"It is my feeling that Time ripens all things; with Time all things are revealed; Time is the father of truth." - Francois Rabelais

Chapter Eleven

Light trailed from the window of Jane's room; it cast a lazy, golden hue across the stone floor and across the bed. Loki's eyes flicked around, from floor to ceiling, not landing on the woman in question. He noticed the tray from breakfast, untouched.

It was quiet here, and he allowed himself to ease his tense shoulders slightly. The only sound to be heard was of his own breathing in his ears. He knew not why he was avoiding the inevitable. He knew not why he was even here at all.

"When you hover like that…it's creepy."

Loki's ears perked at the sound of her voice; it sounded unnaturally loud in such a still setting. He finally allowed himself to look at Jane; she, who he knew was there all along. He knew she was on the bed when he walked in, but he did not want to truly perceive it.

He didn't answer immediately; he denied to himself that it was more for the effect that silence gave him than the simple fact that he knew not what to say. He regarded her thin frame on the bed - she was dressed in a simple jade dress, and the color she wore was not lost on him. He wondered if she realized exactly what that color meant, and turned his head to look at himself in the full length mirror standing against the wall. He stood tall, his frame softened by his deep green tunic and brown pants. He missed terribly his armor, then; the leather and metal and gold that invoked so much fear on Midgard. But when he cast his eyes on Jane again, he realized that his armor would be for naught, here.

She eased out of the bed, the book she was reading lay open on the duvet. She didn't look afraid, but her face held he resignation he realized was simply a part of who she was.

"You didn't eat?" he asked finally, dropping his gaze and walking slowly over to the small table that bore the tray still full of food. The cut fruit gave off an overly sweet smell that was no longer appetizing, and he lifted his hand to banish it.

"I wasn't exactly hungry after last night," she replied bitterly.

The tray disappeared, and he lowered his hand, the memory of the previous evening terribly fresh in his mind. Loki swallowed heavily.

I saw your heart.

"How do you do that?" Jane asked then, and his eyes found her face. She was staring at the empty table, her brow knit in concentration.

"Magic," he replied, his mouth twitching its way up into a ghost of a smirk. His response was not what she sought, though, and she stepped closer to him, tentatively, the fabric of her dress whispering at her feet from the movement.

"I realize that," she said impatiently. "But how does it work?"

Loki looked at her face, truly seeing it. The angry bruise on her cheek had not subsided, and he felt a strange pang of remorse at the sight despite himself. He bit his tongue and took the chair at the table and pulled it out, turning it so it was facing her.

"Sit."

Jane's features fell into suspicion, and her eyes darted between the chair and Loki's face. His hand gripped the frame tightly, waiting for the argument, but she did not give one. She crossed the distance and settled into the seat. He moved around the chair so that he was facing her again, and he leaned toward her, close enough to hear the hitch of her breath.

She still fears me, he thought, and his fingers rested on the bruise, lightly. He remembered his indignation the night he had given it to her, he careless way he had gripped her face in his wild attempt to wield her into subjugation. How he had thought so bitterly that he did not care if she feared him; that it was better that way, even. But he pushed those thoughts from his mind.

"What -"

"I'll answer your questions, but first I wish to rid your face of his mar," Loki said softly.

His eyes closed then, his fingers still on her face. He imagined the damage, the broken vessels all the way down to bone. And then his hand stiffened, and when his eyes opened, the bruise was gone.

His actions were not lost on her. He imagined she had felt that bruise every waking moment - perhaps even in sleep she had been somehow aware of its presence. He lowered his hand and her own shot up to feel the place that was suddenly healed. Her eyes widened with shock, and she smiled slightly.

"Thank you."

His jaw stiffened at the simple phrase, but he said nothing. Instead he raised his hand again to the cut on her lip and healed that, too.

"It is done," he said, and stood up straight, backing away from her. He walked to the bed and picked up the book she had been reading, but it was simply a copy of the almost ancient Midgardian The Children of Odin. His nose twitched in distaste.

"I do hope you're not taking this to heart," he said, gesturing his hand toward the book. She laughed slightly and stood, walking over to him and taking the book from his hands, hesitantly, as if expecting him to snatch it back.

"Do you mean to say that you never…" she started, and turned the pages until she found the one she sought. "You never cut Sif's hair?"

Loki frowned at that, forgetting that some of the tales held some truth to them.

