Sorry I'm late again! This time, it's my own fault. But here's the chapter! Enjoy!
Elizabeth blinked at them. She wanted to ask them what in the world a Chrysler Building was, but she held her tongue for fear of sounding ignorant. It had not been her original intention for them to instantly know Loki's location based solely upon the window featured behind him in the shot. Something else about the window had grabbed her attention, though, and she found it to be much more interesting than whatever had grabbed theirs.
On the glass behind him, Loki had no reflection.
"Do you know how to get there?" she asked, suppressing her desire to point out this oddity to them. The opportune moment had come and gone.
Clint and Natasha both turned to her, gaping in a most ungainly manner. She instantly grew defensive, staring right back as though they had challenged her. Natasha's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Doesn't everyone?"
Elizabeth allowed herself a small roll of the eyes. "Well, do forgive me for being new to the city," she replied, just enough tang in her voice to make the sarcasm clear. "But never mind that. Can you take me there?"
The two assassins shared a shielded glance before Clint eyed her decisively and said, "No one's going there." The finality in his voice should have quelled her, and she knew it. But she also refused to allow him such a privilege.
"Is that so?" she returned, arching an eyebrow.
"Yeah," Clint told her. Natasha wordlessly seconded his statement.
Elizabeth took a breath. "Fair enough," she muttered. "I'll have to find it on my own, then."
"No," Natasha spat. "No one's going. No one."
"Why?"
"Because he's a monster, Elizabeth!" Natasha batted away the calming hand Clint had tried to lay on her shoulder.
"No worse than any of you!" Elizabeth shot back, entirely unafraid of either person before her, though the same couldn't have been said about the face on the television.
"Wait," Clint commanded, holding his hands up to quiet the two women. Once they had obediently fallen silent, despite the tension that ran between them, he indicated Elizabeth. "Why do you want to go in search of this lunatic, anyway?"
She stayed quiet for a moment more, thinking. It was so obvious to her. So much so, in fact, that Clint's questions – though they had at one point run through her mind – had been rapidly dismissed as though they carried no weight at all. She had said countless times that seeing Loki in any way was completely impossible; it was something she could not even attempt to explain to them, though she had hoped that they might have the sense to take her on faith. But she should have known that no such thing was prone to happen.
Still, it was imperative that she find Loki.
Choosing her words carefully, she replied, "I need to see him with my own eyes. He's a trickster, indeed, but I still maintain in all confidence that he cannot be here."
"And how will seeing him help?" Clint asked. "Will it somehow magically keep doom from our doors if you can just lay eyes on the guy who's threatening us?"
"Not quite that directly, no."
"Then why should we let you risk your neck?"
Elizabeth sighed deeply, looking away. "There is something much larger at work here," she murmured. "I cannot say what it may be, though I know it is malevolent toward all of us and must be stopped. Right now, we are losing the battle simply because we have not yet begun to fight. Whatever evil this is, it has moved a step ahead of us, and we have no hope of catching up if we do not act immediately." She glanced up at them solemnly, observing their faces with practiced precision. "We must go to him," she stated bluntly.
He watched her for a second, as if trying to find a lie in her face. Once satisfied, though, he pensively said, "Let's pretend we do like you said. We find him. You see him. Then what?"
"I wasn't aware that you needed an entire plan before starting," she responded, a hint of derision echoing across her face.
"We don't," Clint acknowledged. "But this is Loki. He's clever. And he cheats. He requires a plan."
Elizabeth could not stop the snide, sharp grin from pinching the corners of her mouth up into a jagged line. "This is not Loki," she mumbled, only half-hoping that they would hear. Then, louder, she said, "I am not sure that you understand my stance on the subject. I will seek him with or without you; I had only hoped that you might find the courage to accompany and assist me in this endeavor."
Clint scoffed at her, only barely matching her level stare. "You're freaking crazy," he muttered, passing a hand over his face and coughing out a short, humorless laugh before turning to Natasha. "She's crazy."
Natasha just looked at Elizabeth, eyes wide and cautious.
