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"Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice."

—Robert Frost


Loki watched the blood slowly drain from the little agent's face.

"Why... am I still here?"

Idiot. Too clever for her own good. She'd thought to reverse the teleportation spell herself. Little did she know she'd enacted something far more irreversible.

"What did I just do?"

He looked down at her through narrowed blue eyes, but the desired effect was watered down with the trepidation he couldn't hide. He took a deep, slow breath in through his nose.

"Something… highly unpleasant."

Oh, so much more unpleasant than you could possibly dream, little Russian. Freigeben… of all the things Odin could have sent him, of all the keys to unlock his curse, why did it have to be her?

"Tell me now."

Stupid mortal. Tampering with things she doesn't understand, then demanding answers. She had… fire.

"I'm afraid I value my life too highly to pursue that line of discourse."

Her voice came out high and strangled. "Loki!"

"Do not blame me for this! I tried to stop you!"

Natasha reached up and wound her fingers around the necklace and tried to yank it from her neck. Her eyes flew wide, and her struggles grew more desperate, the chain digging into the flesh of her neck.

"I can't—" she gasped. "I can't get it off!"

Loki reached up and stilled her hands before she could tear her neck open with her panicked flailing. "Calm yourself. It is put there by enchantment; fighting it will only damage yourself."

"Why is your face on it now? What does this mean? Tell me what you know!"

"I only know the legends associated with Freigeben. Nothing is certain."

"What do the legends say?" she demanded.

He regarded her, and again chose the coward's path. He had no wish to be at the receiving end of the infamous Black Widow's wrath. "I already told you, you won't hear it from my lips. I've grown quite fond of having an entirely unbroken nose."

Natasha tipped her head back and let out a kind of low growl. Then a strange light passed over her green eyes. She straightened, her lips parting in a distractingly perfect 'O' that he could not pull his eyes from.

"Sevastian," she whispered, pressing her fingertips to her collarbone where the medallion rested.

He tore his gaze back up to her eyes. "What?"

"My…" he saw her throat work as she swallowed, a deep pain flickering behind her widened gaze. "The man who owned this cabin, he… he used to read me stories from the land he was from. Not Russia, though he took a Russian name. From Norway… " she trailed away, her eyes fixing on a spot between the wooden floorboards, and a furrow of concentration appeared between her brows—one Loki had the irrational desire to smooth away with the pad of his thumb. Then she lifted her chin, her eyes blazing aquamarine defiance.

"If you're not going to tell me, I'll find out on my own." She marched past him to the door, but instead of opening it into the snowing outside she turned at the last second to another door he hadn't noticed before. It opened to what appeared to be a bedroom, as he caught a glimpse of the edge of a bed and squat iron contraption that must serve as some sort of heating supplement. Natasha disappeared around the corner, and didn't reappear for several moments. After a few seconds of mixed amusement and irritation, he gave into his curiosity and followed her.

"What are you doing?"

Natasha didn't turn around as he entered the room behind her, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his armored chest. She was rummaging through a thin wooden bookcase, backed to the brim with old books covered in layers of dust and spider webs. She ran her fingers along the spines, searching for something in particular.

"Found it," she muttered, snatching out a particularly thick-spined volume from the collection. Loki caught the gilded words on the cover, and heaved a small groan.

"Do not tell me you've stooped to searching through the warped ramblings of Midgardian mythologies."

"Shh," she snapped, settling down onto the bed and thumbing through the heavy book.

He blinked. "Did you just shush me? A god of Asgard—"

"Shh!"

He didn't know whether to laugh at her impetuousness or cow her where she sat. He opted for taking a disdainful sniff through his nose.

"I believe your—did you call that gruel 'soup'?—is burning."

"Chert!" Natasha exploded, slamming the book down and leaping to her feet. She dashed past him out of the room, looking far more flustered than he'd ever seen her before. He chuckled wryly to himself. Oh, how flustered she would be when she truly found out what ancient magic she'd set into motion. He grimaced at the thought. Her stupidity had caught him up in the whole unfortunate affair now, too. Now he had no choice but to untangle this enchantment, not only for her sake, but for his own. He could only imagine the oafish grin spreading over his brother's face once Thor found out he'd been inextricably bound to a mortal woman. Through unbreakable magic, no less.

No, he told himself. Not unbreakable. If anyone can break a bond like this, Frigga can.

He felt a pang thinking of his mother, but pressed the unwelcome sentiment aside. He had more urgent matters to attend to. He could hear Natasha banging around in the kitchen, and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. She would find out sooner or later, he knew. But he would not be the one to tell her. He needn't break what tenuous peace they had between them yet. The sun was fading outside. They had only to get through today, and perhaps after a fresh night's sleep he'd be able to figure out a way to transport them back to Asgard to get his mother to undo this spell.

