In the corner a band with a nonsensical name was playing a slow rock song. It was something about the 'the information age' Steve had said (whatever in Valhalla's name that was), but it didn't matter, because he could barely hear it over the din of voices crashing together in the small space.

The lead singer's arms were covered in intricate and colorful tattoos of gypsy symbols, skulls, and flowers. He had longish black hair, peeking out from underneath a tightly knit red beanie.

The man had bright blue eyes and a thin but handsome face. He was a friend from one of Steve's nighttime art classes at a nearby gallery. The captain had dragged him out of the tower a few hours earlier to go to one of the art shows that the place was hosting. Thor glanced over quickly at the blonde man beside him.

Steve was watching the singer with a reverent look in his eyes.

Thor was silent, sitting motionless next to the American captain in the dimly lit human bar, which was packed with so many people that he had been forced to remove his leather jacket for fear of catching his death of heat-stroke.

He had not registered that the band had stopped playing but when he looked over he saw that the man had somehow managed to squeeze into the small space next to the captain.

Steve was saying something to the singer with tattoos, a large smile on his handsome face, their conversation looked to be extremely animated and lively, but the thunder god was not really paying that much attention.

He did however; notice the telltale flesh on Steve's cheeks and the alarmingly small amount of space between them.

Humans were so strange.

Danced around what they wanted, never asking for it out right, instead seeming to enjoy the labyrinthine like path to whatever it was, even if in the end they were unsuccessful. If Thor had ever wanted someone, he would just go and tell them.

They would give him what he wanted and that was that.

A few women had approached the god already, touching his arms, playing with their hair in failed attempts at being coy, laughing at everything he said as if it were the most amusing thing they had ever heard in their pitiful human lives. Some had been tolerably pretty, their clothes practically non-existent, and what little they wore incredibly form fitting. But none of them had managed to pull of the casual grace of Loki, and none had been even close to his level gorgeousness.

He had brushed them away, paying them no attention and yet they tried and tried again.

Their stupidity unfailing.

How amusing.

Their party was tucked in a small booth, upholstered with a faded red leather that seemed to have absorbed the smoke from at least a million cigarettes as it smelled of stale tobacco and old smoke. Thor had no complaint about the surroundings, in fact they were considerably more suitable than the sterile rooms, Stark frequented, but something worried him.

A dark shadow had slowly been growing in his mind of late, some invisible threat. What it was, he did not know, but something important had happened.

Something terrible.

He had heard nothing from the warriors and Sif in response to the message he had sent them a day ago.

Heimdal had proved to be incredibly easy to manipulate, passing on any messages to his subjects in Asgard without question. The gatekeeper was unfailingly loyal to him, even willing to defy Loki when he was king, something which most would not have attempted. His little brother was a dangerous sorcerer, a god with terrible power and a short temper, not the best combination.

Thor had told Fandril, Sif, Volstag, and Hogan that he had found Loki, and that they were to come directly to Midgard with all haste to help him bring his little brother home. Thor had been away from Asgard for too long now, there were rumors of rebellion brewing in the city. The peasants had grown to bold and it was high time that he returned to put them back in their place. He had said as much in his message,

but he was answered with nothing but silence.


The light from the street lamps lining the side of the road was dim, casting ominous shadows on the sidewalk as Thor made his way slowly back to the tower. He had donned his leather jacket yet again, its dark color might have let him fade into the shadows if it weren't for his shining blonde hair, which seemed to glow with an unearthly light even in the absence of the sun.

It was a late enough hour for their to be few out meandering the alleys and streets of the metropolis, but as he passed the gaps between the tall faceless buildings he could see movements, and thin drawn faces with colorless eyes looking him over quickly before receding back into the darkness. Ghostlike men and women, skulking in the dark like beasts or the monsters out of a little child's fairytale book.

He had left the bar about fifteen minutes ago, opting to leave Steve with his friends, for he had grown tired of the place and his troubled mind supplied the thought that the silence was what he needed. The night had been cold before but the temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees, and their was a new bitterness in the wind as if it seemed determined to cut through his skin and render the flesh from his bones. Thor shivered at the thought, growing more worried as he continued towards the tower. For it was not like him to fear the cold.

