Chapter 9
Consciousness might be a strange, poorly understood thing, but Jane is beginning to chart its furthest edges. Thought and perception emerge incrementally, with the feeling of waking from the deepest sort of sleep. She feels a sense of self first, then the body she slips into, and the world around her last of all. The spirit moves away from her, curling itself into a restful place in the deepest and most ancient parts of her mind.
She reaches out with nothing but a faltering intent. The spirit pauses in this mindspace they seem to share, consciousnesses butting against each other. Across the distance of what might be a purely metaphysical synapse, Jane pushes a single thought. Thank you, she thinks tentatively. She doesn't quite remember the moment the spirit wrapped itself around her and sheltered her during the light elf's torment, but she remembers the feeling. Folded into the spirit, she felt safe. The spirit was there to protect her. Whatever its reasons may have been.
At the edges of her awareness, the spirit wavers, and Jane has only the most fleeting sense that it simply doesn't comprehend. She tries again, pushing only the feeling of gratitude across the space. There's the faintest impression of hesitation, and then the smallest flood of warmth and comfort dribble across Jane's growing frustration. She wants to understand this entity whose existence has been left intertwined with her own. She just lacks a common language, and common experience.
The spirit slips away into the deepest parts of her brain, an oil-slick ghost in her body sense and a distant pressure in her mind. It seems to Jane that this is really the least obtrusive it can be, and she wonders at that. At what sort of dark spirit from outside of the knowable dimensions actively tries to minimize the hurt and harm and power it can wreak. Then she's torn from her philosophical wanderings, her delayed awareness forcing itself upon her with information about how this body feels and where it is and what it senses.
In the physical world she enters into, firelight flickers and flashes, casting moving shadows across stone walls. Jane sits up slowly, her movement made strange by the heavy layers of skirt that tangle around her legs. Her hands fist in the soft, shaggy furs she lays upon. Her eyes move slowly, drifting from the fire that blazes within the stone hearth to the tapestry-like hangings upon the walls. Here and there upon the floor are more scattered furs. Ancient, creaking shelves line a gently rounding wall, the books upon them bound with string, or perhaps something stranger. A single, large window looks out upon the night with nothing but a faded cloth bunched in its space to keep out the cool of the night beyond. Stars gleam in the darkened space beyond.
Benches made of rich, dark wood sit before the fireside, surrounded by pots and pans and utensils that border on medieval. More furs rest upon the bench, a bundle that shifts now, an arm reaching out to run a ladle through something that simmers in the heat of the hearth. The rich smell of stew lifts itself through the chilled air and reaches out to Jane. Her stomach growls softly.
"It's not ready, yet," a woman's voice offers, "Eat it now and you will only be sick." There's no threat or malice in the voice, but Jane feels her suspicions rise despite it. She stares warily at the woman by the fire, watching the orange flames reflect in the bronze tones of her hair. The woman turns, her face obscured by the dancing shadows, "Sleep, child. Tomorrow will come soon enough."
There's something warm and maternal in her words, and Jane feels them stir at the embers of her deepest hopes, even as sleep weighs heavily against her. Her eyelids droop, weighted with contentment. "There, now," the woman murmurs, "See? You're much too tired still. The night is close around us yet."
"Will you be here," Jane hears herself ask, the words soft around the edges, "In the morning?"
"Perhaps I shall," the woman hums in reply, "Or perhaps I shan't. But either which way, I will be back again soon. You know this, dear Jane. The patterns of our life are so simple."
A yawn pulls itself from deep within her lungs and a sweet, comfortable weariness settles over her. Jane shifts upon the pallet, drawing a soft, heavy fur over her. A faint, chill breeze stirs the cloth in the window and she shivers deliciously into the warmth of her bed.
"Mother?" Jane whispers, hope and love tight in her throat.
"Sleep, my child," the woman replies.
The bed is so comfortable, the woman's voice so kind, and so possibly a glimpse of her own actual mother, than Jane lets sleep swallow her up. She ignores the persistent tapping of the spirit against her consciousness. It doesn't feel urgent… but then… only sleep feels important… she must do as her mother says.
Jane sleeps.
Jane wakes to a stream of sunshine in her eyes. She pulls herself up from the mound of furs she's spent the night sleeping in and stares around in her an awkward state of awe. She has dim, shadowy memories of last night, waking in a stone-walled room to a woman cooking at a fire. She glances over to the giant hearth. Only the faintest wisps of smoke escape the ashes. The pot hangs heavy and full, the air still fragrant with the stew. There's no sign of its cook. Jane swallows her disappointment. The mystery woman will stay a mystery, she supposes. In the meantime, she has a pot of stew to sample and an entirely new world to explore.