He took the book back, reading the tale quickly. When he was finished, he glowered at the book as if it were sentient, capable of balking at his gaze.

"I'll admit that yes, I did cut Sif's hair. But almost none of this tale holds truth beyond that."

"You did?"

Loki looked at Jane then, who was watching him with fascination. His brow knit momentarily, and then he decided to tell it to her in detail. He sat on the edge of the bed, and gestured for her to follow suit.

"I'll tell you the tale," he said, and looked at the book again. His throat felt unnaturally tight, and he closed his eyes for a moment, the memory melding into his conscious so perfectly he almost let himself drown in it. Certainly times were much simpler, then. He felt the bed move as it took in Jane's weight, and he opened his eyes.

"Sif indeed did have golden hair once. This was quite awhile ago, understand. Thor and I had…taken a trip. To Midgard." The words suddenly felt like ash on his tongue, but he looked at Jane again and saw her watching him with such enthrallment that he trudged on. "We stumbled into a playhouse, I assume. The mortals were putting on a drama crafted by a man named Shakespeare."

Jane drew in a breath, and Loki paused to watch her reaction with amusement. But she said nothing, which he assumed was quite a feat for her, and so he continued.

"To put it simply, when we returned, Thor was so inspired by this Shakespeare that he was constantly crafting his own prose. About Sif's hair. You can imagine how tedious it was." Loki smirked then, and said, "So I cut it off."

"You cut it off," Jane repeated. "Just like that?"

Loki shrugged. "Perhaps you had to have been there to understand. But yes, I did. 'Just like that'. When Thor found out he was terribly angry. And Odin demanded I return to her what I took. But…he did not say it had to be exactly as it was."

Jane's eyes dawned with comprehension, and she had a look on her face that was something in the middle of disdain and amusement.

"So you gave her black hair?"

"When you put it that way, it sounds awfully dull. I hired some Dwarves to craft her hair with threads from the black of night itself. It was a wonderful gesture. I gave her the opposite of what she had - for her hair was as luminous as the light of the sun."

She stopped short at his reply, her eyes on his, not faltering under his gaze.

"Why was Thor praising her hair to begin with?"

Loki shifted in his seat slightly, suddenly understanding that Jane did not know much of Thor's past. He did not smile, but his words held the weight of it.

"Thor and Sif were once betrothed."

Jane broke eye contact at that; she looked down at her hands in her lap, her hair falling in a thick curtain that hid her face from Loki's eye. He waited for her words, but none came.

"Does this upset you?" he asked. He knew he was provoking her now, but that fact did not seem to matter to him. Without even thinking of etiquette, he took his hand and pushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear, to better see her face. It felt smooth as silk in his fingers, and on impulse he wondered when the last time he had touched a woman's hair was. He pushed that thought away, too.

She didn't quite flinch, but the ghost of it was playing around her eyebrows. She didn't look at him, though, and spoke to her hands.

"No. It can't. Thor has lived so many lifetimes…I can't let it bother me that there were many before me."

Many? The word played around in his mind, and he realized that her choice of word was not because she knew, but because she was too afraid to ask, leading to an assumption. Not that her assumption wasn't true.

And once more Loki found himself amazed at the notion that Jane had spent two months with a man she was afraid to talk to. She had not asked him to show her the Yggdrasil; she had not asked him of his past - none of the things that held import to their relationship, anyway. But then he thought quickly that perhaps he was being too presumptive, too hasty to assume that he knew what things Jane needed to be happy. But he thought of Thor, then: his presence, his gait. And the easy way in which he had turned his back on Sif because of something so small as the fact that she no longer had the shade of hair he preferred.

And then Loki regarded Jane's hair, its chestnut hue that fell in slight waves. And then he realized that he had no idea at all what Thor preferred. A millennium certainly did not care to hold things constant, but Thor was an exception to the rule. And as Loki looked at Jane, he wondered if it was indeed she who had changed him, or if Thor was already on the cusp of change before he was sent to Midgard, and all he needed was a prodding hand.

But he thought of Jötunheim, then. How Thor had slain dozens of Frost Giants simply because Laufey had called him a princess.

"What are you thinking about?" Loki heard, and his mind snapped out of his reverie. He met Jane's eye and gave his most wicked smile.

"Nothing you would care to know about."

Jane paled, then, and stood, putting distance between the two of them. Her unease was not lost on him. He stayed where he was, though, fixing Jane with his most open gaze.

