Dear me! I'm so eternally sorry for the wait on this section! My life has gotten busy these past few weeks, and I had to set this story to the side for a while. Soon, though, we should be able to get back into a weekly schedule for updates. The school year is starting soon for me, and that should put me under more pressure to stick to my weekly updates. :-) Also, this section was a hard one to fix up. It took a fair bit of work to get this one off the ground, so enjoy it! Remember that I always love (and reply to) your reviews!

There was no indication of any living being in the old loft. Still, though, Elizabeth knew it was there. She could taste the electric tang of reeking, Chitauri magic in the air.

For a moment, she closed her eyes, trying to dredge up the memories of the last time she had seen one of these creatures. It had been a frigid winter day quite some time ago, and the Scrimorus had slipped the second it had grown too consumed in its role to remember to shiver. She had been the only one to notice, but that had been the extent of her involvement; she had been only a child, and these creatures were adults' work. She hadn't even known that the thing was Chitauri. "Not your concern," her parents had said.

Now, it most certainly was her concern, and she was left with no idea how to face it.

She took a breath, staring up at the landing. This was her stop. About as inviting as a crypt.

Against her better judgment and self-preservation instincts, she ascended the last few stairs silently and stepped into the room, looking around.

Nothing.

He didn't show himself, but she didn't need him to. She knew he was there. She could feel those false green eyes on her, not staring, but assessing. That, at least, was perfectly in character.

"Oh come now," she crooned into the stale air. "Why so shy? You and I are practically old friends."

Around her, the building groaned as a gusty breeze crashed into its frame. From out of the dark, a large spider scurried, entirely uninterested in her presence. She hardly dared to breathe for fear that the sound would mask any other.

But there was still nothing. No sound. No movement.

Yet she could feel that critical gaze, as strong and sentient as ever.

"I know you're here," she called. "You might as well come out and talk."

In the corner of her eye, she caught a flutter of green – a flick of the end of a cape offered as acquiescence. From the shadows came that sickeningly familiar voice: "I hadn't expected you again." His voice sounded like a sneer as he said, "You've got nerve, coming back here after what transpired when last we met."

Elizabeth shrugged, not because she wanted to, but because she knew he was watching. "Perhaps I have got a bit too much nerve," she allowed, "but I know for certain that I've got courage. More than you, at least, as I am prepared to look you in the eye."

He scoffed. "Well, forgive my hesitance to take another blow to the head. But, I shall humor you." Elizabeth watched the shadows as he slunk forth, the dark, flat chalk of them retreating from him much more quickly than they would have done the real Loki. He spread his hands, insolent smirk cutting across the smooth veneer that was his face. "Satisfied?" he asked.

"Not even close. But you know that."

"Indeed I do," he mused, beginning to circle her like a vulture. "And I feel you should know that I am just as unfulfilled. I almost had them all – in fact, I did, for a short while. They all believed that I was him. Earth's blessed Avengers were quaking in fear, just as it should have been." He stopped, eyeing her curiously. "But not you."

"You would find it an unrealistic challenge to trick me in that disguise," she told him.

The intrigue in his gaze turned lusty, desirous of all the knowledge she withheld. "Who are you?" he asked simply, his stare working her over as if to find her weak point – her slip in the oh-so-clever masquerade.

"Do you really not know?" she asked, drawing his curiosity along for as long as she could. When he didn't reply, she smirked. "Funny how the upper hand can shift when one party has something the other wants."

He sighed at her goading, though the ravenous look had yet to leave his face. "I only ask because you must be someone remarkable. To pick me out as a Scrimorus requires a certain . . . disposition."

"I can agree that it is not easily done," she returned, her voice silky and slick, "but I am not easily deceived."

"Yes, I can see that much." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully at her. "Can you not even give me your name?"

"If I told you, you might try to kill me," she responded dryly.

With a flippant wave of his hand, he said, "Oh, I plan on doing that anyway. I merely wish to know the name of she whom I am so honored to call my adversary."

She cringed. "See, Loki never would have said such a thing. You really fail to do him justice."

