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Without the Darkness There Is No Light

by Riley Berg

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Chapter Five

"In the Dark of the Night"

Gongs sound from the palace temple, their crashing reverberations echoing through the stone halls. The bell in the tower rings loud, hammering a slow dong-dong-dong into the open air and down into the once-sleeping palace. Warning horns call from the inner and outer walls.

We are under attack.

In a panic, I throw myself out of bed, slipping my hand beneath my pillow in search of the small sheathed dagger I keep there. Mar'kwa always scoffed at its size, but I always believed in being prepared. And sometimes things small go unnoticed when you need them to be. Slipping on a dressing gown, I shove the Asgardian dagger into one of the pockets and run barefoot from the room.

"Your Highness!" a passing guard yells, recognizing me despite my inappropriate attire and the long braid hanging down my back—a style I have not worn publically in many seasons. "We must get you to safety!"

I shake my head. "Get to your post," I order.

Perplexed but not allowed to disobey, he runs down the hall. I follow a moment later, reaching out my mind, my Sight, to find Mother. Something is wrong, I can feel it. She feels so… dim.

Running into the Queen's chambers, I stop abruptly, staring in horror. My heart rate increases impossibly. My body feels numb as I take halting steps into the room. I feel as if my mind has abandoned me, incapable of thought, incapable of Sight, incapable of magic. I fall on my knees.

Before me lies my father, my beloved father, eyes open but unseeing, lying in a pool of dark blood on the stone floor. The sticky liquid, a blue so dark it appears black, is staining the rugs and splattered across several pieces of furniture and a tapestry.

He was butchered, my mind supplies. It is the only coherent thought I manage.

I try to yell for help, but no sound escapes my lips. My voice is gone. But what good would it do now? He is dead. There is no resurrecting him. I weep bitterly.

Mother…

Mother!

A cry passes my lips at the thought. My body regains its strength momentarily, taking me across the room without conscious thought.

Mother!

I choke at the sight that greets me, falling more than walking toward my queen. I place my tear-stained cheek against her chest. She still breathes, but weakly. I sob.

"Ásta?"

I jerk my head up at the sound of her voice, her rough, feeble voice.

"Oh, my Ástriðr," she smiles weakly. "You must go."

I look at her in horror, somehow more frightened by her words than the sight of my own dead father, or my mother now dying before me. More than the bloody, carrion-strewn battlefields produced in my honor. More than the men with glassy eyes, as if their spirits had died while their bodies still breathed, their hearts still beat. More than the change that came upon each of my friends as they entered and came home from battle, having killed for the first time. More than the insane chuckle that slipped past my best friend Loki's lips when he himself killed for the first time, in my defense, before my eyes. More than the infernal indifference in Travis's eyes even when we saved him from certain death. More than the long, dark, lonely eternity before me.

"Heimdall will listen to you."

I look at my mother in shock. "Heimdall is pledged to the Asgardians."

She chokes on her next words. I wipe the blood-streaked spittle from her face, my heart no longer heavy, but simply numb.

"Heimdall will take you home."

I look at her in confusion, stroking her hair in what I hope to be a calming manner. Her mind is muddled.

"I am home," I whisper.

"You cannot stay," she chokes out, her voice pleading. "It is not safe. You must go. You must run. Run. Run now!"

My body obeys. My mind slips into necessary numbness as I take the servants' passage. Commotion sounds behind me. Someone entered Mother's chambers. I run faster. The narrow hall spills into the servants' quarters. I shove through the door. The rooms are empty. I sprint to the end of the hall, where a window is set in the top of the wall at the end of the passage. Drawing out the dagger Loki gifted me less than two seasons ago, I use the hilt to break the window. I do not escape without scratches, but they will heal soon. There are more important things to worry about. My life is in danger. That part of my mind which still functions screams this knowledge to me.

I run into the open courtyard. It is abandoned, but I do not have time to decide whether or not that is odd. With a sadness I have never before felt, I look to the sky.

"Heimdall," I whisper, knowing he sees me, knowing he hears me, even from half a universe away. "Heimdall, take me… take me home." I do not know what Mother meant by that, but I do not have to understand to obey.

