Jane…
Loki…
The descending fog obscures his vision. With a hoarse shout, Thor heaves Mjolnir into the air in a bid to clear the heavy atmosphere, but she is not in sight.
And neither is Loki.
A hard fist in his face is the consequence of his panicked distraction. Blinking once, Thor sees Algrim above him, readying his next blow. He leaps to his feet and grits his teeth, pushing Loki and Jane out of his mind for now, then slams Mjolnir hard into Algrim's armoured chest.
The dark elf staggers backwards, momentarily stunned by the blow. But Thor knows enough about the brute strength of the dark elves to recognise that Algrim's strength is more than a match for Mjolnir's strike.
In his peripheral vision, Malekith simply stands watching. With a roar of anger, Thor trades blows with Algrim, knowing that the underling has merely been sent as an assessment of his own strength.
He has neither time nor patience for this.
Crouching downwards with a curse, Thor sends Algrim sprawling onto the ground in a move that he has once observed on Midgardian broadcast screens. Then he commands the hammer once again, this time pouring the raw elements that swirl around them into the hammer's next trajectory as it fashions the straightest path to Malekith. At his swing, Mjolnir whistles through the roaring wind just as Malekith's smile turns unpleasant.
In the next second, the accursed one raises a hand and the hammer stalls in midair before it is swallowed by darkness and fog, consumed by the very elements that it commands.
For a long moment, Thor stands shocked and bereft of his beloved weapon, horrified by the sheer power that splits part of the space-time dimension. It is power the likes of which he has ever seen before – power too strong to simply be of the realm of the dark elves – but rather one what runs the whole gamut of colours and signatures that seem to reek of primeval fire rather than the scent of moss, soot and dying embers.
But before he can track Mjolnir's location, the ruined glade cracks open beneath his feet at Malekith's unspoken command.
Then he falls into the yawning chasm, stretching out for purchase every excruciating metre downwards, until his bloodied fingers catch the sharp edge of a ledge and hold on. At the end of the abyss is not the void that he expects but an unending molten lake that consumes all.
Grunting as his muscles strain with the effort of holding his weight, an anguished wail reaches his ears as Malekith's underling is not spared this judgement. To his left, Algrim tumbles into the chasm a minute later after he does, a small, dark blot in the acidic rush of steam that scores the skin. Looking down, he sees a rapidly-disappearing figure whose screams diminish as waves of fire leap off the lake's surface to snatch greedily at their prize.
Thor squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to relive that moment as a lung-piercing mass of vapour and steam washes across his face. Drawing from a quickly depleting reservoir of strength, he clings onto the ledge as the rocks shudder violently from Malekith's machinations.
And then, there is only heat.
oOo
You are a weak, fallen prince of Asgard. I have no use for you.
Malekith's silent taunts carve insidious paths in his head, making his fists clench in helpless anger in the face of truth. He's neither of Asgard, nor a prince. Fallen goes merely a way to describe what he is.
Loki looks down, then realises that he isn't kneeling and incapacitated in the roiling mud any longer. But there's soft, damp moss beneath him and the cavernous silence finally registers on his befuddled senses.
The newly forged war with Svartalfheim is far from over, but this battle has been laughably short-lived. Two…against hundreds, or even thousands. And Thor's grand plan once again bites the dust, the same way it did not too long ago in Jotunheim.
It's all that he remembers after Thor and Malekith's pathetic underling locked horns in combat before Malekith's magic shunted him out of the way. He's not there to witness that precious fight, but there's much to take pleasure in just knowing that the great Asgardian hero has met his lumbering match.
Loki rolls to his feet, wincing at the bruising in his ribs. Without his magic, his battle moves are sluggish, as though they are made by an amateur who has just stepped out for his first skirmish. And without the gossamer web of protection it provides, his body seems to take on the same, wretched limitations as a mortal's. He looks with no small amount of disgust at his bindings; despite everything, they stay stubbornly on.
Resolutely ignoring the discomfort that they bring at present, he takes stock of his subterranean surroundings, observing the long, winding way that slopes downwards. For several minutes, he slowly follows the trail towards the faintest sound of rushing water.
It is a cave of sorts then, Loki concludes grimly as he stops to think, and one that opens out eventually into a river. And hopefully not one that ends with a sudden, thousand-foot drop down a ravine. It isn't the most ideal situation that he has found himself in – at least not for a millennium – but he knows all he needs is time to get himself out of yet another fix that isn't his own doing.
That much of practice he has gotten, especially in his early forays with Thor and Odin in some of Yggdrasil's hidden pathways.
A small, soft groan brings him into an instinctive half-crouch and he stills to listen carefully for movement. The sound echoes off the uneven walls again, accompanied by the harsh grating of loose rock abrading hard ground. Conscious of predators that might be lurking in the dark corners, Loki moves forward with cautious steps, bracing himself for a potential fight. With his hands more useless than they've been in a long while, he knows that-
A small form lies curled up at the next turn, partially covered by the grey-green cloak of an Aesir.
