A brief, alternate-moment set in Thor 2, post Frigga's funeral, inspired by a lovely piece of fanart by gabbiki. (The link to it is on my bio page.) Because my shipper heart would like to think that Jane piques Loki's interest before the infamous punch. He looks far too pleased at seeing her march up to him, am I right?
Jane couldn't take this.
Not another moment of feasting, no matter how subdued. Not another of Thor's achingly incomplete smiles, ones that curved his mouth but never melted the ice of his eyes.
She was up from the somber table for some time before anyone even noticed she was gone, her restless feet pacing an aimless path through the shadowed and looming hallways - down staircases and steps, always winding further down, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the scent of smoke that still hung acrid on the breeze outside.
It grew colder and darker. The walls less adorned, the air heavier with went longer and longer between seeing another person, lost within her own thoughts, until when she did happen across a doorway with guards posted outside she nearly stumbled with surprise. The two Einherjar exchanged glances, shifting their weight uneasily as she stepped between them, but made no move to stop her.
What she stepped into wasn't just another gallery filled with gleaming statues and flickering torches though - it was a garish display of men and creatures, stuffed into relentlessly glowing boxes like pieces of art. The cells were clean, and the prisoners that snored softly on pallets and cots looked well enough, but it somehow repulsed Jane more than any dank dungeon might have.
This wasn't a place of punishment. It was a collection, and hubris cloyed the air like incense.
She paced slowly along, unnoticed by the slumbering inmates on her way to the doorway on the opposite wall. Until the last cell in the row drew her reluctant eye, and her steps faltered to a halt. There was only one prisoner here in this cell full of furnishings and books, lying on a narrow bed with one arm flung carelessly out from beneath the covers, eyes closed and breath even.
She knew she should leave. Thor was probably worried about her by now. But she couldn't look away from the face that had lain such waste to her world.
Anger and hatred flared suddenly, so much so that the strange alien presence that was nestled beneath her skin stirred faintly to life. But sorrow and guilt stung sour in her mouth as well, the bitter aftertaste of Thor's sadness as he told her of Frigga's compassion for her lost son and her unconditional love.
What would become of him now? Would they execute Loki? She bore no goodwill towards him, could care less about his life, but her soul quailed at the thought of adding the weight of another death to the already unbearable burden of Frigga's.
Her fingers crept up, pressed flat against the warm surface, and light coruscated around her hand. The smooth glass gave ever so slightly as she bowed her forehead against it with a sigh.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice echoing oddly in this silent hall.
She couldn't say what she was sorry for, or who she was apologizing to. To Thor, for ripping away a mother? To Odin, for plucking out his heart? To Asgard, for stealing a queen? Maybe to herself, for the bloodstains she now bore. Certainly not to the monster that slumbered before her.
But maybe to the boy that lurked in those sleep-softened features, who'd once been so beloved.
He never stirred and never woke, and at long last she turned to leave - never aware of the hollow stare that followed her from a bloodied and disheveled corner, lingering on the doorway long after she'd stepped out of sight.