A single tear wanders down my cheek as a flash of light illuminates the sky and a beam of brilliance descends instantaneously toward me. I watch in astonishment as color and then whiteness and then color again forms wondrous patterns around me, almost blinding against the blackness beyond. Before I can comprehend my surroundings, I am strewn on a cold, smooth floor. I feel the cool surface beneath me with wonder. I am alive. I stare at the dagger still clutched in one of my hands. Was it so short a time ago that I walked the halls of my palace, newly graduated from the royal university, with Loki by my side? Was it so short a time ago that he gave me this dagger, sadly informing me that he would have to return home? At the time, I thought the departure of a friend to be the greatest sadness in the universe.

"Your Majesty," comes a deep voice above me.

I look up into golden eyes. They are unfamiliar to me, but I know to whom they belong.

"Heimdall."

He smiles at me gently as the Bifrost whirls toward stillness around us. When it has ceased, he offers me a hand. I stare at it, unable to move. The weight of the night's events, the implications of his calling me Majesty… He has seen my mother die. I am now Queen. Queen of Darkness.

And darkness I quickly succumb to. Someone—presumably Heimdall—catches me before my head hits the hard floor. I struggle as if to stay above water. They shush me and I quiet. I feel the distinct sensation of being carried. I try to open my eyes, but I cannot. My body no longer responds, but in my mind, I thrash about in anger and sorrow and desperation. The horrifying blackness engulfs me and I fight harder, more desperately. If my panic, my uncertainty, my instincts, my pain is all I can use to fuel the fight, I will fight. I will not give in to the weight crushing my mind.

I jerk awake to the distantly familiar sensation of someone crawling onto the bed beside me. Panic consumes my mind and I try to fight my attacker.

"Breathe," he instructs quietly, pinning my arm down with measured calmness.

That only increases my hyperventilation.

I hear a heavy sigh—it must be heavy to hear it over the blood pounding in my ears and the volume of my own rapid breathing—and feel the bedcovers pull away from my back. I feel him slip underneath them behind me. A hand settles on my waist. A body presses against my back.

"Breathe." This time, he whispers in my ear. I would shiver, but I do not have enough control over my body at the moment.

Adjusting one arm to wrap around my waist and the other to wrap around my own arms that are bundled against my chest, he pulls me against him. As he intended, I feel his chest rise and fall slowly, pressing against my back with a calm, even tempo. Desperately, I focus on his breathing, knowing from experience that if I do, my own will eventually slow to match his.

How many years had it been since I had that nightmare? A hundred? Somehow, despite the century of rest, I feel like I have never been left so exhausted by it.

As my breathing slows, his grip loosens. The arm that was under me moves a little, serving as a pillow instead of resting uncomfortably under me. I note that he does not let go completely, but I do not have the energy to protest. I do not have the energy to move. I do not have the energy to stay awake. Pushing the fact that this will technically count as sleeping in his arms into a dark corner of my mind, I slip back into a likely fitful sleep.

I wake exhausted in mind and sore in body. My neck throbs from sleeping in an unaccustomed position and my body is sticky with sweat. I have not slept beside someone for centuries. It was too warm. I groan and roll toward the edge of the bed, not allowing my mind to wander to Loki's presence. I cannot handle that mess quite yet.

The bin stored under my bed long ago (or maybe it is a new one; it was a long time ago) has been pulled out. Myrtle was here. I slowly lift my head, waiting for the nausea that accompanies my nightmares, but it does not come. Even more slowly, I pull myself into a seated position and let me legs dangle off the bed. When a few minutes pass without bile rising up my throat, I push the bin back under my bed with my toes. Maybe I will need it next century.

I groan. How unfortunate that Loki was here the one time I have that stupid nightmare! If I was not so exhausted, I would punch something. Or him. I would punch him. That sounds like fun.

I flop backward onto the bed and awkwardly punch Loki, still lying flat on my back and grinning, I am sure, like I am not quite sane. He opens only one eye but manages an effective glare nevertheless.

I straighten my expression.

"That's what you get for this," I gesture around me, trying to chastise him sternly and failing.

He looks down at the place where my fist made contact as if he only just now noticed I touched him. I sigh. My mind is not quite back to normal.