She rises from the pallet and the furs, shaking wrinkles and creases from the heavy skirt she wears. She's dressed like a medieval peasant, she thinks, though probably cleaner. The brown fabric of the skirt is a bit rough between her fingers, though her top is soft at least. A white peasant-style shirt that makes her think of tavern wenches in movies about the seventeenth century. It's a change from her usual sweaters and jeans, but compared to what she wore in the last world, its almost comfortable.
She looks first to the window, crossing the cold stone floor in bare feet that sink eagerly into the furs that sprinkle the floor like rugs. She pushes aside the tattered cloth that is all that blocks her from the breeze beyond. The amused half-smile on her lips falls away. As far as the eye can see, she is surrounded by forest. In the distance, mountains crowded by fog rise up like giant walls. There's no signs of civilization. No roads or smoke trails or clearings carved into the forest for farms. Just a solid landscape of green stretching all around her, even crowding into the few feet of clearing that surround the base of the stone walls below.
Her stomach sinks like a stone. She's alone in the highest room of a solitary tower in the deepest, darkest forest she has ever seen. It's like something from a fairy tale. Except Jane Foster doesn't do fairy tales. Not since she was six years old and nestled into bed with her mother beside her, telling her the stories that would forever after be too bittersweet to read alone. Her heart rate jumps, and Jane lets the cloth drape itself back across the green vista beyond. She turns to the stone-walled room behind her and frantic eyes search for a door.
There is no door. Only the smooth, gentle curve of the walls encasing the space within. She runs fingers across the few expanses of bare stone, but finds no unnatural crease; no gaps in the mortar. She darts to the book shelves and her hands stretch out across the old, worn wood. There are no secret catches or releases. She begins to pull the books out, wondering if old movie tricks might work. The aging tomes, bound by string or, Jane shudders, sinew, fall to the floor with the whisper of manuscript paper and thinned-down skins. Their leather covers beat the stone floor like bass drum beats as they fall. Bare of their contents, the shelves only look older and more vacant.
Jane stares at the walls that encroach upon the space she stands in. They are a perfect circle, and Jane almost wants to hit herself for her panicked stupidity. She leans down and begins kicking and pulling and shoving the furs from their places upon the cold, stone floor. A dozen dead carcasses piled high, and Jane's floor remains a mystery of smooth stone. She sinks to the floor, her skirt bunching beneath her. Her hands press against the impossible rock. There's no way in or out. And its impossible, because the woman is not here.
There's a familiar pressure on her mind. The spirit's presence buoys up beneath her frantic confusion. It taps at her, pushing at an idea. "It's magic," Jane breathes, feeling the spirit brush her comfortingly with a tendril of feeling. Realization dawns upon her. "Last night," she murmurs, "The woman. It was a spell that made me feel that way. So tired. And…" her head falls, "Eager to please." Without words to communicate, Jane feels the spirit struggle to understand her. Jane sighs, "You were trying to warn me."
Her voice is a hollow ghost echoing off the walls of the room. Jane raises her head and stares around it dully. "I'm being held by a woman who does magic in a tower in the woods," there's a dried-out disbelief in her tone. A sudden thought crosses her mind as she peers back around the room. Her head falls again, "And there's no indoor plumbing."
Wearily, Jane rises to her feet, "I suppose," she says aloud, though she isn't really sure who she's speaking to, since the spirit seems to lack even a basic comprehension of language, "I should just be thankful that I don't have a mile of hair."
She trudges over to the still warm pot that hangs round and full from an iron bar in the hearth. The stew still smells magnificent. Only Jane's desire to eat has evaporated away. Her stomach growls despite her. She shrugs and finds a carved, wooden bowl and spoon amongst the scattered implements upon the bench and the ground by the hearth. With a heavy heart, she serves herself out a portion of the richly scented food. She eats it mechanically, only barely aware of its flavour or the motion of her jaw as she chews.
She's never been a fan of stories about damsels in distress. Even at age six, she remembers challenging her mother to make the princesses braver, more gutsy. Why did they wait around for princes to arrive? Now that she's here, she understands that its more a question of what else is there for her to do? A life spent in this tower, mind-raped by magic, there can't be much of an understanding of the outside world. No understanding means no dreams, no hopes, no aspirations. What could such a person aspire to? It really would take something, or someone, to break them out of their tiny, sheltered world.
