%
Without the Darkness There Is No Light
by Riley Berg
%
Chapter Three
"Life After Death"
Pain.
Why is there no pain?
I wake unwillingly. But someone is shoving me rather roughly, so I have little choice in the matter.
"Ástriðr. Wake up. Please. I need you to wake up."
I open my eyes to the unexpected sound of the All-Tongue and an unexpectedly pleading voice and observe the unexpectedly anxious face. Anxiety is unbecoming of the Goddess of Earth.
"Gaea," I breathe.
"Thank the gods you're awake!"
I manage a weak smile at her ironic choice of words.
"Can you sit up?"
I understand from her tone that it is imperative that the answer is yes, so I try.
Slowly, and with a little assistance from Gaea, I sit up. As she peers at me, I look around. I am in the Sanctuary. She must have taken me here to heal after—
"Do you think you can stand?"
I feel dizzy, but nod my head anyway, and let her pull me from the soft, white linens. Carefully loosening and then releasing her grip, Gaea steps away.
"Are you going to be alright?"
I nod uncertainly.
"Here, drink this."
Gaea offers me a vial of a black and—I discover upon drinking it—slimy, cold substance. It slithers down my throat unpleasantly.
"A god's version of those energy drinks the humans are presently so fond of," she smiles, though I can tell it is a forced expression.
I stand still as I feel my mind clear. I am no more awake, and no less dizzy. But the potion or whatever it was has pushed my tiredness almost out of reach, and blown the fog to the back of my mind. I should be able to function for a time. As my mind clears, I remember the events that led me to sleep, and my hand flies to my chest. I look down without surprise when I feel my necklace in its usual place. I do not know how it returned to me, or why it left—perhaps to fool Mar'kwa—but if it chose to stay with me until this time, I am not surprised it is continuing its companionship.
"I need you to stop Loki," Gaea announces suddenly.
I snap my eyes to hers. Loki? I thought he was hiding somewhere. Everyone thinks he is dead, which is to his advantage—to his extreme advantage. Why would he reveal himself?
"I—I—" Gaea stutters, and I stare.
What has the goddess stuttering?
She pulls in a deep breath, drawing to her full height and restoring her regal appearance. In a newly renewed voice, she begins again. This is the Gaea I know and love.
"I called him here to assist in your healing, Ástriðr. I knew you were not dead, that you would heal. But I did not know how long it would take, or how long you were willing to let it take. I did not know how to help you beyond those healing skills which apply to all higher species—which are few—and the few things I had learned from you when first you came. But I suspected Loki could… help."
I stare at her, dumbfounded. "You asked Loki. To help. To. Help. To help!?" What was she thinking? He tried to enslave her children! Take over her planet!
"I thought it was the only way."
I fight the temptation to bring my palm to my face.
"And it did not go as planned," I surmise.
"He left," she confirms. "He did help in healing you," she defends herself.
I raise an eyebrow. When did Loki learn the healing arts?
"He told me you were well on your way to recovery. That you would wake soon and that your body would take care of the remaining healing, with proper rest and nutrition and all the usual prescriptions of life. But when he left, he did not return to… wherever it is he came from. He stayed on Earth."
I nod my understanding, forgetting for the moment Loki's new healing skills. She worries that he is up to no good again. Which, judging by his recent turn toward evil, is likely.
I sigh. If Thor is my brother, then Loki is my best friend. There bound to be problems that accompany being best friends with a man now determined to become the God of Evil. This appears to be one of them.
"Do you know where he is?"
"No. I'm sorry."
He is hiding from the Sight, I assume, but it is not my Sight he hides from. I am not the only prying eye in the universe. My other gifts would be sufficient to track him, but if I am to continue hiding my powers, I am going to have to do things in a more... human way.
"It is alright. I will find a way."
Though it is a bit noisy, figuratively speaking, now would be a wonderful time to have that locator of Mar'kwa's. But I do not want to think about Mar'kwa.
"I should warn you: I woke you early—though I suppose you are aware of that—and even if I had not, your wakefulness would not be an indication of your full healing, just that you were … healed enough to wake."
I nod. She already said this.
