Moving on, is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard."
–Dave Mustaine
Natasha glared at Freyja suspiciously, "What are you doing here?"
Perhaps, Freyja thought suddenly, my question can wait.
"A pleasure to see you as well, Natasha," she sighed, intent on being polite regardless of the spy's tone. "Now, if you would be so kind as to excuse me-"
She tried to circle around the agent, but Natasha simply moved to block her.
"What are you doing here?" she repeated.
Well, if Natasha was going to push her…
"I am honestly beginning to lose my patience with you humans believing you can force me to answer your questions. I do not have to answer you and, quite frankly, I do not have to do anything you ask."
"We wouldn't ask so many questions if you were more open."
"Long ago, I learned three can keep a secret if two are dead. Need I remind you of the time you learned that very same lesson, daughter of Drakov?"
Natasha's eyes flared in anger as she snapped, "Stay out of my mind!"
"There is your mistake," Freyja said. "I am not looking into your mind. Do not blame me if you broadcast your past and thoughts into your aura. It is not as though I can ignore what is right before my eyes."
"You're not the only one who can read people," Natasha told her. "What is it that you want to ask so desperately?"
Freyja shrugged, "It can wait until your mood has lightened. As it is, I doubt you will enjoy the query."
"Spit it out, I don't have time to waste."
If Natasha wanted it so desperately, she would give her the question, "How do you live with yourself?"
"Excuse me?!"
Freyja shook her head, cursing herself for not taking into account the fact that the all-tongue spell only translated loosely, causing some of her sentences to seem harsher than she intended. She gave a sigh and tried to think of a better alternative.
"Allow me to rephrase that - your dialect and meaning is different than mine and my words often come out wrong," she explained. "You have the blood of many on your hands, far more death in your past than anyone should have to live with, and believe me when I say that I understand. You try to hide the guilt, but it is plain in your aura. My question to you is how do you overcome the guilt?"
"That's none of your business," she snarled.
"I simply request your advice on the topic."
"What do you have to regret?"
"What have I to regret?" she asked incredulously, laughing humorlessly. "You are not the only one to have…blood on your hands."
"You killed someone? According to Fury and Thor, you haven't killed so much as a mosquito. If you have anything to regret, it's your attachment to that monster you can't let go."
Freyja felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. Of course Thor wouldn't bring up Merek, as he had never thought of her actions as anything more than self-defense, but he didn't know about how many deaths she had caused indirectly. Thanos had murdered them, but it was Freyja who had practically handpicked the victims. But Natasha pointing out Loki and what he had done under Thanos's control? It was a cheap trick, a low blow, to bring up Loki. Before Freyja could retort, Natasha continued.
"How can you live with yourself, loving that psychotic murderer? He has killed hundreds, not caring how many families he tore apart in the process. He ruthlessly drove his army through New York, destroyed countless homes, tried to kill all of us. He tried to take over Earth, to enslave us. And yet you still sympathize with him."
"Don't you dare say a word against Loki!" Freyja yelled. "You claim he is a monster, and you a saint. Have you so much as taken a look in the mirror? Your very past is an epitaph to what you have buried deep so none can see. You have killed as many, if not more, men as Loki.
"But your hypocrisy extends past yourself and unto others. You attempt to drive me to guilt over loving Loki when your love for Clinton Barton is the same. Both of you were assassins, killing people for your superiors. You ask how I can love Loki; I ask how you can love a man who was to kill you. How many lives has your Clint taken? How can he love you when you have killed so many? Do not patronize me on choices of Loki's or mine when you are no different than the rest of us!"
With that, she shoved past Natasha irritably. She had told Steve that she hated hypocrites, and it was the truth. What right did any of these people have to judge her or anyone else on their choices? She hadn't intended to hurt the spy that deeply. But her anger was simmering under her control, and she needed an outlet.
Freyr would have been the perfect person to vent to. He had almost always been there for her, in ways only a brother could be. But he was dead. The one member of her family who had supported her, who had listened to everything she had to say, and he was gone forever.
Freyja wandered through the halls until she had reached the more populated area of the Triskelion. The outlet she was looking for came in the form of an empty room she had stumbled on by accident. In her attempt to dodge an agent who couldn't be seen behind the pile of papers he carried, she had ducked through a doorway and found herself exactly where she would have wanted to be.