He returned to the kitchen to find Natasha ladling out two bowls of soup on the kitchen table. He frowned at her thoughtfulness. In truth, he was hungry, and the steaming scent of broth sent his mouth watering.

"I told you I wasn't inclined to eat," he said stiffly.

She glanced up at his approach with a face that brokered no nonsense. "Even gods need to eat. I'm going to need your help to now, not only get back to S.H.I.E.L.D., but to break whatever curse this thing's put around my neck. So, in short, I need you alive, and you're going to eat this soup."

He raised his eyebrows in the silence following the outburst. She stared him down and took a seat at the table, picking up her own spoon and starting in on the food. After another moment's stubborn hesitation, Loki gave in to his appetite and joined her at the table.

The soup—if it could truly be called such, for it was nothing like the delicacy of Asgardian tables—consisted of a watery, fat-based broth and hunks of indiscernible meat. He grimaced when a fizzing aftertaste tingled across his tongue, and if he were anything but a prince, he would have spat it out.

Natasha must've seen his expression, for she reached out a hand to his bowl. "Yeah, it's probably long past expired. But if you won't eat it, I will."

He pushed it across to her none too gently. "Be my guest."

He'd been longer without food. He stood up from the table and crossed the tiny living area toward the window. Darkness had fallen, and a few swirling snowflakes whispered against the windowpane, catching the light emanating from the single lantern Natasha had found beside the sink. The flickering light set an eerie glow over the place, pale gold and filled with stuttering shadows.

One thing he'd learned about Natasha Romanoff in their brief company; she was not one for idle conversation. Normally, he wouldn't have complained, but the silence that fell between them now drove away the distractions he'd set in place against the memories. The gravity of the situation settled down on him, and he grit his teeth. Oh, how Odin must be laughing now. His morbid, impossible sentence: "Rebuild what you have destroyed. Reassemble the lives of the broken. Cut free the lives you have entangled."

What a joke. His father—not his father, a fraud—had a twisted sense of humor. As if those wounded by his actions here on Earth would let him near enough to…what was he thinking? He had no desire to right what he had wronged, heal what he had damaged. Only a fool would wallow in the misery of his failure by fraternizing with his victims. He would find another way to accomplish his goal and regain his magic. But as the echo of Odin's words continued with ringing finality, he cringed.

"And until this Prince of Ice takes his dying breath, you will never be king."

Curse you, he declared with all his being.

The clink of dishes behind him made him turn to see Natasha scrubbing off the dishes in a pot of melted snow water she'd made earlier, since the pipes had long since crumbled from disuse. She dried them off with a holey towel and slid them back up into the cupboards. Then she turned, brushed her hands off on her hips and lifted her green eyes to meet his with an uncertain expression.

"So… the couch isn't the biggest, but it'll work. I know where you can find some spare blankets in the storage closet."

He arced an eyebrow at her. "And, you find the need to tell me this, why?"

She shot him a look. "Because you're sleeping on it."

"I most certainly am not."

"Well you're sure as hell not sharing the bed with me."

"You shall not put an Asgardian prince on the couch."

"Then take the floor."

He flicked his eyes over her small frame. "Why don't you sleep on the sofa? You're far shorter than me. I won't even fit."

"Gentleman gives the lady the bed."

He smirked at that. "Have you known me to be a gentleman, Agent Romanoff?"

She growled at him, then turned and marched for the door of the bedroom. He followed her with easy strides, a smirk still twisting his lips.

"I thought you were opposed to sharing the bed with me."

"I am," she snapped, reappearing in the doorway and tossing a pile of fabrics against his chest. He caught them with a snort. Blankets. She was serious, wasn't she? He set the blankets on the shelf beside the door, then closed the distance between them with a coy grin.

"I could always fight you for it." He stepped closer, and Natasha moved back against the door with a frustrated, but cornered, expression. He stopped when their chests were almost touching, the height difference between them obvious. "We all know how well that ended last time."

She glared up at him with fiery green eyes for a moment, and—was it his imagination? Or did the impassive Black Widow's cheeks attain the slightest tint of red? She tore her gaze away and wrenched the blankets down off the shelf, then squeezed past him out the door without another word.

