Even after wakefulness returned to him, Loki lay sprawled in the ditch, caught in a swirling nightmare of half consciousness. Time contracted about him, stretching each pinprick of existence into an age. He had no memory of it, but the taste in the back of his mouth told him at some point he had been sick. Slowly, his gnarled thoughts unwound, giving him at least the stability of conscious thought. He needed to move. To get to his feet. For a long while he stared at his arm, willing it to push himself upright.

Suddenly he was on his knees, confused as to how he had gotten there, the bridge between thought and action uncertain. He ordered himself to breathe. The shudder in his breath refused to calm as he hunched around the absence of his magic. Other wounds could be dealt with: a broken arm set, gash sutured, or leg splinted. How did one favor a wound that left the entire body raw and open, driving through flesh and into spirit?

He let out a breath and filled his lungs again.

It took many more breaths and the heavy aid of a fencepost, but Loki was finally standing on his feet. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his handicapped vision. The world appeared so much duller, the subtle energies so usually evident gone beneath the bland, dim exteriors. No wonder humans lived such meager spans—they probably couldn't wait to get away from the rotting prisons of their own flesh and the lifeless world around them.

Move, he growled as he put one foot before the other. Thankfully his muscles remembered the motion, though it was rather more calculated and careful than he would like. He had a vague notion of heading for one of Midgard's wretched little towns—if only to get away from the ditch grass that made his skin itch and the slightly condescending stare of the cow that had draped its head over the fence.

Staggering onto the crumbling gray expanse of road, he picked a direction and started walking. If he were honest it was more of a shamble. It helped to focus only on following the graying white line in front of him—when it didn't disappear into encroaching grass or gravel. Despite the cool breeze among the newly greening trees, Loki felt sweat begin to run uncomfortably down his neck and his tunic clung to the small of his back.

The sun tracked overhead as he continued on, delirium clawing at him. Even if his mind had been clear he wouldn't have had the words to describe the unnatural perversity of his vacant magic. His body rebelled against its loss, uncertain how to function without it. Continue on, he thought blearily. You are Loki.

As day faded behind the bounding hills, a sudden flicker of something brought Loki's gaze up from the ground in front of him. Normally he wouldn't have even noticed the caress of power that ghosted across his skin. He snapped his head up. Just off the road, weathered nubs of stone tilted precariously through the earth, many flattened into the mossy loam. The dry, dusty power of savage grave-rites clung like lichen to the forgotten stones. His steps lurched into the plot. He was like a man trapped in the desert, bone dry, his every thought about water, sucking his own blood just for the few droplets of liquid running down his throat. And this smear of magic pulsing from the graveyard was a muddy puddle. Loki didn't care. The dry man in the desert didn't care; on his hands and knees he would put his face to the puddle, lapping at it greedily, scrapping his face raw as he sucked at the damp rocks after every last drop of liquid was gone. And so in desperation, Loki drew in every putrid drop of stale magic the plot could offer.

The moon and stars passed unnoticed overhead as he collapsed among the graves, exhaustion dragging him into a mercifully empty sleep.

The coldness of the grey dawn woke him. A mangled groan forced its way through his lips as he painfully uncurled, easing each joint back into motion. He slicked dew-damp hair away from his face and scowled up at the low hanging clouds. He'd slept in the open before, but never had he felt as if every bone in his body had rusted shut overnight.

Cursing his body's new limitations, he pitched himself upright, ignoring the nausea-like emptiness that still clawed at him. The bit of ditch-water magic he'd drained from the place was just enough to push him back from the embrace of madness. Now he could more fully appreciate the growing demands of his body. His stomach for instance was demanding irritably that he feed it. He smiled grimly. This would not be the first time he had courted the pangs of hunger—there was a reason Thor's armor would dwarf him. Study and execution of schemes were always so much more important than giving in to the minor irritation of hunger.

Loki set himself upon the road again, steps sturdier than they had been the day before, though hardly strong. He eyed the roiling clouds above him. How he hated this realm.

