Songs in Chapter 3:
Mary had a Little Lamb by Stevie Ray Vaughan
The Parting Glass by the Wailin' Jennys
Because of You by Kelly Clarkson
Strange Fruit by Billie Holiday
Nothing but the Water by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
Spirit Horse by Sea Wolf
Kiss with a Fist by Florence + The Machine
Fur Elise by Beethoven
Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven
Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin
1000 by Venissa Carlton
Chapter 3: Made Over
When Ellie opens her eyes she's disappointed to see that it wasn't all just a terrible dream.
She was really, really counting on this all being a terrible and bizarre dream.
The first thing she takes in is Loki, studying her critically mere inches from her face. She sits up, surprised to find herself on top of the covers of a neatly made bed in a small but beautifully furnished bedroom. He sits perched on the edge of the mattress, looking bored. She thinks about scooting away from him but refrains, knowing that it would only give him some sick, twisted form of pleasure.
"You are truly a weakling to succumb to your injuries so quickly," Loki comments.
"You hit me."
"It was barely a tap."
Ellie sighs and leans back against the headboard.
"I failed to anticipate the speed of your fall," he murmurs. "Your head smacking against the floor proved your undoing."
Her fingers find the lump on the back of her skull, in the very spot he had a grip on her hair, and her eyes narrow.
With a sigh Loki grabs something off the bedside table and moves closer, his arm coming around her. She tenses, startled by his proximity. A shiver runs through her body as he holds an ice pack against the back of her head.
"And for your hand," he says, handing her another.
She studies it for a long moment, wary of him still, before grabbing it and settling the ice over her swollen knuckles. She nods in thanks, but remains silent.
"And for your cheek."
She snorts and shakes her head. The ice pack situation is getting ridiculous so she'll just deal with this bruise later.
The madness so prevalent in his blue eyes when he hit her is absent now, replaced by a sort of quiet confusion. Ellie resolves to do nothing to bring out the crazy again.
"Do aliens often attempt to take over Midgard?" he asks.
She raises an eyebrow. He's lost her again.
"This realm," he corrects. "Do aliens often attempt to take over this realm?"
A hint of a smile graces her lips and she just shrugs.
It doesn't seem necessary to explain the reference a reassuring plot device in American pop culture when it was this same thing that to caused him enough anger to smack her unconscious.
"You prefer not to speak," he says quietly, as if he is reminding himself of this fact. Her smile becomes a little more pronounced.
They sit in silence for a several minutes. He continues to hold the ice pack to her head until she remembers what it was like to be in his arms, the pleasurable part, not the scary as fuck part. It's too uncomfortable, and she reaches up to take the pack herself. Their fingers brush and Ellie almost blushes.
Loki looks away.
"Surely you must be wondering of your purpose here, at the start of my new regime," he says, getting up to pace in the small space at the foot of the bed. Her eyes follow his movements but she remains silent. "Or perhaps it is obvious."
He looks at her then, pausing his somewhat frantic movements. She gives him one slow shake of the head and the pacing continues.
Nothing about the man or god or whatever before her is even remotely obvious.
"Very slow intellectually, you Midgardians," he mutters under his breath.
Ellie rolls her eyes, knowing full well that he isn't looking at her in this moment.
Give him nothing that matters, she reminds herself. He can insult humankind all he wants. What's it to her?
"I have not the time to indulge in life's pleasure." At her sharp little intake of breath Loki looks at her again. Her eyes are wide and terrified once more. "Foolish girl," he admonishes. "I do not speak of carnal pleasures. Now that you have given me your truth what other possible reason could I have for sullying myself in your disgusting, mortal flesh? If you even are mortal. I'm still not convinced on that point."
Ellie doesn't know whether to be relieved or offended. She settles on confused.
"You keep saying that," she says. He looks a little taken aback to hear her speak. "You don't think I'm a human?" The notion is absurd to her, but this has been a running theme during her time with Loki from the very beginning. "Why don't you think I'm human?"
What else could she possibly be?
An alien. Like him.
She feels sick.
"I have my reasons," he says, being cryptic as ever. "I know you think yourself a simple mortal but your voice gives you away. The beauty and quality of your tone is beyond the possible natural ability of a Midgardian."
She actually gives him a smile, a real, true smile. Occasionally he says some pretty great things, even if he is a fucking lunatic who has been smacking her around.