"I was considered the most qualified among us," he huffed. "My grasp on his persona was more advanced than any other, yet you presume to tell me –" A flicker of her eyes made him stop, and he followed it with his own. In the glass of the window at her left, he caught a glimpse of her reflection.

Elizabeth didn't know if she had just won the battle or lost it by drawing his attention to her reflection, but there was something deeply satisfying about the way he took a step back in shock.

"Oh," he whispered, "that explains quite a lot."

Sif knew she should eat. There was no reason for her not to. The food before her looked just as delectable as it did every other night. Her friends were certainly in jovial spirits, as usual. She herself certainly wasn't upset at all.

And yet the food tasted like wax in her mouth, the joking of Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun made her grip her fork tighter in frustration, and she had to admit that she had been in better humors.

"Would you three shut up for once?"

It took her a second to realize that the harsh command had come out of her own mouth. Once she did, though, she tried to soften it just a bit with justification. "I'm thinking."

"Dangerous pastime," Volstagg muttered, tearing a bite from the turkey leg in his right fist and chasing it with a swig of mead from the flagon in his left.

She took a breath, entreating herself to relax. With a conscious effort, she laid her fork on the tabletop, lifting her hand from it and flexing the stiff fingers. A scathing retort burned at Sif's lips, but she bit it back, clamping her teeth on her tongue until she wanted to cringe with pain. A coppery, bloody taste stung her throat, and she washed it down with a furious gulp of liquor.

Fandral was saying something, but she didn't care to listen. The rest of her mead shimmered mockingly at her – golden-brown as a topaz and just as enticing – from the inside of her goblet, begging to be emptied. She obliged.

But, she froze somewhere between lifting the pitcher of ale and pouring herself another generous glass; it was not a good idea, and she knew it.

The last time she had been driven to seek solace at the bottom of her glass, he had been the one to see her safely and discretely to her chambers, closing the door behind them, lifting her gracefully, and lying her on her bed to sleep until she came back to herself once more. She didn't remember much from that night, but she could still feel the cool weight of his hand on her forehead as he brushed her hair back. She knew she hadn't imagined the sound of his voice bidding her sweet, coherent dreams, followed by the dull noise of her door and his footsteps down the hall. And she still had the note she had found on her bedside table the next morning, handwriting long and spidery and so very him: No one saw you, and I shan't tell a soul.

Despite the raging headache and overwhelming desire to do absolutely nothing the next day, her foggy, piecemeal memory of the night prior was one that she would not surrender for the wide world.

This time, she knew she was on her own.

As much as she valued the friendship of those around the table, she knew she stood little chance of any of them demonstrating that sort of propriety.

She had never truly thanked him for it.

She replaced the pitcher to its space between the veal and the soup, turning her goblet upside-down to discourage herself from temptation.

"What do you think, Sif?"

Her head jerked up at Fandral's question, an obvious indication that she had entirely missed their conversation. Fandral clarified, "I found them all to be reasonably capable." When she only stared blankly at him, he thankfully deigned to help her further. "The new recruits. How do you like them?"

Ah. The young warriors-in-training. A brand new crop of them had just arrived at the palace to begin their lessons. She and the Warriors Three were to play a role in the teaching this year, so it didn't surprise her that her friends had gone to inspect their pupils.

"I can't say," she answered. "I've not seen them. I don't wish to bias myself." Picking favorites was never beneficial – a truth that she had learned only after witnessing the agony and subsequent wrath of one less-loved.

Fandral nodded, but Hogun just shrugged apathetically. "I thought that none of them demonstrated an exceptional amount of potential," he said.

"Neither did you when you first started out," Volstagg reminded him, jokingly nudging his ribs.

With a small laugh, Fandral said, "I suppose we were all rather unremarkable at the outset."

"Except for Sif," Volstagg put in.

"Yes, except for her," Fandral agreed. Sif knew better than to mistake this fact as a compliment; had she been anything less than impressive, she never would have been granted a chance at becoming a warrior. "Do you remember when we used to fight doubles?" Fandral asked, a hint of fond wistfulness brightening his face.

