Note: Once again, I've looked up actual mythology, folklore, and names of sources, and then messed with them for my own ends. Hopefully anyone versed in Arthurian mythology will forgive me.

Chapter Ten

Bacon is the Siren of foods. Before Stark and Loki had a chance to put their sandwiches together, the rest of the group arrived, drawn by the fragrance from the skillet. Loki knew it would be polite to offer his freshly-constructed bacon-lettuce-tomato-and-cheese sandwich to one of the newcomers, but he was too hungry for courtesy. Fortunately, the others seemed prepared to fend for themselves.

Stark dumped the entire package of bacon into the skillet and advised their companions to have at it. There was a large metal work table in the centre of the room, and everyone ended up standing around it to give their sandwich fillings a safe place to fall.

Fury, looking practically human as he juggled his slithery concoction of tomato and bacon, glanced at George and asked,

"Just how sure are you about this Mordred thing?"

George shrugged as he placed lettuce on his sandwich and added the top piece of toast. "Not very, but it's a theory, which is more than we had until now." Fury shrugged in a way that conceded the point. "I spoke of the River Brue. Back in the time of Arthur, as I said, before the fens were drained, it would have been more of a lake. A bridge spanning the western end of the lake was referred to as the 'Perilous Bridge,' or 'Pont Perileux,' and that may have been where Sir Bedivere went to throw Excalibur back to the Lady of the Lake."

"And you think you can find the site of this bridge?" Fury asked. He kept looking at George as he prepared to take a bite, but he stopped entirely, sandwich falling apart in his hands, at George's reply:

"Sure I can. The bridge is still there. It's now called Pomparles Bridge, probably a corruption of the original name-"

"It's still there?" Fury repeated. George and Mitchell both nodded. "You English bastards built things to last, didn't you? No wonder you ended up with an empire."

"Nothing to do with me," Mitchell, the Irish vampire, murmured as he stacked tomato, cheese, and bacon on his sandwich.

"Sure it is, you guys probably had to do the heavy lifting," George pointed out.

Loki had made short work of his first sandwich, and was constructing a second with rather less wolfish intensity, when he remembered the documents he had purloined from the lair at the ruin.

"George, I had forgotten- there are some things you should look at," Loki said, words slightly unclear because he was licking his fingers as he spoke. George looked up, eyebrows raised. Loki concentrated for a moment and then pointed at a drawer on the other side of the kitchen, near the sink. "They are in there."

George cast Loki a puzzled glance, but he wiped his hands on a paper napkin and crossed the kitchen to investigate the drawer. Everyone watched as George pulled open the drawer open and white light spilled out.

"Whoa!" George yelped, shielding his eyes.

Loki shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. Magic can be unnecessarily dramatic sometimes." He extended his right hand and the glow leaped across the room, to be absorbed in his skin. Flexing his fingers and ignoring the looks he was getting from the others, Loki said calmly, "You should be able to see them now."

George blinked, reached into the drawer, and came up with the untidily folded document and the beautiful leather-bound book.

"What are they?" Steve asked. He was at the end of the worktable farthest from Stark, Fury, and Coulson, but appeared progressively less frightened of them. Either the spell was wearing off of its own accord, or Mordred, if he really was Mordred, had miscalculated the amount of courage his victim actually possessed.

George brought the two items back to the work surface and used his elbow to clear the space before him. Mitchell and Annie leaned forward to help, Mitchell polishing the surface with a handful of paper napkins. George set the documents down with almost reverent care, wearing the same expression Loki remembered on the face of Asgard's librarians when they handled magical tomes.

"Loki, what are they?" Thor asked, leaning forward curiously.

Loki, his mouth full, shrugged and chewed furiously. When he could speak, he explained, "I have no idea. There were a great many documents spread across a table in the lair, and I remembered George's knowledge of the legends of his realm. So I brought these back for him to look at."

"How did you choose these in particular?" George asked, almost dreamily.

"The sheet was the first that came to hand, and the book was small enough for me to cope with in raven form."

"And you didn't know what they were?" George persisted. Loki shook his head, which George did not see, his eyes being fixed upon the documents before him. Using the very tip of his finger, George gently eased the cover of the book open. "This seems to be a copy of part of the Annales Cambriae, which was written sometime in the tenth century."