The room was large, about three times the size of her borrowed chambers in the Avengers Tower, and barren except for the objects which lined the walls on opposite sides. On one end of the room, large foam targets shaped as both circles and people lined the wall in a straight row. The opposite wall was lined with shelves covered in various guns, magazines, bows, and quivers.
She smiled at her luck. Archery was something that had become a bit of a sport on Vanaheim, and was one of the few things Freyja could lose herself in. It was the easy rhythm created that did the trick. Her fingers trailed over the various bows, knowing that none would work just right.
A small incantation slipped through her lips, her palms facing up, as she visualized what she wanted. It appeared as a shimmering mirage at first, before solidifying into reality. The object in her hands was dusty from a millennium of not being so much as touched. At least it had been there, she thought in relief.
It was a bow of silver, created with both decorative and practical uses in mind. Most Vanir weapons were created to work efficiently as well as look appealing to the eye. Attractive and deadly – such was the style of the Vanir. This bow was crafted to look as if it was a multitude of vines wrapping around the curved trunk of a tree. She had treasured it greatly, as she had made it herself, and it carried countless precious memories.
She picked up a random quiver of steel arrows from the shelves and slung it over her shoulder, pulling one out at the same time. She nocked the arrow, drawing the string back until it was barely an inch away from her face. Aiming at the rounded target across from her, she loosed the arrow. It hit the center with a satisfying thud. She nocked two more, one after the other, and let them fly. Each one split through the former with ease.
She jumped at the sound of applause, turning to face the source of the noise. Once more, the first thing she saw was the startling eyes that sent fear spiking through her blood, and she nearly dropped her bow at the sight. But she soon controlled the ridiculous notion as she focused on the rest of his face.
"Sorry if I scared you," Clint Barton said, walking towards her slowly.
She watched, shocked, as he seemed to slink towards her in the same manner as the man whose eyes he shared. They walked in the same casual sort of swagger as though they had all the time in the world. It was startling how similar and yet, at the same time, so different they were.
"There is no reason to apologize," she said as politely as she could manage. "I must say, it is not often a person is able to sneak up on me."
"Do you scare easy, too?"
"I do not understand what you mean."
He shrugged, picking up a bow, "Never mind, it's nothing."
"Please, I would rather you address your questions and find the answers from me rather than speculation."
"Is there a reason you don't like me?"
She hesitated before answering, "I have not decided whether I like you or not. Why ask?"
"You're always welcoming to everyone, everyone except me. You seem to shy away from me, as if you're afraid of something, but I can never tell what. I just want to know why."
She sighed, lowering her bow, "Forgive me for my disrespect, I did not mean to isolate you. It is my fears that cause the difference in how I behave towards you."
"You're afraid of me?"
"Not specifically, no," she laughed. "It is not you that I fear. It is your eyes."
He raised his eyebrows, "My eyes?"
She laughed again but, this time, she actually sounded amused, "It sounds ridiculous, but allow me to explain. There was a man I knew long ago – although to call him a man is a stretch. He was a bloodthirsty, sadistic monster of a man, and he hunted me down twice in my life. Once, he succeeded in holding me captive for a month, inflicting what tortures pleased him for he, too, wanted answers, but also thirsted for my affections. It has been a little over a millennium since then, but he still haunts me."
"But what does this guy have to do with me?"
"You and he share the same eyes," she told him.
"As in we had similar eyes?" he asked as he nocked an arrow.
"As in you have the exact same eyes as he did: the same shape and hue. It is a strange enigma that startles me whenever I see them, for it shouldn't be possible, but here you are."
"You know," he said, allowing the arrow to fly towards the target, "I would never do anything to hurt you. I know I shot your ship down the first day you came, but that wasn't really by choice."
"Everything is by choice, even if a death threat hangs over your head," she said solemnly, thinking miserably about the prophecy that influenced her own choices. "But I will not hold it against you. And I trust you, Clint, it is myself I do not trust." – she stopped to examine his shot – "Steve told me you were an excellent shot. I must say, I am impressed."
He laughed, "That was nothing. There's not much of a challenge here, though, and I'm pretty sure you could say the same."
She smiled at that, "Perhaps not. In Vanaheim, we used to celebrate the new century with contests of magic, swordsmanship, and archery. I once had to shoot long range – perhaps nine hundred meters by your measurements – through two sets of metal bars as a challenge."
Clint gave an appreciative whistle, "How'd you do?"
She loosed an arrow, slicing through his first, "I missed the center by two fingers' width. I was frustrated for weeks afterwards."