A lunatic because he doesn't think she's human. Of course she's a human.
Every time she sees him, Ellie ends up sore.
"How is it that you've managed to distract me from my original message?" he asks her, cocking his head to the side as he studies her. In this moment he looks just as perplexed as she feels. She shifts, uncomfortable under his gaze, and the pacing resumes once more. "I was once a very devoted follower of the arts, and you will provide this for me. You will sing."
She stares at him blankly.
Surely he isn't telling her that he assaulted her band mate, slapped her twice, almost broke her hand, and nearly forced a man to commit suicide all for her voice.
"Do you hear me, Eleanor?" he asks. She nods and squints at him. "You will sing."
"That's… it?" she asks finally, still attempting to get her head around all this.
Aliens exist. There are other "realms" out there, one called Asgard, whatever that means. Powers beyond her wildest dreams have been endowed to one called Loki, and he intends to use it to rule Earth.
And he simply wants her to sing. It's her favorite thing to do in the world, as easy and necessary as breathing. It's her passion and her life's singular joy and the bizarre being wants her to do it.
That's it. He wants her to do the one thing she loves.
And he is capable of magical, wicked things.
Rather unbelievable, but she remembers the blood tricking down the man's neck into his pajamas from the spot left by the knife he held himself. She remembers his grunt of pain combined with his calm, impassive face and that haunting glowing gaze.
"For now," Loki murmurs. "In due time the whole world will hear your voice. Important beings will recognize you in an instant, and you will be mine. Appealing, isn't it?"
He promises fame, a place in his new world order, and the opportunity to be his trained monkey.
"Horrifying," Ellie corrects.
"Pardon?"
"I can literally not think of anything worse than the whole world hearing me sing," she says. "The thought of the whole world knowing I exist at all makes me feel sick."
Also that bit about belonging to him is obviously not going to fly, but she is smart enough to keep her mouth shut on that point.
Loki's eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. They spend a moment staring at each other until he abruptly turns on his heel and exits the room.
His sudden departure leaves her stunned for a moment, and she braces herself for his return, fully expecting him to storm in and slap her and yell at her and forbid her from cursing.
After ten minutes Ellie finally allows her body to relax. This proves to be a mistake. As the adrenalin leaves her system, everything seems to hit her all at once. Her hand hurts, her head aches, and a megalomaniac demigod has plans that involve her singing to the entire world.
Ellie tips over, goes fetal, and sobs into the soft pillow he provided for her.
She misses the numb.
Despite all he has witnessed, all he has learned in the last year, old habits he did not even know existed emerge in this moment of confusion, and Loki's first instinct upon slamming out of Eleanor's small room is to track down his false older brother.
Is this something he did in the past? It must be. Why else would such an unpleasant urge besiege him now?
This impulse only serves to further irritate him, and he mumbles violently under his breath as he makes the short journey to his own chambers.
It is good luck that he doesn't happen upon any of his subject in the mood he's currently in. He's feeling particularly murderous, and he cannot afford to lose any people at this stage. He is just establishing his power base, and needless slaughtering would not benefit his cause.
Although things are coming together, he must wait to retrieve the tessaract.
The greatest power source the universe has ever seen is essentially useless to him if he cannot manage to construct the portal.
He slams the door to his chamber shut, scowling as the cheap building materials of Midgard creak with strain.
This is the second time in as many visits to Midgard that Loki has felt the pull to seek out Thor. Although the memories are a jumbled, disjointed haze, Loki recalls his oaf of a false sibling being useless in terms of counsel, but always amenable to provide a good distraction from Loki's woes, be the entertainment intentional or not.
Above all Loki seeks recognition and exultation. What he will achieve through sheer power and superiority Eleanor could attain with ease will her voice, yet she rejects the notion entirely.
After Loki's strange night discovering Eleanor Tate he also felt the urge to speak with the man who he was raised to call brother.
For the thousandth time since finding her, Loki questions the wisdom of seeking her out again, of keeping her near. Although her capture certainly went according to plan, he remains slightly unsure what to do with her now that she's here.
Nothing that comes out of her mouth is expected nor is she the quivering mass of fear and devotion and submission he was anticipating. Loki sees that he scares her, but despite her silence it feels as though she defies him. Moments that should be glorious conquests of her crushed spirit do not feel like such.