Sitting back and surveying them curiously, Elizabeth asked, "Why does he frighten you so?" When they didn't respond, she answered her own question with more like it. "Is it because of what he has already done? Is it because you fear that he could do it again? Or do you genuinely fear him as an individual?" She narrowed her eyes at them. "Does he truly repulse you so? To the point of fear?"
"You'd avoid him too if you'd met him," Natasha shot.
"Oh, but I have met him," Elizabeth replied, raising her eyebrows. "And even so," she said with a slightly dramatic sigh, "I asked the pair of you because I know you're not as preoccupied with the rules as the others. Of all the people in the tower, I would have expected you two to jump at the chance to sneak out and do some good, old fashioned spying. Not to mention that I imagined you'd love the chance to get back at Loki for everything he did to you." She glanced pointedly at Clint.
With that, Elizabeth rose from the couch, cracking her neck as she went, and she walked away from them, forcing herself to remain serious – and even slightly heated – as she went.
Three.
Two.
One.
Nothing. Huh, she thought. That usually works.
She went back to her room, putting on a pair of shoes and running a comb through her hair before heading out, determined to see what was going on in the Chrysler building, with or without the assassins. Just as she got to the elevator, though, she stopped. Standing with their backs to the door were Clint and Natasha, looking very much like they were about to do something in spite of their better judgment. She tried not to grin. Too much, at least.
Clint let out a resigned breath. "We guess we'll help you," he said.
Natasha just shrugged. "Yeah. What the hell."
The Bifrost was to be rebuilt. She reminded herself of that as she paced down the rainbow bridge, the jagged shards at the end a cruel symbol of one of the darkest times of her life.
When Loki had fallen so long ago, it had been so much more than a simple, physical fall through the nebulae and black of space like a comet that had ventured too far from its fellow stars. Her world had inverted itself, pitching her wildly. She believed that Loki's world had been just as unkind to him in the time leading up to the fall, and, somehow, this knowledge let her delight in her own confusion, as she had finally learned what it must have felt like to be him.
That sort of solidarity had always given her peace in the midst of a struggle.
Her footsteps no longer incited ripples of color to radiate out in such an elegant manner – one which she lamented never truly appreciating. The bridge was dead, rendered useless and powerless as an ordinary pane of glass.
Yet her brother stood watch by the abrupt and splintered end. She could see him gazing out across every dimension of every realm in Yggdrasil, his profound, golden eyes seeing far more than she would ever know. He barely breathed, stoic insight seeping from him in its usual manner. There were very few who had ever dared to approach Heimdall; since the fall, even fewer have dared, leaving the gatekeeper with only two or three familiar faces. One of them was that of his half-sister, Sif.
She had never hesitated in seeking his council before, though he had only occasionally supported her in her quests. Now, centuries later, she could look back on those escapades and regard them as he always had: foolhardy.
Now, she had a question of a different nature for him.
"Brother," she called.
He didn't acknowledge her, but she knew that he had heard. When she had gotten close enough to stand at his side, he said, "Sister. What brings you into my company?" His deep voice rolled like the waves of the galaxies beneath them, putting forth little emotion but infecting her with it instead.
She took a breath. "Can you see him?" she asked, trying to mimic his impassive nature.
Heimdall's eyes flickered for a second, and then he replied, "Yes. The prince is safe on Midgard under the care of the mortals with whom he has chosen to seek solace."
"Thor?" A chilly breeze sliced through her clothes, and she wished that she had worn armor. Suppressing the urge to shiver by balling her fists tightly, nails digging into her palms, she continued, "You know I ask not of Thor."
Her brother looked at her – a rare occurrence in itself – and almost smiled. It was most unlike him, and Sif found herself deliberately looking away. "I know," he informed her, his face falling back into its usual sternness. Still, there remained an unspoken portion of his response etched across his face: I just wanted to hear you ask for yourself.
"Well, can you see him?" she asked again, oddly prickled by his expression and the thoughts conveyed there.
Silently, Heimdall searched the skies in that manner that was inimitable by any. She waited patiently, but, after almost a full minute of quiet, she began to doubt that he would answer her. Just as she opened her mouth to rephrase her query, he murmured, "No," and her agitation sank into cold dread.
