Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews. Here is the next chapter, the ending is slightly cheesy I thought but what the hell, this is fan-fiction, not something I'd actually send to a publishing house. Anyway, as always, review and let me know if you loved it or hated it. Though if you hated it, at least make your review constructive.


Life During Wartime

Chapter Nine


The heat of the room and Loki's presence was making her sweat profusely, he sat at the foot of the bed looking pensive. She wondered what he was thinking, no doubt plotting some sort of torturous game designed to make her subservient.

He licked his lips before he spoke again, "you will call me Master, do you understand?"

She scoffed, like hell she would.

"You will call me Master, or else you will face punishment," he spoke again, not making eye contact with her. Frances mind reeled at the thought of his punishment, perhaps he'd starve her, even worse he'd force himself upon her.

"Now tell me Frances, what will you call me?" he asked, a smile breaking out on his face. She stared at him as she spoke the word, and if looks could kill, Loki would have died in that room with the fire igniting his face. He chuckled softly, clearly pleased with her submission. Frances was ravenous for food, and if getting fed meant playing his game then unfortunately it was something she would have to grin and bear.

"You're learning quickly Frances, I am quite impressed with your progress. You will find that when the mood strikes me, I can be quite generous," he smirked, and his eyes finally met hers. Frances was overwhelmed by his stare, somewhere between hatred and adoration, nonchalance and obsession. His eyes had turned a murky shade of brown, tinted with red at the edges, fogged with emotion and dominance.

"Do you think I could have some food now...Master?" she smiled at him, a move that went against her better judgement. She was scared that he would see straight through her act, realise that she would never truly give herself to him and that she was merely saying words he wanted to hear. Someone had once told her that it was better to act than to fight, that to protect ones self, one must put on a show instead of giving in to the egotistical nature of man. And that's what she would do, Loki was her audience and the room was her stage, she would act as if her life depended upon it, and when the audience rose to give her a standing ovation, when the lights dimmed and the curtain fell, she would have the blood of Loki Laufeyson on her hands, and she would revel in the thought of having dominated her captor.

"Indeed, I believe you have deserved at least a crust of bread, I will have one of my slaves bring something to you immediately." And with that, he vanished from the room.

Sometime later the door opened again and she openly gasped when she realised who it was. His blonde hair was dirty, and it framed his bruised face. In his hands he carried a sparse plate, Loki really wasn't lying when he spoke of a crust of bread. His ankles were in shackles, as were his hands and he shuffled into the room looking utterly broken. She was unsure how to approach him, knowing who he was.

"Thor?" she asked hesitantly. He noticeably winced at the sound of her voice and turned his back to her, placing the plate on a table in the centre of the room.

"That is my name," he responded, and his voice was broken. Frances rose from the bed and made her way to stand behind him, her mind racing with questions.

"What has he done to you?" she whispered softly, not wanting to alarm him in his evidently fragile state.

"Is it not obvious?" he retorted, his large hands clenching. Nervously, Frances began to introduce herself, desperately trying to gain his trust.

"My name is Frances. I'm associate of Nick Fury, Edward Langley's assistant."

Thor's shoulders relaxed somewhat as he turned to face her, she tried to hold in a sigh as she observed him. His dirty hair fell into his eyes, they held no sparkle, no ray of light or sign of humanity. "Frances Booth?" he questioned, staring at the floor.

"Yes. How did you know?" she asked, unsure of how Thor was aware of her.

"The man of Iron spoke of you often, of your family, as did Fury. What brings you to such a place?" he asked, making eye contact with her finally.

Frances sighed as she spoke, tears welling in her eyes, "I can't remember, one moment we were fighting his army in London, the next I was here. What is this place?"

As he spoke, she grabbed the bread from the plate and devoured it, her stomach moaning in appreciation. "A ship of sorts, it once belonged to S.H.I.E.L.D, but if fell, just like everything else."

The helicarrier, one of Tony Stark's greatest achievements now belonged to Loki and his army. Frances wondered how Loki had managed to take it, the last time she had spoken to Fury she had assumed he was on board the aircraft, and perhaps he still was.

"What does Loki want with you Frances?"

"I'm his project," she said, voice tinged with sarcasm.

Thor grimaced and shook his head, "he is a mad soul my brother."

Frances turned from him and drew closer to the fire, her mind searching for the right words to say to the thunder God. "What happened to him to make him so...evil?" she asked.

"Loki is not evil," Thor scorned, his brother had chained him, turned him into a slave but still he defended him.

"I beg to differ, he's hell-bent on destroying the world, on crushing the human race and living out the rest of his days as some kind of dictator."

"Loki was always the jealous kind," he replied, and silently he made his way out of the room. Frances turned and watched him leave, crushed and utterly dejected, no doubt returning to carry out more of Loki's orders.

She watched as the fire crackled, her hunger somewhat satiated but nowhere close to being full. All around her was the feeling of emptiness, an all consuming type of feeling that made her long for something else, something to drive it away. On bended knees she hesitantly pushed one hand into the flame, holding it long enough to burn, long enough to get a feeling other than loneliness. Pulling it out, she admired her handiwork, the way the fire had crept along her skin and charred her with it's heat.

"What are you doing?" his voice demanded from behind her. She ignored him, sitting down and pressing her face into the warmth of the tiles that framed the fireplace.

"I asked you a question mortal," he spat, "what are you doing?"

He was beside her now, crouching down and grabbing her burning hand in his cold one.

"Fuck you," she mumbled under her breath, just loud enough for her to hear. She clenched her teeth, bracing herself for a slap that never arrived, and when she opened them he was still caressing her hand with his own. The fire crackled and snapped next to them, and as he pressed his lips to her palms she felt her eyelids close, sleep had finally arrived.