Two hours later he finally reached the outlying sprawl of a human settlement. He ran a contemptuous eye over the place. A bit shabby, even by Midgard's standards, the village seemed of moderate size, with gaping holes of decay eating at its edges. Little used tracks ran through a nest of neglect: shuttered stores, warehouses buckling under the advance of rust, and everywhere the scrawl of graffiti. Further in, the disuse melted into tree dotted lanes, respectable brick and stone establishments, and the hum of traffic. This was not a place for the gleaming skyscrapers of New York. Loki snarled. And in this unimpressive town the ants crawled about their daily lives concerned only with their tiny goals and ambitions, their petty triumphs and trials. And he would have to descend among them—as if he were one.

That was when the clouds finally decided to start up a chill, dismal drizzle. Loki hunched his shoulders against the rain and trudged into the town. Are you enjoying this, Heimdall? he thought as he snorted water from the end of his nose. He paused. With the tesseract returned, the Bifrost ought to have been repaired. He turned his face to the sky, as if he could peer through the steady drip of water and see the golden-eyed god. What keeps you from collecting your errant prince? He supposed he ought to thank his patron for that—without his magic he could not conceal himself from the Chitauri, much less the Keeper of the Bridge. The Chitauri. He wrenched his thoughts away from what would happen if they were to find him defenseless. At least in Odin's dungeons he had been safe.

Suddenly he felt very exposed.

And with those cheering thoughts, he entered the Midgardian town of Greenville. For three miserable days he walked the streets, fighting for lucid moments, but spending much of it in a fog of hunger and magic deprivation. The lack of his voice hindered everything. He found little in the way of food, and sleep was chased, but rarely caught. The majority of the mortals ignored him, either overtly or surreptitiously. Others watched him like jackals from the dim glow of lonely streetlamps or under the half-rotted awnings of derelict stores. Through it all the rain continued.

The evening of the third day saw him perched upon the curb, leaning against a postal box, and taking some comfort in the warm, fetid air that steamed from beneath the street. Footsteps squelched through a puddle. The quick part of his brain, the part that wasn't curled miserably in upon itself, registered the presence. He had trouble gauging human ages in their mayfly existence, but the boy seemed caught between the nursery and coming of age, the body confused as to whether it should actually begin the transition from boy to man. Something about the muddy brown eyes told Loki that the boy was younger than his confidence would let on. The child wasn't particularly attractive—even by human standards—smallish, with a tangle of hair that wasn't quite curly in a color that wasn't quite blond. Everything about the boy was unremarkable. Skin not pale enough to be fair, nor dark enough to be bronzed. His generic features sat somewhat unevenly on his face, one eyebrow inquisitively set slightly above the other and the minimal twist of his jaw pulled his mouth to the side. A thin white slash of a scar flickered through the other eyebrow. Beyond his asymmetry only his eyes were worth mentioning—and that was because they were somewhat too large for his face.

"You are the saddest thing I've ever seen," said the boy, hooking his fingers through his grimy belt loops and peering down at Loki.

There was a moment of confusion as Loki's mind lagged behind comprehending the words. He let his head roll back so that he could glare up at the child. Why was he invading his misery? Wait, the boy had moved, what was he doing? Loki made to shout at the human to get his hands off as the child suddenly looped his hands under Loki's arms. The words strangled in his throat, throwing him into a fit of coughing.

"Easy there, Sunshine," said the boy as he finished hauling the much taller man to his feet.

Loki shoved himself away, stumbling limply against a lamppost.

The boy held up his hands and gave a crooked smile. "Not going to hurt you. Normally I'm not the Good Samaritan type, but you've been sitting out here—in the rain—looking like a kicked puppy for days now. And really, that's gotta stop." He paused to, unsuccessfully, try and slick his unruly hair out of his eyes. "Thing is, you're attracting the wrong kind of attention to the neighborhood. Cop-like attention, and that's no good. Come on, I've got a place out of the rain and some food. You'll feel human again after you've eaten."