"Can you read it?" Coulson asked, with professional interest.

"Probably. This part is in Latin, and the good thing about dead languages is, they stop evolving. If it was in tenth-century Welsh I'd be lost." George blinked and looked up, as though trying to evade the spell of the book. "To be honest, I don't think there's anything in this particular history that will help us. The important part is this: the Annales is one of the first historical sources that refers to Arthur, Mordred- or Medraut, as he's called in this source- and the battle of Camlann, where both of them died."

"Wait, Arthur is in the history books? For real?" Stark asked.

George shrugged. "It's generally believed that references to Arthur, Merlin, and Mordred were taken from existing Welsh folklore and added to the more historically accurate accounts. Scholars don't believe this really proves Arthur's existence as an historical figure. What interests me, though, is that Mordred, if we're really dealing with Mordred, apparently stole this from somewhere for his own use."

"It couldn't have been something he owned already?" Coulson asked, then raised his hand in apology. "Sorry, of course not. Tenth century, and it discusses his death."

"So, what? He's doing the medieval equivalent of Googling himself?" Stark asked.

George turned another page, using his fingernail. "Something like that. Remember, he died at Camlann, whereas Arthur was mortally wounded and lived long enough to send Bedivere- or someone, the record varies on who, but let's say Bedivere- "

"Yes, let's," Stark muttered.

"- to throw Excalibur back into the Lake."

"So?" Fury prompted. George was enough of a scholar to forget how terrifying Fury could be, and favour him with a look of impatience.

"So Mordred was dead when all this happened. Which means he doesn't know exactly what became of Excalibur. The fact he's apparently studying the record means he isn't sure where to look. He's got the advantage of us because he knows where Camelot and Avalon and all these places really were, but we have the advantage of him because we know the mythology."

"And by 'we,' you mean 'you,'" Mitchell pointed out. George raised his hands helplessly.

"Fine. I know the mythology. I'm perfectly happy to tell you everything I know, but it would help if some of us had at least read The Once and Future King." He turned on Loki. "How fast can you read?"

"Quite fast," Loki told him.

George turned to Fury. "Can we send someone back to the house? I have a copy of-"

Annie, who naturally was not eating, stood up. "Where is it?"

"In the bookcase next to the window. Second shelf from the top, I think."

"Be right back," Annie announced, and vanished. True to her word, about five minutes later she reappeared, startling Steve, and dropped a cloth-bound hardcover book, in a paper dust jacket, on the table in front of George. This startled Stark. It might have startled Fury and Coulson as well, if they were the type to ever let it show.

George pushed the book across the surface toward Loki. "It's an omnibus, a collection of several related works. The one dealing with Mordred is the final book, The Candle In the Wind. It might help you understand all this, if you have a look at that part."

Loki nodded, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, and delicately lifted the cover open. There was an inscription inside the cover: This Book Belongs To: George Sands, Aged 9. The printing was large and childish, and Loki was visited with a vision of the young George, face screwed up in concentration, stating his claim in careful ink. He closed the cover very gently and smiled at his friend.

"I will give it my utmost attention. Thank you for entrusting it to me."

George nodded and smiled back. Meanwhile, with considerably less concern for ancient artifacts, Tony Stark leaned across the table and picked up the single sheet of rag paper.

"And what's this?" he asked. Annie, catching sight of George's expression of scholarly anguish, leaned forward and gently plucked the sheet from Stark's bacony fingers. Stark recoiled violently and Annie set the sheet before George, who studied it carefully. After a moment he sat back, looking stunned.

"It appears to be a letter. To Guenevere. Telling her about the death of Arthur. I can't make out the signature."

"Does it say what happened to the sword?" Fury asked practically.

George shook his head. He did not appear to care about that point, just stared at the document before him with astonished and nearly reverent eyes.

Loki quietly finished eating his sandwich, wiped his hands, and took up the book belonging to George Sands, Aged 9.

~oOoO~

The next morning dawned cold and rainy. Of course it did, Loki reflected. That was exactly the weather in which one should be traipsing around in open boats, looking for mythological artifacts.