"The drink will help you, but it is an artificial sort of energy. It metabolizes quickly and cannot replace sleep or food or drink. You are still healing. Someone needs to stop Loki, but you need to be aware of your limitations, your needs." She gestures to a nearby table. "Eat before you go, and take a few vials with you." There are several more vials of black liquid on the windowsill.
She leaves without a goodbye; Gaea does not say goodbyes. Endings and beginnings are not differentiated in her mind. She neither greets nor dismisses. She simply accepts and watches life as it comes, appreciating each creation and destruction, each life and death.
I eat only a little and refrain from taking any of the indicated vials. I silently chastise myself, as I will probably regret it later, but I do not like the taste, and I can—or hope I can—do without artificial energy and this strange feeling it gives me.
Gaea has a teleportation machine of sorts. It does not serve as a locator—it cannot track a specified creature or object—but it can send you to a specified location, and without the energy disturbance other technology emits. It is Asgardian in appearance, but I never encountered such an object while staying in Asgard, so I do not know whether or not that is its true origin.
Carefully triple-checking my designated destination, I nod at the willowy dryad that operates the contraption.
Light surrounds me and I arrive at my chosen location momentarily. New York City.
My things, though they are few, are, presumably, still in the Tower. I look down at my black shift. Neither Gaea nor I thought of a change of clothes.
But my destination was chosen carefully. This apartment serves as a safe house of sorts for SHEILD. The closets are well-stocked. Under the bed—an unoriginal location, I know—is a locked money box. I have little difficulty cracking the code (I did not remember it) and opening the metal box to reveal four stacks of United States dollar bills: tens, twenties, fifties, and one-hundreds. I take a few from each pile, hoping that the reduction in the stacks will not be noticeable by sight. They will take inventory eventually, but I will be long gone before then.
In my new, hopefully inconspicuous, attire, I exit by way of the stairs and make my way to the little café with an astounding view of the Tower. Humans are talkative. In a short while, I discover from the late breakfasters that the so-called Avengers are away from home. Rumors suggest another mission to Europe. (They can improve their OpSec.)
Sneaking into Avengers Tower is unnecessary. My identity is recognized immediately by Stark's A.I., who relays orders to allow me unimpeded access. I ask JARVIS to refrain from advertising my presence, or informing Tony. I hope he obeys. I do not know exactly how long I have been away, but I am grateful that my biometrics have not been deleted from the system since I was here.
Hoping for luck, though I know it does not exist, I make my way to the floor that Jane, Erik, and I used however long ago. It is devoid of human life, but on a neatly made bed, I find my bag resting, almost ceremoniously. I do not take it, or the clothes that are in it. I extract my wallet and the StarkPhone—a forgotten present I received from Stark before we left to look for Mar'kwa—and leave all else as I found it.
In one of Tony Stark's laboratories, I pull two computer screens next to each other. On one, I search for footage of my encounter with Mar'kwa. On the other, I search Stark's personal and any remotely accessible databases I can get my metaphorical hands on. What am I searching for? Pictures of Loki. I get distracted reading the old SHIELD file on Loki. I see that it has been edited, declaring him dead. I wonder why they consider it a certainty; I had thought they were smart enough to cite him as "presumed dead" at the worst. Last time someone thought him dead, he was very much alive and did quite a bit of damage.
Having found sufficient images, I copy them into a facial-recognition program I hope Tony developed himself. It accesses live feeds of phones, broadcasting cameras, satellites. Any image-capturing device. Every post to social media.
I glance at the other screen, but I do not find what I am looking for there—there is no footage of Mar'kwa's actions—and close that program.
There are no results, in either the past day or present time. Loki is being smart. I suppose he was only detected when he came to conquer the world because he wanted to be detected then. He does not want to be detected now. I leave the program running just in case, but decide to try another method.
I would rather not use any of my powers, but if I must choose between Sight and sorcery, Sight is the better choice. It makes less noise. None, really, except to those who know how to listen. I hope Loki is not hiding from the Sight, as I know he is capable of, but I doubt I will have any luck finding him this way either.