How could acclaim and respect repulse her so?
Not that Thor would be much help in this matter anyway. He remains woefully ignorant to the subtleties to the gentler sex. Who can blame him, the way basically every female, be they mortal or no, throws themselves at him.
Loki believes this to be truth anyway. There are blurred over sections of his mind when it comes to his past, only his hatred proves sharp and real.
Yes, through the fog he decides that females often thrust themselves upon her false brother, ignoring Loki entirely.
But Eleanor chose Loki. It does not feel as though anyone ever chose him in such a matter. Why would they, when the Golden God was always near at hand?
Why is he even wasting thought on this topic? What transpired between Eleanor Tate and himself upon their meeting will stay firmly in the past, never to reoccur.
He doesn't need her or want her for anything other than the wholly remarkable voice of hers.
It will bring him sleep, serve to distract him from the fog and the horrors plaguing lucking in the shadows of his mind.
She cringes at the thought of recognition, of her talents being universally heard and lauded. This above all else he does not understand. How can a creature of such talent crave anonymity?
He would have the whole realm bow at his feet while she would keep to dark basements, hiding herself away from her full potential.
No matter. It's not like she will be given the choice when time comes.
Still, nearly every word she utters is unexpected and baffling. He struggles to decode her facial expressions, save for what he sees in her eyes and the movement of her head.
Sighing heavily, Loki allows his Midgardian rags to disappear from his frame as he makes his way towards his washroom. He collected the girl under the assumption that her voice would help him relax, help him sleep, but so far the opposite has proved true.
Sleep has long eluded him, but he cannot afford to go without, not now that everything is falling into place. When he closes his eyes he sees things he'd rather forget. Eleanor Tate is supposed to serve as a great distraction, giving him a few moments peace.
He bathes, taking his time and attempting to focus his priorities. The chill in the water goes unnoticed, but eventually he hauls his weary bones out of the tub and to his large bed.
As has become the norm, sleep proves impossible, and after several hours he gives up, summoning Eleanor Tate to his chambers.
She stumbles in a few moments later, looking rumpled and sleepy. She wears the same ridiculous clothes and he must remember to instruct her to wear the garments stocked in her rooms.
She stands at the foot of his bed, regarding him with wary red eyes. She looks swollen, as if she's been crying. The thought has his lips twisting into a smile, pleased that he is affecting her in this way. Already he's determined that she loathes this particular smile. He vows to do it more often.
She just stands there, hands in her pockets, staring down at him as if she truly questions his sanity. This time he's determined to wait her out. She will speak first.
He remains languishing in bed, sheet around his waist, chest bare. The critical way her eyes run over his body makes him uncomfortable, but she would never know it as he keeps on smiling.
"Are you naked?" she finally asks, scowling at him.
"Yes. Does this displease you?"
She shrugs.
"As I said before you are not here to provide carnal pleasure. Now sing."
She raises an elegant eyebrow, crosses her arms over her chest, and pierces him with that unsettling blue stare of her. The color is so like that of his subjects, but clearer and all her own.
"Sing!" he demands, making her jump.
She looks around, searching out something. He growls in frustration.
"What part of this is unclear, you stupid quim?" he says, spitting his words at her. "I've heard you do it before. What is the cause of this irritating hesitation? Look at me, damn you!"
She does as she's told, stopping her search.
"What do you seek?"
"You just want me to sing?" she asks. "Just like that? There isn't an instrument or something?"
He blinks, once again not anticipating her words. He was apparently wrong to expect some form of resistance from her and there is nothing more loathsome then that head of hers remaining closed, preventing him from understanding her.
"I wasn't unaware you required instruments to sing. What do you play?" he asks, calming slightly.
"You name it, I play it," she replies.
"What are you saying?" he mutters to himself, irritated by her strange speech patterns. "That you play all instruments."
"Pretty much."
"Further proof that you are not what you think you are," he says.
She rolls her eyes.
"Sing," he repeats.
"What would you like me to sing, my lord?" she asks.
He smirks, pleased that she seems to be learning so quickly.
"Good girl," he says. "And I leave the selection to your discretion. Sing something of my new realm, a song of devotion and praise to your king."
The corner of Ellie's lips twitches up for a split second, but otherwise her face remains unchanged.
"I don't think I know any songs like that."
