The Other surveyed the realm known as Asgard. It had fallen so easily, this stretch of rock; they had barely fought. The humans had put up more resistance than these lotus-eating swine, these Æsir, who sat safe in golden towers on their island that floated through space. Where was the challenge the Betrayer had sworn? Had it known it would be so simple to conquer the fabled world of the gods the Other would have done so first, rather than waste an entire hive on Earth.
Its scouts had informed it that the population of this island was formidable, but that the vast majority of that number was made up of noncombatants. This species differentiated into sexes, and it seemed those who solely bore young were too weak to defend themselves while the siring sex alone fought in battle. The Other snorted. Such an inefficient system. It kicked aside an inattentive drone and stepped toward its dwelling.
The lordling who had given its life that the Other might take this house had been a proud one. It had looked into the Other's hooded face and spat before the executioner's blade came down on its fragile neck. The Other hummed at the memory. It walked through airy halls and windowed drawing rooms, paying no heed to the ocean vista beyond. It cared only for the impromptu strategy room it had set up in an inner chamber, far from the gaze of the Asgardians' watcher. It sat before its desk and considered the map on the wall.
The Betrayer had mentioned the guardian Heimdall before, in warning. The Other doubted the reach of this ás' supposed sight, but rather than be made a fool it had decreed all communications be kept to mental frequencies rather than verbal, that their ranks be carefully disorganized, and that their movements be set out of sync. It wouldn't do to give up any advantage.
There was a commotion outside; the Other switched into its aural link and was almost bowled backwards by the force of its troops' excitement.
*We have the Betrayer! We have Loki Laufeyson!*
The Other shot to its feet. *Bring it before me.*
A cadre of drones brought the prisoner in, raising a clatter as they skittered through the halls, and the Other went to meet them. They pushed their captive to its knees before their leader. The Betrayer looked very poor, indeed. Its—no, the term was "his"—his clothes were torn, stained with dirt and sweat, and it—his, face was drawn with hunger. The Other was not overly familiar with these humanoid faces, but Loki Laufeyson looked hunted. The shine in his eyes was of not of rage or cunning, but of fear.
If that weren't enough to condemn him a coward, his lips were still sewn. He looked for all the world like a stray, cast out by his own people to fend for himself in the wild, and he had not yet mustered the courage to cut the thread from his flesh. Truly, this creature was despicable, and the Other regretted the day it had given its hive into his keeping.
"Why do you come here, Loki Laufeyson?" it asked.
The Betrayer cringed, bowing his head. He remained silent, and the Other reflected on how inconvenient it was for a race not to be able to link up. Had this fungus been Chitauri, a sewn mouth would have been no obstacle at all.
It yanked the fallen ás up by his crest, his hair. His eyes were wet; that meant he was experiencing deep emotion. "You made a mistake coming here, Betrayer," the Other hissed. "You will receive no succor from us." Water overflowed the Betrayer's eyes to trickle down his cheeks. He trembled in the Other's hands. The Other clicked its teeth together in disgust.
Tightening its grip in his hair and seizing an arm to support, the Other hauled the Betrayer's whimpering carcass through the halls and into the study. It threw him down before the tactical holo. "Behold, what we do to those who betray us." It was coded, but the Other knew the Betrayer could read it. "We crush their worlds as we crush inferior young."
The Betrayer's eyes grew wide as he read the map. Shock and horror, the Other supposed. Their faces were so different. "Our leader gave us special dispensation to pursue you," the Other crowed. "Earth was a stepping-stone, for the Gauntlet is everything. You are fortunate he is not here with us, that he is rectifying your mistakes on that planet, or your failure would be a very brief problem, indeed. You will watch, Loki Laufeyson, as our hives tear apart your world piece by piece. You will watch as we tear apart every person you love, every sanctuary you retreat to, every last thing you hold dear—and when we are done, I will tear you apart and cast you into space to join them."
It expected the Betrayer to cower, to collapse, to beg for clemency. Anything, really, but to stand up, shake the shackles off his wrists, and wave the stitches from his lips in a puff of smoke. He stood tall and proud, for the Betrayer was no longer starving but hale and full of fury, and his armor was polished to a martial gleam. "Thank you for your cooperation," he said. "You have been most informative."
In a blinding flash the Other understood the Betrayer's game, and with a hiss it seized its pistol. The bolt struck a glancing blow, but the Betrayer had already pulled the shadows about himself, leaving no more than a sigh of displaced air.
