Note: Up until this and the next chapter, Loki's and Clint's POV's were off by about a week. Sorry I forgot to mention that. Loki catches up next chapter, I believe.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any characters associated with them.

The hooves of the horse slammed rhythmically against the crystalline rainbow bridge, the sound barely heard over the raging ocean below. The wave's blue was tainted orange and yellow with the setting sun, yet grew darker the closer the observatory became.

Sif's hair bounced against her back, thrown by the wind in its carefree wisps. She gripped her horse's reigns as she drew nearer to Heimdall. It had been more than a week since Loki's punishment had been issued and only she and the Warriors Three had been entrusted to know of what had transpired behind the closed doors of the court.

The punishment had not gone as planned and the two Sons of Odin were sent to Midgard to fix the problem. But that had been a week ago, and they had yet to return. Even the Allfather seemed struck with a twinge of worry. The warrior maiden felt a twang of suspicion herself at the delay with which the two were held up. The trickster had returned to the realm he had tried to conquer, after all. For all she knew, the people of that realm had killed him and Thor had sought vengeance.

She silently hoped they hadn't, not that she liked the trickster, but, for one, they didn't need Thor on another rampage. For another, if anyone was going to kill Loki it was going to be her. She refused to let anyone else have the pleasure. The little runt had been a purposeful pain in her side since they were children, exploiting her temper for the sake of his own amusement.

Yet, through their childhood, they had still considered each other friends, albeit a strange sort of friend. They had been the type of friend to each other that you wanted to strangle on a daily basis.

Her eyes narrowed at the memories that twisted through her mind, none of which were all too appealing. She pushed them aside as she pulled back on the reigns, the wind that had cascaded through her hair wavering in its speed.

The crystalline bridge lit up with color as she slid off her horse, her boots smacking against the ground. She strode confidently forward to meet the gatekeeper that guarded the Bifrost. Unlike his normal post, he stood closer to the edge of the bridge, as if he stared out and into the void that lay past the cascade of water at the end of their realm.

"Lady Sif," He greeted, without giving her a glance.

"Good Heimdall," She responded, standing beside him on the precarious edge of the Bifrost. They stood in silence for a few moments before she continued, "What delays the sons of Odin?"

"Straight forward as always, my lady," He replied, his tone far from discourteous. "The Midgardian they left in search of is delayed himself and, therefore, unintentionally delays the two princes."

Curiosity slipped through Sif's mind, though she hid it best she could with a tone of nonchalance. "And what delays our Midgardian friend?"

The gatekeeper was silent for a moment, as if he searched the realm for the one she spoke of. After a minute or so, he spoke, "It is unclear to me what delays him, but it appears to be far from good."

Sif arched an eyebrow, though she knew the Asgardian could not see. "Who is he? This Midgardian?"

Heimdall let a small smile slip onto his lips. "He is known as Hawkeye. His eyes are as sharp as the elves and he is just as attached to his weapon as they are. He was turned to Loki's side on the prince's conquest for Midgard."

She bristled at the sound of the trickster's name, but tried not to let it show. Setting her hands behind her back, she rocked back onto the balls of her feet. "So, why does he delay the traitor's punishment then?"

Ignoring the obvious jibe at Loki, Heimdall responded, "I am sure we will both know in due time, Lady Sif."

"Then you do not know?"

He smiled again, but said nothing.

Sif regarded him for a moment longer, before bowing slightly. "Thank you, good Heimdall," She said quietly before turning back to her horse.

"What do you believe he has done?" He asked suddenly, his voice jarring her from her gait.

"I'm sorry?" She asked in confusion.

He lifted his head higher, turning and walking back to his normal position before the observatory. "What do you believe Loki did in the short while he was king?"

The warrior maiden snorted at the thought of the trickster. "He sent the Destroyer to kill me, Thor, and the Warriors Three. He led the Jotun into Odin's chambers and had it not been for Thor they would've slew him. He tried to escape using the Bifrost, but Thor fought him off, the observatory destroyed in the process. He then escaped to the Chitari and tried to conquer Midgard," She took a deep breath, before glaring into the void. "He deserves more than what he is given."

"Your view of what happened is distorted, Lady Sif," Heimdall muttered. Her glare shifted to the gatekeeper as she regarded him carefully. "You see only what you wish to see."

"I know what happened!" She shouted, clenching her fists and temper flaring.

The gatekeeper considered her for a moment. "Do you?"

Sif huffed and turned on her heel, walking deliberately back to her horse. She had received the information she had sought, what reason was there to remain? "Thank you, good Heimdall," She said forcefully.