I close my eyes and breathe in and out with carefully measured calmness. It has been a long time since I accessed my Sight. In my mind's eye, I conjure images of Loki. The times he spent at my home. The time I spent on Asgard. The many adventures Thor and the Simpletons Three (as Loki secretly called them) led us on. The messes Sif, Loki, and I had to clean up after the said four got themselves in trouble. I picture him as I have seen on surveillance footage of his rampage on Terra. I take all those images and the feelings that accompany them and open my eyes, extending my mind to search for him.
Though my eyes are open, they are unseeing. Unseeing of the world around me. Instead, I see everywhere else. With a small turn of mind, I focus on Terra, searching for Loki where I know him to be.
But I cannot find him.
He is veiling himself from my—or someone else's—Sight after all.
With a sigh, I venture to the room where I performed my experiment for Jane. It is emptied of the equipment then in use, but I do not need them. I do not need to use the same location, but should my sorcery leave a residue, I wish it to be indistinguishable from that experiment earlier performed.
Standing in approximately the same location, I draw the same lavender energy into the same small, wriggly ball on the palm of my hand, and send it away with the same command, but this time specified to Loki's location.
I feel a quiver as my sorcery nears its target. In a moment, it will broadcast Loki's location to my mind.
But before I receive my prize, two arms grab me from behind. One wraps firmly around my waist, locking me in place. The other presses my shoulder into my captor as his hand covers my mouth.
A hand covering one's mouth is, of course, not completely effective, so I try to scream anyway—though I doubt anyone will hear. In fact, I hear nothing. Stilling in my shock, I become aware of an almost imperceptible tingle on my lips, in my mouth, and down my throat. Magic. I wiggle my tongue behind my teeth in discomfort. A silencing spell.
Loki.
He does not speak, so I cannot hear his voice. He does not release me, so I cannot see him. But I know it is him. I recognize the texture of his magic. He did well in hiding it; I did not notice it initially. But there is no mistaking it now. Cool as mint, bitter as cocoa, and sweet as honey, with a warm aftertaste as the cocoa and honey mix on your tongue. Fire and ice. And smooth, smooth as a silvertongue's snare.
Refusing to further use my own gifts, I simply stand there. I do not fight back. I do not force him to release me either physically or magically.
Slowly, he loosens his hold on me and I feel the itch of his magic fade. Taking a hurried step forward, I wipe my face in a useless attempt to rid myself of the memory of the sensation.
It takes me a moment to find the right language to use. I decide on the Dark Tongue. Unless Mar'kwa remains on the planet, Loki and I are the only ones on Terra that speak it, so far as I am aware. No one will be able to understand our conversation.
"Never do that again," I order unhappily, my back still to the perpetrator.
"You were going to scream," he states by way of explanation. It is not an excuse. His tone implies that it is debatable whether or not he should have condescended to reply at all.
I turn my head to glare at him, but he is in human disguise and I cannot remain agitated in the face of something so fascinating. Even wearing modern human clothes, he is not without style. He always was oddly particular about that. Him and Thor both. I always attributed it to Fandral having more influence over them than either of them cared to admit.
But I was searching for Loki at the request of Gaea; I have business to attend to. He must have used my sorcery against me, to locate and teleport himself to me. I will use his presence to my advantage.
"What are you doing?" I ask casually.
"Standing here," he replies childishly.
I groan in frustration but am silently grateful. If he is willing to be puerile, then he is not interested in threatening my life, at least not immediately. But he could still intend to use casualness to lower my guard so he may escape more easily.
"What are you doing here, on Terra—Midgard?" I sigh.
Loki stops and I turn my head to look at him. I observe his expression of confused disbelief.
He narrows his eyes at me. "What are you doing?" he asks carefully.
"On Midgard, or searching for you?"
"Searching for me," he replies quietly.
"Midgard is not a place you are generally considered welcome," I say in explanation.
"Gaea sent you after me," he concludes.
I nod.
"You can assure her I intend no harm."
I raise an eyebrow in a practiced expression of disbelief that Loki is all too familiar with.
"To anyone under her care," he specifies.
"Then what are you doing here?"
Loki stops once again and lets out a long sigh. Although I have been privileged—if one can call it that—to hear him sigh more than others have, it still seems an odd action for him to take.
He is debating whether or not to lie to me, I understand.
"Do not lie," I advise.
Although I doubt I know him well enough to detect every lie he speaks, I am already aware of the possibility of this one. A lie now will not be successful.