But Jane Foster hasn't spent a lifetime in this tower. She's done more and seen more and struggled more than most people do, and she's well aware of it. Of course, she also has no idea what lives in these forests. No idea where she might find civilization, if it even exists. There's no villages within view. If she can find a way to leave, she still has no place to go.
With the stew residing in her belly, she finds her gaze attracted back to the haphazard pile of unfamiliar books. She might learn something from them. If nothing else, they would give her something to pass the time. After all, she has no idea how long she'll have to wait for Loki to arrive.
And Jane freezes at that thought. Because here she is, a damsel, waiting on a man who is, technically, still a prince. The twisting of her stomach at this almost makes her wish she hadn't eaten the stew. Her jaw tightens, then releases as she forces herself to focus on other things. There is, after all, research to do.
She pokes through the books with a few reservations about the materials they have been crafted from. There's a hesitancy in her movements that fades as curiosity takes hold. The leather covers are mostly bare. Titles are located sometimes several pages deep, if they exist. She's rapidly lost in the work of deciphering the careful calligraphy. It's almost no time at all before she's sorted the books into two piles. A haphazard one devoted to slender tombs containing treatises on patience, honesty, chastity, and obedience, and heavier, darker tombs bent on vilifying humanity and its weaknesses. She takes note of the fact that they are there, and in such great numbers, and then moves calmly on to the books that are about things she can at least feign an interest in. This pile is smaller, but contains books with information she can use or at least can see a use for.
She thumbs through a guide to edible and medicinal plants, browses through thirty recipes for boar, and actually makes a study of the five traditional salves and poultices. By mid-afternoon, she's making headway through a book dedicated to the description and Linnaean-like classification of fantastical beasts. She eats another bowl of the stew, distracted enough to (almost) enjoy it, as she muses over the magical abilities of the three dragon races the book describes.
The sky is already darkening when her fingers search out the book that, upon opening, reveal the stars. She runs her fingers over the constellations, murmuring stranger's names to the stars she knows like friends. She creeps to the window and settles herself onto its wide ledge, careful to keep a leg hooked around the inside wall. The stone is cool against her back, but the book is open wide in her lap and the stars are already appearing, one-by-one, in the purple-hued sky. The faintest smile ghosts across her face as she spies Orion's Belt, traces out the Little Dipper, and charts the course of the cool-bright moon as it traverses the expanse of sky. It doesn't look like it, but she's on Earth. She's home. The stars, at least, are familiar.
When she sleeps, for the night winds are cool on her bare arms and she has no reason to wait out the night, she burrows down into the thick furs that make up her bed. She remembers, with an almost childish regret, the distaste she expressed for the fur-lined things they had given her on Asgard, in what feels now like another lifetime. She appreciates the warmth now. Appreciates that different worlds have different rules. That adaptation is, and will be, necessary.
It's the mantra she's using to justify the fact that she actually laughed at Loki's jokes; that she willingly encouraged (or at least, did not stop) his mischief. She knows better. She always knows better. She just does these foolish things anyway. One day, maybe she will remember what Loki is. Will remember to wield the self-righteous recrimination that is her right as a veritable hostage. In the meantime, it isn't impractical for her to adapt to the situation into which they've been thrown. It might be the only way to save her sanity. Beneath her conscious mind, she can feel the spirit hum companionably. She isn't sure if its agreement or consolation.
By her third day in the tower, Jane has exhausted the supply of books she wants to read. Boredom has a funny way of stalling time. She opens the covers of a book on honesty, reads a few words, closes it. Turns her attention to a darker volume on the sins of greed. Gets nearly three pages in before she nudges it incrementally off the edge of the bench on which she's sprawled. It lands with a softened splat, velum pages collapsing under the weight of leather.
The pot of stew has been scrapped clean, though she's discovered that the basin of water and mug of mild-favoured mead never run dry. The spirit nudges at her mind, a wordless identification of magic at work, yet again. The furs have been rearranged. The books alphabetized and sorted by subject readability. She's uncovered a basket of thread and needles and yarn, and suspects that this version of herself is capable of things like embroidery. She's simply not interested.
She turns her active mind inward, toward the spirit who shares her space. Hello, she thinks, filling herself up with feelings of warmth and welcome and friendly curiosity. The spirit sends warmth back, but little else. Jane sighs a frustrated sigh. She has an entirely separate and unique being in her head, and she can barely communicate with it at all. She's reminded of the blank, open civility of tourists and foreign exchange students. Of herself when she had tried to wander alone through the streets of Tromso. Brilliant, vibrant minds trapped in a cage of awkward, unnatural words that don't say what you want them to say. Isolation and vulnerability warring with self-preservation for control. She's sympathetic to the spirit, but also frustrated. She's lonely, and terribly bored, and full to bursting with ideas and possibilities. The things a spirit from between dimensions might know are temptingly close to her, and Jane has always been hungry for the secrets of the universe.