Swiveling her head back to the golden city, she dug her heels into her horse's side and rode off. The wind once again played with her hair with its lithe, wispy fingers. The sound of the crashing waves was drowned out by the roaring wind that echoed through her ears.

She sighed, letting the wind play as she tore across the bridge, her thoughts overriding her senses. She could never figure out Heimdall. The Asgardian was a strange one and deciphering his words was often difficult. She found herself hoping he had lied, to prove to herself the trickster had fooled them all and had made a grand escape to the wretched Chitari he had allied himself with. Then, she would be allowed to ride into war against him, to be given cause to drive a blade through his heart.

Loki had done them no good. He never had. He never would. She didn't care if her idea of what had happened was distorted. In her eyes, there was no other explanation. She didn't need one.

The trickster deserved more than what he had been given, and she refused to let anything sway her opinion.

Clint's grip on Natasha tightened as he dragged them across the forest floor. The smoke had grown too dense and too thick for him to continue upright. Though it had shot spikes of agony through his surely broken ankle, the walking had certainly been faster than crawling through the undergrowth. Fire licked tauntingly around them, the spy's body as limp as before. He continued on however, strengthened by the steady heartbeat that thrummed so loudly against his ears.

He tuned out the crackle of the flames, only listening to her heartbeat. He focused on that which was familiar, that which he knew. What he knew was his spider, he knew her better than anything else and she was his constant right now. His bow was somewhere else and he couldn't help but feel his heart wrench to what had been the only constant in his life before the spy had entered his existence.

But that wrench of the heart could be dwelt upon later. Right now, he only focused on escaping the fire that so greedily licked at the forest around them. They had surrounded them before, but a well placed overhang and a fallen tree had ensured escape.

Something new entered his ears, nothing like the crackling fire or the hoarse sound of his throat as it scrambled for fresh air. It was something soft, but loud. It carried a great force in a quiet trickle.

It was water, the sound of a river, a stream, or a creek. It didn't matter, either way.

The archer's hearing focused onto the sound, ignoring any other noise except the two heartbeats that thrummed in his ears and the trickle of water.

A burning sensation ran up his left arm, the one he used to pull them forward. The pain streaked through his arm and he bit his tongue, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as his teeth bit through the tissue.

He continued moving forward, blinking a seeping trickle of blood from his eye. Memories of things far worse than what he currently went through flitted past his vision.

There was the sharpened edge of a blade resting so delicately against his eye, taunting him with its red stained steel and promises of blindness. There was the feeling of water dripping from his head, the liquid trying so desperately to escape his lungs. There was the electric current that so mercilessly ripped through his veins, only stopping when his body finally gave into the convulsions. There were the hallucinations of past scars as his body burned and froze at the same time, head pounding with the drug that coursed through his blood.

He'd been through so much worse. This would be no different. He would escape. He always had, despite the trouble magnet he had become over the years.

The sound grew louder, the trickle becoming a flood as the air cooled in the slightest. The two barely remained ahead of the fire and now it seemed determined to engulf them before they could reach the river.

A ledge sloped downward to the sandy banks of the river, foliage coating its side. Clint grunted as he edged onto his back, pulling Natasha into his arms. He pushed his good leg forward and slid down the edge, using his elbows to slow their momentum enough to keep them from being thrown into the river.

The archer hid back a wince as his bad ankle collided with the ground and the both of them tumbled onto the bank. The flames licked hungrily above at the foliage, cascading downward in a twisted game of cat and mouse.

Sucking clear air into his lungs, Clint lurched forward and latched his right arm around Natasha's limp waist. His keen eyes scanned everything around him. In a matter of seconds he had taken in every detail of his surroundings: the moss covered rocks that protruded from the river, the panicked herd of deer that crossed it a ways down, and the rocky divot in the slope that was clear of foliage.

Knowing running from the fire had no longer become a survivable option, the archer pulled them both toward the alcove. Pain streaked from the burn on his arm, but he ignored it. He'd learned how to ignore pain, sometimes to a level that should not be possible for humans. But that ignorance often led to more pain, or a worsening pain.

He could feel the heat intensify the closer he got to the alcove as the flames threatened to cascade over the opening from above. There was a loud crack from over the ledge as a tree branch gave way to the fire.

Clint ground his teeth together and lurched forward like an arrow from its string. The two rolled into the alcove as the branch crashed over the opening, the smoke billowing out and away from the alcove. The archer sat on his stomach for a few minutes-hours, maybe-, breathing into the sandy dirt floor of the slope's divot. His arm remained around Natasha's waist, though it now hung limp. It was only then did he hear his breathing over the crackle of the fire a yard or so away. It came in rasps, his lungs scrambling for something other than smoke.