With a chesty chuckle, Volstagg replied, "How could I forget?" He turned to the sterner, more sullen man beside him, saying, "You and I always were the best partners."

Hogun almost cracked a smile at the notion. "Fandral and Thor were excellent also, as were Sif and Loki."

Fandral hummed in consensus, saying, "I always loved to watch the latter pair fight."

"Me and Loki?" Sif asked, not sure if he was being serious. The lack of bitterness at the mention of Loki's name both excited her and warned her; she mustn't accept the flattery lightly – not without probing for barbs first.

"Absolutely," Fandral told her. "You two were something to watch. It was always quite the show whenever you were in the ring together."

"You never let him win easily, that much is certain," Volstagg added.

"And he always kept you quite busy as well," Fandral noted, taking a drink from his glass.

Trying not to be too distracted by their rare instance of outright praise, she conceded, "I suppose we made each other think."

"I wish he was here now," Fandral muttered absently. The expressions that appeared around the table compelled him to say, "Oh, don't look so shocked. Loki was my friend. Besides," he turned to Sif, "the trainees would benefit immensely from watching the two of you take a turn with the weapons. It would give them a more holistic approach."

She did her best to hide the surge of anxiety that swelled when she said, "If he does return, I suppose we both would be proud to do it." If he returns. If he comes home. If he lives through whatever he must endure to regain his place in the hearts of his people.

"Sif, you speak as if he will not come back," Fandral scoffed.

She just looked at him.

He sighed and threw an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close for just a second before releasing her from his brotherly gesture. "He will come back." Was Sif wrong, or was the confidence in Fandral's voice laced with threads of hope? "Never in all my days have I met someone quite as difficult to kill as he."

"And you assume he is in immediate danger," she said. "Fandral, is that meant to comfort me?"

"I never said a thing about danger! Besides," he was quick to add, "Loki is more than capable of handling himself."

Volstagg was staring into his mead, suddenly and strangely pensive. "You know," he muttered, "for all the times we jeered at him for not being much of a fighter, Loki was truly excellent in battle. He saved our lives with extraordinary consistency, and he was always dependable." He let out a laugh, shattering his thoughtful visage. "I would hate to be at the wrong end of one of his knives."

Sif grimaced at that; Loki's aim – despite being so good that it should have been more highly celebrated – had never been something that they had counted among their assets. In hindsight, she thought it a foolish oversight. "Indeed," she said, imagining the plethora of times that a well-thrown dagger from his hand had been the only thing between her and an assured death from the hand of an enemy. "Yes, who am I to worry?" she noted flippantly. "He most certainly can look after himself."

With a shallow smile, she stood from the table, nodded goodnight to her friends, and slid off to somewhere that would take some thinking to find – a place deep in one of the forest's many pockets of solace and even deeper in her memories. There, she hoped to find a balmy relief for the gnawing in her chest that could only be described as worry for the man who had once shown her how to get there.

She stared up at the night sky, looking at each of the stars, planets, moons . . .

He could be on any one of them, and it put a twinge in her stomach to think that she didn't know which.

"Well, I suppose this makes things very simple," Loki said, crossing his arms and frowning at her, the gesture a consideration and nothing more.

"Quite," she returned, letting him consider.

He sighed deeply. "You know that I am obligated to kill you, then."

"Of course." She gave a careless turn of the hand. "I'm surprised that you have delayed in doing it for so long. Your platoon would be shocked at your lack of efficiency."

Cocking his head at her, he commented, "You talk as if you truly wish to die."

For a beat, she just stood across from him, silent. What did she want? To die? Surely not. But to live . . . it was impossible to discern which would be worse. Not long ago, she would have had a clear answer. But now, it was not so easy.

Her lack of response must have been enough for him, though, because a disgustingly malicious sneer came over his face. "What could have happened to make you so soft?" he bit, and she knew that she had seen that green-eyed glare before. It looked repulsive. "You were once so great," he hissed. "Now, none of us would be caught anywhere near you, for fear of being branded with treason. And poor judgment."

"Elizabeth, are you alright?" Bruce asked over her com. She must have been quiet for a touch too long.

