My gratitude is beyond expression. My only hope is that I can continue to fulfill your hopes.
Enjoy!
VVVVV
CHAPTER SEVEN
"There are many who would rather meet their bitterest enemy in the field,
Than their own hearts in their closet."
~Charles Caleb Colton, Lacon, 1825
Loki could not remember the last time he had slept. Weeks. Months, perhaps. Sometimes in recent past he had sat in one corner or other and stared at nothing. Other times, he had merely feigned sleep. But never had he lost himself altogether and rested—truly rested. And this night was no exception.
He stood with folded arms in front of that same crooked window, staring blankly out of it, as the inky darkness faded back to be replaced by dismal gray. His hands stayed locked in fists, and he held the inside of his lip between his teeth.
A breath of wind stirred the grass out there. He blinked slowly.
The sky gradually lightened. Day dawned—as much as it would up here in these savage hills.
He blinked again—quicker. His brow furrowed.
He straightened.
It was the seventh day.
Ghosts of voices, sing-song children's voices, trickled through his memory.
First day, to come to thee
I'll track thy feet in snow.
If that doth fail, on the second day
I'll follow the scent I know.
On the third day I'll cross the streams
And rivers where thou wouldst go.
The fourth shall bring me to the trees
And to thy own dear meadow.
The fifth I'll seek thy weapons—
An arrow from thy bow.
The sixth I fear I'll find thy blood—
So steps assured, to the gates of Hel,
I'll come to thee by magic spell.
Seven days.
Loki spun to face the front door, suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation that someone was about to stride through it.
The shadowed door stayed motionless. The quiet wind moaned against the thatch.
Loki swallowed, his heart beating faster. He dropped his arms and silently crossed the room to the window by the table. He slipped around the chair and drew back the curtain with two fingers.
Nothing. Just dim, empty moorland.
His heart did not calm.
"Just an old song," he muttered, shutting the curtain and glancing back through the room.
Yes, another old song—a song he knew backward and forward. Every child of Asgard did. It was a song of urgency—it told how long someone could stay missing before his loved ones feared the worst, and what measures his family and protectors would take to regain him.
He paused, gazing unfocused at the dusty floor, listening. Then, with slow steps, he returned to his customary north-facing window.
The morning light opened up a bit more. Rustlings issued from her bedroom—she was waking. Loki let out an abbreviated sigh, turned and entered the tiny kitchen, and with a flash, unconjured some more of the raw elk meat—not much—and a long, thick bone, and put them on that metal plate. Then, he returned to his perch.
Her door squeaked open. She came out. Loki did not turn.
He could feel her study him—felt her eyes run across him. Careful. Thoughtful. He lifted an eyebrow. She stayed as she was for a moment, still studying him, then stepped quietly into the washing room and shut the door.
At first, Loki absently listened as the water hissed inside that room. Then he ignored it. His heartbeat felt irregular; enough that he could not steady his breathing. The clouds outside seemed to be trying to part, but the wind kept closing the distance between their jigsaw pieces.
She emerged behind him—he stayed still. Again she paused, then crossed the room to the kitchen. He heard her clatter with the dishes and pump the gurgling water as she began to cook…
And he forgot about her.
Because his right hand started trembling.
Nerves tingled painfully all down his side, making his hand spasm shut. He clenched his jaw, folded his arms, turned—and, head down, slowly began to pace.
Seven days. Seven days, and they still had not come. Not with their assassins' wiles, not with their science or strategy, not with their one-eyed, viper-like cunning—and not with any magic.
That was good. They would not catch him, then. They wouldn't bind him in some prison and subject him to whatever tortures these Midgardians could conjure, without a trial, without letting him speak his piece…
He swallowed again, fighting bile back.
He wasn't afraid of their tortures or their insults. He could withstand them, whatever they were.
It was something else. Something he refused to think about. Something else that had made him flee—made him abandon his assumptions, take her by the hair and stare down the shaft of that arrow.
