands behind his back as he looked at something on the shelf.
"You followed my exploits I see," he said eventually. His tone had changed, grown more controlled. He was angry and danger had crept into this room suddenly. Natasha stepped away from the shelf to give herself more room to maneuver.
Randolph didn't notice. He stood up, face lightening with eagerness. "How could I not? Once I knew who you were, it became a passion of mine, to trace where you were. There are hints you went to the Far East. I have a Persian travel account... In fact, since you're here, maybe you can verify..." He flipped through a pile of small, leather bound books on his table, looking for one in particular.
Luke drew a hand along the front of the shelves holding books with yellowed dust jackets. "Who else had access to this research before 1940?" he asked, his voice still pleasant but now taking on a chilly edge.
That, Randolph noticed and understood. He backed into the table, clutching one of the books to his chest. "No one."
Luke didn't believe him, stalking toward him, a panther with prey in his sights. "Rolf Eresmus. You used that name again, on those books over there. Published in the 20's, in German. You were known as an expert in Germanic history and the sagas, which the Nazis adored so very much." He stopped, looking down at the professor, and his face was pure cold rage. "I will ask you one more time - who had access to your research on me?"
Randolph folded. "He came to me in '35," Randolph whispered, eyes downcast. "Schmidt. And his henchman. Because I knew Old Norse and the old gods. He had heard of you and wanted to know more. I… I didn't understand what he was, not at first. He seemed a normal scholar."
Schmidt. Natasha felt cold, because that name she knew. The Red Skull of Hydra. And there was another name associated with Schmidt- the Ice Demon.
Luke Rendell. Lukas of Arendelle. He was the Ice Demon.
... tbc...