He couldn't seem to help the grin he gave her, "Why? That must have been quite a success, just by hitting the target. I mean, the longest bow and arrow shot here was only made three years ago, and only hit about five hundred meters. You're talking nearly a thousand!"
"I was off by a little under an inch, by your measurements. It bothered me to get so close and yet be so far, it wounded my pride. I got over it eventually."
"Funny. You don't seem like the type to be prideful."
"Everyone has some degree of pride, after all, it is a universal characteristic. I have learned that pride can kill, so I try to keep my own in check."
He nodded, looking at her bow through the corner of his eyes, "That's not one of our bows."
"It is mine."
"You didn't have a bow when you came here," Clint said. "I would know since I helped catalogue your belongings and, if I had seen that beauty, I might have taken it for myself."
She laughed at that, before explaining, "Magic allows one to teleport relatively small objects from one place to another. I simply used it to bring my bow from Asgard."
"Is that how Loki was able to make armor appear and disappear whenever he wanted?"
"You mean like this?"
She turned to face him, silver armor shimmering into existence over her jeans and white blouse. When she was finished, she was wearing greaves, a chainmail skirt, a breastplate, vambraces, rerebraces, and a helmet shaped to look like a snarling wolf. All of it was silver and etched with strange, curling knot work and other symbols, with the exception of the helmet.
"Uh, yeah," he said, taken aback by the magic. "I thought Thor said you were a pacifist."
"My people were pacifist for religious reasons," she informed him. "But we were also renowned blacksmiths, creating about half of Asgard's weapons, shields, and armor. It was part of our treaty with Nidavellir, the Realm of the dwarves. I forged this armor myself in a wager against Thor."
The armor seemed to fade from view as she spoke, sent back to Asgard, Clint guessed. He didn't understand how it was possible, magically or otherwise. The last time he had tried to understand alien magic was when Thor and Jane were explaining how an elevator was capable of lifting Mjolnir when most people couldn't. He had given up any further explanation, except when he was answered with a simple 'magic'.
"What was the bet?"
"He believed, as I am against violence, that I could not create a weapon or armor that could hold its own against he and his hammer. He lost."
Clint laughed, "Do you gamble a lot?"
"Only when someone is being particularly ignorant," Freyja said with a smile.
"Is that often?"
"In Asgard? You have no idea," she chuckled. "Do not mistake me. I love Asgard and her people, but the Æsir, especially the men, have a terrible habit of underestimating my people. Because we do not fight, they think us incapable. Because we study, they see us as weak. Because we show mercy, they believe us unable to be cruel."
"That must be helpful, if push comes to shove."
"Personally, it is a nuisance. Sure, it allows us the element of surprise when necessary, but it opens the door for them to mock us. And, when we do lose our patience, they make us out as the villains. In some ways, your Earth is more progressive than Asgard."
"I wouldn't be too sure," he told her. "You've been here for what? A little over a week? And the files say that it's been a pretty long time since you were here last. You didn't see the wars broken out over religion and race, or the everyday prejudice against people just because of who they love. We may have made a lot of progress, but we've still got a long way to go."
"Ah, but that is what I love about humanity," she said. "No matter how much cruelty you see, there is always a majority who will work for a better future."
"Didn't your people do the same?"
She shrugged, "When you live for as long as I have, you tend to be a bit more cynical about things. We wasted our immortality. Humans tend to make the most of their time, regardless of how fleeting."
"So why don't you?" he asked. "You're still alive. Why don't you make the most of your life?"
"If only it was that easy…"
Her thoughts wandered to the prophecy once more. She had tried so hard not to think of it in the recent days, as it only seemed to grow more and more inescapable. Sure, she passed the running off as trying to keep dangerous knowledge from Thanos, but it was also to keep herself from falling prey to Renascentia. The great rebirth. What a pretty name for something so dark, she thought.
Clint was silent as he watched her. Her easy smile and humored expression had slowly fallen, replaced by a solemn mask. He had long since noticed that she used that same expression whenever something was troubling her. She might have been very good at hiding her thoughts, but Clint had learned from the best when it came to reading people, and he could see that something weighed heavy on her mind.
He knew that Fury wanted answers, but he wasn't an idiot. Clint was not going to force Freyja to give them what they wanted, particularly when Thor had made it very clear that an act against the Vanir was an act against him. And, if forced to choose between S.H.I.E.L.D. and his friend, Clint had no doubt in his mind that Thor would choose Freyja. So he was winning her trust, listening to what she offered him, and was silent when she didn't want to speak.