Dark images flashed in front of him. Imaginings of a cage. Of cold fingers of darkness crawling through the crevices of that cage, toward him. Of those fingers snaking around his ankles, his knees, his wrists, his throat…
He shook himself, pacing faster. He moved to the far wall, reached out with an absent right hand and touched its rough surface, trying to breathe, before turning back and stepping toward the mantel again.
Why hadn't he found him?
Loki observed that he had been easy enough to track earlier, apparently, even whilst he had been aboard that missile-like aircraft, held captive by the Soldier and the Iron Man. And he had asked no questions—just leaped aboard and broken Loki loose. And he had come from another realm.
Loki hesitated by the mantel, staring at the snuffed white candle.
Had something happened? Had the Chatauri launched another attack, one that the colorful little band couldn't repel this time?
Loki stood on that thought for a moment, letting it revolve through his mind, watching the sight and sound of its images spin through his consciousness.
He minutely shook his head.
No, the Chitauri needed the tesseract to launch another full-scale attack.
And they no longer had it.
Loki's empty stomach turned over twice. He pressed his fingertips to the bridge of his nose and faced the couch, then dropped his hand and paced toward the far wall again.
No, it must be something else that still kept himfrom coming—some other delay, pressing business, conflict…
Loki's steps slowed. He stared at the small picture of a country landscape on the wall. He went cold.
Or…
He wasn't even looking.
Because the only thing he had ever been chasing was the tesseract.
Loki spun and swept back toward the table, his feet loud on the floorboards, his eyes seeing nothing as he bit the inside of his cheek.
So all those words on the mountaintop—all that wretched pleading and threatening—had just been an empty ploy to obtain the tesseract?
Loki's hand paused on the back of the wooden chair as he stilled.
That thought sank down inside him like an icy stone, then galled him with its very existence. His nose and brow snarled to a frown—but his hand still quivered. He grasped the back of the chair harder, and roundly cursed himself.
Why had he suddenly allowed himself to fall back into this habit of useless hoping? He had been through with that—beyond that—a long time ago. During nights as black as pitch and endless days without the sun, when he had slowly come to the realization that something as flame-hot as hope could drive a person mad…
Wait.
Loki's frown eased, focused—and his thoughts cautiously started down another path.
If it were true…
If the pleading and bargaining and threatening had merely been for the sake of the tesseract…
Could it be that Thor did not actually want Jane?
Loki stood still for a long moment.
Then, he looked at her.
She stood off to his left, in the kitchen in front of the stove. A skillet sat atop the stove, and it sizzled and hissed. She wore dark blue trousers; a thick, high-necked, form-fitting violet shirt, and her doe-colored hair hung down in gentle curls. Graceful hands stirred the rest of the chopped mountain vegetables and dried herbs on the skillet as black-lashed, bright brown eyes watched their progress. Her soft features stayed quiet, attentive, her expressive eyebrows drawn together in calm concentration. She held her pleasing figure upright with a hint of weariness, but her shoulders didn't slump—and she uttered a few notes of humming as she reached forward to adjust the temperature of the burner.
Loki's gaze faltered, and he turned away.
No, that could not be Thor's reason.
His mouth hardened.
Perhaps…
Perhaps there was yet another reason. Perhaps all of that little band were merely sitting around, waiting for Loki to return to make an offer—to demand a ransom.
But they would never keep their word if he did. Fury, Barton and Romanov were as backhanded as petty thieves and untrustworthy as three vipers. They would take Jane from him and bind him the next instant, calling him a fool for falling for their ruse.
However, they would only sit still for so long while Loki remained hidden. Eventually, they would lose their patience and come after him. His only choice was to flee—
But any flashy magic such as that—any magic at all—would be a beacon straight through the sky.
A beacon for THEM.
The chair started to rattle beneath Loki's grip.
All at once, the walls felt too close, the air far too thick…
He couldn't breathe.
He let go of the chair, charged at the front door and flung it open. It bashed against the outside wall.
