Thor doesn't claim to fully understand the dimensions of space or the way it bends or how the constellations he stares at every day mark every transformative moment in Yggdrasil's growth. Yet as he stands at the expansive balcony of the royal palace, he's sure this faint but unsettling ripple that races through the air is such a moment.
Without second thought, he hefts Mjolnir and in a flash, finds himself at the observatory where Heimdall stations himself. After a frantic second of wild searching, he sees the guardian of the Bifrost standing stock-still at the far end of the bridge, the sheen in his golden eyes rivalling the glare of the very stars he guards.
He bellows his greeting. "Heimdall, what news?"
A pregnant pause ensues as Heimdall's eyes slowly circle the skies.
"Midgard trembles under a horde of demons, unleashed from the realm's fiery core. They torment its citizens."
Thor pales considerably under that pronouncement and whispers words of fortification for his Avengers. They cannot count on his presence today, especially not when a greater peril awaits Asgard. Earth's stalwart defenders, he thinks regretfully, must forge onwards on their own strength for a while. But he hopes that with their fortitude and ingenuity, they will yet prevail.
They must.
Then the implication of Heimdall's revelation rocks him to the core.
"Surtur has been freed," he breathes grimly, "and it is likely he searches for the All-father."
"Indeed."
"What more do you see?"
Hofuð's bronze cross-guard glints as Heimdall's fists tighten on its hilt. "Anarchy and chaos, my prince. I sense a great evil across the realms. But I cannot tell you what you seek. "
A worried frown crosses Thor's face, anxiety pushing him to restlessly pace the length of the observatory. "Is the enemy shielded from us as we speak?"
The guardian bows his head in regret. "Yes. I believe that-" He stops abruptly, the low timbre of voice changing as he suddenly twists and swings Hofuð out of its position in the observatory's only keyhole. The long, heavy sword comes to rest in his hands, raised in a position to strike. "Malekith, in league with the fire demon, now marches for Asgard a second time with the ranks of his loyal warriors by his side. His strength is undiminished and is once more, bolstered by Surtur's own. I have locked down the Asbru bridge, but I fear it will do little to stop him."
Thor feels a sudden tightening in his chest at the grave pronouncement. "And what of Surtur?"
"The fire demon will find his way to the All-father."
"So they come. For Asgard."
"So it would seem."
"How is this possible? You said this is an enemy that even you cannot see."
"I have no good reason for this vision. But for a fleeting moment, it was as though all veils were lifted and I could see a portion of the enemy's plans. It disappeared as quickly as it came, but it is enough."
"By the Norns," Thor replies heavily. As remarkable as this anomaly is, he seeks no further explanation for it. He is simply grateful for this warning. "There is no coincidence in the timing."
"No. I believe Malekith's first siege of Asgard was merely meant to ascertain the weakness of the Aesir. This time, he marches not only to divide, but to conquer and destroy. Rally the troops, my prince."
Thor clenches his weapon in his hand more tightly, absorbing the power of the elements that Mjolnir effortlessly sweeps into him. It's humming the tune of a coming battle, discordant and jarring in the hushed silence of the gilded observatory.
A ferocious smile crosses his face. "This is, as Tony Stark might say, the real thing."
Surprised confusion blazes temporarily in the guardian's face at his unusual choice of words. "It may be as you say," Heimdall concedes. "Let us call the soldiers forth in this last stand."
"Indeed," Thor murmurs as he raises the hammer high. "Asgard will not fall. Not if I have a hand in preventing it."
The circular walls of the observatory disappear from his sight as he streaks across the sprawling courtyards and its boulevards to ready the troops for battle.
What was that Midgardian term that he'd heard so often before their Avengers carelessly hurled themselves into a skirmish?
Showtime.
oOo
Jane finds herself restlessly pacing the hallways, alternating between looking out of the vistas that had once overawed her into inarticulate wonder and taking in the unnatural stillness that seems to have befallen the golden city.
In the short time that she has been here, she'd learned that there is always movement in Asgard, whether it's an ever-present wind that whispers through the leaves or a constant stream of footsteps that grind through the corridors.
The silence is a sudden, threatening change in the atmosphere.
At last it occurs to her that this peculiarity is eerily familiar, a reminder of a summer she spent with Erik in parts of rural Sweden when a bright afternoon had suddenly turned grey, cold and still. He had hurriedly ushered her into an underground chamber he'd fashioned for such occasions and she'd simply obeyed, listening breathlessly to his animated stories of ravaging cyclones that tore apart entire landscape as they waited out the rattling sounds of the intensifying weather. It was only later that she'd learnt hundreds perished in a hurricane that had whipped its way through Sweden's east coast.
As she squints out at the shimmering Asgardian landscape now, Jane recognises 2the calm before a storm.
"You might like to take a rest in your chambers, my dear. Your time in Svartalfheim has been trying and you will be shown the hospitality you have rightfully earned."
A voice rings out of nowhere and she whips around, startled by just how many people have actually come to the great hall.
Frigga, her handmaidens, Sif and the Warriors Three stand some distance behind her, but she hears the queen as clearly as though she'd spoken from her side. The tense cast on Frigga's features is far from reassuring despite her kind words to someone who shouldn't even be in Asgard.
"Thank you, your Majesty," she mumbles out of politeness, unable to keep her eyes off the horizon, still hoping somehow that she can catch a glimpse of Loki. "But I'd like to be here for now, if you don't mind."
A flash of red and gold materialises in her peripheral vision as soon as she finishes speaking. By the time she turns around, she sees Thor already surrounded by his friends. Hanging back for a while as they confer urgently in hushed tones, Jane quashes the feeling of insignificance and moves slowly towards them, catching only snatches of conversation – "Malekith comes"…"his weakness is his reliance on Surtur's strength"…"Heimdall's warning from the Bifrost" – that are probably not meant for her ears.
"Jane!" Thor interrupts the heated discussion and beckons to her. "How do you fare?"
Uncomfortable with the sudden attention that his loud exclamation is attracting, she waves weakly at him in response.
"I'm fine, Thor, thanks for asking." The seriousness doesn't leave his eyes however, and the coiled tension she sees in them worries her. "What's going on?"
"We prepare to march into battle," he tells her grimly.