After a minute, he couldn't help but say, "Can I ask you a question? About Loki?"
She sighed, shaking her head almost imperceptibly as if to clear her head, "You may, just choose your words carefully or my next target will not be across the room."
He looked at her blankly, as if not entirely certain as to whether or not she was joking. It didn't help that her eyes didn't waver as she watched him.
She couldn't help but smile at his expression, "That was a joke. I know you laugh here on Earth, so don't take me as serious at all times."
"Oh…"
"You may ask me, but I do request that you refrain from judging Loki or myself for you truly know neither of us."
"Fair enough. Why Loki?"
"You're going to need to be a bit more specific," she told him.
"Well, I know you asked me not to judge but…he's just sort of…sadistic. He's done some pretty nasty things while here, and I don't just mean killing people. What do you see in him?"
"The first question of everyone on Earth, it seems," she muttered to herself. "I will tell you the same thing I told Steve: he was different then, exactly what I needed at the time. He has harbored so much hatred and grief in his heart since then that it was, I suppose, only a matter of time before someone used such emotions to manipulate him. But do not think for one second that I condone his actions here."
"Do you feel any different, now that you know what he did?"
"Must I defend my emotions in such a repetitive argument? I'm beginning to wonder whether it would be best simply to gather all of you and give my reasons before each one of you come to me individually and I must repeat myself uncountable times."
"We probably don't deserve your answers," Clint admitted. "But I just want to understand."
"How many has your Natasha killed?"
"She's not my Natasha," he answered quickly, the words so common that they might as well have been tattooed on his skin. "And I don't know, anyway."
"How many have you felled?"
He shrugged, playing off as blasé to keep from showing his own guilt, "I try not to keep count."
"Is it any different than Loki? Both you and Natasha have killed people, yet you both are companions. You both have been offered second chances."
He frowned, "What do you mean by 'companions'?"
"You may interpret it in any way that pleases you," she said dismissively. "Whatever you choose, my point is that actions often do not cause those with close ties to part. You can loathe someone's past and still love them."
"Hmm…Never thought of it like that…"
"Not many do until it is pointed out to them."
"So, I heard you're planning on leaving Earth soon."
"I refuse to stay and jeopardize the lives of your people. I would rather die than see another realm lost."
It was a half-truth, but she wasn't going to divulge her people's most protected secrets.
"I appreciate that," he said. "I wouldn't enjoy seeing the extinction of humans, either."
She laughed, "I suppose not."
"I hate to dredge up old memories, but Thor said you saw your home destroyed before your eyes."
When she spoke, the words were stiff and forced, "Your point?"
"What was it like?"
She pulled the bowstring further than she usually would have, taking out her grief on it as she forced her voice to remain steady, "Excrutiating."
And she let it go.
Freyja laid out the folded clothes that she had decided to take with her on the bed. She had decided she would leave the majority of Pepper's clothes, as she probably wouldn't return to Earth within the next century and who knew what would be inconspicuous at that point. One Midgardian outfit was enough, just in case she decided to drop in for a brief stay again. She would leave a few silver coins, from Alfheim, for everything Tony had given her.
She then shrugged off the jeans and blouse she wore and slid back into the ragged green tunic and leather pants. Silver coils of her energy wrapped around the outfit, restoring it to what it had once been. The colors were no longer pale and dull, the tears had vanished, but she knew she would never recover her fur-lined coat. Restoring color was simple, almost a parlor trick. But she could not restore something which had once been alive. She would have to buy a new one, just in case she went wandering through Jotunheim to throw off Thanos.
She then placed her personal belongings on the mattress as well, pulling the briefcase out from under the bed. Placing everything inside strategically, she created a six-inch space in the exact center of it. She could not leave the Tesseract in the hands of Odin. Not only did she not trust him, but it was her responsibility, not the Æsir's. And it would give Thanos less of a reason to attack Asgard. Uttering a spell, she found the Tesseract in her hands within two seconds.
A gasp escaped her lips as she held it, the power reaching out to her as it recognized the same energy in her, sending her memories of that she could only vaguely remember. It always reacted in such a way when she held it, as though the energy within possessed enough sentience to primitively interact with her. Her people had never been able to explain the phenomenon. Instinctively, she knew she would never fully understand its capabilities.