"No?" she repeated dumbly, though she tried to think of something else to say. Words simply would not come. "No?"
"No."
She stared at him, bewildered and slightly angry. "I thought you could see all, brother."
Heimdall appeared entirely nonplussed at her contained outrage, replying calmly, "I can, sister, but I cannot see him."
"Why?" she demanded.
"The one you seek typically exudes a magical signature that is quite easy to trace," he said. "I cannot find that mark anywhere in all the Nine Realms – not even on Asgard. I searched for his face among the faces of the universe, but I still do not see him."
She hadn't noticed her breath quicken, heart stabbing her with every grotesque pulse. This sensation might have been termed "fear," but Sif knew better than to attribute such a thing to herself. She was a hardened warrior who no longer had the capability to fear. So she swallowed, trying to force herself into submission. "What does that mean?" she asked, a slight lift in her voice almost betraying her.
Heimdall took a long, even breath. "It means that he is concealed," he muttered, not daring to voice the other possibility: that he could be dead.
"But he has done this before," she pressed.
"And he has escaped my sight on those occasions as well," Heimdall allowed. "He is adept at hiding when he wishes not to be found."
Sif knew the truth of his words far better than most. Occasionally, her friend had seen fit to take her along, both of them vanishing into the folds of the realm, tucked away inside crevices known only to them where nobody unwanted would be able to find them. Still, she pushed those golden memories aside and faced her brother, determined to coax a straight answer from him – a task beyond the ambitions of most. "Could it be that he has simply chosen not to use his magic?" she asked, knowing that she was starting to hold onto the slimmest of hopes.
"Were that the case, I would still be able to see him," Heimdall replied. "No, something much stronger must be masking him, preventing him from accessing his magic at all."
"But he needs his magic. It is his greatest defense." Sif countered, a hollowness invading her stomach.
"It is also his greatest weapon."
She blinked. Of course he was right, and who was she to deny it? Still, she recalled the truly impressive number of times his magical skills had saved him, her, or any of the others from danger, and she blanched at the thought of him being stripped of the protection that his abilities could offer. Yes, restricting his power was safer for others, but it could potentially leave him for dead if the circumstances of – wherever he was – turned hostile.
"Sister," Heimdall said quietly. When she looked at him, he murmured, "Do not fear for Loki."
She smiled dryly, lips more pressing together than curving upward. "I think you do not understand, for you see, I have always feared for him, and I shall evermore."
"He does not deserve your sympathy."
"And I have never deserved his, and yet he so freely gave it," she shot back, a cold undertone to her voice.
"He is not an honorable man."
The blandness of Heimdall's tone only served to infuriate Sif even more. "He is perfectly honorable," she spat. "He is a prince! He will always be my prince."
"Your prince, sister?" he asked, turning a fraction of an inch toward her. "Is Thor not the one to whom you have sworn allegiance?"
She hesitated, residual fury still biting at her. "I would defend Thor with my life –"
"In that case, and given that the brothers have been at odds for quite some time, it seems to me that you are defending the wrong prince," he interrupted.
"By allying myself with one, I have allied myself with both," she said. "Do you not recall a time when Loki fought alongside us? He did so nobly, striking down any who dared to lift a finger or speak a word against us. Battle was never his preference, but he never once refused to engage on behalf of his brother, his friends, and his kingdom. He was an excellent diplomat, and he had more sense than us by far. If you, brother, are so staunchly against him, I feel that you should rethink your hatred."
"And if you, sister, are so staunchly for him, I feel that you should rethink your affections."
Sif froze as if stabbed with her own sword. She stared at Heimdall, and gradually, a murderous look stole over her face. "What did you say?" she asked, low voice meant to slice him to ribbons.
Heimdall did not even so much as glance at her, only staring outward as if nothing had passed between them but the fair breeze. "I see all," he replied simply.
She stood there for a moment longer, wanting to contest his assertion, wanting to argue, wanting to spar, wanting to push him over the edge of the bridge, wanting to shout at him like a child . . .
Instead, she turned on heel and hurried away, back down the bridge toward the city, eager to put as much distance between herself and the gatekeeper as possible.
He was wrong. For once, Heimdall was wrong.