To add to his misery, he had slept badly again, having sat up late on the observation deck acquainting himself with TH White's account of Mordred, born by betrayal to a mother who alternately coddled and abused him; and a father who tried to have him killed, then later tried fruitlessly to make up for the inexcusable. Probably, if he had time to read the entire book, Loki would come out with a more favourable opinion of King Arthur, but the account of the drowned infants had hopelessly prejudiced him.

At the same time, Mordred's fixed, vengeful malice had seemed horribly plausible. Understandable. Not excusable, but... familiar. Loki could not decide whether the disaster visited upon Mordred's whole family was planned, or incidental to his main purpose of destroying Arthur. He could not stop envisioning Thor's face when he read the anguished lines attributed to Mordred's eldest brother, Gawaine. And he could not decide, if he had read this story five hundred years ago, whether he would have been able to take it as a warning.

He must have slept, sitting up in his chair, since he distinctly remembered dreaming of being underwater, limbs swaddled so he could hardly struggle as his lungs filled. Of standing in a courtyard much like the ruin on Glastonbury Tor, looking around at still, bloodied figures and knowing he bore the responsibility for their deaths. Thor. Mitchell and George. Tony Stark. He had managed to wake himself before he could see whether the corpse lying nearest the wall was Annie.

Really, all things considered, Loki felt nostalgic for the good old days when all he had to worry about was every vampire in the United Kingdom wishing to tear him to shreds.

Lost in his thoughts, Loki was taken violently by surprise when someone touched his shoulder. He spun to his right, barely restraining a burst of defensive magic.

Mitchell took a step backward, holding up a mug of tea appeasingly. "Whoa. Are you all right?"

Loki took the proffered beverage with an apologetic grimace. "I'm sorry. Yes. I am... all right. Fine."

Mitchell took a sip of his own tea and remarked, "That's good. I'm feeling quite unsettled, myself. I had gruesome dreams last night." At Loki's interrogative glance, Mitchell elaborated, "Herrick was back, or else I was in the past. Anyway, I was with him, and we were... hunting." Mitchell, his gaze gone inward, did not elaborate. Loki, whose memories of the merciless vampire captain were vivid, did not press his friend, but he moved a little closer, as if sheer proximity might be comforting. Mitchell, recognizing the gesture, smiled feebly.

Despite his reluctance to go out into the rain, it was a relief to Loki when George and the others appeared, George far too excited about the hoped-for discoveries of the day to have had anything in the line of unpleasant dreams. Loki was visited with a rush of affection for the bookish werewolf, although he did wonder what George Sands, Aged 9, had made of The Candle In the Wind.

Annie came to stand between Mitchell and Loki, looking tired although she almost never slept anyway. She had roused Loki from the drowning dream and had been there when he scrabbled awake from the bloody one. Now he realized she had probably also gone to Mitchell, had spent her own sleepless night trying to comfort her friends. He put an arm around her, wordlessly trying to thank her.

Steve and Tony Stark also looked tired this morning. Loki did not ask whether they had slept well, as they manifestly had not and he was not feeling up to hearing about anyone else's nightmares. Fury gave no sign of any such weakness, although it crossed Loki's mind to wonder whether he ever found it tiring, to be a main feature in the nightmares of others. Coulson was his usual well-turned-out self. Loki could not detect any supernatural elements about him, but there was definitely something not entirely human about the man.

The agent nodded courteously to everyone, took note of the angle of Loki's arm and, reaching the correct conclusion, said, "Good morning, Annie." Then he considered Loki. "Ready to go?" Loki nodded. "How well do you swim?"

"Not particularly," Loki admitted. "On Asgard, rivers tend to flow off the edge of the realm. I was never much inclined to risk them."

Coulson looked concerned, or at least interested. "So how are you going to- ?"

"I have a plan," Loki replied briefly.

Thor, who appeared nearly as tired as Mitchell, looked worried. Loki briefly wondered whether he too had bad dreams, and whether all these were caused by the magic surrounding them, or some other malign influence from the sorcerer they sought. Again, he did not ask Thor how he had slept, because he had no desire to see the expression of guilt that would cross Thor's transparently honest face when he tried to pretend he had not dreamed of the crimes, actual or potential, of his brother.