He marched straight out, out from under the overhang and onto the grass of the moor. The wind caught his hair and clothes and tore through them, thudding in his hearing. He opened his mouth and sucked in deep breaths, trying to keep his head from spinning. He stopped, and squeezed his eyes shut.
No. This had to stop. He had to think clearly.
It was possible Thor was just delayed—that he was merely baffled by the line of the escape spell.
It was possible that he had meant what he said.
Loki clawed at the Mjollnir necklace at his throat and held it in a death grip.
He just had to wait—he had to wait a while longer…
The sun broke through the clouds.
Glorious golden light tumbled down through the valley, dazzling Loki's vision and covering his whole body with warmth. His head came up and he stared into the sky, stunned.
But then a low, seething voice slithered into his mind.
What if Thorhad meant it at first, but his mind had changed since the battle?
What if he had become a puppet of Fury's?
Loki's heart shuddered.
No—perhaps Loki could reason with him before they came. Or threaten him…trick him…
The clouds closed over the sun.
A shadow fell across the entire land.
Ice cut the wind.
Loki's vision, shut off from the light, went dark. He swayed to one side.
His fingers slid from the necklace.
And his blood turned to stone.
LLLLL
Jane felt something unsettle the air as soon as she stepped out of her chilly bedroom first thing in the morning. She stopped, noticing Loki's long coat draped across the end of the couch. Then she caught sight of his ever-dark form standing by the window, as if he'd been there all night.
Jane frowned. Had he been there all night?
He had looked better the past couple days, regained a little health in his face—but right now, even his lips had lost all their color. And, for the first time, Jane noticed what looked like minor bruising underneath his right eye—the only one she could see.
There was also an unusual set to his stance. Unsteady. As if something had recently agitated him—like the surface of a pool that someone had tossed a pebble into a minute ago. The ripples still troubled the edges.
Jane made herself turn and go into the bathroom, shut the door, and take a shower.
After she had cleaned up, she dressed, wrapped up in her coat and stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair until it dried. As she methodically drew the brush through her long, damp locks, running her fingers through them simultaneously, she bit her lip and tilted her head, staring at her pale reflection.
Maybe he was planning something.
Maybe he felt trapped here, in this little house in the middle of nowhere. That wouldn't surprise her—they had been here almost a week. If they were running from the Avengers, then staying in one place would be a bad idea, no matter how remote it was.
Jane's brush slowed.
She saw the flash cross her eyes before the thought fully registered in her head.
He hadn't been very good at anticipating what she needed to stay alive. He still hadn't lit a fire, and how long would the meat last? Was he even thinking about her? At all? Or would he forget about her again, the way he'd done before when the canned food had run out?
A chill coursed through her.
She put her brush down by the sink and felt her head. She shook herself, raked her hands through her hair, then nodded firmly at her reflection.
It was dry enough. Time to get food.
She opened the door and went out, automatically looking over at Loki as she did. He still resembled a statue.
Jane frowned again.
But he was breathing strangely. His arms were folded, but he clenched his hands in white-knuckled fists.
Carefully, she passed behind him and the couch, heading for the kitchen, still listening to his tight, labored breaths. She rounded the corner…
And came face-to-face with a full tray of red meat, accompanied by a bone.
She halted.
Then, slowly, she turned back to him again. And a different feeling entered her chest.
She swallowed, then stepped forward into the kitchen to dig out the rest of the mountain potatoes and the skillet.
She turned on the stove, which heated the little space well enough, so she took off her coat and hung it on a peg on the far wall, then dusted off her hands. Now that Jane knew her way around this kitchen and didn't have to dig for things, she could cook much more quickly. She pumped water into a pot, put the bone in it, and set it on a burner to simmer for later. Then, she cut the mountain potatoes up, laid them out on the skillet, and had just pulled a spatula out of a drawer when she sensed him stir.
She straightened, shifted, and glanced cautiously out the kitchen door.
And put the spatula down.
She started forward, stopped, then edged closer to the doorframe, her hand absently sliding up to press against the lump of the necklace beneath her sweater.