He lets out a snort of disgust. "Right. You are hopelessly American. Your people practically invented the preposterous notion that men should be free. I imagine your songs reflect this great lie of humanity?"
"Sure." She shrugs.
"Sing, my little songbird."
She takes a big breath, glances around as if an instrument magically appeared during their conversations (something he did consider briefly before enjoying her apparent discomfort), and finally opens her mouth.
It's beautiful as always, bright and clear and so big for someone so small.
The voice relaxes him. The lyrics perplex him.
She sings of Mary and her little lamb, something about snow, and the lamb following Mary about.
"I do not understand the point of the song," he says when she's done. Her lip twitches again.
"Well, it's a metaphor," she replies.
"A metaphor?"
"Yeah, Mary is the ruler. Like you, I guess. And then the lamb is a metaphor for the people who follow her rule," she says as if it should be the most obvious thing in all the realms.
Loki studies her, long and hard. She doesn't so much as flinch at his scrutiny, just lowers her chin and gives him that look that was so effective in getting him back to her dwelling upon their first meeting.
"Are you a trickster, Eleanor Tate?"
She smiles.
"Goodnight, God of Mischief. Pleasant dreams."
He lets her depart and falls asleep, resolving to pay no attention to her words in the future in favor of focusing simply on the sounds.
The boredom is the worst part.
That, and the lack of cigarettes.
He is gone during the day, each and every painfully long day, and although Ellie prefers his absence to his presence, she has never been one to weather the lack of entertainment gracefully.
Things inside her head get dangerous and scary when she doesn't keep herself occupied. She thinks about her fake father and the equally fake family she left behind. She wonders how her fake sister has managed to grow up and if her fake mother even noticed that she left in the first place.
Upon waking the first day she discovers fruit, toast, and coffee for breakfast, but no note or other indication as to what she's expected to do with herself all day long. Anticipating the coming lack of purpose, Ellie eats as slowly as possible, skinning each grape with her teeth before popping them in her mouth.
But all too soon not even a crumb remains. She thinks about what do to with the tray and it's dishes, and even gathers the bravery to venture out of her little room.
Clutching her tray to her chest she sticks her head out of her door after discovering it shockingly unlocked. She glances around nervously for a full five minutes, studying the short corridor, before finally taking a first step from the little room that has already become her safe haven in this extremely bizarre situation.
The concrete floor sends a shiver through her body, starting with her bare feet. Although her room is furnished in a way that almost passes for homey, the illusion is destroyed out in the hall. It is decaying and brick, much like the large room she entered through last night.
Placing one frozen foot in front of the other, she gets to the double doors at the end of the hallway. The exact same set of doors resides at the other end of the hallway as well, but these are closer so she'll try them first.
Although she expected to find them locked, Ellie can't help the wave of supreme disappointment that flows through her when the handles refuse to budge. She rests her forehead against the cold metal of the door, trying not to cry.
After the night she had it seems impossible that any more liquid could possibly run down her cheeks. Surely she must be all dried up by now.
Ellie takes four deep, calming breaths, her grip on the tray giving her something to focus on, before turning her head and pressing her ear to the door. It is thick and heavy, but through the barrier Ellie can hear the sounds of construction and people at work.
The lab in progress is this way then. She tucks the information away in her head for future use.
Next she turns to try the other set of double doors at the opposite end of the hallway, identical to the locked pair that blocks her exit. She makes note of another door, similar to hers, and remembers being summoned there in the middle of the night, roused from sleep just after she finally managed to doze off.
His freaky disembodied voice woke her up and yelled at her until she stumbled into the proper room. It was totally weird.
She wonders fleetingly if he's in there, just beyond the door. She doesn't feel the inclination to check.
It is with exactly zero hope that Ellie pulls on the handle of the other door. She nearly falls over in shock when the door opens easily, swinging out towards her. The tray almost falls to the ground, but she manages to steady it and keep the door propped open.
It takes her another few minutes to realize that she's found the kitchen. The layout of this underground facility is very bizarre, and it seems strange to Ellie to see something as normal as a kitchen here in wacko land.
The small, functional kitchen also has the look of industry about it, as if it belongs in a restaurant rather than the residential section of this subterranean bunker. Ellie glances in, wary all over again, but finds no one.
For one terrifying moment she feels so alone, as if she'll be left down here to die. No one would ever even notice.