The spirit, discerning her feelings if not her meaning, has drawn closer. It perches on the edge of Jane's sense of self, hovering just beyond the reach of her understanding. Like a child reaching for a cookie jar on a shelf that is just too high, Jane stretches and strains her thoughts. She's struck again by the incongruity of a being that can share the space inside her head, without intruding upon her thoughts or her actions. Wonders how the neurobiology of it is possible, if the spirit's presence is biological at all. All the while, it is there, a spectator to the conscious parts of her mind.
And Jane wonders. Wonders what might happen if she simply opens herself up and invites the spirit in. Really in. Into her memories and her perceptions and her sense of self. It feels like a dangerous idea. It glitters and shines with jagged, sharp edges. She could lose herself. The spirit is something unimaginably powerful. It might be entirely beyond her comprehension. It could be pretending at friendly helpfulness, waiting for just this chance to hijack her brain completely.
This body isn't hers though. This brain is locked in flesh and blood and bone, bound to this plain. Whatever is her, is traveling through space-time, jumping from one dimension to the next. Without a brain. Without a body. What she's thinking of must go deeper than biology then. It would be inviting the spirit to stare directly into her soul, if that's what she might dare to call it.
Jane swallows hard. Stares around the empty, door-less tower room. She contemplates the idea. Is fascinated by it. By the danger in it. By the idea of testing out the boundaries of herself. The possible consequences spool across her mind, tantalizing in their meanings. In what could be lost and what could be gained.
"Jane?" a woman's voice calls, as if from far away, "Jane, my child, are you asleep or are you awake?"
She feels the spirit tap a frenetic beat against her brain stem as she swims up into awareness, drawn by a siren call she can't quite name. She wants to answer the question. Wants her voice to reply in warm answer to this woman, this precious, beloved woman, her mother.
Jane opens her eyes. The woman is tall. Tall and beautiful. Her hair is a cascade of rich mahogany. Her eyes are clearest aquamarine. Her face, though not young, is proud and bold and oddly fierce. Her body, though obscured by a rich, fur-lined cloak, seems slender and strong. There is no way this woman is related to Jane, so plain and human in comparison. This woman, thinks Jane, looks like she belongs in the halls of Asgard. This woman, whose magic reaches down into the heart of her and pulls feelings and desires out.
"Jane, dearest?" she murmurs, her voice soft now that she's seen clarity in Jane's eyes. She kneels down with the sort of elegant grace that will forever put Jane's straightforward movements to shame. Her hands, slim and pale and smooth, catch Jane's fingers and hold. "Are you quite well, little dove?" she asks, her voice almost musical in its tone.
"Aren't I more of a sparrow?" she hears herself ask, her mind struggling through the fog of desire to please this woman, all the while slamming against the wall of her memories of the last strange, beautiful woman she'd met.
"A sparrow!" the woman exclaims, "So plain, my Jane?"
Jane frowns. "It seems more honest," she whispers with a childlike earnestness.
"A dove is the most honest creature in existence," the woman replies. "She is sweet-tempered and demure and soft-spoken. But she carries all the hope in the world upon her strong wings."
There's alarm bells in Jane's head, feminist theory classes smashing headlong into the woman's gentle words. She's fighting with the ideas, snarling at the words and the picture they paint. She's also charmed. She wants to be a dove, if it means this woman will love her more. She's being torn in two, and can't tell her own thoughts apart from the ones the woman wants her to think. At the edge of it all, the spirit is helplessly looking in, tapping frantically at the part of her that has already acknowledged that the woman is using magic of some sort.
"So, my dove," the woman continues, "Tell your mother what you have done these past days."
"You," Jane struggles, the noise in her head rising to cacophonous levels, "You are not my mother."
The woman freezes, her eyes shining like cold stone as her fingers squeeze tight upon Jane's hands, "What did you say?"
There's a panicked moment when a part of Jane's mind recognizes that this is dangerous ground. That she should never have said words like those. "I mean," she flounders, "I mean I cannot imagine how such a plain thing as I could have a mother as lovely and strong as you. It doesn't seem possible."
"Does it not?" the woman replies, her soft, strawberry lips pulling thin and hard.
Jane's breath catches in her throat. The desire to please this woman is a heady thrum in her veins now, pounding through her blood. It's too loud for her to think or be clever. She wants to be honest. To tell this woman everything. To bare her soul. "I'm not your Jane," she hears herself say. "I'm from another world. I can't be her. I can't, not even for you! Not even though I want to!" There's a tremor in her voice, a hint of tears, though whether they are for real emotions or false ones, she couldn't say.