He was pacing.
His eyes were completely unfocused, yet his pallid features bore the most intense concentration. Deep lines marked the skin between his eyebrows. He stalked slowly back and forth between the south wall and the mantel, like a panther in a narrow cage. His fingers opened and closed absently—one eyebrow arched, then relaxed as he turned to cross one more time.
Jane watched him, fixated, her grip closing around the necklace. She could almost feel the air crackling, agitating, as he swept back and forth. But some sort of deep, uncomfortable pain seemed to be twisting inside him …
He paused by the far wall, and reached listlessly out to touch it. He swung back around and came to the mantel to gaze intently at the lightless candle, without seeing it.
Abruptly, as if an invisible flame from that candle had burned him, his hand flinched toward his face—he backed away from it, pressed his fingers to his forehead and stormed toward the south wall.
Jane's heart started to beat hard inside her as she watched. She couldn't move.
He drew to a stop in front of a little painting. He stared at it.
And something changed. Jane didn't know what—something about the set of his shoulders, or the shadows around his eyes…
She just suddenly realized it.
He wasn't planning anything.
Something had happened.
Or not happened.
Loki swung around, marched back toward the mantel—
And passed it.
Jane leaped back toward the stove as he strode right up to the table and grasped the back of a chair with his right hand.
Pain radiated from him, and it went straight through her. He gripped the chair so hard she thought he might break it. His glare turned to a snarl, and his hand quivered.
Then, as Jane watched, his expression altered. His eyes cleared, as if something had occurred to him. His head tilted toward her.
She snatched up the spatula, desperately trying not to make noise, and began stirring the potatoes on the skillet. The dull scraping filled the silence.
And he looked at her.
She could feel it—see it, out of the corner of her eye. She sensed his penetrating gaze run up and down the length of her.
Her heart hammered, but she showed nothing on her face, keeping her attention on the food. She made herself hum a little, even though she had no idea what song it was. She couldn't let her hands shake. She couldn't start thinking what she was starting to think…
He moved.
Her head came up.
The front door slammed open—
And he was gone.
Jane threw down the spatula and hurried out of the kitchen after him, stumbling down that cursed step and grabbing the doorframe for support against the blasting wind.
He walked rapidly straight out across the grass, and for a fleeting moment Jane thought he was leaving—
He stopped. He turned to face the north, his hand gripping his necklace.
For a second, neither he nor Jane moved. She held her breath.
The sun came out.
Jane gasped.
It was like heaven had opened its floodgates and poured pure, brilliant light down onto the whole earth. Color washed through Loki's figure—the deep greens and browns of his clothing, the flashing gold of his tunic's metal accents; the dark blue in the edges of his raven hair and the stunning emerald in his eyes. And all around him, the grass came to life with lush greens and light blues—the windy air itself hung rich and bright.
Loki stared straight up into the sky, his expression open and astonished—and for a moment, he reminded Jane of an old painting of an awestruck shepherd gazing up at an angel—an angel with widespread wings who said "Be not afraid! I bring good news—!"
The clouds covered the sun.
The valley fell dark.
Everything returned to the gray and grim—and a cold wind moaned.
Loki's face went blank.
His gaze drifted downward, listless. His hand released his necklace. He swayed to one side. His eyelashes flickered.
And in a silent rush, all the strength left his frame.
The wind disturbed the edges of Jane's hair. She pressed a hand to her chest—but the brutal ache that rose up and through her heart made her take a fistful of her sweater.
She had never seen someone look so alone.
Her brow twisted, but she couldn't look away. For a long while she stayed there, leaning against the doorframe, as the mountain winds murmured through the valley.
LLLLL
Jane had eventually come inside and eaten her potatoes, even though she'd lost her appetite. She'd done the dishes—twice as slowly as she usually would have. She'd cleaned up the bathroom, then had to re-do it because she'd absent-mindedly put half the toiletries back in the wrong places. After that, there were no chores left. So she sat at the breakfast table in the little wooden chair, her knees hugged to her chest, staring out the front window, and thinking about the one thing she'd been trying so hard to avoid:
He didn't have a plan.
