10 Of Faithlessness and Folly

Loki was told the dungeons were closed to him; instead, AllFather Thor returned his old suite of chambers. Knowing it was a ruse to try and win his cooperation in what he now called The Romanov Affair, Loki growled and slumped on the huge bed. As soon as the guards left he flopped back and regarded the ceiling, wondering what he would do next.

He could scheme to win back the throne.

He could prepare for The Other's return.

He could dispatch the agent himself – doing so would remove her from the books and eliminate the problem altogether.

The mere thought of Natasha went straight to his sex, and restlessly Loki rose and prowled the room. A pile of papers were strewn across the table, presumably from that morning's meeting between the agent, the All-Father, and the disgraced former King; he shuffled them together and tossed the parchments into the chest where he had hidden his vambraces.

How easily he had been led to his execution! And how quickly the throne had slipped from his fingers – all because of a girl and a disgusting mortal, at that. Except a tiny flicker within told him mortals weren't disgusting at all. No, that wasn't the right word. They were breakable. Delicate. They represented sand slipping through the glass, impossible to hold, leaving heartbreak and solitude once they were gone forever.

The mirror in the corner of the room offered a flash of Loki's visage, and his fury increased. It was all Natasha's fault, he reasoned with his own brand of logic, and he wanted to hurt her, to stamp her out of his memory forever. But how could he do that from a realm away? If he went after her and caught sight of that pale skin, those scarlet curls, her intelligence spilling from her eyes and even her fingertips… No, if he saw her he would lose his way and his anger.

And in that dark hour, anger was all he had.

Loki brought his finger up to rub under his nose, a characteristic trait of his. Thor and Sif used to copy him when they were all children together in the sand by the Sea of Marmora. The gesture reminded him he was Loki, not the All-Father. Not Odin anymore. Just himself. No longer need he foreswear seduction nor lust – nor longer did he wear Odin's face. He could do as he wished. And with that thought the desire he had stifled for so long came over him in a rush. He felt a weight in his belly, heat between his legs.

Loki stumbled out of the door, intent on bedding the first being he met. In a side corridor he found a bored courtesan with hair dark as his own, fanning her neck as she lay across a velvet couch. One tilt of his chin brought her to his side, where she stayed the rest of the night.

And thus began the period he desperately wished to call The Good Time. Loki chased pleasure, first with one bawd, then another, and later with entire groups of them. He had two women at once, a woman and a man, several males in his bed. It led to larger and more expensive parties in his chambers, complete with wine, wagers, and laughter. Loki laughed loudest of all, especially when he spilled his glass or groped the low neckline of the wench in his lap in front of the entire crowd.

The behavior of his guests grew more and more raucous; why should they leave when Loki wished to satisfy his desires? No, it was titillating to have an audience cheering him on as he bucked between the legs of an accommodating mistress; often his antics caused the assembled crowd to flirt, kiss, nuzzle, and indulge right there in the prince's own rooms.

He was the loudest and merriest of all, as Loki tried to escape bright curls and dark thoughts with increasing desperation.

The prince lost a great deal of money that night, and the buxom lass sought to soothe him among the pillows. She managed to unlace his breeches and press him back on the bed, lift her skirts and mount him to the chorus of catcalls from the other guests.

Loki grasped her thighs and watched her hips roll over his, and a dreadful thought pierced his side like an arrow.

What if Natasha were doing the same thing?

What if she had several lovers in her bed at that very moment?

The very notion made him hiss and push the girl off his lap. Loki thrust himself onto his feet and looked around the disordered space: a pair of boys suckled each other in one corner. Two girls beside them kissed with a lot of tongue, unbuttoning each other's shifts. A sound of harrowed retching came from the bath - someone had quaffed too much ale and was vomiting it up into the tub; Loki could smell the fumes and hear the stuff splatter on the tiles. Another man known for his cowardice in the army knelt in front of the old trunk, digging through the contents. "He must keep his gold here somewhere," the varlet muttered.

It had all spiraled out of control. Loki lost his temper and shouted for everyone to leave; he wanted to be alone and clean the scum off his skin.

"Get out!" he shouted. A twitch of his fingers removed the partygoers from his room to the halls where they could find their own ways out. Another wave cleaned the mess from his floor and filled his bath so he could soak the stench away from his nostrils.

As he passed the opened chest, a piece of paper caught his eye. Two lines were scrawled on it, one in his own hand:

I want to push it inside you.

I want you to do it.

The following morning Loki presented himself in the AllFather's throne room. Thor looked tired, perhaps from the constant demand of the courtiers clustered in front of the dais.

He couldn't help a twinge of sympathy at his brother's plight. Well he remembered Hodr's constant demands, Fandral's cautions, and Sif's battle plans during his stint as Ruler of the Realms; the courtiers always droned on and on during meetings that seemed to never end.

"I wish to visit Midgard," Loki announced.