Author's Note: Thank you so much to annabell, pestiilence, and DKLL for reviewing! I hope everyone likes this chapter.


CHAPTER VIII

Realization

. . .

Loki sat, frozen, on the edge of his bed. His eyes were wide and fixed on the rug, on that exact spot below which the fated trapdoor lay. The night poured in from his window because he hadn't bothered to draw the curtains.

He had known. Deep down, he had known.

But not the extent of it.

Sentiment.

It eluded him, yet again. It had been clear. The signs had been there. He should have seen them.

Was he careless, or was he willfully blind?

Thor had told him that the girl fancied him; this he had deciphered long before, from the very moment his fingers brushed hers. He was quite confident that there was nothing in the entire galaxy that Thor would notice before he did.

But she cared for him. This was different.

He was disturbed. How – how had this happened? Should it bother him? Should it matter one iota if an infinitesimal girl exposed her long-sheltered heart to one of the most wicked beings in all the universe? It was not his fault that she was a fool. It was not his fault that he had done this. It was inevitable. He decimated everything he laid his hands on, so why should this be any different?

And why should it matter? Why should it matter if she was destroyed?

He brought shaky fingers to his brow in an almost delicate motion, before sliding his folded hands down to cover his mouth and nose.

It shouldn't. It didn't.

But once, once, he would have liked to prove everyone wrong. He would have liked to prove that he could execute a plan properly, without creating unnecessary complications at every turn.

This was not an expected complication, though.

He had heard Sif's words. Evidently no one thought him worthy of a woman's favor, or even capable of attaining it. Perhaps he should have been proud, then, that he had won her over. It was apparently quite a feat.

He had wooed women before, and indeed he thought himself quite proficient at it – they called him silver-tongue for a very good reason. But what differentiated this case from all the others was that he hadn't even been trying.

Really, it was not so difficult a task; she had surrendered her heart to the very first man who whispered in her ear. He could have been anyone. Had Thor been the one to take her from her realm, to ghost his breath against her skin, their positions would have been reversed.

It was not his fault.

Why, then, did he feel guilt?

She saw him, or at least she saw part of him – she saw a part that no one else seemed to. Surely she was sick if she could come to love her jailer, but perhaps it was this that allowed her to see him. Perhaps it was this that alarmed him.

There was, of course, always the possibility that she had merely been acting. But no, why should she defend him in her charade?

He sighed, flopped back against the thick layer of blankets and furs that covered his bed, folded his hands neatly over his stomach, and tried to blink these thoughts away. They mattered not. If he ruined the girl, so be it. His ultimate goal could still be realized if her heart was broken. If he had to, he would drag her back to Olympus kicking and screaming to complete the transaction.

What was it that nagged him still? Why did this pathetic feeling linger?

He closed his eyes, and her image was etched into the blackness that dwelled there.

He felt… something. Something stirred in his diseased heart. Was it fondness? Responsibility? He had, in many ways, created her. Maybe that was why she was sick – maybe that was why she was sick enough to care for him. His talent for manipulation, for corruption, had apparently been elevated to new heights. He had given her the ability to reason and twisted it, twisted it inadvertently and just enough so that she would reason in his favor. Which really wasn't reason at all, because defending him was by definition unreasonable.

It hadn't always been like this; when he had kept her there, beneath his floorboards, she had not shared his logic. The only thing that changed was that she had been exposed – ever so briefly – to the world in which he lived.

Alas, it was now beyond his control. And he should have been beyond the guilt that followed, because surely he was beyond redemption.

But there was something else that troubled him. He needed Zeus' troops, and he needed them now. Sif was planning something. The bitterness with which she spoke of Thor being 'robbed' of the crown was unsettling – this, compounded with her love for the great lout, her hatred for him, and her prominent position amongst the Asgardian army, made him nervous. He feared she might incite a revolution.

. . .

Persephone did not know if Loki was avoiding her by coincidence or by design, but it had been three days since she had last laid eyes on him. Three days since the feast, specifically, and three days since their encounter in the library.

Starved just as desperately for human interaction as ever, she had taken to shadowing Sif. She was quick, clever, and kind, and at times Persephone could not comprehend how she endured spending hour upon hour with these thick-skulled men.

Thor and the Warriors Three were nice enough. They glowed, like stars – they were boisterous, ever smiling, and lighthearted. But there seemed to be an unfortunate type of vacancy beneath their gaiety. They lacked a certain… complexity.

Thor was, perhaps, not entirely guilty of this. His smile wavered when he thought his friends could not see him, and his gaze would wander into nothingness, as though searching an endless abyss for a sort of meaning that either did not exist or could not be found. There was an air of fatigue that undercut every boom of laughter. He was a damaged man.

Her thoughts, then, continuously drifted to the one who had damaged him. Loki.

She understood why he might both admire and scorn Sif. She as beautiful and cunning, but she wasted her time on an insatiable pursuit for valor. She was the epitome of lost potential, of Asgardian brainwashing.

Persephone did not know when she had begun to think in such a way. It was gradual, she supposed. The voice inside her head spoke in a smooth, masculine purr.

When she was not with Sif, she was in the library. She tried to ignore the faint, internal pestering that accused her of going there so that Loki might find her.

He haunted her.

In her dreams, she saw him; she had memorized that Cheshire grin, mentally noted each one of his thirty-two perfect teeth. She knew the way the corners of his eyes creased when he laughed and how his entire face would light up in glee. Without so much as a second thought, she could recall that the green of his irises amalgamated into blue and gray and even gold.

She was consumed by a secret and burning need to know why he evaded her.