George looked around as though only now realizing he was the only one who looked forward to the morning's activities. His expression touched Loki, who spoke up as cheerfully as he could manage.

"I have a plan," he repeated. "And I need to remember to bring a big towel. Do you suppose it's safe for me to eat breakfast, or should I wait until after?"

~oOoOo~

Actually, by the time he had drunk his tea and consumed some eggs and toast with jam- all the bacon having been eaten up the night before- Loki felt considerably better about everything. Once outside, it turned out the weather was just as wet but not quite as cold as he had anticipated. The expedition to the River Brue consisted of himself, George, Thor, Stark and Coulson. Loki was not at all surprised to discover that Coulson was a competent handler of small motor-boats.

George navigated them along the river toward a small stone bridge of great antiquity: Pomparles Bridge, or the Perilous Bridge, from which the sword Excalibur was cast back to the Lady of the Lake. In spite of the dreary beginning to the day, Loki found himself experiencing a shiver of excitement that caused him to smile quite genuinely at George as the boat carried them along.

Coulson suddenly spoke up. "I don't know if Fury's mentioned this to you, Loki, but SHIELD has been fielding a bunch of messages about you in the last couple of days."

Loki turned to the agent, his good mood evaporating. He carefully did not look at Thor, who would feel bound to defend his brother no matter his own worries about Loki's intentions.

George, however, had no reservations. "About Loki? What kind of messages?" he demanded.

Coulson, eyes on the river, replied serenely, "Apparently the headmistress of your school- I assume that's the same thing as a principal?- and the head custodian have been raising hell about your disappearance. Fury heard from the Member of Parliament for your riding last night, about the 'police-state activities' of an organization that 'does not even answer to the British legal system.' I think I have that right. She demanded that you be released at once. Fury's had to explain you're not under arrest or suspicion of any sort, and are assisting us as a consultant. Stark, you might need to do some heavy damage control once we get this sorcerer thing sorted out." Coulson glanced at Loki and, in his usual tone of cheerful indifference, explained, "Thought you might like to know people are concerned about you."

"Thank you," Loki said, unable to conceal his surprise, or how moved he was. "That is indeed a nice thing to know." Coulson nodded, as though it made no difference to him whatsoever, and returned his attention to the river.

As they approached the bridge, Loki became aware of another mysterious sensation, not a smell precisely but something like it, of fresh green vegetation, and a faint sound like tiny frogs peeping in the very edges of his hearing. He verified the others could not smell or hear anything except the river and the rain falling upon it, then looked at George, who was big-eyed at the implications.

"It appears your theories are correct," Loki congratulated him. "Let us see whether there is anything here to find."

"Can you- sense Mordred?" George asked anxiously.

Loki shook his head. "No, this is completely different magic. If he has been here, it was long enough ago for his magic to have dissipated. Or perhaps he has not yet found the information he needs in the original sources. Perhaps he, too, should turn to more modern interpretations."

"Ironic, really, from a researcher's point of view," George remarked.

Coulson brought the little motorboat to a halt a safe distance from the bridge. "Okay. Since you can't swim very well, now what?"

Loki was shrugging out of his rain jacket and pulling his sweatshirt off over his head. The chilly rain striking his skin made him flinch. "Now, I become something that can." He closed his eyes and thought hard about the shape he had chosen in the small hours of the night, when he was trying to keep his mind on something that would not cause another nightmare.

He opened them on a gray-and-white world, looked up at the looming figures above him, and let out a sound very much like a bark.

And then, in otter form, he slipped over the side into the water.

Loki had spoken the truth when he said he was no swimmer. He was, however, extremely experienced in allowing the shapes he took on to control the physical form while he remained in charge of the mind. As a result, after a moment of alarm at finding himself out of his depth, the otter form took over and Loki found himself paddling strongly around the boat, using his webbed paws to propel himself and his remarkably powerful tail to assist his steering. The otter form enjoyed this tremendously, and after another quick yap at the occupants of the boat, Loki submerged and glided toward the bottom of the river. He reached it, reversed himself, swam back to the surface and popped his head up next to the boat.

