Chapter Two

He'd spent so much time tumbling through emptiness that, when the crash came, Loki was glad to feel solid earth beneath him. The sensation was almost comfortable; almost enough to block out the pain, and the memories, and the feeling of frigid water swirling around him. It was almost enough to stop splintered bits of ice, which had filled his mouth on impact, from burning as they slid down his throat. But it was only almost enough. The pain was still vicious and the memories still stung; the freezing water still scalded as it brushed against his skin.

He lay there, pressed flat, as an assortment of images flickered across his vision; his last thirty seconds - his first thirty seconds on Earth - were scatted, but vibrant, as they replayed in his mind. He remembered the sudden barrage of colors: reds, browns, and silvers that were painful after so long in darkness. He remembered the terror and exhilaration that came from falling through storm clouds. He remembered the sight of a city: a gleaming metropolis which, despite its foreign appearance, still prompted memories of home. And he remembered hurtling towards a bright patch of white, which had morphed into a frozen pond as he came closer, then morphed again, beneath his body, as it shattered.

Far above him, fragments of ice bobbed in a current he'd created. He watched their progress and wondered what would happen if he chose not to rise. Would prolonged submergence be enough to end his life? A better question, maybe, was how long it would take. Not long, he imagined: he could already feel icy tendrils curling around his neck. It would be so simple to just close his eyes and wait...

"There's somebody in the water!"

Loki's eyes snapped open.

"We need help over here! Somebody fell in!"

A sigh escaped his lips; seconds later, three small bubbles were the only indication that he'd been there.

A mess of jabbering humans quickly formed around the pond, clogging the air with their tinny shrieks and frantic gestures. Some of them grew impatient, so desperate to see the sunken man that they formed perches of their own. Many clamored onto wooden benches; the rest raced each other to a nearby bridge, swarming on its surface like bees. They peered over the stone railing, unaware that the man who'd fallen was now among them. His clothing was dry and distinctly human, but these changes were not the reason for their blindness. Even if they'd looked directly at him, Loki would have seemed no more than a gap in their ranks. It was from this gap that he watched.

A young man broke from the crowd below, pushing his way to the exact edge of the pond. He began removing his jacket, then bent down to unite his boots. As he placed one exposed foot, then the other, onto the crack-riddled ice, Loki frowned.

He means to jump in and save me, he realized.

His frown deepened.

The man made it four feet before the ice groaned beneath him: it was a low sound, but constant, and it only grew louder as he lurched forward. It was obvious that each step sent waves of agony through his bare feet. Still, he continued, quickening his pace, as the distance closed to ten yards.

Stupid man, Loki thought. What do you think you'll find? There's no one there to rescue.

He looked away. As he wound his way through the spectators, heading for the bridge's end, he heard them take a collective breath. Cursing himself, he turned.

The hero had stopped running and was, instead, balanced precariously in an attempt to fight gravity. Beneath him, the ice was finally giving way.

For the second time in as many minutes, Loki sighed.

The breath escaped his lungs and tumbled over the edge of the bridge, dropping towards the pond's dark water. Once there, it twisted and grew, forming itself into another invisible man. This specter, an extension of himself, used one of its hands to steady the rescuer and waved another to repair the ice. When the man was no longer in immediate danger, it crouched down and spoke into his ear.

"There's no one in this water." Loki's voice came out of its mouth. "A tree branch broke the ice. You might want to turn around and go back."

The young man blinked. He stared hard at the point of collision, frowning at the bobbing ice, then turned back to face the crowd.

"There's no one in this water," he announced, clearly. "It's just a tree branch. I'm coming back."

A murmur of disappointment went through the crowd, but was quickly masked by cries of relief. These turned into shouts of encouragement, then a few scattered cheers when the man reached solid ground. People began to dissipate as he slid his boots on; by the time he'd tied his shoelaces, he was the only one left on the bank.

So this is Earth, Loki thought.