The Other bellowed, throwing its pistol at the place the ás had once stood. *Mobilize!* it screamed on all frequencies. *Surprise is lost, we move before all advantage is gone!*
In the distance it heard the lumbering groans of the disturbed leviathans, and sent the order to the hives, carefully tucked away from the battle, to ready reinforcements.
Loki Laufeyson would pay, and the Other would be the one to watch his soul shiver and die.
OOO
The worlds shifted around him, and shadows fell in Loki's eyes. His side burned, and in the distortion the shades beyond the veil of reality flickered at the edges of his sight. He panicked, grasping at his magic to keep from falling back into the abyss, and the sour, sharp taste of fear coated the back of his tongue. Reality swam closer, and Loki clung to it. It slowed his progress, but he was still faster than even the quickest skiff.
His side ached, and the sun faded from the murky skies of the Place Between. It must be twilight, in the world. There, he caught the glimpse of a shed—a croft, its tenant farmer herding the cattle into the barn for the night. Here, a windswept tree on the darkened plain, backlit by glowing nebulae. The mountains rose with the morning sun, veiled and winking from his sight, and in a breath he was through them. Beyond, nestled in the fjordlands of Asgard's northern shore, the City leaped up, glittering and unspoiled in the settling afternoon.
It was pure accident that he let go of his power when he did. He had meant to hold it that much longer, and if not for the wound in his side he would have landed over open space. He was glad; the joys of a tumble down Glaðsheimr's grand staircase were not among those he wished to sample. He let out a shuddering breath and pulled himself upright, leaning against a column and sucking in the sweet, twilit air.
Odin was waiting for him on the landing. "Good," he said. "I was just on my way to my rooms. Walk with me."
Loki opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out, and Odin waited for none. He strode down the hall, and Loki yielded to his father's iron will, bobbing after him like a toy in a baby's bath water.
The Allfather led him to his personal rooms, those he shared with Frigga, and in the sitting room corner Loki caught sight of the cabinet containing his childhood things. He thought of the viewing stone. He looked to Odin. How could they be the same? How could that warm, loving father, who had carried him for a week straight, be the same as stood before him on the balcony, distant and silent as the sentinel statues rising along the arcade beyond?
Loki gathered himself, reaching for his wits to guide him and his anger to protect him, but still Odin said nothing, staring instead at the brightening stars above. "The Necklace rises," he finally said. "Harvest time approaches."
Loki shifted uneasily. There were rules to this game, as there were rules to all games, but this time he didn't know them. His father had always upset his composure.
"A month, maybe less, and the granaries will be stocked. We could not have asked for better timing."
His realm was invaded and he was concerned about the granaries. Loki steeled himself and squared off against the Allfather. "Aren't you going to ask about the Chitauri?"
Odin stared out over the balcony, unfazed by his younger son's belligerence. "I will hear in due time."
Loki sucked in a sharp breath, and his hands fisted at his sides. "Yes, no doubt Heimdall has already told you everything you need to know," he hissed, fighting back the sting of tears. "Why don't you just admit It: this whole scheme of yours to infiltrate the enemy camp wasn't because you actually needed me, it was just a ruse to get me under your thumb!" The shot in his side ached.
Still the old man wouldn't face him. "Heimdall can see nothing, nor have our scouts been able to provide information. Neither can penetrate their defenses. I sent you, Loki, because you can. You know this."
"I am sick of people telling me what I know!"
Odin finally turned to look at him, his single eye unreadable. "What do you know? Tell me."
Loki backed down, deflated. "I know Thanos isn't with them," he said sullenly, and though he resisted he felt the fight leave him. "He's on Midgard."
The Allfather bowed his head, his expression grave. "That makes ill-hearing."
Memories of the broken world Thanos had made his way-station flashed through Loki's mind, and he took a shaky breath. "Better them than us," he said.
Odin gave him a sharp look. "Never be glad in the hardship of others. It does nothing but destroy you in turn."
"What, and our delight in the fading of Jötunheimr's might harmed us so greatly?"
Perhaps he was mistaken, but Loki thought he saw Odin's eye flash with regret and bitter humor. It passed quicker than he could track, and Odin was once more facing the City beyond. "There is nothing we can do for Midgard," he said, almost to himself. "We can only hope that their own defenders can withstand Thanos' might."