"Well…" she said, and looked around the room. "I guess you could tell me about your magic, now."

Loki gave a slight grin, and he opened his arms.

"I'm afraid that our time has run out, my dear." He stood, and stretched idly. "We shall save talk of magic for next time. However…"

He walked to the table, and raised his hand, bringing forth a bowl of steaming stew. He looked at her expectantly, not disappointed by her look of surprise. And then he drew closer to her, slowly, as if waiting for her to step back away from him. He put his left hand behind his back, bowing slightly, transforming easily into the role of a prince. He was suddenly nothing but coy and warm and regal, and he realized how easily he had slipped into his old self. He took her hand, softly, and brought it to his lips, leaving a light kiss on her knuckles, trailing too long before lowering it again and setting it free.

He could have laughed at her unease, at her apparent inability to follow his moods. But he didn't, because he found himself unable to follow them himself.

()()()

Loki found himself on the throne long after court was over. The dying light of the sun was the only tell-tale sign of the time, but Loki felt no sense of its passing. He let his mind wander between his exchange with Jane, finding it hard to focus on any one particular thing. He felt his frustration rise at the notion that he was not quite himself, with her - that he was not all anger and hatred and rage, but something else, something that whispered from somewhere far, far away. He bit his tongue in effort to hold the growl trying to find its way out.

And then he heard the sounds of the side door of the hall opening and closing; the swish of cape and clink of armor. He saw Fandral walking nimbly to the throne, his face unreadable.

"Allfather, I bid you good day."

Loki inclined his head in Fandral's general direction but did not look straight at him. He did not have to ask himself why Fandral was even here; it was easy enough to guess by the way he shuffled on his feet that he brought questions - undoubtedly of Thor. Fandral knelt, then, and Loki saw from the corner of his eye a swish of cape, green on black. His brow refused to furrow at the strange sense of unease that had suddenly overcome him. Fandral still wore Loki's colors, something of course that he knew - but for some reason, that fact played a strange game of twisting Loki's insides completely in that moment.

"Fandral the Dashing," Loki said slowly, a ghost of a smile playing about his lips.

"Oh - well, you know, Allfather," Fandral said lightly, waving his hand in a buoyant fashion; Loki's eyes followed it mechanically. Fandral then let out a tight laugh, followed by a cough in efforts to cover it up. Loki raised his eyebrows in slight impatience, finding this exchange overly tedious already.

"I trust you have reason for coming to me?"

"Yes - I do apologize. I know you must be very busy and all that…" Fandral trailed off, casting a wary gaze around the empty hall, and then quickly looked back to Loki. "I was simply wishing to inquire about Thor. Will he be returning? He left so suddenly."

Loki allowed a stretch of silence to fill the space where Fandral's mindless prattle had been, and he finally met his eye.

"Where were you and Thor going?" he asked suddenly.

Fandral's mouth opened but no sound came out. And then he took his hands and began wringing them nervously - and Loki cocked his head slightly.

"I'm waiting."

"Well, you see, Allfather…" Fandral said quietly, and Loki allowed himself for a moment to be completely baffled. Fandral was his oldest friend, aside from Thor - and while Fandral had a way with words, he was not deceptive. Not where it mattered, anyway.

"Out with it, boy," Loki finally spat.

And then Fandral spoke, his words articulated but soft, as if he feared to say them: "I do not believe that Loki is dead."

The silence that followed his statement was deafening. Loki's stomach gave such an uncomfortable lurch that he almost jumped to his feet, but he stayed seated. His legs felt suddenly numb, anyway.

Loki's question came out hoarsely before he could control it. "How could you say such a thing?"

"I apologize, Allfather. I know all of Asgard believes him…gone," Fandral said quickly. "But I cannot…my oldest friend." His hands continued their strange dance, in and out of each other, and finally he stiffened, pushing his hands into fists that went to his sides. Loki saw his brow knit, and then he spoke again. "I cannot believe that he would be so easily defeated. There were too many times when he should have been, for certain…and I cannot presume to understand all of Loki's doings, but he always found a way out." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Always."

Loki slumped visibly in his seat, acutely aware of the strange paradox he found himself in. He could not blame Fandral for believing what was true - surely, there were many times when death was so imminent that it was nothing short of a miracle that Loki had found his way out; like a snake, slithering away from its hand with speed and precision. And there were many times when it was Loki who took Fandral with him. The memories gripped him, then; the ever inescapable thread of the past that wove itself seamlessly in and out of the present. He suddenly found it quite hard to breathe.