It was not the planet he remembered. On his last visit, nearly a millennium ago, he'd been bowed to by emaciated humans in animal skins. More recently, he'd watched through the eyes of a specter as men in synthetic suits puzzled over magic and myth. The former had been cautious and reverent, cursing evil winds from their wooden huts; the latter were precise and sterile, their own region surrounded by barren wasteland. Loki tried not to dwell on these memories: they were too hard to separate from home.

He forced himself to swallow, burying whatever he could, and finally left the bridge. Direction did not matter - it was meaningless without a destination - so he focused only on distracting himself. He took meaningless turn after meaningless turn, following the pond until it disappeared behind him. After that, he looked at the trees.

Many of them were bare; they had pockmarked skin and twisted arms that stretched, desperately, toward the sky. The rest had been stuck with a thousand green quills, forced to bow under piles of dirty snow. They were a separate breed altogether from the breathing trees of Asgard. This difference, though, didn't stem the flow of memories.

The trees he remembered were smooth and mirror-like, their faultless surfaces soft to the touch. He knew them well: he'd spent years watching his brother climb them. Thor would haul himself into the topmost branches, knocking the ripest fruit down for his friends. Loki remembered looking up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun; he remembered how much brighter it was when he hung from the tree tops, himself.

"Brother, look! I did it!"

"It doesn't count if you use magic, Loki."

He stopped looking at the trees.

It was much safer to watch the humans: they were so easy to separate from his memories that they inspired none of their own. He thought of their species as homogeneous, a uniform population that dressed, spoke, and acted as one. Those surrounding him, however, were strictly individual. Some chattered and maneuvered in groups, while others proceeded in comfortable solitude. Many hurried forward with apparent purpose, while their fellows seemed content to wander aimlessly. Their voices came in a menagerie of tongues, strange languages mingling into a continuous, incomprehensible sentence. He listened, despite his confusion, hoping to learn the name of his newfound prison. Instead, he heard stories.

It was much later, he guessed, when the snow began to fall. He didn't notice it at first, absorbed in the roar of human conversation, but the sounds around him faded as a flake landed on his nose. It lay there, melting, as another alighted on his finger. He looked down at it and froze: it looked exactly the same as the snow on Asgard.

A dozen memories cut through him, but none as jarring as the collision. Something - something large and loud and giggling - smashed into him from behind, absorbing his body into its midst. It took him a moment of cursing and tripping to realize what it was. Then the painfully bright clothing and shrill chirping meshed into one realization: he'd been dragged into a group of human girls.

He stumbled, forced erratically forward by their jerky movements; it took him the length of the path to gain stable footing. As the group began to turn, he took a sudden breath and vanished. Moments later, he appeared beneath a dark, gnarled tree.

The girls continued with their excited chittering, unaware that an invisible man had entered, then left, their ranks. Two of them tried to catch snowflakes in their mouths while a third gestured farther down the path. Loki followed her motion, taking in more humans, more trees, and then...the path ended.

His eyes went wide.

There, just a few yards away, was the metropolis he'd seen from the sky. Its buildings reared up, reflective and proud, on the opposite side of a street; they watched with obvious supremacy as metal vehicles raced by on top of it. A particularly large one stopped on his side of the street, humming impatiently; it was to this that the human girl pointed.

Loki's eyes roved over the human creation, taking in its dingy glass doors and dull, blue stripe. Faded white letters spelled out "New York City Bus" on its side; atop its roof, a black screen alternatively read "Central Park" and "Times Square."

Loki peered up into the tangled branches of his tree, then back at the others and their maze of twisting paths.

Central Park...

He turned back to face the city and watched the girls board their "bus."

Times Square. His brow furrowed. Why not?

He heaved himself into the vehicle, last in a long line of humans, just as its doors hissed shut. Their sound was unpleasant, but not nearly as bad as the odor: the interior was a mixture of sulfur, sweat, and a poor imitation of the park's tree scent. The line jerked forward, allowing him to ascend further, and brought him into the path of a large, heat-spewing vent. The warm air only made the smell worse.

The bus was as grimy on the inside as it had seemed from the park. Scattered humans lined its walls, many of them grimacing from patched, plastic benches. Seated in a chair of his own, accepting coins from the line of humans, was a worn man in an equally shabby hat. As the group dwindled to nothing, Loki brushed past him. He looked to his left, then to his right, gritting his teeth.