Loki smirked after her, then turned back toward the bedroom. As he heard her setting up on the couch behind him, a frown flickered across his brow. Was it really worth the argument? After all, he knew why Natasha wanted this room. The little furnace in the corner provided the only source of heat for the whole cabin, and if he shut this door, he could only imagine her shivering away on the sofa throughout the rest of the night. He shook the thought away. He was a prince of Asgard. He wouldn't stoop to sleeping on the floor in order to give a mortal the better accommodations.

He let the door drift closed to allow for the first bit of privacy he'd had all day. He glanced at the furnace, the warm red glow of the embers inside giving off the only light for the whole room. Only now that he lay eyes upon the bed did he realize how exhausted he truly was. Without another thought for the woman in the other room, he undid his belt and shrugged out of his armor, until he remained only in his loosely fitted black pants. He left his garments in a heap at the foot of the bed and pulled back the covers to slide beneath the sheets. Loki let out a sigh of relief.

One day passed. The third since he'd been sent to this miserable planet. He let out a soft groan and tossed his forearm up over his eyes. How long would he be forced to remain here? Odin had not been definite. The look in the Allfather's eyes had been the same disappointed, yet not ultimatum, judgment as on the day he banished Thor to this spinning dust ball. He simply had to… mend what he'd broken.

They're already rebuilding Manhattan, he thought dryly. Perhaps if I was to aid in the reconstruction of the city. Without being arrested or accused of sabotage.

Perhaps he could work out a deal with S.H.I.E.L.D. Let him help in the rebuilding, under some sort of false identity, with a promise that once he'd completed his "community service" his sentence in their pathetic realm would be done. He'd be out of their care, and no longer a threat.

As far as they are concerned, now, he added.

Oh, of course he meant to retake the planet. The humans were like cattle without a hound, sheep without a shepherd. Foolish little mortals roving around for some form of purpose with no means of achieving it in their short little life spans. It would be irresponsible of such a powerful being like himself to leave them to flounder so. They needed a ruler. Real guidance, not some pompous electee who couldn't see past the end of his own nose. They needed a king.

And Loki was born to be king.

He lowered his arm and stared up at the rafters in the ceiling. For some infuriating reason, his thoughts returned to the little mortal curled up on the other side of the wall. He could not deny the unwilling admiration he felt for her. The grudging respect had began not the first time he met her, but the second. The first time had been when they'd "captured" him in Stuttgart, she'd been copilot of the aircraft that had flown him to the helicarrier. Silent and scheming, he'd taken the time to size up his opponents from his chained seat and evaluate their potential weaknesses. He'd let his eyes linger on Natasha, the only female in the group, only a few seconds longer than necessary. Skin-tight black material that accentuated her curves, no doubt to distract the enemy; short hair the color of flame, a rare shade on even an Asgardian; sharp green eyes and a face devoid of expression over years of training. Beautiful, yes. Easily dispatched? Certain.

But when he'd wiled away the hours pacing the confines of his cage, he'd discovered this little spy posed far more of a threat than he'd originally thought. He remembered the whole conversation on the helicarrier; had picked through every word in the days since to discover how she'd played him so effortlessly. He was the prince of lies, the Silvertongue, who played his adversaries with the ease of breathing. And yet this tiny creature had bested him.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was back in that glass box, flying ten thousand feet above the clouds.

He heard the faintest sound of breathing in the room, and stopped his pacing across the cell with a slow smile.

"There's not many people who can sneak up on me."

He turned to see her standing, feet splayed as if ready for combat, just outside the glass of his cell. Her face, stoic as always, remained smooth as she spoke.

"Bet you figured I'd come."

"After," he conceded. "After whatever tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear as a friend. A balm." His smile broadened. "And I would cooperate."

"I want to know what you've done to Agent Barton."

He'd known the demand was coming, but it delighted him to hear her cave to her sentiments nonetheless. The famed Black Widow, stretched thin and frayed in her worry for one man.

He smirked. "I'd say I've expanded his mind."

She eyed him for a moment in the silence. "And once you've won," she began. walking forward, her footsteps echoing on the grated walkway. She folded her arms over her chest, making her two best assets more apparent, and he had to hide another smirk. Did she think she could manipulate him like any other base male of her species? Oh, this would be fun.

"Once you're king of the mountain," she continued. "What happens to his mind?"

"Ooh," he breathed, as if stumbling upon a secret. "Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

"Love is for children," came the dry response. "I owe him a debt."

He knew her story. Had heard it a thousand times replayed in Barton's mind. Yet he also knew from the archer's experience that reminding Natasha of her past was a surefire way to rattle her. He stepped back toward the bench, and spread his hands.

"Tell me."

The hesitation, too small to be picked up by anyone not trained in the art of hiding emotion—as Loki was—flickered across her face. In a millisecond, however, she replaced it with the cool mask of control. She exhaled through her nose and licked her lips.