He didn't have a series of hiding places he was planning to drag her to. He wasn't going to ask for her ransom. He wasn't craftily avoiding the Avengers whilst plotting their downfall elsewhere.
Jane pulled her knees tighter, her jaw tensing.
This had never been his plan. He had wanted Thor to take him back to Asgard—but then, when he'd started doubt that would happen, he hadn't had time to make a new plan, past the initial act of taking her hostage. The only thing that was clear was that he had just been expecting something—or someone.
But it hadn't come.
And now he seemed cut adrift. Like a ship without an anchor.
Jane's whole body started to feel cold. She tried to swallow, but it hurt. She closed her eyes.
The one without an anchor was her.
She'd done this—this whole, reckless thing—on blind faith and a heady rush of adrenaline. Keeping busy, staying alive, staying warm, staying fed, all the while mentally dodging around the one fatal flaw she'd always known was there but refused to acknowledge:
She didn't know what to do next.
She'd avoided another use of the tesseract—she'd tricked Loki into taking her here so the Avengers couldn't find him…
But now what?
Jane touched her lips with her fingertips and squeezed her eyes shut harder.
He had no plan.
Neither did she.
And now they were both lost.
LLLLLL
The door squeaked open.
Jane blinked, coming out of the haze that had covered her all day. She half twisted, and caught a glimpse of Loki, by the dim twilight, ease through the door. His head hung low as he shut the door behind him. He stepped past her as if he couldn't see her, his boots slowly tapping, and returned to his corner. He stared at the little painting on the wall. Jane watched him, her whole chest heavy. It was getting hard to see his tall figure—the sun was going down, and the room was dimming.
A soft bubbling sound woke her up even more. She sat up, taking a breath. She could smell it.
She'd forgotten about the bone on the stove.
She got up—winced as she stretched her stiff legs—and tiptoed back across the cold floor into the kitchen. She had to lean close over the simmering pot, but the delicious smell that wafted up to her was enough for her to know that the broth was ready.
She opened a cabinet and pulled out some salt, then shook a few dashes into the pot. It wouldn't be quite like the chicken broth her mom used to make, but…
She fished around in the clattering silverware for a ladle, then opened the cabinet door and pulled out a mug and set it on the counter. Her hand slowed. She stared up into the dark storage.
She pulled out another mug.
Biting her lip and hoping she wouldn't splash and burn herself, Jane ladled broth into one of the mugs, took a teaspoon, dipped some out, blew on it, and tasted it.
Not bad. Flavorful, hot—and it soothed the throat.
Good enough.
She ladled some into the other mug.
Taking them both up in her hands, she walked as evenly as she could back across the creaky floorboards toward the living room and peeked out.
He was sitting on the couch, on the end closest to the breakfast table, gazing into the dead fireplace. She hesitated, then stepped out. She set her own cup down on the table, then carried the other one over to his left side.
He had his elbow propped up on the armrest, his fingers draped across his lips. She studied his angular profile for a second, but he didn't acknowledge her. Jane realized he probably didn't know she was there.
"I made some broth from the bone you gave me," she said softly. Her voice sounded odd, after so much silence.
He didn't move. She edged closer.
"It's good." She held it down to him. "Here."
She held it there, inches from his hand.
He took a small breath.
Turned his hand, and absently grasped the mug, then lowered it down onto the armrest.
Jane turned back toward the table.
"Thank you," he murmured.
She stopped.
Her head came around, and she stared at him.
He gazed at the fireplace, unseeing.
The quiet acknowledgement suspended in the air.
Jane swallowed hard.
And went back into the kitchen.
She moved carefully, but deliberately—the whole time feeling something pull on the core of her, making her keep glancing back toward the couch.