For lack of anything better to do, Ellie walks to the sink and methodically does her dishes. After drying them, she takes some time to poke around and find the proper home for each dish, the tray included.
She explores, noting how thoroughly equipped the kitchen is. She takes stock of the contents of the fridge even if she cares little about food. By financial necessity she's developed into someone who doesn't eat much.
Plus, sometimes she truly believes she lost her appetite the moment her fake daddy died.
A wrack of wine makes her smile. She'll be back for that.
When she's gotten tired of cataloguing the contents of the kitchen, she retires back to her room and starts the process of exploration all over again. She finds the drawers in her living space to be much more interesting and irritating than the kitchen.
It seems that her captor has thought of everything, right down to the reading glasses that he must have magicked out of her apartment somehow. She goes through each piece of clothing in her closet, each elegant dress disgusting her a little more than the last.
He can't possibly expect me to wear this shit, can he? Oh who am I kidding? Of course he can.
The dresser situation is no better. Everything is painfully formal. Even the one pair of dark denim she manages to find is fancy and uncomfortable looking. There are no sneakers, only heels, the cursed tortured devices she swore long ago that she'd only wear at work.
Looks like I'll be spending a lot of time barefoot. And why the hell is everything green?
Her eyes go wide when she moves to the vanity and takes in the startling array of cosmetic products. The jewelry is even worse.
She pats her pockets, searching out her cigarettes. It's been a long fucking night and she can't remember ever craving a cancer stick more, but the pockets are empty, the cigarettes gone.
Rage, pure and unadulterated, seems to ignite her bones. For the first time she gets truly and deeply furious with her current plight, with her lack of freedom and the alleged god who is responsible for this insane situation.
The shock wears off, leaving her fucking pissed.
In her anger she almost punches out her mirror, but after a few more deep breaths she calms down. Instead she stares at her bruised cheek, vowing to survive this.
She's survived worse.
It felt worse, at least, although in reality it was nowhere near as life threatening.
Loki seems to be the ultimate control freak, an unhinged one at that, and she won't give him a reason to hit her again. Maybe her mantra should be give him everything but what matters.
She continues her exploration, trying to ignore the desire for nicotine.
Last night she was told to dispose of her old attire, the clothes she hasn't managed to change out of yet. Taking in the clothes he's arranged, she sees that her rags are definitely not up to his standards or to his tastes.
Fuck, this is weird.
No wonder he liked her so much at work. That gold dress is right up his goddamn alley.
Sighing reluctantly, she peels off her comforting flannel along with her favorite white tank top. She slips out of her jeans last, already missing the feel of the familiar fabric.
Fearing that Loki will have her things burned, she hides her clothes between the box spring and the mattress. Her old Converse she sticks in the dark depths of the closet. She vows to never let him see her in any of these casual, normal people clothes.
Knowing him as she does already, it would not surprise her if he saw her distaste for the clothes here as some extreme slight to his pride. The last thing she needs is another slap.
She gently prods at the large bump on the back of her head and scowls.
Ellie then takes the hottest possible bath, wanting nothing more than to wash this away. To wash it all away.
"What have you done to yourself, you insolent little whelp? Is this some strange brand of defiance?" He hisses at her the moment she takes up her uncomfortable position at the end of his bed later that night.
The rest of her day was filled with excessive napping and cuticle care. She is nowhere near alert enough to decode his ever-baffling words.
She glances down at the simple dress selected from her bursting closet. It is cotton, a long sleeve number in such a dark green it almost appears black. The neckline is modest, but somehow exposes her collarbones in a way that is a little too sexy, given her current situation. The hem stops just above her knee, flaring out slightly, while the black scoops low. A golden belt competes the look, and in snitched to the smallest part of her narrow waist.
And most surprisingly, it actually fits her squirrely little body; makes her squirrely little body look like a lady body.
Ellie feels pretty in the dress, even if she struggled with the zipper for almost fifteen minutes.
Unable to stand even the sight of heels, her feet and legs are bare.
Everything else is normal. Same wild hair, same delicate facial features, and the same scrawny limbs and too small waist.
"Well?" he shouts again when she fails to provide an explanation. "Why have you disfigured yourself so?"
She simply raises an eyebrow at him, needing more information. She looks fine. Better than fine. She was so bored she spent most of the day in front of the mirror, playing with make up and curling her hair.