His words summoned the glimmer of a plan to Loki's mind, and he chose his next words with exquisite care. "The Chitauri are many, Majesty, and they are stronger than we care to admit. The Einherjar outmatch them in single combat, but Father—" the word fell with pathetic ease from his tongue, "—they outnumber us five-to-one. With the reserves we could possibly offer resistance, but they are scattered throughout Asgard. They can't muster in time."
He paused and steeled himself. "If we wish to win this fight we must utilize every weapon at our disposal. The Infinity Gauntlet—"
"No." Odin's voice was a slap in the darkening, salt-scented air. "I would not use that in this fight, nor in any other."
Incredulity burned through Loki's mind. "You would cast aside so powerful an advantage? Why!"
The Allfather faced Loki fully, his eye blazing. "It is no advantage! To use the Gauntlet is to expose oneself to the energies it contains, and no one walks from such power without it staining them. I would not use Thanos' Hand even if Asgard were on the brink of destruction."
Loki fell back, stunned to silence. His father had made his decision. "Then we have nothing more to speak about," he said, bowing and leaving the room.
"We both know that is untrue," the Allfather murmured to his son's retreating back, but he allowed him to go. Loki would speak when he was ready. Odin had to trust his son would know when that was.
OOO
Loki stormed through the halls, blowing a dark cloud of ill-temper behind him as he went. The guard had been increased, he saw. Nearly every turning had its own sentinel, and all of the private rooms, including Thor's, were watched. It was further goad to his frustration. He dematerialized his armor as he walked, and checked his wound. It was no more than a graze, already half-healing.
He threw open his door, slamming the knob back into the deepening hole in the plaster, and stormed into the sitting room. There, instead of loosing havoc as he intended, he stopped dead, for Sigyn was waiting for him. She was standing by his desk, his half-forgotten apology clenched in her trembling fingers and hope raw in her eyes. She looked so small, in the literary disarray of his quarters.
"Sigyn?"
A gasp broke from her lips, tiny and fragile, and her small hand clutched at the desk to steady her.
Loki's heart jumped to his throat. "Sigyn, what happened?"
"By the Tree, if you're a shade come to torment me with madness, leave me in peace, I beg you." Her voice was ridden with doubt and fear, and still that hope shone through.
Loki skirted the table between them and raised a hand to her. "Sigyn, what are you talking about? I am no shade."
She recoiled from his touch. "You never said goodbye," she said. "A guard said—you vanished, no one would tell me anything, and then your letter, I thought you were, that it was—" She broke off and held the letter out to him.
His own handwriting stared back at him, apologizing for what he had done and that he hoped she could someday forgive him. Ice ran through his veins. "Sigyn," he murmured, stepping close. "I didn't—"
The slap was entirely unexpected. He registered her hand swinging toward his face, and had just enough time to flinch before the room tilted to the side. It was only after his cheek started stinging that he processed the sound of it—although perhaps that was the ringing in his ears. He gaped at her.
"I thought you had killed yourself," she accused. "You didn't come to see me after the meeting with your mother. You vanished, and I had to hear it from one of the guards that you had—that you—" Her words stumbled to a halt, and Loki moved in closer, wary of her hands. He enfolded her in his embrace, and she pressed against him as though to meld her body with his.
"It was reconnaissance, my lady, no more," he said, shocked by the depth of her fear for him. "The Allfather needed intelligence, and he said I was the only man for the job."
Sigyn choked softly. "I thought you had given yourself up to the Chitauri," Sigyn mumbled into his chest, and Loki's heart tightened.
"I did, actually," Loki said, masking the ache with jest. "They found I was not to taste and spat me back out."
"That is not what I mean, and you know it." She tightened her hold about him. He felt the shake in her arms, the shudder in her breath, and his heart broke. "I thought... I thought I would never see you again, Loki."
He stroked her hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
She pulled away, looked him in the eye. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she had not let her tears fall. So brave, his Sigyn. "If you do it again I will hunt you down and kill you myself."
He ran the backs of his fingers against her cheek. "Will you now? All that trouble just because I forgot to say goodbye?"
"Especially because." She reached up and stroked his lips, one after the other, and again. "You can speak now. You can't forget; there are those around you who need your words like they need air."