There were no seats left.

He turned, wondering if he should exit the vehicle, just as it gave a tremendous lurch. Pitching forward onto one of the benches, he had barely enough time to steady himself, before another jerk sent him sprawling again. He caught sight of a foggy window as he fell for a third time: the bus was merging itself into the crowd of racing carriages.

Gripping a handful of sticky plastic, Loki heaved himself to a standing position and braced himself for the next group of spasms. After only a few moments, though, the material grew slick in his hands. He stumbled again, grabbing a human man's arm for support; the man did not feel his touch but their contact gave Loki an idea.

"Excuse me." His lips were level with the man's ear. "It would be extremely kind of you to offer me your seat."

The man nodded.

"Thank you," Loki said.

He watched the man extract himself from the bench, reaching for the ceiling to steady himself. A set of metal handholds swung from there and man seemed comfortable enough, gripping one. Still, Loki preferred to sit. He'd had quite enough of falling.

The city twisted and changed beyond the window. It was a painting, an abstract work of blended light and colors, framed by the cracked pane. Some of them stood out: a white building, covered in intricate, golden designs. A storefront composed entirely of glass. Even more of them blended together until, finally, he saw only his reflection.

Dull crescents of violet ringed his eyes and an unfamiliar wrinkle had etched itself into his forehead. There was a yellowish bruise on his neck, a parting gift from his brother, and one corner of his mouth drooped, even when he attempted a smile.

For the first time in his life, Loki felt exhaustion. The sensation was uncomfortably foreign: in the past, his body had rarely required sleep. He'd thought, at one time, that he'd inherited this trait from Odin. While Thor slumbered long and often, his snores rattling the palace walls, their father could go entire decades without respite. Indeed, one of the only times he rested was during the Odinsleep. It was said that, even then, he remained fully aware.

Yearning for such a sweet relief as sleep, Loki realized that he'd lost his last connection to the King of Asgard.

His eyes had almost closed when the vehicle stopped.

The sounds of scuffling feet and impatient mumbling grew louder as the humans got up from their benches. They formed a long, grumbling line in the center aisle, shuffling slowly towards the front of the bus. Once again, Loki was last; he'd barely made it outside when the doors hissed shut behind him. He glanced back at the vehicle, just for a moment, and saw it move back into the fray, before he was carried away by a tsunami of humans.

It was worse than being trapped by the young girls. These humans poured in from all directions, prodding, jabbing, and shoving him along. He tripped forward for a few feet, then was caught up in a new crowd and dragged back; before he knew it, he could no longer see the bus or the space it had left. He allowed the wave to tug him back and forth, too mobile for magic to take effect, and waited for an exit to materialize. After a moment, the tiniest of gaps appeared. It took all of his strength to squeeze his way through.

He paused, breathing heavily through his nose, as a barrage of panicked thoughts flickered across his mind. Loudest, most repetitive of all, was the question, What was that? Before he could formulate an answer, he lifted his gaze...and saw a yellow carriage hurtling towards him, mere inches away.

He vanished seconds before impact, the vehicle rushing by as if nothing had been in its path. Reappearing an instant later, he didn't even have time for a gasp of relief, when a massive, white bus nearly crushed him from behind. As he vanished once again, he realized where he stood: in the exact center of the wide, blacktopped street.

It took him longer to reappear this time. When he did, on the top step of a large, crimson staircase, he was under the influence of another strange sensation. At first, he couldn't quite determine its origin. It was too pleasant to be pain, but it left him gasping for oxygen. His legs, usually so reliable, quivered beneath him. Blood and adrenaline pounded against his ribcage and, recognizing them, he suddenly realized what he was feeling. He nearly laughed out loud.

Excitement.

For the first time since leaving Asgard, since he'd faced his brother in combat, prepared to defeat him once and for all, Loki felt excited.

So this is Earth, his thoughts repeated.

With his heartbeat still wild, he cast his eyes over the staircase, examining the scattered humans sitting there. They were as unique as they'd been in the park only, now, their bodies were spattered with white. The snow was falling thicker now, coating the staircase, the humans, and the roaring chaos all around them.