"Son of a bitch," she breathes then tries not to clap a hand over her mouth. The expletive leaves her lips as a slip of the tongue and her ears begin to burn red in embarrassment after she receives a mix of curious and stern looks from the Aesir. This isn't over by a long shot, but hearing how soon it is she's going to find herself in the midst of yet another battle leaves her with both apprehensive disbelief and unexpected thrill.
"Sometimes war comes upon us all, even when we don't court it." It's Sif, the dark-haired goddess of war who answers as her own lips tilt minutely upwards at Jane's uncensored reaction to Thor's announcement.
Jane's mind races to play catch up. "How? Uh…when?"
"Loki." The name, uttered quietly from Frigga's lips, brings a sudden halt to the conversation.
She feels her heart skip a beat, hungry for anything that will provide news about him. What had the queen meant by that? Had she known all along where Loki was? Or was she pointing to his culpability in this pending battle or his-
Like her, Thor wants more out of the queen's ambivalent response. A barrage of questions follows as he unknowingly acts as her mouthpiece.
"What do you mean, Mother? Is he alive? Is this yet another one of Loki's nefarious deeds that you have foreseen?"
"No, my son. Loki lives," Frigga is quick to reassure him, but the slight frown forming tight lines on her face makes Jane thinks that she isn't revealing everything she knows. "The details are lost to me, but I know that Loki will be instrumental in this war."
Jane looks up in interest. Is this going to be an insight that the queen – famed for prophecies that she doesn't reveal – will finally make known to those around her?
"When is he not instrumental?" Fandral pipes in mockingly then turns his eyes down towards his boots when Thor shoots him a dirty look.
"Trust the queen's words, my friend," Hogun is quick to cut into what could be an entirely unnecessary brawl. "Although, I must agree wi-"
"Perhaps you three would fight better if you put your swords instead of your tongues to greater use," Sif interrupts flatly, then arches a brow at the startled look Thor gives her.
"Are we talking about Malekith?" Jane cuts in urgently, suddenly remembering what Loki has said about their weakness.
"Yes," Thor says cautiously, "but there is-"
Jane continues, ignoring the assessing looks from all but Frigga, who simply watches with a slight, knowing smile on her face. "Iron. Loads of it. It's their weakness. Possibly their only weakness," she amends.
"It is an unfamiliar element," Volstagg concedes.
"It's plentiful on Earth, I mean, on Midgard," she rushes on, "I was with Loki and when he regained his magic, he defeated them with some spell that brought all of them down in one go. Later he told me that they have a weakness to iron."
A short spell of doubtful silence greets that revelation. Jane blinks and waits, surprised that no one looks thrilled at the solution that Loki has already provided.
"The liesmith is unreliable," Volstagg scoffs.
"And unpredictable," Fandral pipes in.
Her exasperated sigh at their faultfinding ways manages to stop any further rumination on the subject. "Yeah well, shouldn't you guys be concentrating on defeating the enemy instead of quibbling over Loki's less-than-savoury traits?
"There are few of us who practice such sorcery. But only a mage like Loki can master the elements to conjure iron in vast amounts," Thor laments.
"I think the most glaring problem is that he isn't here," Sif points out the obvious. "But yes," she glances knowingly at the Warriors Three, "there are other considerations."
The rest is left unsaid, but Jane hears it as clearly as the words had been spoken.
Assuming he hasn't already turned on us. And even if he hasn't, can we even count on his help?
"Mother-"
"My son," Frigga interrupts, "There is little you can do now but fight."
"Yes, but-"
"So go, my King. And keep the faith."
The hardness in Thor's face softens slightly as he turns back to his friends. "We must leave now and prepare even as father sleeps." Sparing a quick look at Jane, he gives Frigga a last, beseeching look that he knows she cannot resist. "Midgard burns. It is no longer safe for her. Bring her somewhere-"
Burns?
"Wait, wait!" She cuts in, not caring in the least how impolite it must be to interrupt a royal conversation. "Earth burns?"
Thor purses his lips once in a hesitant grimace and that small motion alone warns her to expect the worst. "Yes. We face a greater foe than Malekith."
"What? I thought…how-"
"Surtur is a malevolent creature of fire, a force feared throughout the Nine. The Svartalfar are his allies and Malekith, his lieutenant. They work together to fulfil their own agendas and now, both will come for Asgard," he says sombrely. "But be assured that we will keep you safe here, Jane. As for Earth, we shall hope that your Avengers will work a miracle yet."
The revelation slams into her as though he had swung Mjolnir hard into her gut. There's too much to process, too little time. Thor speaks matter-of-factly about a shifting, cosmic balance of power when she's barely succeeding in translating myth into reality in terms she can comprehend. It's still taking a while to believe that here in Asgard, they're not just names on faded sheets of paper tucked into dusty book left in a forgotten corner of the library.
It takes a few moments for reality to reshape into a veritable nightmare as she remembers her friends and her forgotten lab back on Earth. Erik, Darcy…and the trailer in Puente Antiguo…everything that she holds dear in a place that she knows as home.
What is happening to them right now?
Jane wants to protest, but the words don't come. She is once again, helpless not by choice, but by nature, in this place where everything surpasses her knowledge and her physical strength. She's all too aware that her presence and her nonexistent military skills would be a hindrance rather than a help to Thor and his warriors.
What can she, a human being with an incomparably frail body do? And hadn't she proved herself incredibly inept at fighting? What is she but an insignificant spot in the tapestry of gods who have, for millennia, shaped the cosmos by their own hands?
In the light of this potentially apocalyptic event, her personal hopes and dreams are puny and inconsequential in comparison.
These past few weeks of impossible highs and close brushes with death have taught her that hard lesson.
But living in the moment does have its dubious advantages; the surge of adrenaline that's her constant companion has long obliterated any thoughts she might have had of a future that may not ever exist. There's every moment to cherish, to keep count of, in a way that science can never explain.
And Jane's keenly aware that she wants every second of it.
A swish of heavy fabric enters her line of sight. Frigga is stretching a hand out towards her with a slight nod of understanding, though there's something akin to compassion shining in her eyes. But then she speaks in a tone that brooks no argument.