A lone taxi sped by him as he walked, the flash of yellow driving on into the darkness of the night, but something was left behind in its wake. The thunder god turned to see a figure made up of black billowy smoke, cloaked in a dark mantle of shadow and ice, it was a man that was clear enough for no woman, not even Sif was built in such a way as this, elegant, strong, and sinewy as a wild cat. The figure walked slowly towards the god, who stood frozen in his tracks, every muscle in his body tense, waiting to fight, and as he drew closer he seemed to materialize growing more corporeal and solid, a white silver white staff appearing in his black gloved hand.

"Tis a little late to be walking on one's own is it not, Thor Odin-son?" The voice was silky and smooth. It was the kind of voice that inspired loyalty and would cause men to take up arms and charge right off into the abyss without a moment's hesitation.

Hypnotizing.

Thor did not respond.

"No matter, I am sure you are more than capable of defending yourself. " the figure paused and Thor could almost hear the smile in the man's voice even though he could not see it. "I come with news and a message from the King of Asgard. Make ready for his arrival, he is coming and shall be here in the morning."

The man turned to go.

"Wait" Thor choked out, his voice halting and gruff "Is this about my brother, does he come to retrieve Loki?" He asked.

The figure stopped mid track, and turned his head to regard Thor quickly out from under his black hood, before answering, a slightly bemused tone to his silken voice.

" Oh yes, I believe that he does", and with that he disappeared into the shadow, dissipating into a billow of black smoke, leaving the God of Thunder standing alone on the street which lead to Stark tower, cloaked in the impenetrable silence of the night.


The market street was full of bustle and commotion, a whirl of colors, scents and noise as tradesmen worked away and customers haggled with shopkeepers over the price of silk, spices and swords. In the distance someone was playing a violin, a sad gypsy melody full of flats and piercing high notes. The eerie sound carried on the bitter wind, managing to linger despite the competing noise of the market itself.

The stalls and tents lined every street, a dirty collection of ramshackle structures, their yellow and tan curtains were mud-stained and grimy, crusted with century's worth of dirt from travel. The vendors and their patrons bore an odd resemblance to their possessions. The similarity could have almost been picturesque if the onlooker had no sense of beauty.

Most of the peasants were ugly and travel worn, and yet the grotesque was mixed with ethereal beauty.

Graying old men with warts and scraggly hair sold jewel encrusted daggers and diadems, shot fat women baked sweet smelling confections and sold dresses fit for queens, and dirty children wearing rags wore gold jewelry and jade pins.

In the midst of all of the commotion a black smith stood hammering away at the blade of a great sword. The metal burning a fierce orange, crying out as the large man's hammer beat it down again and again. On the sword was engraved a sentence in some flowing foreign language, which to the mere passer by would only resemble swirls or simple patterns, however they carried far more significance than was even remotely imaginable.

They were words of magic, word, which had not been uttered for an age, now carved into the burning metal.

The blacksmith pounded away, never once missing a beat, but the clanging pulse was lost in the din.

In the background behind the high palace gates, the shining golden towers of the palace of Asgard could be seen. They rose high above the dirty outer city, looking down on the people below, cold, ruthless and uncaring.

The all father had yet again fallen into to a deep sleep, as he was wont to do whenever there was the slightest unrest within the kingdom. Whispers had turned into speech, which in turn had turned into calls for action. Young men and old gathered in the backrooms of taverns out of sight of guards, whispering plans and secrets in the dim light of candles, while women kept their children in earlier and earlier.

The whole city was tense, waiting for the fall.

The people of Asgard were dying. Many had no food and were forced to turn to the most drastic methods in order to keep their families alive another day, and yet the king did nothing.

They grew more and more restless as the days went by and some people thoughts turned to darker things.

Rebellion.

In times of old they would have appealed to the princes, or rather to the younger of the two. The people had long since learned that Thor and his warriors did not care whether they lived or died. To the eldest son of Odin they were but ants, something that could be ignored or stepped on if they became an annoyance. Prince Loki had been different.