The woman's expression goes cold. "Other worlds?" she murmurs, "Where have you gotten ideas such as this?"
Jane struggles against the heavy weight of the magic. "I," she sputters, "I want… I am… I…" Her breath is coming in anxious puffs, her eyes darting, unable to focus. "Stop using magic, " she pleads, "Please stop. Please. Just… stop."
The woman's eyes narrow. "What magic?" she asks softly, suspicion in her voice.
"The magic," Jane gasps, "The magic. You're making me feel… want." She struggles for a ragged breath. "I don't want – "
"No," the woman searches her eyes, "You don't want." Her tone is evaluating, almost clinically detached. All affection has slipped away. "You've never even noticed my magic before," she says, half to herself, "Why now, dear Jane? What has changed? Who has told you about other worlds? Who has spoken to you of magic?"
She doesn't really need to protect him. She doesn't even owe him anything. She knows this. It still feels a little like betrayal when the witch rips his name from her lips. "Loki," she cries, "It was Loki."
The woman goes pale. "Loki," she whispers, aghast, "But how? Why? What would he want in a pathetic creature like you?" She stands, turns from Jane. She paces the room in short, quick steps.
The magic dribbles out of Jane's mind, and she's left feeling like she's been robbed. There are tears in her eyes, and a hard, pulsating pain the spirit is moving slowly over as it folds itself around her. "What do you want with me?" Jane says, her voice a hoarse whisper. She's slipped off the edge of the bench now, curled in upon herself to hold in the hurt.
The woman pauses, turns to Jane. There's a taunt frown upon her lips, "I suppose it doesn't matter now." She stares down at her, "Your parents had an agreement with me. They went back upon it. There is always some use for a princess."
The laugh that escapes Jane's lips is tight and disbelieving, "I'm a princess?" She shakes her head, runs a trembling hand through her hair. "Of course I'm a princess. Of the fairest kingdom, I bet?"
The woman's gaze goes distant. "Yes," she says slowly. "He wants to rule," her eyes narrow, considering the new idea taking root within her. "I had not considered that." There is a pregnant pause as the enchantress sorts through newer options. "There is," she breathes, "Always some use for a princess." Her gaze has fixed back upon Jane with hawk-like intensity. "Power," she muses, "It is always about power. How much one can control."
Jane shivers. The spirit pulls itself in closer, soothing balm to psychic wounds. There is a long moment in which Jane refuses to look up at the woman before her. It passes in silence. She looks up. The woman is gone. A more violent tremor runs through her still.
For a very long time, Jane does not move. She nestles inside the dark safety of the spirit's presence. She trembles against the cold and the shock and the fact that she's been essentially mind-raped by some sort of fairy tale witch. And she's a princess. Who will probably now be used as some sort of bargaining chip. And while being handed over to Loki is entirely good for her, since it will mean the instant evacuation of this suddenly horrific rather than boring world, she suspects that it will be less ideal for the Jane she will leave behind. The Jane who does embroidery. Then again, is there really so much difference between being the prisoner of an enchantress or the prisoner of a sorcerer?
She doesn't want an answer. Not really.
The spirit curls in around her mind, sending soothing ripples through her. Why protect me? Jane thinks at it. Why try to soothe me? Why bother making it better? Why do you care? The spirit grows still, feels through the questions, and understands nothing still. But it is so close, and so warm, and so full of what Jane has suddenly decided is the essence of safe. And she's just felt what it feels like to have an alien will imposed across her own. And it came from outside. With magic. That the spirit can sense.
She doesn't think about it. Not really. She's already decided anyway. She takes a deep breath and then tears her conscious mind open, lays every part of her bare. She throws out every memory, every jagged, broken-glass emotion, every piece of experience she has. And for an moment, she thinks that the spirit doesn't want this. Still doesn't understand. But how can they communicate until they have some common set of experience to build a language up from? How can they relate until one of them truly sees the other?
Besides which, she's always been impulsive. Part of her just wants to see what will happen. What the spirit will do. If she loses all control. If the spirit takes over, well, then that's the price of science. This choice is her choice at least. A sliver of control over a life she's lost all sight of. The moment stretches thin, and maybe the spirit tastes her desperation, her need, the depth of her hurt. From this, from the elf woman, from the reality where she's the bad guy terrorist, from her orphan status, from Thor's seeming betrayal. From Loki. From herself.