"Stage Two: Insanity."

Loki snorts. He knows what I am talking about. Once the exhaustion of my nightmare wears off enough to allow me thought, my mind goes to hidden realms, trying not to cope with reality. Eventually, it will come back, but by that time I am usually rested, bathed, dressed, fed, and hopefully aired out (been for a walk), and can deal better with the remembered trauma.

"Call Myrtle," I nod to the bellpull. "I need a bath."

I try to sit back up. Not a good idea.

The sickening sensation of wetness pools on my skin around my wound. I bite back panic, but Loki detects my stress.

"What is wrong, Ástriðr?" he asks, rare worry coloring his tone.

I bite back a snarky retort. My mind is still not back to normal. No need to agitate him unnecessarily just because I in my insanity am ungrateful for his supposed concern.

I choke. He pulls the bellpull and hurries over to me. My mind still foggy, I become preoccupied with the fact that he is no longer wearing his Asgardian half-armor, which he was so insistent upon wearing the last two days despite Myrtle's offers of a more diverse wardrobe. I suppose it would be uncomfortable to sleep in, though. Still, he looks so strange in the green tunic and loose black trousers. Myrtle, in a rare use of her power, appears at my bedside instantaneously, as if thinking about her called her to me.

"My lady!"

She makes no mention of Loki's presence as she gently lifts me to a sitting position, but also does not consider his presence as she pulls off my shirt. I am glad for the camisole beneath—an extra layer of protection for the bandage over my wound, and now an extra layer of protection for my modesty. She pulls the neckline down slightly to gently pull off the bandage.

She sighs in relief and I echo her, though I cannot see what she sees.

"It is not torn completely, my lady. Just a bit at the end. Not even measurable. Probably the thrashing about from your nightmare."

I nod. The sensation of wetness must have been exaggerated by my mind.

"But we'll need to do something about the bleeding, and the open wound, however small."

I grimace. There is nothing to be done. I shake my head.

"My lady," she complains.

Loki finally speaks. "I can heal it."

Myrtle turns to him in surprise as I vigorously shake my head. I will not allow Loki to heal me. I do not know what he did and did not do to help Gaea heal me even to this extent—so that my heart beats even if the other portions of my injury are not healed—but I have a strong, instinctual aversion to his continued so-called help.

"My lady? If Master Loki can—"

I shake my head again. This time, dizziness overcomes me enough that I slump into Loki.

"My lady," Myrtle exclaims in exasperation.

Loki does not wait for my permission. Taking advantage of my position he carefully presses two fingers against my collarbone. I feel energy flow downward, gathering around my wound several centimeters below.

He pushes me back by the shoulders and captures my eyes with his. I stare blankly at the anger, frustration, concern, and less readable emotions floating in them.

"Just enough to stop the bleeding," he explains through gritted teeth. "Just enough to close the wound. You can let your body heal itself if that is what you wish, but I will not let you go about bleeding."

I nod, defeated.

"Myrtle, draw Her Majesty a bath."

Myrtle stares at him for a startled moment before moving to obey. How dare she obey him! Even if I want a bath. Even if that is why I had Loki call her here.

I glare at him. "They are not allowed to call me that."

Loki raises an eyebrow. "They did not."

"You are not allowed to call me that."

"And, pray tell, why not?"

"Because I said so," I reply lamely, looking down.

But Loki accepts it. "Then what am I to call you?"

I shrug and then regret it. Ouch. "What you always do."

Loki sighs. "Sometimes titles and their terms of address are called for, my lady."

I look up at his unexpected softness. His eyes seem to be focused on something far away.

Myrtle clears her throat and we both look up sharply. "Your bath is ready, my lady."

I nod. Loki rises, offering me his hand. Myrtle does so as well. Using them both to help myself stand, I stay still and silent for a moment before I am assured that I have my balance. Releasing Loki's hand, I silently dismiss him.

"I will inform Naomi," he says as he leaves the room.

"M—my lady?" Myrtle begins as she assists me in bathing.

I sigh. (There seems to be a lot of that happening lately.) "What is it, Myrtle?" I urge her in exasperated annoyance.