"I mean not to cause you distress, Allfather," Fandral said weakly. He rather looked as if he knew not what to do; his hands had once again met, but they were only clasped in a grip so tight that Loki could see the white of his knuckles.

"Loki…is dead. The Einherjar do not lie," Loki finally said, fearing his voice had no weight.

"Forgive me, my king. I know this. But…" Fandral faltered, and stepped forward, halting just as he did so. "Perhaps he was mistaken. And why didn't he bring Loki's body back, if it were true? Regardless of his actions in the past, he died saving Thor and Lady Jane. He died with honor…and we did not give him to the pyres to send him to Valhalla? It…it isn't right. He was left to collect dust on Svartalfheim, like a traitor. And despite his words and actions, Loki was not a traitor at the end."

Loki watched Fandral as he spoke, his unease growing steadily with each statement - Fandral was all over the place with his questions, his musings.

"Where were you and Thor going?" Loki repeated, loudly, avoiding every question Fandral had just asked.

His face paled, and Loki knew that what he would say would not be good.

"I…I implored Thor to show me the doorway to Svartalfheim. The one Loki had discovered in his youth."

Loki bit back the curse that was building in his throat, and stood on his feet. Fandral stepped back, then.

"And he agreed to this?" Loki bit out.

"Well…no. No, he didn't," Fandral replied, and he looked to his feet. Loki stepped down the golden steps, Gungnir forgotten. His eyes flicked about the darkening hall, to the Einherjar forever posed still as statues at the far front doors. And then he was level with Fandral; his eyes flicked to the blonde of his head, his eyes downcast.

"Tell me exactly what happened."

"Allfather, I apologize for this," Fandral said. "I had drawn Thor away with the pretense of hunting. Once away from the palace, I spoke of my beliefs. I told him he need not come with me, even, that I only wanted to know where the door lay. But…Thor wouldn't budge. He did not agree with me. He said I was insulting the memory of Loki." His brow knit then, and he met Loki's eye. "And then on the second day, he sought me out to try to put some sense into me," he finished bitterly.

"And so you come to me asking if Thor will return because you hope to continue your fruitless search," Loki said slowly. Fandral balked in the aftermath of this statement.

"Forgive me."

Fandral's statement was all Loki needed. He stood there for a moment, unmoving. Fandral's musings were detrimental to all Loki had sustained these past months on the throne. And while he knew this had to be squashed, as he looked at Fandral's thin form, he felt the strongest sense of melancholia that suddenly gripped him as strongly as his rage could. He remembered the day that Fandral swore fealty to him, donning his green cape with his easy smile. He remembered the day like it was just yesterday. He longed suddenly to tell Fandral that his beliefs were true; that he was speaking to the man he so desperately believed to be alive - but Loki blinked, and the spell was gone.

"You must stop this immediately. Thor was correct - you insult Loki's memory by not accepting what is truth."

"Allfather…can you not see that my questions have merit?"

Fandral's voice was so pained that it was Loki who faltered now. But he had come too far to play into this; and his chest burned at the sheer contrast between now and what Loki would actually do if it were truly he in this position. If it were another time, another situation, he would not squash Fandral's notions - he would encourage him, go with him on his quest. He would raise all the necessary questions needed to push Fandral where he needed to go. And Loki sourly wished that he had never gone to Jötunehim that day.

No, he thought again. I had to go to Jötunheim. He hated himself for his sudden weakness. He regarded Fandral again, hating himself for wishing for the easier path, even in passing. And he hated Fate for constantly dealing him the hand of cards that could never let him win.

"No, they do not have merit," Loki said then, allowing his words to grind into the silence of the hall. He imagined them being knives to twist into Fandral's flesh, hoping they were enough to stave him off. "Loki is dead. Gone. And your childish quest will not bring him back."

Fandral opened his mouth, his face twisted in a strange mix of pain and insult. And then he knelt, quickly, his stiff right hand clenched in a fist on his heart. And then he stood, turned, and left Loki to stare at his retreating back.

I continue to be humbled and flattered by the response this story has gotten. I sincerely thank you all for all comments, favorites, follows, etc. Please drop a line and let me know what you think of this latest :)

The Children of Odin is indeed a real book. It is public domain and it is quite a read.