She picked up three candles on stands and a box of matches, then trailed back into the living room. She came around the couch, knelt on the hearth and placed the candles on the stones. Then, with a sharp strike of a match in her grip, a bright little light flared to life. A light that soon bore three more, before it extinguished. After that, Jane got up, retrieved her broth, paced back around and sat down on the floor by those candles, leaning her right shoulder against the stone of the fireplace, tucking her legs underneath her.
The gentle glow of just those three candles filled the room—eased the hard, pale lines of Loki's face and the tense angle of his shoulders. His eyes, luminous in this light, looked gray again. But fathomless, and distant, like the ocean's horizon. Hawk-like black eyebrows still drew together, dull tension in his brow. The firelight glittered against the metal of his clothes, and against the barest edge of the silver necklace. Shadow swathed around him like a garment—but rich, and soft.
He glanced down at the broth, as if considering it from a long way away. After a lengthy pause, he brought it to his mouth, and drank it.
Jane turned her attention to the gently dancing candle flames and drank her own broth in small sips. It was still very hot—it steamed around her face. But it kept her hands warm.
She watched as Loki gingerly transferred the mug to his right hand, propped his elbow up again and rested his finger on his lips. Now, he stared into the three small flames. Their color danced against his gaze.
Something pressed against Jane's breastbone. She opened her mouth…
But stayed quiet.
Loki blinked slowly. Once. Twice.
He bent, and set the mug down on the floor. It thudded softly. Then, the skin around his eyes tightening, he pulled his legs up onto the couch, shifted his upper body, and laid his head down on the armrest. He lay on his side, still watching the candles—but the tension in his brow had faded.
The wind gusted again, making the walls mutter deep down. A rush of air sucked at the chimney, and the candles flickered, but didn't go out. Jane glanced around the room. Darkness had fallen, surrounding them—except for this little halo of light. She drank more of her broth, feeling it warm her all the way down to her heels. She looked at Loki.
He was asleep.
She sat straight up—then froze.
His arms wrapped around himself, but his eyes were closed.
He sighed, and turned onto his back.
For just a moment, Jane felt a spark of something that resembled relief—
But then he stirred.
His arms released, but his hands closed to fists beside him.
His head twitched. He grunted.
His right hand spasmed open, then closed, then opened and closed again.
It drifted down. The fingers of his left hand stretched out and flexed. He turned his head away.
Then, his whole face stiffened, and his back arched slightly.
His eyes moved beneath soft eyelids.
He halted. As if he was listening…
His eyebrows drew together—his forehead twisted sharply.
His lips parted.
"Ohh," Loki whispered, his whole bearing breaking, as if he had finally realized something that sent an ache straight through him. He closed his mouth, and swallowed.
And a tear slid down his left temple, sparkling in the firelight.
Jane's heart stopped.
She lurched toward him, then controlled herself. Her hands trembled around her mug.
Then, all at once, she set the broth down and firmly pushed it away.
She got up, took three steps, knelt down right by his head, reached out and brushed the tear away with her fingertips.
His breathing shuddered, and a flicker crossed his expression.
But he didn't wake up.
Jane rested her left elbow on the edge of the couch and leaned against it, her eyes sweeping over his face.
His breathing came unsteadily, his face and body taut next to her. Jane's heart pounded—but that tear still glistened. Her lip trembled.
With a soft stroke, she wiped away its trail with her thumb, tracing the dark bruise under his eye. She turned her hand over, and gently ran the back of her fingers down across his soft temple.
"It's all right," she choked, as she earnestly wiped all traces of that tear away, though she could hardly hear herself. "It's all right."
He took a deep breath. His forehead eased. She watched every close, vivid movement of his face, unwilling to pull herself away.
And the tight grip released his body at last.
He relaxed.
And this time, he breathed deeply, evenly.
Asleep.
Slowly, Jane withdrew her hand—his tear gleamed on her fingertips.
For a long while, she stayed put, watching him sleep. Finally, she started to get drowsy. She reluctantly got up, picked up her broth and finished it, and with one last look at him, she went into her room to go to bed—but she didn't shut the door.
To be continued…
Review, dear Wonderfuls :)