"The nails," he says, sounding more weary than angry now.
Ellie spreads her fingers and studies her nails before comprehension dawns. She's created a rainbow in ten shades, a different color for each nail.
"I was bored," she murmurs, looking at him from underneath her eyelashes. Her chin points down towards her chest and he gapes at her.
"Bored?" he repeats, skeptical.
"Yes."
"You disfigured yourself out of boredom?"
She cracks a smile at his dry tone, and scratches some paint of her bright red thumb before holding it out of his inspection.
"It is not permanent," he mutters. "What an odd, simplistic tradition. All these colors were in your room?"
She nods.
"Upon returning to your own chamber be sure to remove this pigment. Throw away the colors, although you may keep the green and black. Also the gold will suffice."
And we're back to the fucking green.
"Sing," Loki says.
And she does.
Each night she sings for him, silly songs, ditties that hold no meaning for her. Occasionally she throws in a nice protest song, a blatant fuck you that he never picks up on.
She holds true to her decision to give him nothing that matters. Despite her song selection, Loki seems happy.
He doesn't seem to pay much attention to lyrics, probably because of her first little Mary Had a Little Lamb joke.
Each night he expresses displeasure at her appearance.
Her daily boredom persists, driving her to mess around with her face or hair. The makeovers get progressively more absurd as she weathers more days of boredom and solitude.
He calls her plum lips garish one night and actually gets out of bed, totally naked mind you, to remove the elaborate braids she added to her hair the next. Ellie stares determinedly at his face, refusing to ogle his annoyingly beautiful body as his oh so talented fingers pull braid after braid from her long blond hair.
There is nothing he can do but scowl when she shows up the next night with stick straight hair.
Like, really fucking straight.
Loki proves impossible to please, but Ellie finds she likes his irritation better, as long as he's not angry enough to start with the smacking or to whip out that glowing stick of doom. Annoying him with her makeovers becomes her own little form of rebellion until she runs out of inspiration. Knowing that repeating one of her past styles would earn her nothing but a slap, she begrudgingly stops messing with the megalomaniac demigod.
The boredom returns.
It takes her two whole days to get up the nerve, but she finally asks him.
She's summoned to his bedroom, just as she is every night, to see him propped up against the headboard, only a sheet covering his waist.
For the occasion she's even donned one of the nicer dresses, a pale green satin number with thin straps and a low cut bodice. Although the top fits nicely, the dress was clearly designed for someone of average height. It is inches too long, and Ellie is forced to hold the skirt up to keep from tripping.
Her hair is pulled up into a loose bun at the base of her neck, showing off her shoulders and throat. She keeps her make up classic, like she wears it for work, but without the red lip. Lord knows what he'd have to say about that.
Loki sits up a little straighter against the headboard when she enters.
"How long have I been here?" she demands, speaking quickly before he has a chance to say anything. "How many days?"
At first Loki's eyes go wide, shocked to hear her speak without his prompting, but then he scowls.
"I advise you to watch your tone, Eleanor," he says, voice low and dark. "What right do you have to demand anything from me?"
Recognizing her mistake, she drops her gaze to her feet, lowing her head in submission. She can give him her pride, submit to him with her words and actions, as long as she doesn't give him anything that matters.
Sometimes she can even call him "my lord" with a straight face.
"I apologize, sir," she murmurs. There is no sarcasm in her voice, a fact that is fortunate, although surprising. This king shit is just so totally ridiculous, but he seems to eat it up, if his satisfied little smirk is any indication.
"Good."
She takes a deep breath, unwilling to give up just yet. Keeping her face tilted down, she searches out those haunted azure eyes. The shade seems to vary with his mood.
"Loki?" she whispers. It's the first time since that first night she's used his name. She thinks she sees him shiver slightly, but doesn't know what to make of it. "Please. I've lost track of everything down here. I haven't seen the sun. Please, just tell me. How many days?"
He stares at her, and she fiddles with the seam of her dress. The fabric is so silky and she feels a little bit beautiful.
"Six."
A shudder runs through her.
"Six," she echoes. "Only six."
"Does your time here seem longer?" he asks.
She doesn't even bother nodding.
"It feels long to me as well," he says, watching her intently. "You will see the sun at my side again, Eleanor, but it will take more time than either of us would like, I'm afraid."
This time she manages a small nod.