"Come with me, my dear. We will join Eir in the healing houses and tend to the injured."
In that instant, Jane sees why Frigga commands the respect and reverence that she does in Asgard.
She follows the queen and her handmaidens in mute acquiescence, looking back only once to see the billow of Thor's cloak as he strides away with his friends.
oOo
Heimdall sees them across the Bifrost: a black, roiling sea of troops that cross the distance too quickly for his liking. Behind them, several sharp-edged destroyers that shatter everything in their wake loom behind the troops like the sharpened teeth of monsters.
The scent of newly-formed ashes fills the air and its foulness assaults his nostrils. Harsh voices speak over the din of the destroyer and in the chatter, Heimdall hears bloodlust speaking.
It is only the first strike.
But Heimdall already knows that the losses will be great.
Turning back, he sees the gleaming armour of the Aesir who stand in wait down the flanks of the city, stretching as far as the ordinary eye can see. In front of them, the acting King of Asgard holds the front line in check as the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif stand by his side.
He closes his eyes, reaching out into a forgotten dimension for an instrument fashioned out of Uru and the bleats of a hundred slaughtered rams. The delicately curved object materialises in his hands as weighty as Hofuð, slightly smaller but no less magnificent.
Gjallarhorn.
The horn that prophecy states, when blown, will signal the end of all things, a notion that troubles him greatly. It is said that it was last sounded at his birth, never to be heard again until the rightful time summons it back.
Perhaps it has returned for this very purpose, he thinks, as he winds the Gjallarhorn around his body.
Bringing it to his mouth, he takes a deep breath and blows.
oOo
As Gjallarhorn's resounds through all dimensions, Thor whirls Mjolnir until it becomes a blur to the eyes. The starry skies are instantaneously blanketed with thick, low clouds as criss-crossing flashes of lightning become the only source of illumination against the surge of darkness that rapidly encroaches.
A wise king never seeks out war, but he must always be ready for it.
The All-father's words, said so long ago, rings in Thor's head. He hadn't heeded that piece of wisdom up until the disastrous invasion of Jotunheim and his subsequent banishment to Midgard. But life as it seems, in the interim, has a strange way of changing the way he now thinks about kingship and power.
He stands on yet another cusp of war that he hasn't sought.
Yet sometimes, they seek you just as you look for peace. But I have no plans to die today, he thinks. So let it begin.
Thor turns around briefly, solemnly placing a fist over his chest as he faces the troops. Then he raises Mjolnir high and bellows, "For Asgard!"
The Asgardian soldiers echo his shout and then they disappear from sight as he launches himself into the air, past the first charge of the Svartalfar cavalry.
Thor lands straight in the middle of their serried rows with a shock wave that scatters its carefully formed ranks. Taking full advantage of their confusion, he jabs Mjolnir hard into the first dark elf that dares to cross his path, then moves to take out another with dizzying speed. More and more fall by his feet as he methodically works his way through them, clearing the path as much as he can to help the advancing Asgardian troops. He shrugs off two elves when they leap upon him, brings the hammer hard down on another's head, then dives away when he hears the familiar shouts of Sif and Hogun in combat.
All around him, the battle rages on. With every shriek and clash, more blood is spilt on Asgardian soil.
Suddenly, a long blade stops a Svartalfar weapon from going straight through his nose just as he hacks at a distraction from his blind spot. Canting his head towards his saviour, Thor grunts a word of thanks before he sees whose blade and shield have helped save his hide.
"Getting soft in your old-age, my Prince?" Sif raises an eyebrow at him then ducks away to battle another elf before he can answer.
A genuine bark of laughter escapes his lips, an unlikely tune in the disharmonious symphony of carnage. "I knew that-."
But before he can finish his sentence, the ground moves beneath his feet. The plain that he's on disintegrates into a cyclonic spin of black and red material that throws up bodies and loose weaponry like weightless ragdolls. The hurricane of destruction sweeps him up before Mjolnir can answer that abomination of nature and then he's flung far out to the edge of the battle by the sheer force of the winds.
Eventually he lands facedown with a hard thump, but even with the protective armour on, Thor fights just to get his breath back and to keep his vision from blacking out. Slowly, he rights himself and grunts out his pain, knowing more than a few bones have been fractured in that fall. There are larger bits of broken weaponry that are embedded in his exposed skin, but he spares little thought for these small injuries, already setting his sights on returning as quickly as he can.
Allowing Mjolnir to guide his trajectory, Thor lands directly in the hurricane's decimating path a short distance away. As battle-seasoned as he is, he has never experienced the rush of such malevolent power before, not even in the war that he'd brought upon Asgard when he thoughtlessly invaded Jotunheim. For all the time that he has spent by Odin's side in various skirmishes in the realms, none of them actually compares to the horror of what he's seeing now.
Fallen bodies litter the gilded pathways of the Realm Eternal, some of them cleaved in places that they shouldn't ever be. In fact, Thor mournfully notices that several of them are headless as they lie with their swords tightly gripped in their hands, frozen in mid-strike.
Deprived of a blazing send-off into the welcoming halls of Valhalla.
Tears of rage and helplessness turn his vision glassy. When had the Aesir become such easy pickings for the Svartalfar?
For once in his entire long life, Thor's unsure of the outcome, even as all of the Aesir appear to battle to their deaths. Without Loki at his side, he knows even less of their chances of victory.
But he will do all it takes to ensure that Asgard survives, that the Realm Eternal will not be ruined for eternity.
Blinking back his emotions, Thor charges into the heart of the hurricane.
oOo
Malekith's forces are more impressive than what Loki has come to expect. At least it seems that way from this vantage point as he silently observes the battle that rages around him with a mix of distaste and revulsion. Even though he has decided a while back that Asgard is no longer his home, he does not wish to see this beautiful place – or at least his memories of this place – so thoroughly tarnished.
This is merely a chain of events set in motion when you freed Surtur, a mocking voice in his head counters.
Hadn't he already known that?
With clenched fists, Loki watches as Heimdall leads an offensive against the second wave of the Svartalfar army. Further yet, he hears a cluster of worried voices and frenzied activity as the injured and the dying are brought into the healing rooms.
Jane.
Her presence flickers above the Aesir's cries.
