NOTE - I apologize for the long hiatus! RL interfered with a vengeance - you don't even want to know.
Please accept my apologies - AND my assurances I have the next chapter written as well as the final section planned out.
And thank you, as always, for being wonderful.
26 The Pleasures of Alfheim
Instead of losing herself in the golden bubbles of Alfheim's dwellings, Natasha insisted on the freedom to come and go between New York and Svaðilfari's realm. The elf ambassador listened gravely to her request and nodded. "My steeds desire freedom – if I penned them up in a stable they would knock down the barn or stampede each other. Of course you can return as you wish."
"I'm not your horse, Svaðilfari," Natasha retorted.
"No, of course not." There was an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye as he turned away, pretending to concentrate on a sheaf of maps he had just unrolled. She didn't smile, but for the first time since the scene in Asgard Natasha felt something melt within her bones. Whether it came from increased freedom or Svaðilfari himself, however, was impossible to tell.
She returned to weeping weather and an extremely grumpy Liho. "Somehow that cat knows when you're gone," Clint said.
Natasha humphed and went to the kitchen for a bag of dry cat food. "Sneaking into my place, Barton?"
"You gave me the keys, as if I needed them. I'm stealthy like that." Clint winked outrageously at her and knelt to watch Liho eat. The cat turned her back on him and sat, her back and tail rigid with outrage. "You're her human, Nat."
"No way. I'm nobody's human. How did the last case go?" Natasha found a bottle of vodka, a beer for Clint, and a bag of chips. She sat on the couch and peered into the file he opened on his laptop.
They drank as he went over the details. Natasha pointed out several angles no one had considered yet, and he got excited at the thought of winding up the file. "The shittiest pack of criminals I've ever shot at. Seriously, Tasha, they didn't deserve my arrowheads."
She looped one arm through his and leaned back, closing her eyes under the influence of home and alcohol. "No one deserves your arrowheads."
"You do, but I'm not going to shoot your butt just yet." He leaned his head on her shoulder. "How're you making out, kiddo?"
Natasha made her breathing and heartrate reach the correct level of panic at a personal question, exactly what Clint would expect from their long relationship. The effort, if it didn't make him smile, at least erased his worried expression. "I'll get there. Stopped seeing Dr. Nnamani in all the hoopla, which was a mistake. I'm going to go back to her as soon as I can."
Clint's brow cleared, and he stole the last of the chips. They hung out for the rest of the evening, and by the time she went to bed Natasha felt calmer, even relaxed. However, sleep was late in coming, and oblivion brought strange dreams tinged with blue ice and hollow lands.
With Liho and Hawkeye settled, Natasha headed back to Svaðilfari and Amora. The path through the Botannical Gardens was still open to her, and once the place was closed for the night it was easy to sneak in and steal down the path to Alfheim.
When she arrived in the elves' realm, a silver-saddled horse cropped the long grass at the edge of the forest. Apparently the stallion was waiting for her.
Exclaiming with pleasure, Natasha fitted her boot into the stirrup and mounted. The horse tossed its head, harrumphed, and broke into a gallop. Her last ride had happened in Asgard just before the battle. Svaðilfari and Loki were in the height of their rivalry, the battle was just about to occur, and the young Aesir soldier still had his arm.
In all likelihood Angrboda had just realized she was pregnant.
Natasha forced her thoughts to the most productive channels. The air in Alfheim was cool against her skin, and the light through the leaves looked like green spears of crystal. Amora was probably lying on the bed she shared with Natasha, leafing through books or trying on new armor. At the thought of the enchantress, her golden beauty and imperious manner, Natasha stood in the saddle and urged the stallion to hurry.
However, when she climbed up into the little treehouse, the room was empty. Natasha stood in the doorway and felt blank when she saw its ordered void, hushed with the silence of abandonment.
"Amora returned to Asgard yesterday." Svaðilfari's voice came from behind her, and he inclined his head when she turned to face him. "She told me to give you a thousand kisses – metaphorical, of course."
"Of course," Natasha murmured.
"Forgive me – could we enter?" Svaðilfari grimaced at a cluster of blossoms brushing his cheek. "I'm too tall for this branch."
She waved at her room, an invitation for him to come in. He strode inside, sat on the bed, and thrust out his long legs - one bent, one straight. The continual calm he manifested made it all seem natural, as though the elf were ascending a throne.
"Did Amora give a reason for leaving?" Natasha asked.
"She mentioned the Lady Sif." He smiled at her, displaying perfect teeth. "Apparently she has decided to try and win back her love's heart, no matter the cost."
The warmth in Natasha's bones spread, and she grinned back at him. "Did she? I'm certain she will succeed. Amora may be flighty, but she's intelligent as well. Those golden curls hide a calculating brain – Asgard is lucky to have her."
"However, you miss her." Svaðilfari stated it as a fact.
"I do. We – we had an understanding."
"You clung together in the face of sorrow," he continued.
Her mouth tightened as she tilted her head, considering. "I guess you could put it that way. She was warm at night, and when I had a dream about…when I…" Natasha stopped.