"Looking for Mar'kwa," he admits.
I scoff. "Why?"
"He did that to you, did he not?" Loki states more than questions, gesturing to where my wound hides beneath my shirt.
"You are tracking him in order to offer your services?" I inquire warily, ever uncertain whether Loki returns my friendship or plots my downfall.
I find myself pinned to the nearest wall.
Loki is angry.
I do not understand why he is so angry, and he says nothing to explain. He merely stares at me as panic blooms in my stomach, washing me in warmth. I feel my heart rate quicken as each breath comes more shallow than the last. Fear tingles down my spine and I feel my body grow weaker each moment, dizziness beginning to cloud my mind.
I focus on the pressure of his hand against my shoulder and the discomfort of my back against the hard wall, trying to maintain some control over my mind and body.
Loki releases me and in my weakness, I collapse to the floor. I have never had an extraordinarily strong body, though it is naturally better than a human's. Even so, a shove to the shoulder should not do so much damage, even if the perpetrator is Loki.
He lets me sit there in silence, as I focus on my breathing and as my heart rate slows. The pain and weakness fade almost immediately, but a tingle of fear still passes through me on the occasion of memory as the warmth of panic slowly dissipates.
"Your cheeks are red," he comments idly.
I glare up at him through my eyelashes. A hundred retorts try to force their way to my tongue, but I bite it for fear of angering him further. He reacted so harshly and a moment later pretends as if nothing occurred. I do not wish to test his boundaries further today.
Loki was not only foolish enough to come to Terra, but to venture into human territory. Why would he do such a thing, just to find Mar'kwa? I cannot imagine an answer, but it must be important enough for him to risk notice and capture. Those that oppose Loki include things far worse than humans.
Through gritted teeth, I return to our conversation, my eyes now downturned. "You are looking for Mar'kwa, but you cannot find him," I assume. "If he discovers that his assassination attempt was unsuccessful, he might try again. If you are looking for Mar'kwa and he is looking for me, then why not stay with me and let him come to you?"
I remain on the floor and do not dare look up at Loki. He remains silent.
The soft rustle of movement draws my attention, but with careful control, I avoid looking toward the sound. Loki does not care; he lifts my chin, peering at me curiously from where he is now kneeling in front of me.
He wipes a tear from my face and I stare at the offending droplet. I did not realize I had been crying. I raise my hand to wipe my face but learn that I shed but a single tear.
I detect an unspoken apology in Loki's eyes as he assists me to my feet, but I know that is all I will receive. He will never voice his regrets aloud, never explain his actions. Even before he fell he was like that; I doubt the trait has improved since.
I observe Loki carefully. He is searching for Mar'kwa, for what reason I know not. He might have additional plans while here on Terra, but he is not going to divulge them to me, not at this time. His apologetic glance, however fleeting, is a good sign. I need to keep an eye on him, but some level of cooperation is required for me to do so without using any of my gifts.
"So, we are at an impasse?"
"No. We are in agreement," Loki corrects. "Where to?"
I raise my eyebrows.
"Did you not suggest that I stay with you?"
I nod.
"Then: where to?"
I consider for a moment. Loki being in my company, I could not return to the Avengers even if they were home. Likewise, my recent residence in England is not a wise choice.
"Home," I finally answer.
Loki looks at me in alarm, but the expression soon passes. The last time we spoke of home, it was defined as Asgard, so his momentary worry is explainable.
"The problem is getting there without being seen. As I am sure you recall, the humans' computers are able to track you."
He looks at me, unimpressed. Magical disguise and even transportation are possible. I know he can teleport himself—even I, if I allowed myself to use magic, can teleport—but traveling such a distance requires help. There are several types of devices using either technology, magic, or an amplification of one's own magic that would work.
I narrow my eyes. "No magic."
Now his eyes widen in shock. He gestures backward as if to indicate my spell.
"That was a necessary risk. Adding any more atop it is too great a risk. No magic from you. No magic from me. We have to find a non-magical way to travel, and a non-magical way to do so without being seen by their computers." If such a thing is possible.
"I hate computers."
The statement is so unexpected that I laugh aloud.
"Can they see us here?" he asks when my laughter quiets, looking at the surrounding trees with an expression of annoyance.