A manic grin flashed across Loki's face. Human. If only the child knew the vileness of being stripped down and shoved into a nearly human body. And how revolting it was to be pandered to by one of the little ants themselves. A loud gurgling sound splintered Loki's thoughts as his hand weakly wrapped around his middle to try and quiet the noise.

The human had the gall to smile. "Thought so. Come on, I'll get you fixed up." The boy turned and wandered away, waving over his shoulder for Loki to come with him.

He was already three steps into following before Loki's hazy mind realized he had moved. Traitor flesh. A rational, but still hungry, part of him argued that it was pointless to spite his own body simply because his physical needs were now more pressing. He could not function in his current state. Loki was loath to admit it, but he was having to pay a great deal of attention to merely moving one tired limb after the other.

Thankfully the boy didn't seem in a particular hurry. Before long, Loki found himself being escorted through a break in a ratty chainlink fence and ushered into the side door of an abandoned warehouse. Then he was sitting before a fire in a tin drum, with some kind of grain filled with mashed fruit in his hands. In his haste he almost swallowed part of the crinkly wrapper. Two more of the "bars" followed and then the boy made him wait.

"You wolf it down too fast and it will just come right back up." He handed Loki a large bottle of water, wiping off the lid with the edge of his sleeve. "Sip on this first. And then you can have more."

The warmth and the food were slowly burning away the fog in Loki's mind and having a singular subject to focus on helped push the lingering hollowness of his loss from the forefront of his thoughts. He surreptitiously took in his surroundings. Dripping echoes from farther in the expanse told him the aging building was falling into disrepair and that it was large and relatively empty. He could see little beyond the age-grayed crates formed into a tall wall around them. A small gap in the boxes likely led into the main section of the warehouse. Loki doubted anyone much bigger than a child could fit through. That left only one entrance to the ramshackle grotto—the long hallway the child had led him in by.

The boy himself perched on the bottom step of a pyramid of boxes, watching him across the flames in the metal can. His veneer of ease scrapped thin under Loki's trained eye, but beneath that ran a complex of knotted thoughts and emotions, the only one solid enough to pin down, a healthy wariness.

"You got a name?"

The question startled Loki. His hand went to his throat.

The boy cocked his head to the side like a dog. "You're a mute?"

Grinding his teeth, Loki nodded.

"Born that way? Or did something happen?" he leaned forward, "I don't see any scarring. So, either you've got an awesome plastic surgeon, or..."

Flaring his nostrils, Loki shook his head, gaze fierce.

The boy held up his hands, "Kay, so not born that way, but not an accident. What happened?"

Shall I just tell you then why I'm a mute? Surely that shouldn't be a problem. He glared.

The child gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I deserved that. This is a new thing, though, right?" He saw Loki's questioning look. "You've got a lot of anger—which says you've not come to terms with it."

Loki tipped his hand to that. The boy was sharp. Perhaps sharp enough to be of use.

"So, back to the question. Name?" he asked.

A hundred false lives flashed through Loki's mind as he considered the question. On this earth, who would he be? A foreigner certainly, to excuse any fumbles he may make. He was a bookseller… or restorer, an only child, parents deceased, recently come on hard times. And the voice? Ah yes, the voice. A freak bout of illness that had ravaged his vocal chords.

Lie upon lie, Loki wove the life of this Luke Silver into some semblance of whole cloth. The muteness actually afforded him an advantage. Though Luke Silver's life ran threadbare in large patches, lacking a voice would give him the needed time to work easily on his feet.

He crouched down and began to trace the letters in the dust, trying to disguise the princely flourish. A plain, blocky "L" stared back at him and he hesitated. He had been stripped of his magic, his strength, and even his voice—his name was all he had left. Dare he risk it? Few on this world would have known the Chitauri were headed by the madman from Germany, even fewer would know his name. The threadbare life of Luke Silver unraveled into scraps as he firmly drew out the final letters.

The boy peered at the letters in the dirt. "Loki, huh? That's from the Norse pantheon right?"

Loki nodded.