"Sing," Loki commands.
And she does.
On day eight it gets so late Ellie assumes he doesn't require her voice and falls asleep. She sleeps for hours, her dreams pleasant and calm for once. The details escape her, but she feels loved.
How she misses feeling loved.
There are hands on her shoulders and at first she leans into the touch, but the grip tightens and her eyes fly open. She can only make out the faint outline of a man looming over her, wild eyes glinting at her in the dark.
With a strangled scream she attempts to roll away. Fear chokes her and her head remains fuzzy from sleep. Somehow she manages to get caught in her own sheets and progresses to fall off the bed in a tangle, landing on the floor with a grunt and a thump.
The light is flicked on as Loki laughs at her predicament. He leans over the bed, watching her with an amused smirk.
"You are ever graceful, my songbird," he says, continuing to chuckle. "Tell me. Do you fear the dark?"
With another groan she lets her head fall back to the carpet. For a long moment she just lies there with her eyes closed, recovering from having the wind knocked out of her and trying to still her racing heart.
"Fuck," she mutters, digging her palms into her eyes.
"Eleanor." He chastises her language, sounding more like an exasperated Sunday school teacher than a control freak demigod bent on world domination.
"Sorry," Ellie replies, sitting up and clutching her sheet to her chest. "What's up?"
He frowns, still disapproving of her speech patterns, but offers her a hand up. She regards him warily, accustom to his trickery at this point, but takes his hand despite her better instincts. He lets his grip slip causing her to fall back slightly, just as she thought he'd do. Loki grins when she lets out another squeak, but then hauls her upright into his arms.
"I surprised you," he observes. "Surely you did not think a night would go by without my need for your services?"
She puts space between their bodies and fights a blush. He makes everything sound so sexual. It is unclear whether it is intentional or not, a scheme to fluster her or just the way he talks.
At least tonight he's dressed in a tunic looking thing and black leather pants.
"Time to sing?" she asks, tossing the sheet on the bed.
When he doesn't respond she glances up to see him staring at her with wide, dark eyes. It takes her a moment to remember that she wears only the ridiculous silk camisole and shorts set provided as nightwear in her wardrobe. She prefers a t-shirt and panties to sleep in, but that apparently is far too casual.
She knows she looks good, even if the peach silk is far too prissy for her tastes. The garment clings to her laughably limited curves, making her appear more womanly.
Loki keeps staring and she bites her lip to keep from grinning. Despite all his ranting about disgusting mortal flesh, he wants her. She can see it, and although it's a little terrifying because the thought of touching her captor again is repugnant (or should be) she revels in the knowledge that for once she is doing the flustering.
"Loki?" she repeats, touching his elbow.
He jerks away from her, shaking his head as if to clear it.
"Yes. Sing. Yes, it is time," he says, grabbing her hand and dragging her out to the hall and towards his room. "But I have another surprise for you."
She sighs and rubs her bruised tailbone, the result of his most recent surprise.
Loki pauses at the door, pulling her in front of him and covering her eyes with one hand. She tenses, far too aware of his close proximity.
"Oh, you are afraid of the dark," Loki whispers in her ear as he slowly walks her forward. "I can feel it in you, my sweet songbird. Do you not trust your king? In time you will learn to blindly follow."
Not fucking likely.
She stumbles over nothing, and his free hand tightens on her hip. Despite all his power, can he really be so blind? Can he really think that the tension in her body is from fear?
Ellie wishes that her traitor body was simply scared of him, scared of the dark, but she lets him keep his half-truths. Instead she focuses on not pressing her body more firmly into his, not rubbing against him, and not making a fool of herself to this seemingly oblivious alleged god who really has some strange sexual hang ups.
Also the hate. She really hates being trapped here with him. And him too. She really hates him.
Although blind, she attempts to get her bearings. His room is three times the size of hers, but usually she just stands at the foot of his massive bed. They slowly move father into the room than she has been before. It makes her nervous.
Finally he removes his hand from her eyes. The hand on her hip stays, and she feels as if his tall frame encompasses her.
"Open your eyes," he murmurs.
Suddenly she doesn't want too. She's grown to like the dark.
But she only hesitates for a moment, knowing fully well that disobedience will make him angry and he has been weirdly not evil recently. She'd hate to change that now over something so stupid.