A group of fat, grayish creatures poked at clumps of it on the ground; their greasy beaks and beady eyes convinced him they were birds. A young human boy tossed a spherical chunk of snow into their midst and they scattered, drawing his attention to the sky as they flew. A seething mass of whitish clouds had blotted out the sun, but this was not what caught his attention.

Exploding against the clouds was a kaleidoscope of shapes and images. They'd been plastered to, hung from, and raised upon every available surface, coating the skyline with a medley of flashing colors. It was rhythmic, melodic, changing with each blink of his eyes. Some of them remained still, glowing and constant as a silvery moon; others were in continuous motion as strips of moving pictures and constellations of sparks rolled across their gigantic surfaces. Human words, like Coca Cola, Google, Apple, and Stark rolled across the screens with regularity. He wondered if those were the names of their gods, their kings.

Strange names.

He spent a long time there, dangling from the cold, metal step, watching the buildings of Times Square. There were occasional moments when snippets of conversation or miscellaneous images would remind him of home; for the most part, though, he forgot to remember. Eventually, the snow began to accumulate on his knees, filling the pockets of his long, gray coat. When that happened, he dusted himself off and stood. Picking his way down the staircase, he took a deep breath and stepped back into the crowd. He let it absorb him, keeping pace this time, allowing the wave to lead him where it would.

It led him down snow-dusted pathways, under emerald awnings, and past windows which doubled as waterfalls. He watched humans in every activity he could imagine, and many more that he couldn't: begging for money, strumming stringed instruments, carrying mountains of books, screaming at one another in the street. Many of them wore strange fashions, all of them unique and few of them familiar; it came as a shock when, on one corner, he passed a woman in a dress that might have been, though not popular, at least accepted on Asgard.

After a substantial distance had grown between himself and Times Square, he began to take note of the streets he traversed. It took him four similar names to notice that each one was labelled, not by a name, but by a number. Is this species so uncreative, he wondered, That this is its only means of differentiating? When he passed his thirteenth street sign, however, he was glad for the system. It assured him that he'd not been traveling in circles.

Once again, he wandered without purpose or direction, trekking behind one human, then another, hoping to prolong his feeling of excitement. With his eyes roving over man's creations and his ears straining to hear its stories, he was not happy - he could not imagine being happy on this planet - but he was, at least, distracted.

This lasted until the sky went black.

He'd been following the same man for a long time, intrigued by his air of purpose. This human, he thought, would lead him somewhere interesting. It was for this reason that, when the man veered onto a side street, Loki chose to follow. Their new path was much darker, replacing colorful shop windows with shabby, brick buildings. Randomly placed lanterns jutted above the street, failing in their attempt to dispel shadows. A group of humans huddled beneath one, scattering as the man came close. They scurried in a variety of directions, winding between alleyways and buildings, as Loki's guide approached a grimy, metal door. He pulled it open and disappeared inside.

It occurred to Loki that he was alone.

A thousand waiting memories exploded across his vision. He was imprisoned again, confined to a sphere of crushing silence, only, this time, he was not blind. Vivid images pulsed across his mind and he could not fight their melodic precision. He was unable to breathe, unable to stand, unable to feel anything but a stream of agony and the brief sensation of his knees giving out.

There was an instant of relief as he collapsed. He gasped, desperately, trying to remember where he was.

I am on Earth, in the human city of New York.

But he wasn't.

He was in the center of a flaming battlefield, watching insurmountable enemies stalk closer, as golden mist streamed from his fingertips.

He was surrounded by books at a wooden table, clinging desperately to one's cover as Thor tore it from his grip.

He was examining the golden scepter in his hands, wondering how something so important could possibly weigh so little.

He was dangling above a yawning abyss, burdened by the weight of defeat, pleading for the one thing that would save him.

Enough.

It took every ounce of Loki's strength to pull free from the past. He breathed deeply, relishing the street's darkness, doing what he could to calm himself. The second onslaught was already coming, flickering at the edge of his consciousness.

A door opened on his left.