Eventually, he tried to roll onto his back, but stopped halfway through as pain rippled across his skin. His ignorance to his pain meant he had endured more than he realized. That, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins had tunneled his vision, focusing on the single goal of escape.

The archer pulled Natasha closer, this time, much more wary and careful around her own wounds. He growled at himself at the new and reopened ones that had surely been made on their trek to the river. He ran a gentle, uninjured, hand through her fiery red hair, carefully combing out the unwanted sticks and leaves that had lodged themselves there.

He gazed at her face, marred by blood and grime. She still looked as beautiful as ever in his eyes. His heart ached within him, reaching toward her like it wanted to be with her. He bit his lip, forcing the feeling down; the feeling that felt like love. He wasn't allowed to love; their line of work didn't allow it. Besides, love was for children.

Wasn't it?

There was more reason behind dragging her limp body a good ways across the forest floor to escape a fire. It would've been so much easier to leave her. His own self preservation had indeed been screaming at him to leave her. But there had been something stronger at play, something stronger than self preservation.

But what had it been? And was it still there? A pang of…something rang through his heart and his mind like a song that wished to be sung, but had been suppressed by fear. Was it love that had driven him so far? So far as to risk his own wellbeing to save one who could not save herself?

Surely not. He had done similar actions before.

Those before had felt different, though. They had been fueled by a protective instinct, a loyal heart, and a fear of loss. This time it was different. This had been fueled by all three and more.

But was the last part of the mix love? He had seen love's effects. It was stronger than nearly any bond, rarely ever broken or torn. It drove people to do things they never thought themselves capable of. Love was strong, but was love only for children?

An icy tug at his mind snapped him away from his thoughts. He blinked at what had become a familiar pulling. It felt…different somehow. Something in his heart thrummed to life, beating excitedly against his chest. He pushed himself up a bit, allowing himself to cringe at the pain that shot through his body. The edges of his vision grew cloudy and he could barely hear words flitting through his conscious.

"Where are you, Hawk?"

Clint's eyes narrowed at the echoing voice, a voice he wished he didn't recognize. Loki's voice. The absolute last thing he wanted to hear. It whispered with a tone of franticness, its edges laced with exhaustion and seemed not directly aimed at him.

"Loki," He muttered, his voice cold, "Get out of my head."

Silence greeted him, albeit the raging fire outside. He wondered if the trickster had heard him, before there was an answer.

"I cannot…your voice," Loki said, his voice fading in and out and ranging in volume. "I only see…you see."

The archer immediately closed his eyes shut, rubbing them with his good hand, now covered with grime.

"Where are you?" He asked again, this time more force in his question. Though, this time seemed to carry even more exhaustion, and even more anxiety than before.

He didn't move and kept his eyes closed. The tugging pulled harder, the force sending minute tendrils of pain down his spine.

"They can't…if they don't…where you are," Loki said, cautiously and carefully. "You know you will both perish… not come."

Each word pulled on his consciousness and the haze around his vision was continuing to grow. Clint bit his lip and stared down at the sandy dirt he sat on. Was Loki…offering to help? Surely not, surely he had heard wrong. He was just going insane. He was hearing things. The intensity of the situation was making him hear things.

But he knew that wasn't true. The tugging, the voice, and the plea felt too real, too oddly familiar. He sucked on a breath and focused back on what his mind had imprinted into his head before they had crashed.

The GPS on the plane filled his mind and he focused on what it read. They were above Germany, northern Germany. There was a city, or a town, not far off. He'd seen it from the window. What had it been called? Brownwig? No, it had an 's' in it…

He eased his eyes open, the haze nearly coating his vision and black dots dancing in his sight. He remembered. The city that had been pointed out to them. The city that Isabelle had friends in. He reprimanded himself for not remembering sooner and taking a different route, but that was the past and this was now. He had to focus on what he needed to do.

Leaning forward, he ran his finger through the sand, tracing the letters of the city. First a 'B', then an 'r'. With each letter the spots grew more abundant, tauntingly dancing in his eyesight. He finally ended with a 'g' and drew his hand away from the word. He pointedly stared at it, glancing up a few times at the fire outside and looking purposefully at the river that swished past the fiery branch. If what Loki said was true, then they needed all the indications of his location he could provide.

Before his mind could delve into why Loki should not be trusted, why he surely was lying, the black spots won out, completely clouding his vision. Clint wrapped his good arm back around Natasha, staring once again at her marred face. He leaned back against the sand and closed his eyes, letting the welcome unconsciousness overtake him.

"Forgive me, Hawk."

*dramatic music* Fire's too fast to run from with a broken ankle apparently. :P

Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! Reviews and constructive criticisms, as always, are appreciated!