Confident now that he could negotiate this element, Loki took a breath, flipped himself over, and swam underwater toward the bridge.

As he did so, he was aware of glow in the shadow of the structure. Loki slowed down long enough to permit the new magic to permeate him.

Then he swam confidently through the portal.

~oOoOo~

Loki surfaced in what seemed to be a bathing pool within a light, airy chamber. He looked around, blinking, even in otter form able to perceive the delicate workmanship of the furnishings and their soothing colours.

A voice spoke:

"Welcome, guest. It has been many years since we have been graced with a visitor." The voice was female, warm and familiar. Loki turned himself in the water and gazed upon the Lady of the Lake, standing in the doorway of the chamber, the glowing light behind her rendering her a darkened, graceful outline. "This realm is now a stranger to magic. I would ask how you were able to find your way to my home, and also your purpose in coming here."

As she spoke, the Lady moved forward so he could see her properly. In spite of the familiar voice, Loki was momentarily startled to find himself gazing into the smiling face of his mother, gowned in robes of white. Apparently even an otter may express surprise, because the Lady looked amused.

"It is my custom to appear to my guests in a form they can comprehend. I formed this habit when communing with humans. I perceive that you are something other, so perhaps it is unnecessary." She gave him a look of understanding, and added, "Though it may be that you would prefer to speak to me in this form, regardless."

Loki, while fairly confident the Lady would be able to communicate with him as an otter, felt at a bit of a disadvantage. He hooked his paws over the ledge of the bathing pool and borrowed a bit of the magic in the chamber. Leaving the otter body safely anchored, Loki moved his consciousness into an image of himself, in his old Asgardian clothing, standing next to the pool.

There was no real purpose behind the Asgardian garb, except that he felt modern Midgardian clothing would seem greatly out of place. In the heavy clothing and armor, even as a shade, he moved differently, and instinctively placed his right hand over his heart as he made a courtesy to the Lady. She smiled, inclined her head, and repeated her question:

"You are welcome, stranger, but I would know your purpose in coming."

Loki decided, against his usual inclination, to speak plainly. Perhaps it was the fact the Lady wore the appearance of his mother. "I wish to learn the fate of a sword."

"Indeed," the Lady replied quietly. "In the history of this realm, many swords have been forged, fought with, and broken. Which do you seek?"

Loki bowed slightly and replied, "I would learn the fate of the sword Excalibur, if it please your Ladyship."

Without moving, the Lady seemed to remove herself to a terrible distance. "That is not a question to be lightly asked or answered. A weapon of such power is no plaything for young adventurers."

"I understand, my Lady," Loki replied humbly. "I am aware it possesses great magic."

"The one who wields it may claim sovereignty of this realm," the Lady said, rebukingly. "Is that your wish?"

Loki did not try to meet her eyes. "It is not. I have found myself... unsuited to kingship, and it is not a destiny I seek. However, I believe another wishes to find the sword and use its power, to the detriment of this realm. My intent is to stop him."

The Lady regarded Loki intently. "And who is this other?"

Loki took a deep breath. "I believe him to be Mordred."

The Lady was silent for a long moment. "So. He has returned." Loki folded his hands before himself and waited. "Are you sure it is Mordred?"

Loki shook his head. "No, my Lady. No one has seen him, and we only surmise that he seeks Excalibur. The only thing of which I am sure is, a powerful sorcerer attacked friends of mine, and placed a curse on one of them."

"What manner of curse?" inquired the Lady.

"He is afflicted with fear," Loki replied briefly.

The Lady nodded. "Fear was ever Mordred's weapon, and his own curse."

"The magic of the realm has awakened," Loki went on to explain.

"Indeed?" Loki received the impression this was, as the mortals would say, not news to the Lady.

"Yes. My companions and I encountered it. It was very angry, and told us the sorcerer we sought was himself looking for something. When I shared the information that we were trying to find and stop him, the magic became more friendly. I believe this sorcerer is attempting to control the magic of the realm for his own purposes, and seeks Excalibur to assist him."

"And your purpose in visiting me is- ?" the Lady prompted.