Two men stumbled out of it, abandoning a building that was squatter and dirtier than the rest. They were laughing, arms around each other, forgetting the tune to what seemed like a love song. Even from the ground, Loki could smell the alcohol.

The approaching memories faded as he realized there were other ways of distracting himself.


Human ale was less intoxicating than he'd hoped for, but Loki forgot this by his eighth or ninth glass. He'd rarely visited taverns on Asgard - that was Thor's forte - but, after three hours in this one, he couldn't imagine why. Its roaring volume drowned out his thoughts and the barman was easy to influence; violent arguments erupted among grungy men, dissolving into compliments just as quickly. He felt comfortable in their midst. More comfortable, he mused, than he'd ever felt at home.

It took a long time but, eventually, the pressing crowd and dim lighting ceased to be a relief. He had a sudden craving for open spaces, for spiraling colors, and anything else that didn't remind him of falling. The city, it seemed, would be a good place to start.

Wrapping his arm around a wooden support beam, Loki hauled himself to his feet. He swayed there, admiring his newfound friends, wondering if it would be polite to make himself visible and tell them goodbye. Then he lost his grip, lurched to the side, and decided against it.

As he stepped through the door, he stumbled, nearly falling down the tavern's front steps. He caught himself on a railing, smiling to himself as he carefully made his way down.

Brother, he thought, chuckling. If you could only see me now.

He wandered the length of the street, peering into open windows and brushing against parked carriages, just to see what they felt like. When he ran out of road, he turned left, then right, then whichever direction suited him until, once again, he found himself in a crowd of humans.

They seemed to crop up suddenly for a such a noisy, expansive group, but Loki was more interested in their gathering place. The building looked older than its neighbors, not quite as tall, but three times their width. It would have been elegant, had it not been painted a strange shade of blue. Protruding from its wall, about ten feet above the tallest human, was a gigantic, illuminated sign. Dozens of white bulbs rimmed its edges, but the most magnificent had been formed into words, spelling out what he assumed was the name of the building.

The Lapis.

A sharp voice cut over the babble and, though Loki missed its words, the humans took them as a signal. Members of the crowd began filing, one by one, through the building's glass doors; he followed their progress, swaying slightly, watching the entrances swing open and closed. As the last humans passed through one of them, he noticed a poster stuck to its surface. In fact, now that he looked properly, there was one on every door. They were colorful. He decided he liked them.

He stepped closer to the central entrance, intent on discerning the images and words within the swimming colors. He blinked multiple times before he understood them. When he finally did, he blinked again.

There was a portrait of his brother on the poster.

Of course, it wasn't really him. His brother's actual muscles weren't quite so pronounced, his hair was much shorter, and his helm was platinum, not silver. Still, it was clear whom the painter meant to depict: Thor, with Mjölnir raised high, summoning forks of lightning from the heavens. And surrounding him, lit up by the electricity, were more familiar faces.

Odin's hand rested on Thor's right shoulder, his stoic expression surprisingly accurate, as he looked upon his rightful heir. To their left was an imaginative portrayal of Sif who, though equally beautiful in real life, would rather have killed Thor than simper at him like that. Heimdall watched from an upper corner, perched beneath Máni and Sol. And there, at the bottom, grinning mischievously above the title...

Loki froze.

It was him.

As he examined his doppleganger, noting its snakelike features and malevolent stare, he felt memories stir within him for the first time in hours. At the same time, he was overtaken by a fit of hiccuping giggles.

His eyes dropped down to the title.

"Gardians of the Realm," it read. "A play by Marcus De la Rocque. Based on the epic novel by Michael Browning."

He read it three times before it made sense, then another three before his laughter subsided into thoughtfulness. Could it be, he wondered, that these humans remembered their skin-wearing ancestors? Could it be that they remembered Asgard?

He glanced over his shoulder at the city street behind him. In the distance, buildings loomed, their sweeping towers scraping against the inky sky. Laughing humans milled along walkways or climbed into vehicles which sped off into the night. He turned back to the glass door in front of him and read the poster one more time.

"Well," he said aloud. "I guess that's worth a look."