In moments of weakness, she almost sought him out. She wondered if it was a test. She wondered if he wanted her to seek him out.

She never caved. She read and read and read, until the words on the pages ran together and she knew not what she was doing other than attempting to distract herself from her own toxic thoughts.

. . .

It was on the fourth day of his hiatus that she finally caught a glimpse of him. Her eyes manically skimmed some sort of historical text about the Light Elves and her concentration was so fragile that it was broken only by the swish of fabric. Leather. She knew the sound well.

"Loki," she stated directly, looking him square in the eyes. She slammed the book closed, creating a small puff of dust.

His nondescript brows formed a wide and upside-down 'U'-shape in apparent contrition. "Hello," he greeted, sounding not at all like himself.

"Where have you been?"

His eyebrows rearranged themselves into a scowl. "What impudence my little princess has acquired in less than a week of freedom," he spat. "What right have you to speak to me with such forwardness?"

"Every right," she huffed audaciously. "As you have already acknowledged, I am a princess. You are hardly my superior."

His scowl contorted into a look of surprise, and then one of amusement. "Even the most basic custom dictates that a king is superior to a princess," he explained blithely. He treaded further into the room – hands clasped pensively behind his back – and examined the sprawling bookshelves. "In any case, I have not come to comment on your apparent metamorphosis." He shot her a fleeting, remonstrative glance, before continuing his monolog. "I have received word from your father." He issued another dramatic pause, mid-step, and turned to look at Persephone.

"Yes?" she prodded.

"He has agreed to my conditions," he told her. "You shall be free to leave as soon as the troops arrive." He waited for her reaction, watching her like a hawk.

Persephone turned her gaze away from him, onto to floor near his boots. She looked somewhat forlorn. And then she smiled – grinned, actually, and Loki's face became unreadable in his surprise.

A melodious giggle passed between her lips.

"You are pleased?" asked Loki.

She brought her eyes back up to look at him. "I suppose," she said, her mouth struggling to form words over her smile. "But that is not why I'm laughing."

He attempted to restrain himself from asking why, then, but he could not.

"It is ironic," she explained. "It's ironic that I found true freedom in captivity. I don't know how I shall return to my life in Olympus' pastoral outskirts. I don't know how I'll bear it."

Now it was Loki's turn to grin. His was different, though, and laced with malice. He inclined his head upwards and peered down at her through his eyelashes. "You think yourself free?" he sniffed derisively.

"In a different sense than I was before, yes," she answered, tone earnest. "I almost don't want to leave…"

This was precisely what Loki had feared, but she would never have been able to guess it. He sighed in agitation. "Alas, that is none of my concern."

"No, I would expect it is not."

She slid out of her chair, skirts whooshing across the floor as she went to stand before him. She moved with an effortless sort of elegance. Her grace, paired with her newly sharpened wit, made her far too exquisite for the life she described, he judged. But he swiftly shook these thoughts away, for they were mutinous.

She searched his face intently, causing a seed of apprehension to germinate in the pit of his stomach. "I wish to ask you something," she said grimly.

He spared her an indiscriminate sidelong glance. "Yes?"

"Did you intend for this to happen?"

He stepped away from her, putting a significant chasm of air between them. "I know not what you refer to." His expression was almost defiant.

"Did you intend to spoil me for my former life?" she clarified. She sounded far from perturbed.

He smiled a leery sort of smile, as if he did not trust the situation. "I must confess that I did not. It was but a happy accident."

"I suppose I could go to live in the palace at Olympus," she pondered aloud, no longer looking at him. "If my father will have me…"

Loki's line of sight darted to the door; he was growing bored, and he knew not why he remained to listen to her trivial musings. He allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and asked, "How could you possibly consider staying here?"

She furrowed her brow, meticulously weighing her response. "You asked me once if I liked Asgard; I do. I'm fond of the palace life…"

There was something more; it was as obvious as if she had said it outright. Loki pretended she had. "Have you so soon forgotten the circumstances under which you arrived here?" he hissed conspiratorially.

She looked at him briefly, before returning to her contemplation. It was as though he had asked a question that she herself did not know the answer to. "No… How could I?"

"Precisely," he snapped, louder. "How could you?"

"I haven't," she murmured.

He straightened his posture abruptly and turned his back to her. "It is for the best that you leave soon, I think."

"Perhaps you are right," said Persephone, gazing at him with a dreadful sort of longing. Setting her sights to the ground, she lifted her limp hand as though she might dare to touch him. He observed her out of the corner of his eye and his body tensed visibly in anticipation. Slender fingers curled into her palm as she then retracted it, reconsidering her choice.

Before her hand fell to her side, however, he spun around and snatched it up with remarkable agility. He held her ivory wrist in both of his cool hands, gripping it tightly, but not tightly enough to form a bruise. Dexterous thumbs massaged paper-thin skin, and then he used one of his index fingers to lightly trace the snaking outline of her blue veins, just barely touching her. His features betrayed a deep focus, and indeed he looked like he was charting some plan of attack on a sacred map. He felt her tremble in his loosened grasp and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. He hazarded a glance at her through his eyelashes, never ceasing his feather-light ministrations. Her own thick lashes cast a shadow on her cheekbones until she opened her eyes. They met his and he saw everything. He released her immediately, as if she had scalded him; but it was she who truly felt a burn on her flesh, and it was in the shape of his hands.

He fled without a word, leaving her standing there alone and breathless, like a fool. Her heart thundered in her chest as though it might explode.


Author's Note: Pretty please let me know what you think, especially now that it's picking up :)