The spirit dives in. Like a shooting star, it plunges down and in and through. It slips through her memories, tastes her emotions, dances with her conscious thoughts and her subconscious wants. It sees through her eyes, feels through her fingers, smells through her nose. It gathers it all up, drinks it all down, devours every part of her with a hunger for understanding that Jane knows because she feels it herself. And its beautiful and its joyful and its like finding a safe haven. Someone who understands (really understands) what you have done, who you have been, because they have been there, somehow, themselves. Standing in your shoes.
And then it is over. And Jane sleeps.
In the dream, she's not Jane Foster. She doesn't think like Jane Foster. She doesn't feel like Jane Foster. She isn't even shaped like Jane Foster. In the dream, she forgets who she is, because she doesn't need to be anyone.
There is a presence among them. Something not like them. Something sputtering-drowning in this ocean-void. Eternity is a long-distant time-place outside of the worlds this one can survive in. But it has no home to go to. It has a bitter green sadness. Alive in a way that they are not. But it does not value this fact. It does not understand them. It cannot hear their sweet-strange music without physical ears to hear with. It is blind-deaf-dumb in this place. But it is aware still. More aware than it should be. It leaks magic across the place, seeing into spaces it should not see. Worlds it does not belong to. It is dangerous, this thing and the reckless, senseless actions it takes. It thinks it has nothing to lose.
It strays too close to a violent purple edge on the corner-angle-intersect with its own world. It has so much to lose! But they cannot save it. Only mourn it. That poor, brilliant, bitter green.
Jane wakes slowly, surfacing in the shallows of consciousness and lingering there for as long as she can. When she finally opens her eyes, there is daylight streaming in. She's cold, very cold, cheek pressed to bare stone. She pulls herself up on her hands, gazes blinkingly into the light. She yawns. Her stomach growls. Her fingers twitch. There's an itch on her right shoulder.
The spirit nudges a memory of breakfast with Darcy and Eric toward her. They are laughing, joking, eating waffles. Darcy teases her. Eric smiles. She's happy. Happier than she knows. There's a tightening in her throat. She smiles weakly. "Good morning to you too," she whispers aloud.
Louder words would echo in this space. Hers simply drift against the walls and collect in the corner, snowdrifts of sound. The air is chill, and the fire has gone quite out. Its early still. Beyond the worn window cloth, there is a strangely normal chorus of bird song.
The stillness and the calm are shattered by an ominous, creaking moan. The sound of metal grinding upon rusted metal comes muffled from below. Jane stares down at the solid stone floor, uncertainty in her eyes. The spirit presses upon the idea of magic. Jane scrambles to her feet. She watches the floor warily, the distant sound of thudding and creaking doors filling her ears. The stones of the floor shift, a small patch melts and transforms. A trapdoor of ancient wooden beams and rusted metal emerges. It begins to open, catches against some sort of pin with a groan. Frustrated curses filter through the dark-shadowed crack between wood and stone. The pin mechanism disappears as completely as if it had never existed at all.
The door flies open, and though she knows (she already knows) who it is, she jumps just a little at the sudden noise and movement. Loki glowers up at her, taking the last few steps with sulking, slow steps, so that he takes his time claiming his full height, towering above her. His expression is venomous, brow furrowed and eyes sharp with fury. "This world," he spits, "This entire world is mad. Absolutely, entirely without sense."
"I'm a princess," she offers, "Locked in a tower. Like a fairy tale." He stares at her with a stale sort of indifference. "I supposedly do embroidery," she finishes. There's a crack in the mask. It isn't a smile, but it isn't a smirk, either. And she's forgotten again that they are not friends on a shared surprise adventure. That making him smile is not a goal to achieve. That her voice has the same brittle, frustrated tone as his is also not quite beyond her notice.
"Embroidery?" he mocks, "Try a swamp of unforgiving damp filled with giant, poison toads."
Jane shrugs, "I had to read books made from animals."
"I had to fend off an invisible leopard."
"Two words," she smirks, "Chamber pot."
"Dragons," he counters, "Three of them." He reaches around the black leather armour he wears and shakes the dust and cobwebs from the emerald cloak he wears. The bottom half has been left blackened and charred, burnt edges trailing into soot.
Jane pauses, considers the creatures in the book of fantastical beasts. "Really, dragons?" she asks, "Like, really real dragons?" He levels her with an impatient glare. She swallows her excitement, "I'd love to see a dragon."
"No," he replies, the word curt and sharp, "You would not." He gives the cape a second, pointed shake.
"I'm being held captive by a mind-raping enchantress," she says finally, feeling like the spirit in her head is holding her hand.