"Um… Well… In regards to Master Loki…"

I look sideways at her.

"I know you said not to obey him save when you had given specific permission, but… I'm so sorry, my lady! When I heard you cry out, it took a moment for me to realize what was happening." Her words come swiftly now. "It had been so long. I guess I forgot. I wasn't used to it anymore… By the time I got here, Master Loki was already… here. I was shocked of course," she seems to think she must add, "but he… he seemed to know what he was doing. And it seemed to be working. I didn't know what to do. I just… I just pulled the bucket out for you, should you need it, but then… then Master Loki gave me this… look. It was clearly a dismissal. And… and I obey, my lady. I obeyed."

She hangs her head and I look away, pulling in a deep breath. I must either put Myrtle's mind to rest or scold her.

"Myrtle," I begin softly. "It was not a situation I was prepared for, or that you could have imagined. You did the best you could without prior instruction. I forgive your technical disobedience to me."

"My lady, what am I to do, should the situation occur again?"

If my nightmares continue diminishing at the rate they have been, Loki will be long gone before the events of last night repeat. But I still must decide what is to be done should last night repeat itself sooner than expected. Contingency plans.

I sigh once again, thinking. My concern is not whether I should allow Loki or Myrtle to attend me in my nightmares, but whether Loki will obey if I tell him not to intervene. His orders to calm my nightmares came from Frigga long ago. My recurring nightmare was the reason Frigga stationed Loki in my rooms at nights. I scream terribly. Odin was intolerant. He told her to make sure I did not wake the entire palace. Frigga responded by asking Loki to watch over me when I slept. And when Frigga discovered that I was avoiding sleep, she sent Loki to my rooms every night to make sure I went to bed, though I did not need to sleep that often. Every time I slept, I had the nightmare. Apparently Loki's methods of calming me were effective, because Odin ceased his complaining, and no one else mentioned hearing screams at night. But I disliked waking up next to Loki, for he often fell asleep beside me after or while calming me. I was always afraid that he would be seen. Frigga wisely required it to remains secret, not even telling Odin her methods. Odin never inquired. Loki vanished from my room before anyone could see him, though I did have to push him into the closet a few times.

Do I want to go through that again? Of course not.

But I do not have to. This is my own home. I do not care if my attendants are aware of Loki's doings. In fact, I would prefer that, if I let him continue obeying Frigga, they do know. Myrtle is already aware anyway.

So then: what do I want? I admit that Loki's methods are more effective, and … more comforting. Perhaps even so much better that they are worth the awkwardness of sharing a bed with him, however temporarily. And… and I secretly want to sleep beside him. I do not know when my platonic affections turned to infatuation, but even I with all my stubbornness cannot deny that I wish he was more than my friend. Of course, in Loki's opinion, were are more like enemies with a peace treaty.

"Loki is… experienced in handling my nightmares. Perhaps even more experienced than you, for though I have spent more years on Earth now than I did on Asgard, my nightmares came much more frequently then. They were already starting to diminish when I came here." I look Myrtle in the eye as she assists me from the bath. "It seems the habit has not died with the centuries. Loki will likely respond in the same manner, should I have the nightmare again. You may allow him to do so. While he is here, your duties in regard to my nightmares are temporarily suspended. Loki will attend to me in that matter."

Myrtle nods, though her eyes express confusion rather than understanding. "Yes, my lady." She will obey, but she might also seek to satisfy her curiosity.

Not possessing the energy required to dress myself, I let Myrtle do so once again. Lowering myself into the chair in the corner of my room, I pick up the book I did not finish reading last night.

"My lady, will you not go down to breakfast?"

I look up at Myrtle, standing expectantly in the doorway.

"Loki arranged for it to be sent to me. But you can let Naomi know I am ready."

Myrtle nods, perplexed, and disappears, closing the door behind her.

A knock sounds on my door sooner than expected. Only a few seconds after Myrtle's departure, in fact. I tilt my head.

"Who is it?"

No reply comes. I roll my eyes.

"Come in, Loki."

The door opens and I note Loki, having dressed for the day in something other than his Asgardian half-armor, with a silver tray balanced on the fingertips of one hand. I raise an eyebrow, though not nearly so well as Loki would have. He stands patiently in his black button-down shirt and pressed trousers. Myrtle must have gotten to him after all.