He had walked the streets of the outer city, ever silent and observing, but many of the beggars who lived on the street would tell anyone who listened about the way he had given them money or food or even smiled at them. He had stood up for the rights of the people in court when his father or brother had planned to introduce some new tax or law, which might oppress them.

They called him the white prince, the fair beauty who protected them from harm like some guardian angel sent down from the heavens, and yet no more.

Those days had ended when Odin all father had signed away the prince to Thanos.

For-fitting the life of his youngest son, because had attempted to finally rid the kingdom of Thor and the poison he was slowly injecting into their home. Their planet, their realm.

It made their blood boil in their veins.


A handsome man who looked to be no older than thirty years of age made his way haltingly through the chaotic marketplace, a black leather jacket pulled close to him to protect himself from the chilly wind. Waves of shoulder length black hair fell over his pale face, effectively hiding his identity from the crowd.

He paid the vendors no attention, ignoring their shouted promises of bargains and deals to be made in dark rooms, walking with purpose instead towards the blacksmith's stall. He carried himself well, upright and strong, each muscle shifting on his lean frame like some wild cat, ready to pounce at any moment.

The two men disappeared inside the small tent and reappeared a few minutes later, all the while never speaking so much as a single word. The handsome man nodded at the blacksmith before walking in the direction of the palace gates, a broadsword strapped to his back.


The crowd waited with baited breath.

The eyes of every man woman and child locked onto the spectacle before them.

No one moved or spoke and it would seem to any outsider that they were under some sort of wicked enchantment, if it were not for the gleeful light present in all of their eyes and the smile on some of the faces in the crowd.

On the large golden steps that lead to the palace, two figures were kneeling, their hands tied and heads down, staring intently at the ground. Two steps above stood the handsome man from the market place, his hair tucked behind his face exposing a pale, lightly bearded face with thin red tinged lips and eyes like black holes.

Devouring.

He made no speech. He did not attempt to flaunt his power or say 'I told you this day would come' as so many conquerors of old were wont to do, instead he simply raised his sword, a beautiful weapon so sharp and smooth that it seemed to be forged from starlight, and with one swift swing let it fall, the end result coating his clean white shirt in crimson red blood, the color of the roses thrown on the graves of those who have died in battles long since lost.

It was raised once more and then he let it fall yet again, letting the second body fall limp beside the other, their warm blood slowly dripping down the golden steps. His face remained a calm masque of indifference, making him appear like some godly statue, a marble figure brought to life.

He let his sword drop with a clatter to the steps below, on its blade in clear red letters the markings seemed to spell out something in the common tongue, no longer a collection of curls and dots.

Two words writ in the blood of gods.

Hara melanil

The man stooped down, and with one swift and elegant movement grasped the head of Odin all-father tightly in his white hands, holding it high for all to see,

And the crowd roared.

A sea of people smiling, singing and dancing all together, their voices rolling and ebbing together like traitorous waves.

" Hail Arawn king!"


The silence enveloped them as their kiss deepened, drawing them into what felt like a completely new world.

A world of light, where the darkness had been blasted out of existence.

There was no need for hurry or an overwhelming violent passion to break out.

They both knew that neither of them needed that right now.

Tony lied back, pulling Loki gently on top of him, the god's long, lithe form fitting his so snugly, as if this was the way they had always meant to be.

And that is how they fell asleep, in each other's arms, remaining that way until the first light of a new dawn shone through the bedroom window. The lovers did not even stir when a very weary looking Steve creaked the door open for a moment, before retreating to the living room, a smile on his face.


A/N: Hello dear readers, I hope you like this chapter, i must admit that i am really curious to see if you liked this because it was a bit different in that i let this chapter sit a little longer than i normally do, so please review and let me know if you like it (its also longer than my normal chapters). Yeah, hmmm what else... oh! if your wondering what Arawn looks like, i picture him as looking somewhat like a cross between Eoin Macken and cillian murphy if you can picture that. As always i hoped you liked it and keep reading!

(oh and feel free to email or pm me about any questions or comments)

-wobuzhidao322