Svaðilfari regarded her gravely. He lifted his arm and beckoned with his fingers, two short gestures to summon her to his side on the pillows and silks where he sat. "Natasha," he said, "it is time. Come to me."
Later she would tell herself it was Amora's fault for leaving. It was Svaðilfari's fault for being so understanding and handsome, both at once. It was Loki's…
No. It was no one's decision but her own.
Her fate firmly in her fists, Natasha lifted her chin and came to him. She sat, not on the mattress, but within the V of his thighs. Svaðilfari's muscles, honed from centuries of riding, were hard under her fingertips as she braced herself to lean forward and cup his chin with her other hand. Up close his skin was fine and soft, edged with the hard maturity of pride. He held himself still, only the widening pupils betraying his desire.
Natasha considered him, his features controlled as though he handled a nervous horse. Svaðilfari had waited for her, perhaps knowing eventually Loki would fuck up badly enough for the elf to have his chance. Perhaps it was wrong to use him as a masturbatory substitute… still, Amora was no longer there, and she couldn't sleep alone at night just yet. Besides, she thought, why not seize the chance for sex? It wasn't as though Svaðilfari hadn't made his own desires plain.
Slowly she bent to kiss him, but with a smooth gesture Svaðilfari turned to nuzzle her throat. She heard him murmur something about beauty and violence, how she captivated his interest right from the start.
He was an incredible lover, Natasha thought later. Svaðilfari slept at her side, one long arm clasping her back to his chest. He had made love to her enthusiastically and with great invention, moving from underneath her to slot himself between her legs. His strong arms held her against the wall, picked her up and tipped her over the end of the huge bed, positioned her against the windowsill. Quickly he found the most sensitive places on her body – dip of her navel, the hollow of her left hip. Svaðilfari licked and kissed every inch as though she were someone to be worshipped and, when she felt liquid inside from desire, rode her in a fierce gallop.
Her attempts at kissing his lips, however, had been avoided. She signaled her understanding with a nod – in a way it was better to avoid that final intimacy of sharing breath and tongue. Natasha had never needed kisses to complete her.
However, it was difficult not to remember Loki's great enthusiasm when she brushed her lips over his, how quickly his mouth opened to let her in. "More," the Jotun king had begged in his icy chamber, purring like a huge cat as he licked into her.
Natasha never compared lovers. However, Svaðilfari was a vast improvement upon the scores of one-nighters she had picked up after the Loki affair had fallen apart. Those men and women were her attempt to ward off the darkness and forget, if only for a few hours, what he could no longer have. Svaðilfari, on the other hand, urged her to take what she needed. He freely gave his body and extremely satisfactory prick to erase the horrors, to ride towards a rising star.
Under a veil of her eyelashes Natasha regarded him, asleep on her pillow. His face was immobile – no twitches, no gasps indicating dreams or nightmares. He might have been a statue carved from marble. The lips she had not kissed were stern even in sleep, compressed in a firm line. He had his own code, a rigid system of logic. Centuries of existence had taught him to wait, but it was the patience of stone, of cold rock.
Later he woke and caressed her, long fingers smoothing the curls off her shoulders. "So lovely," he whispered in her neck. "Natasha – you are so lovely."
Svaðilfari was already rigid against her thigh when she turned and slipped into his arms. She caressed his length, pushed back the foreskin to feel the trembling slit. It was a kick to make his proud demeanor crumple with lust, see his eyes crease with longing. His lips drew back, exposing teeth both white and sharp. Svaðilfari nibbled her earlobe, under her chin, the hollow of her throat. As he pulled her astride onto him and tossed his head back with pleasure, she moaned and sank onto him. Oh, he was curved like a scimitar. She could feel each pulse inside as he settled them into a slow rhythm.
"I want to make it last," he smiled. "It was a long wait for you."
"Worth it?" she teased.
"Indeed. Oh, Natasha."
He brought her off several times – she lost count. With a shocked cry he crumpled and spent inside her, rearing and bucking. Orgasm was the only time Svaðilfari ever lost control, and it made Natasha shiver with lust. Mmm, she thought, this will do for a while. I can have this.
He left her hours later. Svaðilfari knelt to say goodbye, touched the back of her hand to his forehead. "It would make me very happy to take you out on horseback under the stars later," he offered. "I will bring wine and cakes, and we can caress each other in a clearing I know, hidden among the trees."
Once she had accepted the invitation, he left. The door swung shut. Natasha was left alone int the green room, round as a bubble underwater.
Alone – no. Something hopped onto the circular window, a small creature. It scrabbled and flapped before balancing on her ledge. With dread in her heart, Natasha went to the shutters and pulled them apart. A bird sat there, its wings crooked. The miserable way it moved made her feel there was something terribly, terribly wrong. "Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"
The bird emitted a hoarse caw and hopped from one leg to the other. She stretched out her fingers. The magpie croaked once more and pitched onto its side. It shivered and grew still, dead within the curve of her hands.