He shuddered and pulled her to him, dislodging her hands that he might press his lips to hers. She was so soft against him, her skin satin against his fingertips, and yet there was iron, too, in the pull of muscle beneath his hands, in the force of her will beneath that shy exterior. She was no cringing maid. She was no wilting flower, to wither at the first sign of hardship. She was a doughty desert plant, beautiful as the purple bloom on a cactus and as clever as the spines that sheltered it.
Her lips parted his, and their tongues twined in desperation. Heat sparked, Sigyn surged against him even as he surged back, and lust and love and fear and relief swirled together in a storm that rivaled anything Loki's brother could summon.
He tore at her clothes and she pulled at his, belts and tunics and petticoats cast aside as they made for his bed. He spread her out upon the counterpane, her hair pouring across it like gold from a crucible, and leaned over to fasten his mouth to her breast, suckling as a child. He savored her surprised, breathy gasps. His fingers trailed lower, down her belly, through the thatch of hair that guarded her cleft, and through the slippery moisture her body had made for him.
She groaned, her hands roaming over his shoulders. She scratched at his skin to draw him closer. Her leg came up to hook over his hip, and he ran his free hand down her thigh, tracing over her knee before sliding his fingers back up to squeeze her buttock. Sigyn grunted, her hips stuttering into his. She undulated against him. Skin slid hot and humid against skin, and Loki shuddered, hard with anticipation. He crushed her down into the mattress and ravished her mouth, nipping her lips and laving the sting with his tongue before dipping in to taste her once more. He wanted to taste every part of her, open her wide and lick her, leave his mark on her with his teeth. He pulled away and bit her shoulder.
She hissed, rolling them over in a sinuous twist. The room wheeled about, and Loki found himself staring at her above him, her hair a wild halo about her head. His hands found their way to her hips. She ground down and back into his erection, and he grit his teeth against his flare of arousal, his hands pressing bruises into her skin.
Her touch, in turn, was light, where she ran her fingers down his chest. He shied when she reached his ticklish sides. A sly, lazy smile spread across her lips, at odds with the frantic nature of their coupling. She leaned forward. "For later," she whispered in his ear, and when she ran her tongue up the outer edge of it his breath left him in an undignified whine. Her hands were gentle over the graze.
She gave him no time to recover, arching back and spearing herself onto him. Loki threw his head back, succumbing to the shocks of pleasure that raced up his spine. His fingers clenched into her hips, dragging her down even as he pressed up, and the moist clench of her around him drew a ragged groan from his throat.
"Sigyn," he found himself whispering, caught between sharp pleasure and aching love. "Sigyn." He stared into her blown eyes and she moved, rocking against him. Her eyes slid shut, her head fell back, and Loki couldn't resist the temptation of her throat.
He sat up, wrapping his arms around her back to keep her close, and kissed the hollow between her collarbones . He rocked his hips into hers, the tight heat of her body around his length intoxicating, and Sigyn's hands slipped into his hair, knotting against his scalp. She fluttered around him, and her sigh was hot against his skin. The smell of their sweat and lust filled the space between them.
He sucked a line of marks into her neck, then followed her rising flush up to her cheeks and kissed them, kissed her nose, her chin; he caught his fingers in her hair and he kissed her lips. It was less artful, now, more a desperate exchange of breath as they worked together. She was panting softly, hushed little mewls hot against his lips, and Loki felt something dark and possessive rise up in his chest. Sigyn was his, in every way, in every time.
She went rigid, her body clenching around him even as her hands clenched in his hair. Loki wriggled a hand between them, stroked the nubbin at her core, and she fell apart in his arms, crying out helplessly as her orgasm overtook her. He felt the surge of wetness, saw the pleasure etch its painful way across her face.
He hoarded the image close to his heart. Sigyn was his, no other's. He teetered on the edge, clawing toward resolution, and the flush on her cheeks, the sharp bite of her nails into his back, the sound of his name a plea on her lips, sent him over. He felt his climax spike, riding like fire down his spine, and there was a crystalline moment of clarity before he was spilling himself into her, whimpering with the agony of release. The world faded, and all that he was was her, her skin, her sweat, her body pressed to his.
When he returned, ages and mere seconds later, she was stroking his hair, smoothing out the tangles she had rucked it into. "I love you," he murmured into her shoulder, burning with embarrassment and exhilaration.
"Good," she murmured in reply. "Because I love you, too."
Together, their heartbeats calmed, their breathing slowed, and fingers drifted lazily across slickened skin. Eventually, they pushed back the covers and slept, wound together and inseparable.