Loki had been entirely honest with her up to this point, but he was suddenly aware of the arrogance of his mission. To simply walk into the Lady's abode and expect her to give him Excalibur! He must have been mad. They must all have been mad.

Self-conscious at the sheer ridiculousness of the request, he did not lie, exactly. Rather, he changed the nature of his task. He preferred to face the wrath of Nick Fury rather than have the Lady think less of him.

"I wish to ensure that you are warned, and can protect the sword, and thus the realm, from a potential enemy."

The Lady inclined her head again, and regarded Loki with a kind and knowing expression. "All this way, and only for that?"

Loki swallowed, face blazing hot. He began to think her appearance was more purposeful than she would have had him believe. "I originally came to ask you to allow me to take Excalibur away with me, to assist my efforts to stop this other sorcerer."

"But you no longer wish to do so?" she asked gently.

"It now seems... arrogant," Loki murmured. "As though I believed you incapable of protecting it yourself."

The Lady smiled, as though he had stumbled in innocence upon the correct answer. "This is not a fortress, young friend. Mordred, though perhaps new to sorcery, is the son and nephew of sorcerers, and he will quickly learn to control and follow magic as well as you do. Should he arrive here, I have no guards, nor soldiers to protect me. Excalibur is mine to bestow, not to wield."

"My companions and I could offer you protection," Loki heard himself saying. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he could almost hear Nick Fury's reaction to such an idea. It did not matter.

"Perhaps," the Lady said. "Or, perhaps, the best course is indeed for you to take the sword and use it in defense of the realm." Loki was silent, and the Lady stepped forward, her expression intent. "You must understand that, as soon as it leaves this fastness, its magic will be instantly perceptible to any warlock. You will not need to seek Mordred, if Mordred he is. He will find you. And if you meet him in the same heart and spirit as he engages you, he will prevail. Do you understand?"

Loki bowed his head. "Yes, my Lady."

The Lady regarded him a moment longer, apparently deep in thought. Then she smiled and extended her hands. Loki had barely had time to form the impression she wished to take his when there appeared, lying across her palms, a beautifully-wrought, finely-balanced sword in a heavy leather scabbard. The Lady did not look down at it, and Loki forced himself to hold her gaze with his own.

"The scabbard was returned to me before the sword. It has powers of its own, and can protect its wearer from harm." The Lady smiled again. "The sword may also be able to end the curse on your friend." Loki nodded. The Lady's smile disappeared. Gravely, she spoke: "Do you swear to use this weapon only in rightful defense of the realm?"

"I do," Loki replied.

"Will you bear this sword with an honest heart and in a spirit of truth?" Something in Loki's expression, or possibly in his heart, made the Lady pause, looking sternly at him.

Loki swallowed hard. He could do this. He had to do this. If necessary, he could ask Thor for guidance, since he was not sure he could trust himself. Surely knowing he was not to be trusted, and being willing to do something to guard against his own worst self, was a step in the right direction?

"I will," he said.

Apparently his reply at least indicated a sincere willingness to try. The Lady nodded, and went on:

"And do you promise, when its use has ended, to return this sword to its rightful home, here in the Lake of Avalon, where it will rest until it is needed once again?"

Loki did not even think about Nick Fury's feelings on the matter. "I do."

"Then take Excalibur, and go in peace," said the Lady. A warm glow suffused the room. Loki was momentarily blinded.

When the light subsided, the Lady was gone.

~oOoOo~

Loki swam toward the shape of the boat, above him on the surface. It was considerably harder to make headway using only his back paws and tail, but he persevered.

As his head broke the surface of the water, he changed back into his own form and grabbed the side of the boat with his left hand. Stark and Thor leaned toward him, making the vessel rock dangerously.

"Okay," Stark said, sounding impatient. "You've practiced being an otter. You've even got the cute thing down pat. Now, are you going to go looking for the damned sword?"

Apparently, no time at all had passed since he had submerged himself. Loki was almost disappointed, although truly, he had no desire to make George sit in the rain for several days, or cause Thor to worry again. Ignoring Stark, Loki caught George's eye and grinned at him.

"I've brought you something," he announced, managing to get the words out without being betrayed by chattering teeth.

Then he brought his right arm out of the water and laid Excalibur on the floor of the boat.