He finds it strange that he's able to single her out among so many, but it's not a thought to which he wishes to give any weight. Instead, Loki forcibly fixes his attention on the horizon and sees no sign of Surtur.
The Asgardians are disappointingly easy pickings for Malekith, almost guaranteeing a straight path to victory for Surtur's access to Odin. Yet he feels far from triumphant; the destruction of Asgard isn't even a hollow victory that he can celebrate but neither does he think he will rejoice if Odin overcomes Surtur.
A storm brews above, angrier than he has ever seen in a while as the red cyclone tears apart the delicate grounds of Asgard. Bands of lighting streak across the dark sky with such luminescence that he needs to blink away its brightness as the growing wind whips his cape around him. He watches emotionlessly as Thor is flung a distance by the hurricane, then picks himself up irrepressibly…only to run straight back into the path of the whipping winds.
When will Thor ever learn to pick his battles more wisely?
Perhaps never, he thinks with a roll of his eyes.
With a gleeful smirk, Loki leaps into the air and allows his magic to pull him into the heart of the battle. He materialises uncloaked a calculated distance away from where Thor foolishly battles the hurricane, his daggers already in his hands. With a quick, muttered spell, the make of his knives change. They grow heavier, more clunky and less…polished than the lightweight yet resilient Asgardian metal that he's used to.
Inwardly scoffing at how poorly inferior Midgardian iron is and how disappointingly it lends itself to battle, Loki thrusts them hard into the bodies of the Svartalfar, watching them disintegrate with dark satisfaction. He sends more daggers flying out from his hands as they find their mark deep in the throats of the elves where their armour is the weakest, then recalls them back as he begins a fresh round of attack. Conjuring a few doubles, he leaves them to guard the fixed perimeter where no Svartalfar will cross.
The air shifts subtly as he weaves the disparate threads of magic together.
Immediately, he sees his efforts come to fruition. The shields and the swords of all the Asgardian warriors take on the darker, silvery tinge of iron and with each blow that rings out against the Svartalfar, the elven army is driven back slowly but surely as their forces weaken under the onslaught of that strange, Midgardian element.
Loki grins at the murmurs of confusion that flit through both sides of the battlefield. He teleports himself into another section of the plain and does the exact same thing, satisfied at how easily the tide turns.
It's all going to plan.
oOo
There is chaos everywhere.
Tucked in an unobtrusive corner of the city, the healing rooms have become Asgard's busiest place, the unlikeliest last line of defence that that keeps souls from passing into Valhalla. The gauzy screens that had once helped ensure the privacy of their wards, have all now been stripped in order to maximise the limited space. A utilitarian hall is all that remains, lined with cots arranged in straight rows and columns.
If the battlefield is a slaughterhouse, the healing rooms simply deal with the ghastly aftermath of the butchery. The floor is stained with the bright red of Asgardian blood, occasionally punctuated by the viscous black ooze of the Svartalfar. There's little use cleaning it up when the warriors do not stop coming, quickly outnumbering the number of healers who can cast their spells fast enough to knit both flesh and bone back together.
Doing everything she can to take her mind off the battle, Jane mindlessly does whatever Eir tells her to do as she helps tend to the scores of the injured. Again, she's a fish out of water, a nurse transported back in time onto the bloody battlefields of the American frontiers, rushing to aid the wounded with her inadequate hands.
She grabs a clean stack of linens, bends over slightly and presses it into the split ribs of a female warrior. Only when the bleeding is passably stemmed does she signal the healer beside her who hurriedly comes over to work the necessary healing spells.
And then it's onto the next. Rinse, lather and repeat.
It's Eir herself who comes over this time, murmuring an incantation that removes the corrosive dark magic burrowed deep in their stab wounds. Then she scurries away to tend to the next victim.
Jane busies herself with packing the wound of yet another warrior whose arm bleeds severely.
Maybe what she's doing isn't the most productive of actions, but at least she likes to think it's her own form of contribution to a war that makes victims of them all.
A loud cry from an injured Asgardian pierces the cacophony of sounds in the healing rooms. Pausing to wipe the beads of sweat on her face, Jane straightens at the unusual noise.
Is that…?
Having spent just minutes – or hours – in here, she recognises the sounds of numerous healing spells being muttered, of the anxious voices of the healers and the pained groans of the dying. There's a sinking feeling in her stomach that she cannot ignore when the distant clash of metal against metal echoes through the hallway.
Even these wards are not going to be spared.
Almost immediately, she hears a familiar voice shouting in the Asgardian tongue above the din.
Frigga is sweeping through the ranks of healers, blue and silver cirrus dust trailing in her wake – a diaphanous cloak of the finest magic that loops and dances around the injured warriors.
Jane is amazed to see the wounded disappear as soon as Frigga's spells touch them, leaving the healing chambers empty save for the queen, her shieldmaidens and a clueless mortal.
The injured have barely been magicked away when a long, thin sword materialises in Frigga's hands. A strange, white glow seems to shaft through her, casting a harsh contrast of darkness and light on her physical self and Jane thinks that her eyes have never looked more otherworldly...or eerily colourless.
If the legends speak of the Asgardian queen as a seiðrkona, or a fjölkunnigrkona…then what is Frigga really capable of if she's ranked the most powerful of the Aesir goddesses?
Jane takes a tentative step forward, her curiosity overriding her anxiety as the shieldmaidens take their places next to Frigga. Still, they stand a little distance away from the queen who stands alone in the front.
"For Asgard, my shieldmaidens."
Frigga's commanding voice drifts over to her as the heavy doors burst open, followed by a telltale glow of a shield snapping in place. Spell upon spell is chanted over the expansive shield, reinforcing its thickness and strength. But the Svartalfar are barely bothered by Asgardian magic, countering it with their own erosive ones until the veil of protection finally shimmers and disappears.
When that happens, Frigga's first swing of the blade beheads the first elf that it meets and neatly slices through the gaps in the armour of three others. They collapse into a soundless heap, sprawled on the ground as her sword flicks again to cut through another four. All around the queen, the shieldmaidens are similarly caught up in the fight, their movements matching one another's in a deadly twirl of well-rehearsed thrusts and parries.
The last elf crumples in a choked gurgle by Frigga's feet as silence descends upon the hall.