"Yes, but Rose will take care of it," I assure him.
He does not ask who Rose is.
"Where is… home?"
"Not far from our old playground. Which, if traveling human-style, is quite a journey, and very well monitored."
"Then let us not travel human-style."
I stare at him blankly.
He holds out his arm, his hand loosely fisted and bent downward, displaying his wrist. A wide black band curves around his arm, just above the wrist bone.
"What is that?"
"A transporter."
I hope it is not magical, but even if it is it will, under the circumstances, still be better than using human methods. "Where did you get it?"
He shakes his head. He is not going to answer my question. "You said it is near where we used to come to Midgard? Can you be more precise? Give me the location closest to your home that you know I have visited."
I look at him with eyebrows knitted but think of an answer instead of inquiring as to the reasons.
Many things have changed since we visited Midgard together. I have to be sure of the location, that he visited it with me, and that it is relatively close to my home. After a few minutes, I settle on a place.
"I have thought of one."
He nods. "Tell me. Help me remember it. This transporter does not work by coordinates, but by the wearer's experience. It can take me anywhere on the planet I have been before, so long as I can remember it clearly enough."
"But things have changed—"
He interrupts with a wave of his hand. "So I have noticed. But it seems to work despite the centuries of difference between memory and present time."
While he calls to mind the location I specified, I pull out the StarkPhone and call Rose, the only one of my attendants who knows (or cares to know) how to use human technology. With succinctness, I indicate my location and what to do once she hacks Tony's system. Loki and my images are to be erased from video surveillance, our voices from audio surveillance, and my computer use erased from the computer history. Loki looks at me expectantly when I end the call, but I have one last thing to do. Erasing the information from the phone as best as I know how, I return it to the location I found it before returning to Loki.
When I am confident that he recalls the correct location, he asks me to place my hand on the device. Trying not to show my hesitation, I wrap my hand around it, ignoring the fact that doing so is also wrapping my hand around his wrist.
Closing my eyes in nervousness, I hear Loki mutter something. The air is pulled from my lungs in a sudden movement, and my body feels as if it is being pulled sharply to one side, but almost as soon as I comprehend the discomfort, it is gone.
Tentatively, I open one eye and then another.
We made it! I am in one piece, and so is Loki, and we are at our intended destination.
Loki looks around us with disguised interest.
Now I have to get us the rest of the way home. I do not want a hired car traveling to my estate, and—I disable the StarkPhone to avoid being tracked, a step I should have taken earlier—I cannot contact anyone at home.
I settle on using human transportation to a semi-popular tourist site. It is close enough to home to allow for nothing more a pleasant walk to bring us the remaining distance.
Loki is somewhat agitated by the on-foot portion of the journey, but I ignore him.
My estate is extensive, which I appreciate, but the manor house too large for my taste. The grounds include decorative gardens and both walking-stone and short-hedge mazes, vegetable gardens, a large orchard, and many paths through the woods and over the extensive, manicured lawns. I leave much of it to the wildflowers and tall grasses. Though I dislike the largeness of the house, even I must admit that it is exquisitely crafted in reddish stone with off-white trim. Inside, it is tastefully decorated, though I had as little to do with that as any other aspect of the appearance of my estate.
I push open the heavy, white-painted wooden door, one half of the double-door entrance, and gesture for Loki to follow.
Remembering my manners, and wishing to keep Loki in as good a mood as possible, I inquire, "Would you like some food?"
He shakes his head as I secure the door behind me.
"Then, would you wait there," I gesture toward the parlor off the grand entry hall.
Taking in his surrounding with now undisguised interest, Loki does not reply.
"I need to arrange for your stay," I continue.
Finally, Loki ventures in the designated direction. With him out of sight, I run to the narrow stairway at the back of the house that leads downstairs.
With the stair door closed behind me, I call "Girls!" as I descend into the basement.
The first level of the basement is not fully underground, with short windows at the tops of the walls allowing in natural light. Each of my attendants—for I refuse to call them servants and they will not let me call them friends—has a room or more here, with another floor below—a true basement—for extra storage and space for their activities.
When I open the door to the basement hall, five women of vastly varying appearance stand at attention before me.