"I suppose we all have our iniquities," she muttered, Loki's last comment still stinging like a well-placed jab to the stomach.

He made a pained face at her, sucking in a breath through his teeth. "That must have hurt. Your poor ego will be scarred from that little admission."

She said nothing, looking away and swallowing thickly. He was right. But agreeing felt like losing in the most humiliating way imaginable, so she didn't agree – a fact which only validated his opinion. The thought felt like acid in her mind, crumbling her resolve and making her question herself.

"Ego or no ego," he said, approaching her with the footsteps of the devil, "you are still a coward. You and I both know the other's true face, and yet you hide like a child behind the skirts of its mother. Show yourself."

"I can't," she replied simply, trying to ignore the oppressive, suffocating nature of his stare.

He drifted closer to her, his false face unsettling her even more. Had she been the type to fidget, she would have, but Elizabeth only went rigid as he leered, "You mean to say that you won't."

"No," she told him, mustering more force into her words, "I can't."

At that, he drew back just enough for her to breathe once more; he eyed her up and down, shamelessly staring at her feminine curves as if he was looking over a horse on the auction block. "Ah, I see," he murmured. "Someone got themselves a bit . . . stuck. Is that it?" With a derisive chuckle, he added, "You are absolutely pathetic."

Anyone else would have flinched at such a dry remark; Elizabeth was no exception. Her expression might not have changed, but, inside her mind, she shuddered. Inside her mind, water pooled around her ankles, black as sin and equally fathomless. Every word from his lips drove it higher, creeping up her calves and stinging like needles.

"Here you stand," Loki continued relentlessly, circling her, "still as a statue as though you can conceal yourself from me. You forget, traitor-tongue, that I know you. We were once on the same side – comrades in arms fuelled by a mutual desire for something greater than ourselves." He stopped, his hand jutting out and pinching her jaw between his thumb and index finger, tilting her face this way and that, inspecting her. "Oh how the mighty have fallen," he murmured, and she yanked her chin out of his grip belligerently.

The blackness in her mind was engulfing her, still rising persistently like the darkness after sunset. She did her best to ignore the pain, but words still slipped through – jumbled, out of context, and each spoken by a different remembered voice.

Monster.

Failure.

Liar.

"And you look awful, if you were wondering," he informed her coldly, bringing her back to reality. "Unless, of course, you were trying to appear plain, like a refugee. Like a fugitive." The way he lingered in the vowels of that last word twisted Elizabeth's gut.

"I am not a fugitive," she responded. The ice in her voice might have been pulled straight from Jotunheim – the frostiest thing this side of hell. "I never ran."

"Elizabeth?" Bruce asked tentatively in her ear.

"Shut up!" she snapped without thinking.

"Oh, now," Loki crooned, eyes wide, "what have we here?" He glided toward her, this time leaving a safe distance between them. "Losing our mind, are we?" he asked, satin voice slick with satisfaction.

She didn't grant him the courtesy of a reply.

Was it just her, or was it getting harder to think?

"It wouldn't be the first time, after all," Loki noted. Then, with a flourish, he turned and took hold of her jaw again, this time turning her head to get a better look at her ear. "Or," he growled, "this private conversation is not so private after all."

He leaned close to the comm and said, "Hello there." She got to hear Tony swear on the other end of the line. "I will assume you can hear me," Loki continued. "I—"

She didn't know how it had happened.

Loki coughed. Oily blood spattered onto the floor.

She felt something warm and liquid on her hand, and she looked down.

Her dagger was lodged securely between two of his ribs. His blood soaked her hand.

She didn't know how it had happened, so she just glared at him, giving the knife an extra shove and a cruel twist. When he cried out in agony, she leaned close to his face and hissed, "Which of us is pathetic now?"

In a ripple of metal, Loki changed back into the Chitauri thing he truly was, and she tore her dagger from his body roughly.

When he – it – fell, she gasped in a deep breath.

It was over.

A/N: The part with Sif on Asgard in this chapter is not in italics because it is occurring simultaneously with the events with Elizabeth on earth. Just so you're not too terribly confused if you've been keeping track of that kind of thing.