"Back into the darkness they must go," the queen murmurs and tucks the sword away the way Jane has seen Loki do. With a wave of her hand, the fallen elves are swallowed into a forgotten dimension, the battle-worn hardness in her features melting to give way to an anxiety that seems to pulsate from her narrowed eyes and furrowed brows. "It is time."
Jane puzzles over her cryptic words just as delicate, blue-grey plumes of a bird of prey replaces the sword in Frigga's hands. In a blink, the gossamer shroud of magic that had earlier girdled the wounded now encircles her. Instantly, Frigga's Aesir form morphs and bends before dissolving into the neutral colours of the chambers.
Except that it isn't nothing, Jane realises incredulously as an odd shape materialises in a shower of golden dust before her.
In place of where Frigga used to stand is a magnificent peregrine falcon tinted in overlapping colours of blue, grey and white.
What the hell is that th-
The gentle sweep of feathers at the tip of the falcon's wings brushes her cheek and Jane hears the words as clearly as though someone has spoken them aloud.
Stay safe in the meantime, dear Jane. I shall return.
"I-" She's at a loss for anything else to say as the bird leaps into the air and disappears out of the window, propelled by the first burst of the air currents circling above the healing stations.
oOo
Buoyed by Mjolnir, Thor allows the furious winds of the cyclone to carry him into its eye. He hits the ground hard when the wind currents still suddenly and finds himself locked in a tall, spherical bubble lit by an unseen source of red and yellow light that stings his eyes.
Abruptly, the bubble collapses into obscuring mist as the image of the Accursed one shimmers into being in his peripheral vision. In response, Mjolnir streaks into the image and falls straight through the illusion. It returns to his hands just as another illusion appears, reminiscent of Loki's games that had driven him countless times to exasperation.
Thor determines that he will not be played for a fool again. Not by Loki and certainly not by the Accursed one.
"I tire of your games, Malekith. Show yourself and let us end this once and for all!"
A chuckle echoes through the mist, everywhere and nowhere.
Son of Odin, we have barely just begun.
There's a strange tugging at his guts that makes him twist around. As soon as he does, horrified disbelief contorts his features as Jane steps out of the mist, a Svartalfar dagger protruding from her stomach. Her lips are bloodless and her face is scrunched up in agony, her hands grasping the hilt of the blade as she tries to pull it out of her body. She falls to her knees in front of him and he staggers backwards, crushed by the look of desperation on her face and the bloodied hands that she stretches out to him.
Please, won't you help me, Thor?
"No, you are an illusion," he whispers in shock, steeling himself against the onslaught of emotions that this image stirred in him. "A mere sleight of hand, a trick of the darkest magic. The Jane I know is safe." Thor raises Mjolnir, expecting it to pull him into the air and away from this wretched scene, but it is oddly heavy and unresponsive in his hand.
We will never be safe, brother.
"A mere sleight of hand," he repeats feverishly, holding onto this verbal anchor like it's his only lifeline.
The image of Jane is whisked away and replaced by a body so broken that Thor only recognises it by the clothes on it.
The plain, drab garments worn by Loki during his incarceration.
He gasps, the sound extraordinarily loud in his own ears.
Unable to help himself, he takes a shaky step closer, then wishes he didn't. The body is sliced from chest to hip, skin perfectly filleted from bones.
Asgard and all the realms will fall.
Loki's prone form dissolves into the All-father who lies in his sleep with both eyes hollowed out of its sockets. The gold tinge that surrounds his bed has long faded into grey as life and power leak out of the once-mighty Odin.
Its significance is not lost on him.
And then there are tears. There's also a sharp pounding in his head, a throbbing that drives away all attempts at reason. He pushes a hard fist into his temple and over his aching eyes, willing the hurt away.
Thor opens his eyes to see the form of Odin crumple into itself-
There's a brief moment of lucidity before images of his friends' ghastly faces slide past him in a myriad of illusions woven from most the heinous parts of his nightmares. They simply chip further away at his purpose and his failing grasp on reality.
Just earlier he was talking to them, standing by their side as they began the charge against the Svartalfar. Now he's forced to confront the fear that he will lose all of them…including himself.
Slowly, it's as though the time is reversed, rewound to play the worst moments he can ever remember in recent history. He sees himself as a boy again, full of lofty ambitions as he openly proclaims his abhorrence for the Jotnar. In the next second, he is a banished man who cannot hoist Mjolnir from the muddy ground. And in the next, he mourns a brother who he thinks he has lost to the void.
Moments that he wishes that could have turned out differently. Yet they pursue him relentlessly, until he lets go of Mjolnir to clap both hands over his eyes in a bid to black them out.
Only until he's worn ragged does a low, gravelly voice rings out mockingly from nowhere.
"There are such treasures to be found in your memories, son of Odin."
"No! Stop, please-," he whispers imploringly into the sudden silence, immobilised by the boundaries of the pervasive mist.
As soon as he speaks however, Thor feels a gentle, comforting brush against his face and he blinks through the wetness that obscures his sight. A small shadow flits high over his head and beats its wings urgently through the thick fog, a loud hunting cry issuing from its beak.
Mother.
Swiping hard at his eyes, he gets to his feet, not even recalling how he'd found himself on his knees, depending only on the blue-grey peregrine falcon that is his only defence at this critical moment. With each circle the falcon makes, he feels the cobwebs tearing away as though an impatient hand is thrust through their very centre and sweeping every last strand away.
She is the only illusion that Malekith hadn't managed to conjure. Not when she is so near.
Hefting Mjolnir, he moves, finally unencumbered by Accursed one's paralysing visions.
In these precious seconds where Malekith's magic is rendered impotent by the queen's own power, Thor lets Mjolnir loose in a trajectory that ends satisfyingly at the softest, most breakable point in the elf's neck.
oOo
Raw jubilation is followed by incredulous disbelief when the fall of the Svartalfar army heralds an impossible wall of fire that seems to advance from the distant horizon. The rapturous cheers fade into low murmurs that make fear a tangible entity as the Asgardian soldiers wrestle with the incomprehensibility of the extraordinary sight.
A hush falls over the vast, ruined plains and Loki takes the opportunity to retreat to his chosen vantage point where he will go unnoticed unless he chooses to reveal himself.