When she does manage to get her eyes open she has to blink rapidly to make sure her vision isn't deceiving her. Before her is the single most beautiful piano she's ever seen. It's huge, dominating the corner of his room. The black surface is polished to a shine.
She can't seem to move so she just stands there gaping for a long moment.
"Eleanor?" he asks, breath tickles her neck. Something in his voice is so painfully unsure, so insecure, that her heart lurches in her chest.
Slowly she turns, trying to find the words, but she is too happy. It's shocking but Ellie finds her throat chocked with emotion. She has to crane her neck to look him in the eye, but she gives him a radiant smile, hoping to dispel some of the doubt she sees in his eyes.
Loki frowns, using his thumb to wipe at her cheek. It isn't until her tastes her tears that she realizes she is crying at all.
"Eleanor," he snaps, losing patience with her. Now she hears something close to panic in his strangely accented voice.
Still beyond words, she lets out some sort of strange squeak and throws her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her level to hug him properly.
She knows it's wrong. She knows she is giving him something that matters, giving him thanks he does not deserve, but the piano is too beautiful and she's missed her music so much.
Loki stumbles slightly, obviously shocked to be accosted in this manner, but eventually he straightens, pulling Ellie flush with his body. An arm snakes around her lower back and he holds her close.
His embrace is so tight it should hurt, but Ellie revels in the contact. She's been so lonely here. She wonders how a normal person with actually friends would cope with such isolation.
Loki sighs, his face against her neck, and pulls her impossibly closer. Her toes leave the ground and she just dangles there in his arms for a long moment.
She feels the shift, the uncomfortable lurch in her heart, and remembers her mantra.
Give him nothing that matters. Give him nothing important.
Loki seems to sense the change in her. He feels the tension back in her body and slowly sets her on her feet. He clears his throat and refuses to look at her as he takes two large steps away.
"It is a piano," he mutters, awkward for the first time. It makes Ellie smile.
"Yes."
"And it pleases you?"
"Yes."
"Instruments please you?"
"Endlessly."
He gestures towards the stunning piece of craftsmanship, as if he is presenting it to her, and she moves towards it, lovingly running her hands over it's sides before brushing the keys. She plays a quick scale, melting as the quality of the tone reverberates in the room.
She closes her eyes, the simple note progression making her feel like herself for the first time in the last thirteen days.
Sliding onto the bench, she stretches her rusty fingers and begins to play. Without even thinking she plays Beethoven's Fur Elise. It's easy as breathing, a piece she's known as long as she's known how to walk. She takes her time and feels each note feed her soul. Her eyes remain closed as she seamlessly continues with Beethoven, shifting into Moonlight Sonata. It's haunting and she continues to cry, but the notes are such a part of her, she relishes this, eating it up like comfort food.
Still her eyes stay closed as she completely shifts gears, needing to raise her own spirits. All her piano instructors were always amazed with her flawless version of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue from memory.
Her memory is an impressive facet of her talent. She never forgets a song after she learns it and she learns damn fast.
She picks up the tempo, giggling to herself in delight.
The music transports her, fills her every nook and cranny. She forgets about her current status as captive, her traitor body's desire for her insane captor, the fact that no one loves her.
She just plays.
And he lets her.
Loki silently loiters behind her, letting her complete fifteen minutes of Gershwin in peace before speaking.
"The first two were lovely." His soft voice penetrates her conscious and she jumps slightly as reality returns. She sighs, letting her fingers rest on familiar keys. "Did you create these compositions?"
As if I'd ever give you anything as important as something I wrote.
Ellie laughs lightly, somewhat charmed by his ignorance.
"I wish," she murmurs. "The first two were Beethoven."
"A different Midgardian?" he asks, disbelieving.
"An extremely gifted Midgardian," she corrects. "I'm not the only one on this rock with a little talent, Loki."
He scoffs, dismissing her words. "I will track this being down and find the secret. There is a trick here, of this I am sure."
She giggles and then wonders if he'd use the same tactic on Beethoven that he used on her that first night.
"Good luck with that," she murmurs.
"And the last piece? Very hard to follow, that. I feared it would never end," he says.
She turns to look at him, surprised to see just how close he's standing to her.
"Gershwin," she replies.
He looks at her for a long moment.
"Sing," he says.
"And play?"
"Sing and play."
She gives him a nice little ditty that holds no meaning to her what so ever.