He raises his head at that one. Bright green eyes consider her, "So it was you who sent that one after me, was it?"
"After you?" Jane stares at him incredulously, "She made it sound like I was a cow to be traded, or something."
"Right," he gives her a tight-lipped frown, "I suspect violence and attack spells might be considered business dealings on some worlds."
Jane shrugs, "What was I supposed to do?" His face tells her nothing. "I didn't even know when you'd show up. And did I mention the mind-raping? That is not a fun sort of magic, you know."
He looks at her, expression still unreadable, "I do know, actually."
Jane can only meet that with silence. She gazes around the tower room, considers that it probably is rather comfortable compared to swamps and fights and dragon fire. "How did you know where to find me?" she asks suddenly, the question crossing her mind suddenly.
He turns his back to her, walks to the windows and shoves the makeshift curtain out of the way. "I can always find you," he says so quietly she almost needs to strain to hear him, "And I will always come for you."
"Unless we find one of those better worlds of yours," she parries.
He straightens, still facing the expanse of forest and sky. "Unless we find a better world," he agrees, his tone disappointingly neutral. There's a heavy pause in which Jane almost wonders at the way he says the words. It doesn't sound like agreement. "Are you expecting someone?" he asks suddenly, turning the eyes that are so very green in this world in her direction.
"Not unless you didn't kick that witch's – "
"She's dead," he interrupts. Jane feels her eyes widen slightly. "Just to be clear," he continues. He turns back to the window, "I believe you have a prince on your doorstep."
"A prince?" Jane parrots in disbelief, her feet taking her to the window in the space of seconds, even though it lands her squarely at Loki's side.
There is, in fact, a thoroughly confused-looking man sitting astride a magnificent white charger below. "Ah!" he calls up, his expression lightening significantly at the sight of Jane, "I had near despaired at locating the beauteous, long-lost princess of Trellafoil!"
"Beauteous?" Loki snorts.
There's no second thought spared when she angles her elbow and jabs it squarely at his ribs. She ignores the faint growl that escapes him and stares instead down at the blonde-haired man below. "Um," she licks her lips, "I think I'm her?"
The prince gazes up at them, confusion slipping back into his eyes. He raises a hand to shield the sun from his eyes. "You think you are she?" he repeats, "You are not certain?"
Jane tilts her head in consideration. "No," she calls back, "I am certain, actually."
There is a pause, "No, you are certain you are not she, or no, you are certain you are she?"
"He really is not the brightest, is he?" Loki murmurs, tilting his head closer to hers.
"Be nice," she mutters back, "He's come all this way. And his heart's probably in the right place."
"Somewhere in his chest cavity, I suppose." Jane turns her head to meet his gaze. He shrugs, "And, really, why would you even suggest that I be nice? Nice is not something I do."
Jane crosses her arms, "Seriously? You're going to be like that?"
"Now I have reason to be decidedly not nice," he continues, a smirk playing across his lips, "Just to prove my point."
Jane narrows her eyes, "Are you for real? That's just," she shakes her head as she searches for the right word, "Childish." She ignores the way his smirk melts into an actual, amused smile and stares back down at the prince and his beautiful, white horse.
"I'm certain I am the princess," she calls down.
"That is wonderful!" the prince calls up, "For I am here to rescue you!"
Jane bites her lip, "I, uh, hate to tell you, but the enchantress is already dead."
The prince furrows his brow and shifts in his saddle. "I do not understand," he shouts, "I was told there was a princess who needed to be rescued. I rescue you and I can marry you and become the king."
Loki shifts beside her, lets an impatient sigh escape his lips, "She no longer requires your services. She has already been rescued." He tilts his head to catch her eyes with his own, "Quite effectively, I might add."
Jane rolls her eyes. The prince's stallion stamps its hooves. The prince is silent for a long moment. "But," he begins, "You are a sorcerer, are you not?"
Loki smirks darkly, "I am."
The prince shifts in his saddle again. "Then," he angles his head back to Jane, "Then could I not rescue you from this foul sorcerer?"
The ripple of laughter escapes her before she can help it. Her fist raises to her lips, cutting off the sound, but its far too late. Loki has rounded on her, emerald eyes flashing dangerously. "Foul?" he snarls. She shrugs helplessly, laughter escaping in smothered bursts. He glares daggers out the window, down at the prince. "I assure you, she does not need saving any longer."
"Are you quite certain?" the prince shouts, "Because I am quite good at defeating foul sorcerers!" He pauses, "I have references!"