"Before I worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., I, ah…" She turned and settled herself to a metal bench beside the railing. "I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skill set."

Oh, he could guess.

"I didn't care who I used it for. Or on. I got on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me…" There. That hesitation, once again. More apparent. "He made a different call."

"And what will you do if I vow to spare him?"

She lifted an eyebrow in amusement. "Not let you out—"

"Oh, but I like this," he laughed as he leaned forward. "Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man?"

"Regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over that, I'm Russian." A tilt of her head now, to cover up another hesitation. "Or at least I was."

He let his eyes drift over her, enjoying this glimpse of apparent vulnerability. "And what are you now?"

She got to her feet, as if done with the questioning, and stepped toward him. "It's really not that complicated." She folded her arms again. "I got red in my ledger; I'd like to wipe it out."

"Can you?" he asked. "Can you wipe out that much red? Drakov's daughter."

She stiffened.

"Sao Paulo."

She paled.

"The hospital fire."

He watched her lips part in shock as he listed her crimes.

"Barton told me everything." He stood slowly, stalking toward her like a panther closing in on its prey. "Your ledger is dripping, it's gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer, pathetic! You lie and kill, in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code; something that makes up for the horrors."

He was reaching now, saying too much, he knew. But he couldn't bring himself to stop. The words were pouring out of him, and with a slight shudder he realized they not only described her, but himself.

"But they are a part of you." He advanced on her. "And they will never. Go. Away."

The look of pure anguish she couldn't conceal behind her eyes stabbed somewhere deep into his heart. They were too similar. He had to draw the line. Create the distance once again.

He slammed his fist into the glass, and she jerked back in fear.

"I won't touch Barton," he snarled. "Not until I make him kill you: slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And then he'll wake long enough to see his good work…"

He saw her choke, and stumble back from him.

"And when he screams, I'll split his skull."

Her shoulders shook, her back to him.

"This is my bargain, you mewling quim."

A strangled, shaking breath.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

He chuckled, sliding his hand down from the glass. "Oh, no. You brought the monster."

She froze. Then, slowly, she lifted her head, and turned. "So, Banner. That's your play."

He blinked. There was no evidence of tears, not the slightest trace of a crack in that emotionless mask. "What?"

She spun away from him and snapped her fingers to a device at her ear. "Loki plans to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab, I'm on my way. Send Thor as well."

He turned and followed her the few steps to the edge of his cage, bewilderment and a strange mix of delight simmering in his blood. She had truly done it, hadn't she? She'd tricked him, the Immortal Trickster.

At the last second, she turned, and fixed him with a stare that didn't manage to hide that last glint of vulnerability, the one sign that his words had gotten to her after all.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For your cooperation."

The tiniest smile to stretch her full lips, and she was gone.

Loki smiled up at the ceiling at the memory. He had to acknowledge she was a clever little thing. The respect had grown since as he watched her interact with her fellow teammates, and tripled when he watched her fight. He'd gone after her himself amidst the towering buildings of New York, not trusting his often incompetent army to shoot her down. But Barton had downed him with a dirty arrow trick, and he'd lost her into the fray.

He had sworn then not to underestimate her again. And yet he had, just hours earlier, and she had blown him completely off his feet with that unexpected kiss… and his reaction had surprised them both. He ought to have crushed her back into the ground, and then mocked her for the pathetic tactic, but he'd found himself frozen with a foreign kind of shock and desire. His lips had... wanted to move.

She was good. Too good. Perhaps that was why he'd allowed her to live thus far. But he had to redouble his walls if he was going to survive another day without dumping her dead body before S.H.I.E.L.D. The woman had gotten under his skin.

A soft creak made him lift his head marginally from the pillow. Speak of the devil. He made out Natasha's lithe silhouette in the doorway, slipping in silently before she closed it behind her. He returned his head to the pillow with a smirk. So she'd caved. With all the Black Widow's stubbornness, she was still only mortal, and the below freezing temperature in the other room had driven her to seek heat in the only place available, no matter how much she despised its occupant.

"Not a word," he heard her grumble as she slipped beneath the covers on the other side of the bed.

He quelled his snicker and rolled over so his back was to her. "Wouldn't dream of it," he muttered.


Whew. Longest chapter yet for this fic! About time for another chappie from Loki's P.O.V., what he feels about everything and how he thinks so far of our little Widow :)

Please tell me if you liked it, didn't like it, or whatever. If you don't review, I'm going to assume you didn't like it, but I still want to know why!

Love you all to pieces!

—Sunny