By contributing to the convenient fall of Malekith, he leaves Surtur a clear path to a sleeping king, where he expects that certain grievances will be aired in a very…public battle. And it'll be critical enough to reorder the balance of power in the cosmos, remake all allegiances and shatter the liminal spaces that separate dimensions.
And the newly-forged realms emerging from the dust and ashes will belong to him to rule as he sees fit.
That much Surtur has promised through a series of veiled threats, wheedling and persistent entreaties.
Loki smirks mirthlessly; it's not a thought that generates any excitement in him. In fact, it never had, except during a misguided time he spent under Thanos's stranglehold. They're nothing more than seductive entrapments, grander and more flamboyant, tailored to appeal to the vanity he will not deny exists in him. But without the delusions of grandeur driven only by Thanos's single-minded aims, he knows that his own plans had always been subtler, more cutting, entirely undecipherable by all but few – and specifically fashioned for the gullible.
In fact, he fully expects to be cast aside if Surtur subjugates all the realms under his thumb the moment the All-father no longer remains a standing obstacle. The only fascinating prospect of this pending duel is that there would be a number of unforeseen consequences for Asgard and the Nine, and one that he would be instrumental in orchestrating.
And he would have it no other way, especially if it means to be resolutely in control of his own senses and mind throughout it all.
A strange movement to his left scatters Loki's grim musings into the wind as he whips his eyes skyward. He sees a falcon circling the carnage as it deftly wings its way through the intermittent bolts of lightning still streaking across the dark sky, its unusual vocalisations somehow coalescing into a single, familiar sound.
Loki.
For a second time, that voice calls out his name.
He trains his eyes on the bird as it makes a swift, breathtaking dive in its descent, finally landing in a flutter of ruffled feathers on his pauldron. Its unusual markings on the underside of its body are its most defining characteristics and in an instant, he knows who has come to seek him.
"My queen," he says stoically as he looks at the majestic bird that eyes him calmly.
My son.
That familial relation is stated unequivocally, leaving no room for a rejection of that title.
Deigning not to answer, he swallows hard and turns his gaze back to the battle instead. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I know your heart, Loki. And I know that it has never lain with destruction. I know that you are more than what you want to make of yourself, or what others make of you.
"Then you know what I intend to do?" He demands more harshly than he intends. But in the presence of the woman whom he used to call Mother, Loki simply feels the rush of the turmoil that returns after he thought he'd managed to put away.
He cannot be himself when he is around her, not when all she had done was to wear him down with unremitting declarations of her love, her approval and her trust during his incarceration. Time and again, he wishes he knows why the smallest gesture from her has always had the power to make him question himself or why her opinion still matters when it shouldn't.
The falcon simply cocks its head in understanding.
I had always known, my son.
Loki looks at the bird with narrowed eyes. "So you hope to change it," he says softly as he turns back to face the fiery horizon. "Just as we all stand on the cusp of change."
Her troubled sigh is a slight flutter of feathers that gently displaces the air around him.
I cannot change what I don't know. From the very moment the fire demon broke free in Midgard, the future is all but obscured from my sight, only that change is certain and momentous. The All-father is defenceless in his sleep, Loki.
He merely arches a brow in challenge, unmoved by the abrupt plea he thinks he hears. "A fitting end, wouldn't you say?"
I cannot fault you for your resentment and anger, Loki. Were I to say that the All-father is blameless, I would turn us all into liars. I cannot ignore my duplicitous part in agreeing to hide your birthright from you and I know that our actions have sown many seeds of disharmony and destruction. And if I cannot convince you to alter your plans based on your connections to us, your family, then I will ask you to consider that the great rupture in all the dimensions of the known universe, should the All-father's life be taken by the might of Surtur, just as the Odin-force cannot be unleashed freely without its wielder to control it.
He shakes his head slowly. "So is that all that you're asking of me – to alter my plans for the greater good of the cosmos? I thought you knew me better than that, Mother."
Consider someone else, Loki.
"Who?"
He gasps involuntarily as the falcon sweeps the familiar grounds of the healing rooms into sight. Among the bodies and the healers, he only sees a lone figure who works tirelessly to preserve the lives of a people who aren't even her own. There's a worried, tense cast about her that clearly belies the anxiety she feels about the injured, an unspoken wide-eyed apprehension that he recognises all too well.
Jane Foster.
It's an imperfectly perfect vision that Loki distantly knows the queen is deliberately presenting; the mortal's cheek is smudged with dirt and blood and her hair in disarray from her labours, stirring up a thousand memories of a time he tries even now, to deliberately forget. Of a mistake that he should have known better than to have made.
A knowing voice slips into his mind as he hungrily peruses the scene for details he might have missed.
The falcon flaps its wings once.
Do you know, that she hasn't stopped asking or talking about you from the moment Thor found her on the Asbru bridge?
He isn't so foolish as to think that her anxiety is spent for him alone.
"This is where you think more of me than you should, Mother," Loki bites out with a harsh emphasis on the last word. "I simply tire of the mortal."
The short, sharp vocalisation of the falcon strangely enough, seems to come out as a tinkle of laughter that he doesn't expect.
Whatever I had foreseen of your time in Svartalfheim, I could never have foreseen this. Jane Foster is safe, Loki. You have seen to her safety by bringing her back to Asgard. It was a wise choice and she would be better protected here than she would be in Midgard, for now.
He finds that he cannot tear his eyes off the scene in the healing chambers. "Perhaps."
There exists yet, a place for both of you.
"What is that supposed to mean?" He cuts in sharply as the Frigga's enchantment is replaced by his view of the battlefield and the burning horizon.
You're my son, Loki but many times I think I know you better than you know yourself.
"Do you?" He counters stiffly and meets the falcon's unflinching gaze that burns into his own green one. "Haven't you known me to do what I want, no matter the cost? I was born out of discord and lies and they'll be the last things that I will sow." There is a hollow ring to those words as soon as he says them, but he will not back down now. "Because even gods can die."
The bird ruffles its feathers once again, looking remarkably as though it's expressing an impossible mix of loving exasperation and sharp determination.