Jane can't help the laughter now. She glances helplessly up at Loki. "I can't," she gasps, "I can't even…" She sputters, "He has references!"
"I fail to see what is so amusing," Loki replies flatly, "The boy is going to throw his life away attempting to rescue you from me, when I am who you want to be with, if you ever wish to leave this forsaken world."
Jane stifles her laughter. "Right," she says, struggling to hold her composure, "Of course." She leans slightly out the window, "I'm fine. Really, I don't need rescuing anymore."
The prince stares up at her suspiciously. He looks from her to Loki. "He has rescued you?" he inquires, "And you wish to be rescued… by him? A sorcerer?"
Jane nods, choking back her laughter, "Yep. Yes. It's fine. Don't worry. We're all good."
"You are," the prince has reverted to confusion, "Good?"
"Yes," Jane replies firmly, "We're good."
"So you intend to marry him?"
The shock nearly sends Jane out over the window's ledge. Her laughter completely evaporated, she stares down at the prince with comically wide eyes, "What?"
The prince stares up at her, uncertainty creeping vividly across his face, "He who rescues you is to marry you. He will be king, should he return you to your rightful throne in the grand castle of Trellafoil."
Jane can only continue to gape at the prince, "You want me to marry him?"
Beside her, Loki gives a final exasperated sigh. "I am very quickly tiring of this," he begins, "What, exactly," he demands, "Would it take to convince you to leave?"
The prince's stallion shuffles, and the prince nervously passes the reins from one hand to another as his eyes flash between the two figures in the tower window. "A kiss," he cries, "A kiss I can believe."
Jane has enough time to blink in incredulity at the idea of Loki's lips on hers. Then all incredulity is washed away by the absolute reality of his bright green eyes fixing upon her. The colour may vary, but the predatory nature of his stare is fixed in her memory, and it freezes her in place for the second it takes for his hands to settle upon her upper arms and pull her close. She feels her wide-eyed stare dissolve into something softer, but no less surprised, and then his mouth is on hers.
At first, it is just a brush of his lips across hers, feather-light and barely-there. There is an instant where she actually believes that this is all there will be, that she's out of the woods. Her lips part just a fraction in relief. Then his lips are back on hers. Hard enough to be real, and she suddenly can't remember the last time she's been kissed. Not since before the whole ordeal with Malekith, at least. And that is, itself, a lifetime ago. Her hands flutter uncertainly in the air until her fingertips suddenly scatter across the smooth leather of his armour. There, they lock instinctively into the crease between the front panel and the shoulder plates.
His tongue flicks across her lower lip, and there's a part of her that wants to step away and really, really just hit him as hard as she can. Preferably across his smug face. But there's another part that's turned into something like trembling, goose-bumped jelly, and that part literally sighs into the kiss. Its just a train wreck after that, because his tongue is sliding across hers and his lips are demanding things from her that she wasn't aware that she could give. His arms have snaked around her, pulling her flush with his body. One hand is fisted into her hair, fingers entwined with her curls, and tugging just the slightest bit in a way she didn't know she liked until really, right this moment.
Then he is pulling away, and it must be just absolute, years-of-being-single lust that has her lips pressing back into his and starting it all over again. The pressure and heat and hunger are a world all on their own, and she doesn't want to go back to any other. She just wants this. This give and take, this hungry desperation, this clever tongue sliding across hers.
The prince sitting astride his white charger clears his throat. The kiss ends. The real world returns, and their lips inch away in sudden, incremental jerks, as if they are fighting gravity. Jane closes her mouth, opens her eyes, and edges out of his slowly-releasing hold. Her back so stiff its painful, she risks a look up at him. It isn't a smug smirk she sees, but a startled, thinly-veiled wildness. As if he has just been haunted or electrified, or perhaps both. And just as soon as she has cataloged it, it's been hidden away beneath a mask of indifference.
"I believe you," the prince says, his voice echoing up to them, though the tone is almost painfully soft.
"Right," Jane gasps, looking everywhere else but at Loki.
"Time to go?" he offers, his voice uncharacteristically husky.
"Yeah," she breathes, her eyes accidentally crossing paths with his. They are such a bitter green…
Jane's breath catches in her throat. She remembers a dream. A new dream, but also familiar. And she understands it. "You," she whispers, "You lied." Her brain feels like its lit up with Christmas lights, the spirit suddenly brushing up against her and staring out through shared eyes. "You said they pushed you," she hears herself accuse, the words coming from a place that might not be entirely herself as she has known it, "But you fell. You ended up in his realm all on your own."
His eyes go wide, his mouth opening ever so slightly. But he's already willed the magic into action. They are already gone.