As for the moment, she allowed it to whisk her away, knowing it would end sooner if she didn't fight against it.
She was in the Infirmary of Caelum, the capitol city of Vanaheim. All of the cots were empty except for one, which held the thin body of a newborn Vanir, her aura tinged grey with a sickness Freyja could not name. The baby was decidedly not full Vanir as the shade of blue was too light, the hair silver beneath a hastily done concealment spell, the ears were slightly pointed near the top.
Across from the cot, her father stood speaking with the Healers.
"There is nothing that can be done for the child?" he demanded.
"My King," one of the Healers answered, "with all due respect, you brought us a babe who is already on Death's threshold. Had you brought her to us sooner, there might be an answer. But this is beyond our knowledge, and there may not be sufficient time to find a cure."
"There must be some spell, some incantation, which will bring her back."
"No one can be brought back from the dead, my King. You know this. Maybe it would help if you told us where you found her."
"I answered already: her mother had died during birth, leaving her with a woman who did not know how to care for her."
"But that is not a location."
Another of the Healers examined the baby while they spoke, "Your majesty, why does the babe bear the mark of the royal bloodline?"
Everyone crowded around then as the Healer gently opened one of the baby's eyes, revealing brown eyes that were definitely not a trait of the Vanir, and Freyja watched as her father remained where he stood. Around the baby's pupil was a ring of gold, the sign of the Vanaheim royal family."
"She is you child?" hissed the third Healer. "My King, what have you done?"
"Who was her mother?" the first asked. "No one of our people, as her traits are not all our own."
"It matters not who her mother is," her father snapped. "And you will speak not a word of this to anyone."
"If you are desperate to save her," the second Healer pointed out, "we could always use the Tesseract."
"The Tesseract?" her father repeated. "What do you know of it?"
"We know it has enough energy to sustain many lives, and possibly to power a spell which could alter the laws of space-time. It may save your daughter's life."
"Then do so," Njord said dismissively. "Do what you must. Call for me when you have finished."
Freyja pulled herself out of the memory, knowing exactly what it was. Not long after she had learned her mother was not Queen Van, she had found that she had been born gravely ill. Her father had taken her back to Vanaheim to save her but, given the uncertainty of her illness, there was only one thing they could do. There was a reason why she was so powerful. There was a reason her eyes, once brown and gold, were now so bright a blue.
She placed the Tesseract in the space that she had left empty and shut the briefcase. Though it was not ideal, she felt it was safer with her. If something ever arose, because she knew better than to believe that Asgard might remain entirely peaceful, she could rest assured that Odin would not deign to use it.
"Going somewhere, are we?"
The sound of Tony's voice made her jump in surprise. He was leaning against the doorframe, watching her carefully with a drink in his hand. She knew he had not been there until she had shut the briefcase, and so hadn't seen anything, a fact which allowed her to relax just a fraction. All he could have seen were the scattered clothes on her bed and her packed bag.
"I thought Fury said you weren't allowed to leave," he pointed out.
"Fury does not own me, nor can he instruct me on what to do."
"So, how are you planning to escape?"
"I will take my jet from the base and leave for wherever the winds take me."
He stopped mid-sip, "Problem."
"Solution," she answered sarcastically.
"How are you going to get past all of the agents and then get out, too?"
She laughed, "I am a sorceress, Tony. I believe making myself invisible is on my list of abilities. Besides, I have spent my life evading my enemies, many of whom possess magic, so I believe myself capable of outwitting a handful of agents."
"It would be stupid to try to escape alone."
"I will not drag anyone else into this. This is my cross to bear, as you humans say."
"Ever think about burning that cross to the ground?"
"Never realistically," Freyja admitted.
"Shame," he said. "You could do so much if you would stop running."
"I will not put the Nine Realms in danger simply because I wish for some form of peace."
"Ask yourself something," Tony challenged, stepping into the room. "Will it kill you to stay for a couple more days, just to make a better plan?"
"I suppose not…"
"Right. Even Star-Spangled Spandex will tell you that you need a better plan."
"Who?"
"Steve. What is it about him, by the way, that gets you talking?"
"He reminds me of someone I once knew and, when I speak, he understands."
"Hmm," he muttered, thinking about that for a second. "So, is it settled?"
"Three more days, at most," she sighed. "Then I will leave, one way or another."
Tony grinned broadly at that, "Deal."