"What are you doing?"

He does not acknowledge my question with an answer. Translation: It is obvious what he is doing; he is bringing me my breakfast.

"Why are you doing it?"

This draws his attention. He looks at me as he places the tray on my chair-side table.

"You always ate in your room after such a night."

I nod. "But you were never the one to deliver it."

"I was not in a position to do so."

I raise an eyebrow again. Whether or not in a position to do so, Loki would not stoop to do servants' work, or so I thought.

"I wanted to talk to you."

That makes more sense. I gesture for him to continue as I turn to my breakfast.

"As I am sure you have noticed, your attendants however about you like bees to a flower."

I almost roll my eyes at the analogy.

"As I recall, you never cared to be treated in such a manner. I imagined that you would not let them do so normally, so I politely inquired as to their behavior."

I look up, curious.

"Is Rose named so because of the shade she turns when embarrassed?"

I ignore the question. Loki, either sensing this or meaning the question to be rhetorical, continues.

"She reluctantly admitted," I wonder if he used his silver tongue on her, "to me that she was concerned by your behavior. Sleeping nightly, eating thrice a day. I asked her why that should be so concerning."

He looks at me now, holding my gaze so strongly that I cannot break it.

"You sleep one day in one hundred at best, sometimes going a year without sleep," he accuses. "You eat once a day if they can convince you, but they cannot always."

I sigh, finally breaking eye contact, and set down my food.

"I do not need to sleep so often as others, and you know I do not like sleeping unnecessarily." I avoid the matter of food.

"They told me your nightmares had subsided, so you had no reason to avoid sleep, especially not to the extent of waiting a year." His tone of voice is clearly angry now. "I wondered why your body seemed so resistant to healing, and now I know. You were not taking care of yourself." He sighs. "I should have known. I should have expected it."

I scoff. How dare he treat me like a child! As if I am incapable of caring for myself…

But now I recall, "You helped Gaea."

It is his turn to scoff. "She helped me."

I look at him, perplexed. All she needed to do was provide a safe place for me to rest while my body healed itself. I do not understand why she thought she needed Loki's help, but how can she have helped Loki?

"How long was I in the healing-sleep?"

"Just shy of two months," Loki replies after a long pause.

I stare. When I noted the time of year, when I glanced at the date, I paid no attention to the numbered year. I assumed a little more than a year had passed. It seemed an appropriate amount of time to recover to such an extent.

Several things occur to me at once.

Loki healed me this morning. Not much, but enough to notice the difference. But Loki is not, or was not, a healer. Both my mother and his, several of the Darkling sorcerers who favored healing and knew his interest in magic, and even a few Asgardian healers offered to teach him, but he was never interested. When had he learned to heal?

Gaea called him to help. Why did Gaea call him? Did she know of his new area of study? Certainly it was not because of… But I dismiss the thought. That type of healing requires a relationship. It would only work if he was my friend—if our friendship was mutual rather than one-sided. Even if I consider him my best friend, he tolerates me at best. He appreciated, I suppose, that I did not mock him as others did, that I perhaps understood his thoughts somewhat better than the others, but I do not think he ever considered me his friend.

Loki came. Why did Loki answer Gaea's call, even if he was capable of healing? He broke his silence, shook of his supposed death, and risked discovery in coming to Terra.

But there must be an explanation. Gaea called him. He came. And he was able to heal me then as he was this morning.

"Loki, when did you start studying healing?"

He looks at me with eyebrows creased. "I never cared to learn the art. You know that."

My eyes grow wide. But that would mean—! I shake my head. It is not possible. Or so I thought. But I do not want to think. I do not want to know. A very dangerous line in the sand—a cliff, really—is being approached. I do not want to go too near it without first scouting the territory.

"Never do that again," I order.

I do not have to specific. He understands.

I think I see hurt ghost across his face, but it is gone before I can be sure.

He neither accepts nor rejects my command, but briskly leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. Feeling even worse now than I did after my nightmare, I nibble on the remains of breakfast, trying not to let my mind wander to the implications of my discoveries.