Thor's little mortal.
"Jane Foster."
Loki speaks her name softly, dark amusement overcoming his initial surprise. Of all the beings that he could have found in this forsaken hole, he finds her.
Dirtied, bruised and rattled.
A calculated smile edges the corners of his lips upwards. Perhaps the Norns had for once, cast the dice of fate in his favour, after all.
Her eyelids flutter open, widening in alarm as she sees him. Then she shifts, revealing several cuts on her face and what is most likely a bruised body judging from the angle in which she slumps against the narrow walls of the cave.
"Loki." She squeaks his name and the trepidation that he hears brings a measure of satisfaction. Then she clears her throat and grates out, "Where's Thor?"
He raises his brows slowly at the concern that she shows for that oaf. "You assume that I am his keeper."
"No, I-" She breaks off, shakes her head, then stares at him like a problem she cannot figure out.
If there's anything that tips him over that fine line that he has been treading ever since Thor had placed his hands in fetters, it's the condescension he feels from being treated like an object to be examined under a curious mortal's gaze – a mortal for whom in the recent months, he has carefully nursed a growing hate.
He spears her with a hard warning look and takes perverse pleasure in waiting for her to complete that sentence. "You what?"
But if she had seen him bristling, there was little indication of it in her next words.
"I don't know," she confesses as she moves a hand to her shoulder and gasps as her fingers ghost over a part of her flesh that is still hidden by the cloak. "One minute I was up in the air, and the next, I'm…god knows where, thinking I'm going to die here. And I know you're dangerous and all and I have every reason to fear this…to fear you, but right now, frankly, I'm…just, you know…just happy to see a familiar face."
Her rambles seem to have exhausted her. But apparently, she isn't done talking. Taking a deep breath, she tries to continue but ends up stuttering and slurring feebly, "-and…uh, it hurts."
A familiar face?
Loki stares back at her, fighting back the surprise at her words and the short, non-sequitur ending. That she knows what he is capable of and fears it is exactly what he expects…and wishes. But that she is also happy to see an enemy – a monster that he knows he is – lies beyond his comprehension.
The pain from her injuries must have loosened her tongue and cracked her head.
"You are foolish to presume that I am not capable of doing you harm as Malekith can."
She barks a short laugh, then winces as she shifts minutely to hoist herself up more comfortably. "Oh, I know what you are," she tells him wearily. "The whole shebang about New York, the major daddy issues. But right now," she nods towards his restraints, "and you're in not much better a state than I am."
In a flash, he has her neck in his bound hands as he pushes her against the wall, his anger stirring his dormant magic in a swirl of gold and green hues. "I do not like repeating myself, but you would do well to know to whom you actually speak."
Fear and…understanding dawn in her face. But he only sees pitying compassion and patronising indulgence that underlie those sentiments. Holding her captive for a heartbeat longer, Loki resists the urge to snap the bones in her delicate neck, to punish her for daring to voice the very weakness in him that he loathes.
It would be so easy to crush her and in doing so, crush one of Thor's obsessions.
But where would be the fun in that? After all, he'd always found himself the most entertained in puppetry performances where the strings were tugged, pulled and finally cut when least expected. As reluctant as he is to admit, this particular woman is showing atypical signs of intellect, a trait so alarmingly lacking in Asgard.
The whimper that she tries but fails to stifle interrupts his ruminations.
He grins at the unexpected bite that she shows, then whispers in mock admiration, "You are a…fascinating creature, Miss Foster." Finally, he releases her throat, sending her back into her original position against the wall.
Her eyes cloud over as she fights for consciousness, but not before they send an obstinate message that needs no verbal expression.
Bastard. Liar. Monster.
He's under no illusions that he is all three.
But where he'd once wanted no part in these shameful labels, Loki knows he actually excels at being thrice flawed. If his only crime is his ability to incite unrest and enmity, to rip apart the harmony of the social order, should he then, not be seen as such? As a shadow to Odin's structured order, a complementary darkness to Thor's light, or as a stubborn speck of stain that will forever mar Asgard's gleaming halls?
She swallows hard and murmurs something incoherent, just as her eyes fall shut.
He tosses her a practised, bored look. "What?"
"I saw them fighting. Thor and Algrim. You disappeared. Then I did too."
She doesn't say any more but at her words, another piece of the puzzle slips into place.
He takes a step towards the fallen mortal, towering over her. But Jane Foster doesn't move an inch. With a glance down at her, he sees that she has fallen unconscious, whether out of pain or out of a need for rest, he doesn't know, nor does he quite care.
Mortals and their frail bodies. Loki snorts aloud, ignores how his own broken one is no better, then backs away a step to think.