"Don't know much about them. Always been more of a Greco-Roman fan." He sucked on his teeth. "Doubt you were born with a name like that, how'd you get saddled with it?"

Loki frowned and pointed at his throat.

"Right, right. Gah, this is hard. Loki…Loki…Trickster God, right?" Loki gave a half bow. "Well that bodes well. All the same, pleasure to meet you, Loki."

It didn't escape him that the boy did not extend his hand in the traditional Midgardian greeting. Now that Loki was recovering, the boy wasn't going to let him get in physical proximity. He is aware I could overpower him, interesting.

"You can call me Book, by the way," he scrunched up his face apologetically, "not that you'll really be calling me anything. But you could think it instead of 'that kid' or 'boy'."

Loki hadn't been particularly concerned with what to call the human, but perhaps the information would be useful. Book? His confusion must have shown on his face.

The boy—Book—smiled. "It's my street name. Nobody uses my birth name—it's awful! Like the nurses just ran their finger through a phone book and chose whatever names they landed on."

Raising his eyebrows, Loki widened his eyes into a question.

He frowned, his mouth pulling to the side in thought, "Why did nurses choose my name?" Loki shook his head, "Or, why 'Book'?" Loki nodded. A grin leapt across the boy's face. " 'Cause I'm always reading. And every time someone asks me where I learned something I tell them I read it in a book. Sim always said that—" a shadow flashed across the boy's face, and his hands dropped into his lap. "Anyways, I'm a big reader."

They descended into silence. As the initial sensations of warmth and food in an empty stomach wore away, other sensations forced their way back into Loki's consciousness. He hunched against the raw emptiness inside him and wrenched his focus onto the questions that nagged at him. Who was his attacker and what did she ultimately want of him? Loki paused, it rather surprised him that he thought of his assailant as a "she." A brittle voice and body of magic and shredded tatters had very little of the feminine about it. Her interest in his destiny troubled him—that she even knew of his fate laid cold hands against his spine.

There were simply too many unknowns—even for him—to work with. She wanted something of him beyond what she asked. And somehow she thought to get it by imprisoning him on Midgard in a mortal frame? He flexed his hands. That was power beyond even the Allfather. To be able to strip away—his thoughts veered from the subject. To understand, he must know who his "benefactor" was. A thought scratched at him. There was something about her eyes that he ought to know. Where had he seen such onyx eyes before?

A yawn snapped his thoughts back to the present.

"That's it, I'm done. It's not the Ritz, but you're welcome to stay here tonight," said Book. "Got some clean cardboard in the corner." He caught the faint curl of distaste on Loki's lips. "It's better than pavement, Princess. Trust me, I know." The boy clambered higher up on the pyramid of crates and slipped through a narrow gap between two of them.

Curious, Loki followed, peering down the slit. He couldn't see the boy, but it appeared to open into a hollowed out den among the crates. Impressive. The place was insulated from the drafts of the greater warehouse, relatively obscured, and protected from all but those with the slightest of builds. Thin as he was, it would be a tight squeeze for him to fit down the tunnel—and he certainly couldn't do it silently. For all Book's naïve help of a strange man, he acted with the mind of a strategist.

There would be no killing the boy while he slept. Loki shook off the stray thought. Wasteful. Much as it galled him to take help from someone so beneath him, he was practical enough to take aid where he could find it.

Eyeing the gritty floor in disgust, Loki resigned himself to the pile of cardboard, his back to the wall of crates. He tried to stretch out on his side, but the position felt unnatural and uncomfortable. He twitched over onto his back, just able to see the sparks from the fire flicker off into the dark recesses of the ceiling. Growling to himself, he finally gave up and allowed himself to curl up tightly. Despite his length, Loki had never sprawled in sleep the way Thor did. His whole life he'd felt most comfortable taking up as little space as possible, protected. It was hardly the dignified rest of a god.

Right now he was beyond caring. Sleep came gently as he found the first comfort he'd had in days. As he gave in to the demands of his tired flesh, he thought he glimpsed a darker shape amongst the shadows. Enjoy the show, he thought blearily and closed his eyes.