The Liesmith can fool many, Loki Odinson, but you have never been able to fool your mother. You will not be lost to me, Loki, because I will not allow it. If you choose to forget everything, only remember this. Remember that there are those who will always love you as you are, and I do not just speak of myself. Let this be your guide.
With a loud screech, the falcon takes to the sky once again, leaving him more troubled than when he first began.
oOo
The distance from the healing rooms to the palace is short and Jane finds herself ushered by a line of shieldmaidens down the same long hallway that she used on her way here. Somewhere along the way, the queen joins them again.
The ground itself – the very foundations of Asgard – is now trembling beneath her feet, like the slight tremors of an earthquake she has only felt once in her entire life on a research fieldtrip to Alaska. Her hands are clammy and her heart's pounding hard as she struggles to keep her feet firmly planted on the uneven floor.
It's also strangely warm, so unlike the comfortable, cool temperatures of mid-spring that seem to characterise Asgardian weather for the short time she's been here. She's soaked to the skin in sweat and she swipes her limp hair impatiently out of her eyes as her feet unconsciously take her to where there's a clear view of the vistas and plains.
Her jaw drops when she catches sight of the horizon.
Asgard is tinged an unnatural red, as though a stifling cloud of heat has descended over its clear skies. There's a massive, towering wall of flames stretching from ground to sky in the distance, forcing the sea's agitated waves to crash against the shore in massive, explosive bursts of water.
Jane blinks rapidly to make sure she isn't imagining any of it.
She isn't.
The fire isn't quenched by the great sea that encircles the city; it's consuming it with its unstoppable thirst.
"Oh my god."
Plumes of thick, black smoke are following in the wake of the fire, erasing the wondrous skyline into faint outlines and desaturating the crimson landscape a dull monochrome.
Asgard is burning, just as Earth burns.
The heat is clawing up her skin and up her neck in a choking hold. Her breaths are laboured and Jane starts counting the seconds before breathable air runs out.
The world abruptly narrows down to a colossal, thousand-foot presence that scorches every inch of ground in a fifty-foot radius, so large that its form cannot be taken in from where she stands. A long, thin cord-like thing whips through the air and powders the debris of the battle, its reach sweeping far out to shatter the outer battlements of-
No, no…
Jane dives out of the way of its path, slamming hard onto her shoulder and knees as she hits the ground hard with a bone-shattering crack.
From a distance, she hears an enraged shout as a shield – translucent and luminous in its protective magic – goes up before her eyes but it comes a nanosecond too late.
It's a tail – a goddamned, gargantuan tail – she realises in frozen disbelief as she fights off the waves of eye-watering pain. A prehensile thing that's attached to the being that the Aesir talk about with reverent horror.
All around her, the Aesir are scattering as fragments of crumbling Asgardian architecture fly in all directions as those who defended Asgard from Malekith's army now find themselves completely helpless when faced with an undefeatable force of a primeval element.
Dragging herself into a small nook for shelter, Jane takes a moment to steady her uneven breathing. But the temperature continues to rise until it's as though the walls themselves are aflame. Her Aesir cloak gives her little defence against the heat. It's better at keeping her warm than cool and now, it's simply drenching her further in perspiration.
She shrugs it off unthinkingly.
Jane counts to ten, then stumbles out again, heading towards Frigga's circle of protection, looking up to see the Aesir already within gesturing frantically to her. Rolling again as Surtur's tail makes a second sweep of the place, she barely avoids the crack in the ground that widens to become a deep, gaping chasm. The next vibration tearing through the ground convinces her that it would be easier to stay in a crawl, so she does just that, moving by the excruciating inch toward the boundaries of the flickering shield.
God, the pain…
A flaming sword joins the tail but is stopped mid-swing by a tiny spinning speck of dark red and silver in the air that hits Surtur squarely in the chest.
Uru meets fire and twilight in a glowing white ball of sparks, smoke and disintegrating metal.
Thor is flung straight to the ground after the brief clash and Jane scrambles onto her knees just enough to make out that he's bleeding from the side of his head, dishevelled and blackened with soot but thankfully, very much alive.
A blast of magic from Surtur, like a casual afterthought, keeps him writhing and incapacitated on the ground.
Son of Odin, you underestimate me.
Jane hears the voice of a thousand cackling flames in her head as clearly as though it had been spoken into her ear.
"You underestimate Asgard," Thor roars in fury and rights himself in a stubborn gesture of defiance, readying for a second blow as Mjolnir spins to a blur on its fulcrum and takes him back into the air in one continuous movement.
Surtur's tail whips itself around his body and Thor once again crashes to the ground. Again and again it happens, until it becomes painfully clear that she's witnessing the twisted tale of a heroic David who loses against an undefeatable Goliath. His last fall is particularly violent and her scream is lost in the thunderous roar that Surtur's sword makes as its sharp tip scythes through the thickening smoke. It smashes into the ground, deepening, widening the fissures made by the tremors.
A column of flame bursts upwards and makes a restless whirl in the air before it settles into a semblance of an inferno wrapped within the figure of a faceless giant. Behind it, the curtain of fire reappears and spreads until its base spans as far as the eye can fathom, snapping and hissing its discontent in sounds and cackles that only its master understands.
Shit.
Several hundred metres to her left, Jane can barely make out the unmoving figure of the exhausted god of thunder. Behind her is the shield of Frigga that's no longer within her line of sight. There isn't any way she can reach anyone when all around her is heat, smoke and flames-
"You underestimate me, demon."
Thor's words are repeated in a stronger, more commanding voice of another as the oppressive air lifts in a sudden, palpable shift. The blurred edges visible in the fog sharpen under a golden hue that flows from a source that Jane can't make out. But she simply concentrates on breathing, gulping in mouthfuls of oxygen that her lungs are demanding.
The fog finally clears to reveal a writhing demon encased in an immense, cylindrical column of gold and white. Red flames twist, warp and wind over the rush of light, pushing against this caging force.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jane sees the flash of a golden spear, followed by the unmoving figure of the All-father. All around her, there's a collective rush of relief and joy from the Aesir at the reappearance of their King.
Yet even this celebration is short-lived, as Odin's outstretched hands are trembling badly with the effort of keeping the long column steady. The All-father is hemming in the fire demon, she realises, harnessing the Odin-Force that lies all around them to bind Surtur's hands and feet.