Malekith's ambition to conquer the Nine is no secret in Asgard and beyond. But where he was once hindered by lack, he now believes has the power to do so. The manner in which he had not bothered to engage Thor in battle today but sent his underling in his stead suggests that he sees no need to vex himself with a lesser being, laying testament to the theory that his greatly increased power can only be fed by a deeper, more ancient source.
Loki tries to ignore the twinge of unease that wells up in his chest.
He has assumed, thus far, that he had been simply shunted out of the way by a sweep of Malekith's magic into a forgotten part of Svartalfheim because of his apparent inability to even become a worthy adversary of the Accursed one's army. And as long as he is fettered, Malekith is convinced that he poses no threat.
Chuckling, Loki knows that being underestimated always works in his favour.
Jane Foster's own circumstances however, so similar too his own right now, give him pause.
What then, is he to do with her?
He has no time to ponder the answer as the cave begins to slowly fold in on itself, a consequence of an overwrought land further strained by destructive magic. Steadying himself, he closes his eyes as he stretches out his weakened magic to search for ends of the labyrinth, risking the total depletion of his strength. A strange sensation tickles the back of his neck, then the faint image of a yawning hole plunging a short way down to the banks of a river shimmers like a luminescent stamp in his mind.
In the next instant, it disappears.
Trying desperately to recapture the image in his mind, he finds that it slips like sand through his grasp just as the ground brings its own brand of chastisement upon those who so cavalierly wield the darkest of seiðr.
The exit is concealed somewhere beyond the pathway across which Jane Foster lies. Sparing another quick glance at the collapsed entrance, he lunges forward and tries to rouse her out of her comatose state with a none-too-gentle shove of his left boot.
"Get up!" He snarls harshly into her face, shaking her once and hard.
Her eyelids flutter open, but they are glazed over in pain. They close again, causing him to bite out a foul curse. His patience finally snapping, he hauls her up roughly with his bound hands and drags her with him as the rocks fall around them.
Somehow, it does not occur to him to leave her where she lay. Later, he will try to convince himself that he has some use for her yet.
For now, there is a matter of greater urgency.
Loki puts a foot in front of another, struggling to find a steady path through the falling debris. He kicks out as hard as he can, then pushes forward as the sharp ends of boulders slice through leather and skin. Straining, he uses what little magic he has to snap the larger ones into powder-
The weight that has been growing steadier heavier on his shoulder suddenly shifts and lifts.
"Oh my god, this-" The loud sound of a large, pointed rock crashing from the top of the cave drowns out the mortal's exclamation.
Rolling his eyes, Loki doesn't even bother to dignify her terrified yelp with a response; instead, he grabs the edge of her cloak near her neck and pulls her onward as the path winds yet again. Her breath is heavy in his ear as she stumbles to keep up with him and Loki pays it no heed, knowing that he is faring no better. Still, he moves doggedly on, never loosening that death grip he has on her, closing the distance as quickly as he can.
If there is anything that he's good at, it is surviving. He survived the fall into the void when he'd all but expected to die, then survived Thanos's nightmarish hold over his mind. What then, is a mere fall into water, even without his magic?
After what seems like an eternity, the cavern opens out into steep drop. He stops just at the edge as the mortal rouses fully only to realise that there's nothing between them and water.
"No way," she breathes in panic. "No way-"
Tiring quickly of her nonsensical chatter, he plunges them both over the edge.
Her horrified shriek accompanies them down.
They fall, cushioned only by the barest lift of a conjured wind and slam into the icy water that swirl over their heads. Loki braces for the impact as much as he can, knowing that the cold wouldn't bother his…physiology, then kicks upwards as he fights burdensome denseness of his armour as the water roars in his ears. Finally, he breaks the surface in a tremendous spray of droplets, shaking his head twice to rid himself of the water in his face and eyes, then looks for the another sign of life.
Jane Foster's head breaches the top just after his does and almost immediately, she chokes and splutters loudly and thrashes about like a drowning bird that cannot take flight.
Content to leave her weaker constitution to deal with its troubles on its own, Loki concentrates on keeping afloat, until a flailing arm nearly hits him in the face. With an infuriated grunt, he raises his arms around her and hooks the curve of his elbow loosely around her neck to tilt it back and upwards as he tightens his fingers on her chin.
"Stay still, or I will let go of you completely."
Feeling somewhat mollified when her body goes slack immediately in obedience, Loki allows the fast-flowing current to do its work once again. By the time the rushing river quietens into a steady stream, he feels less exhausted and not a whit better. He waits for the gentle swell of a wave to lift them upwards, then uses the momentum of its energy to swing his way towards a gently-sloping bank with Jane Foster still in tow.
Panting hard with the effort, Loki drops her unceremoniously onto the pebbled ground and removes his arms off her. After seeing her stumble and fall onto her back on the riverbank, he simply collapses and does the same, staring up at the starless skies.