But Odin's efforts are tiring him too quickly. More quickly than it should for one who has just emerged from the healing sleep.
Jane watches in horror as his arms fall limply to his side, stumbling as he clutches his heart. The glow around him dims the same moment that the crimson fire burns over the boundaries of its cylindrical restraint.
Fire bursts out with obliterating force, each lick of flame separating into a slew of tiny, fire demons rushing outward in a ferocious motion-
Only to be met with a fortifying wall of cool, green and gold light that pulverises every one that collides into it. In the chaos, a fully-armoured, horned figure cuts into the fire's advancing path, replicating so rapidly until there are doubles of him everywhere closing the perimeter, restraining Surtur within this boundary.
Jane's jaw comes unhinged at the sight as she struggles to reconcile what she sees with what she's feeling.
Loki.
He's throwing his knives in all directions as he whirls and leaps to dodge their mad attack, a deadly dance that's oddly reminiscent of a martial artist's calculated steps as his blades tear through – decimating – the tiny, flying fiends. The doubles do the same, yet even they, like him, aren't spared the demons' bites as they singe him in places where his knives don't reach.
An indeterminate time seems to pass by as he barely holds them at bay even with the immense power and magic he commands. From where she is, Jane sees his concentration etching deep lines in his face that's made paler in the blinding light.
Loki stumbles, caught finally by a newly forged stream of flying demons that release a scorching blast straight into his chest and side.
"Loki!"
Jane's heart leaps into her throat as her shout is echoed by a roar that comes from her left. She turns around painfully to see Thor whipping Mjolnir into a spinning pinwheel.
The hammer runs into the shield and boomerangs straight back into Thor's hands without making a dent.
Nothing can get out of Loki's shield, just as nothing can get through it.
An unearthly blue tinge covers his skin and Jane gasps as she sees his eyes bleed red. Just like in Svartalfheim when his magic had been returned to him-
There isn't time to contemplate this recurrence as Loki conjures a small, box-like object tinted blue by the dark, inky swirls that rise from its unfathomable depths.
It matches the colour of his skin, Jane realises, deepening in its hue just as his skin shimmers cobalt.
He thrusts it out, releasing a storm of the harshest winter within the space of his shield, scattering the hordes of fiends into nothing.
The ancient fire sputters, then seethes again, unquenched by the intense cold. It surges through the cloudburst of ice, propelling the incapacitating cold back into its originating source.
The combined blasts of power tosses him into the air, dissolving his carefully-erected shield. Like Thor before him, Loki finally hits the ground hard and stays deathly still.
That terrifying sight is making Jane move out of instinct, bringing back a flood of memories borne out of their shared time in Svartalfheim. There's fear too great to ignore when she realises that she's has never seen him this way before, not even in Svartalfheim when he was rendered powerless by his restraints.
She tries to get to him, then cries out with the pain that wrecks her fractured shoulders and knees.
Focus, Jane! Think!
Yet there is little that Jane's considering about the sanity of her own actions, merely obeying the instinct that has her reaching out to him and not to Thor as she would have done just two weeks ago.
All she knows is that she wants to get to him. And she'll only ask why much, much later.
Jane puts another shaky step past the first, determined to bridge that distance. A shudder works into her frame. Her throat is hoarse from the incoherent shouts that she dimly realises are actually coming from her-
She makes it halfway there before her own limbs falter, ignoring the chagrined shouts of Frigga and whoever is watching the spectacle. Dropping to her knees a distance away, she barely feels them scrape against the rough ground as she sees that Loki's truly out cold. His pale colouring has returned but blood is flowing from the sides of his head, visible even through the small spaces of his helmet. The small, boxy object that he wielded is nowhere in sight.
Noise is all around, Jane realises, as soon as the roaring in her ears fade a little. Sounds of enraged shouts, flutters of shock, uncertain murmurs register on her overheated senses…amidst the awful swishes of fire rapidly reassembling, rebuilding itself into an impenetrable wall.
A shockwave like a crackling electrical charge, rips through the air in response. It knocks her sideways, whipping her hair into her face and then there's light so bright that she's forced to close her eyes-
She stubbornly blinks them open again to see the All-father standing in front of Surtur, Gungnir gripped tightly in his hand. Ragged, bruised and worn from the initial skirmish, there's still an undeniable air of majesty and power radiating from him.
Somehow, it's alive and so different from anything that her senses can neatly classify or categorise…like a thousand insects that crawl over her skin, raising the fine hairs on her neck, its strange, permeating scent of ash and stardust settling all over her-
Odin stalks forward and hurls Gungnir into the wall of flame.
But the fireworks and the quakes and whatever else she expects do not come this time.
Instead, there's only a thin, long line of vapour that is left of both gods, already dissipating in the light of the breaking dawn.
"That one too is numbered among the Æsir whom some call the slanderer of the Æsir and originator of deceptions and a stain of the Æsir and humans. His name is Loki or Lopt, son of the giant Farbauti. Laufey or Nál is his mother and his brothers are Byleistr and Helblindi. Loki is fair and handsome in appearance, bad of mind, very changeable in his ways. He had that form of wisdom beyond other men, which is called cunning, and he uses tricks in everything. He constantly brought the Æsir into great difficulty, and often rescued them with deceits." – Snorri Sturluson, Gylfaginning, Chapter 33
A/N: That paragraph above is pretty much my inspiration for the character of Loki and I thought it appropriate to include that here.
Some explanation of the battle: I've taken quite a bit of liberties and creative license in this chapter. Surtr in the original mythology, is actually a Jötunn. He's instrumental in the events of Ragnarök - the end of all things - and is pretty much the inspiration for Marvel's Surtur.
I didn't want Ragnarök to happen in this story (somehow I thought it was way too epic for it) so there're several elements deliberately missing from it - such as the Sword of Twilight or the Eternal Flame. What you're reading about Surtur/the battle in Asgard is based on several sources that I cobbled together, including the Marvel universe; it's written so that Asgard survives and by extension, so do all the other Realms, but the balance of power in the cosmos has shifted with Odin (temporarily?) out of the picture.
Thanks again for reading and reviewing!