Part II: In the Dark
Chapter 10: Brushed Gold
In seven months on Asgard, Eleanor meets hundreds of new people – mostly nobility or royal advisers – and Loki helps her learn their names.
Although it may be different among the common citizenry, most of the Aesir she encounters do not look at her like she is an abomination and those that do are typically old and wise enough not to mention anything, given Eleanor's fake title and her ever-growing relationship with the queen.
They call her princess and she is learning to act like it. Although she still cringes on the inside when the title gets attached to her name – which is often – and curses profusely when Sif uses it during their numerous and exhausting training sessions – which is also often.
To most, Eleanor is a curiosity. They ask questions, most verging on extremely rude and offensive, and she spends a lot of time learning to disprove the commonly held and horribly false misconceptions of mortals in a way that is gentle and charming.
There is a lot of senseless tittering and hair flipping and fake smiles. Only the queen seems to notice that Eleanor is full of shit. She must be used to it, given she is the woman who raised Loki.
Frigga started small, introducing Eleanor to her closest friends. Gradually, the gatherings got larger, escalating from small teas and luncheons to full-blown dinner parties.
After six months on Asgard, Eleanor charmed her way through her first formal state dinner with a delegation from Vanaheim.
Schmoozing is not a favorite activity of Eleanor's but she understands why Frigga is so insistent on Eleanor making herself part of this society. Besides all her talk of legacy and change, Eleanor's visibility is more than that.
It is political protection.
If Eleanor can pull off becoming the darling of Asgard's elite then Odin will think twice about changing his mind about the tentative situation with Loki trapped in their rooms and Eleanor safe. It's a fear that lives in the back of her mind, and she'll do whatever Frigga says if it will keep Loki out of the white cells and off of the Isle of Solitude.
Eleanor learns to be charming rather quickly.
She spent eight lonely years flirting her way into what she wanted, mainly people's pants and getting shows for whatever band she happened to be singing with at the time. It doesn't take long for her to temper her technique into a charisma more fitting for the situation.
It is all rather tedious, but she dutifully absorbs Frigga's lessons and learns more than she ever wanted to know about the Asgardian elite. She learns their secrets.
She doesn't make friends (despite her best efforts with Sif). She doesn't let anyone here know her, but the upper echelons of Asgardian society genuinely seem to enjoy having her around.
It's pretty fucking weird.
Still, her fake husband is the one subject she will not censor herself on. She will patiently explain that no, mortals do indeed love their children, but the moment someone starts Loki bashing, Eleanor shuts it right down.
The most common inquiry is along the lines of "I don't understand how someone so pleasant/good/wholesome/lovely could willingly marry that traitor/monster/warmonger/ purveyor of cheap tricks."
"Lucky I'm the one married to him then," Eleanor replies, her words sharp and biting.
"Luck for him perhaps."
"No, lucky for me."
The Aesir learn very quickly not to bring up Loki.
Eleanor flourishes in her Princess Lessons while Loki reads his way through the library, trying and failing to find anything to connect London to the end of the universe.
Eleanor does not dream a single bad dream or fall into a single trance, but she frets over her fake husband.
All things considered, he is fine. Bored, frustrated, but fine. Eleanor wonders how long he can sustain in such dull surroundings before he does something very dangerous and very stupid.
She does her best to keep him entertained with sex and when he wears her out she badgers him into giving her more magic lessons, something he secretly delights in. Whenever the Crown Prince is without a task he can be found in the courtyard below their balcony, wrestling with his brother.
Loki and Eleanor reach a stalemate regarding the status of their relationship. When they are alone she doesn't let him get away with referring to her as his wife. Loki actually groans and covers his ears when she tells him that she loves him.
He'll break first. Eleanor is sure of it.
"Loki! Dude, where are you?"
Eleanor bursts into their main room through the entrance from the hall in an obvious state of extreme excitement. Months in the Realm Eternal and although she certainly has adjusted to life here, even going so far to enjoy it at times, this extreme excitement is new.
But what she lacks in exuberant joy she also lacks in dreams, visions, or trances, so all and all Loki considers the move a success thus far.
She rounds the lounge in the main sitting area before Loki can remove himself from the floor where he is lying on his back, absently tossing and catching a sealed inkwell.
Eleanor blinks at him over the back of the couch and Loki flashes her a rueful grin. He usually strives to hide the extent of his boredom from his wife, but since Frigga organized more instruction for her, his days are spent alone with little to occupy him but research that has thus far proved utterly fruitless.
"Hello, my dear," he says, dropping the inkpot. Fortunately it does not shatter.
"Whatcha doing down here, honey?" she asks, hopping over the furniture and lying down on the hard floor at his side.
"Before you so rudely interrupted, I caught that inkwell two thousand and twenty-six times sequentially," he replies. "I was nearing the record."
"What is the record?"
"Two thousand, seven hundred, and nine."
"Would you like me to leave you and the inkpot alone?"
"Yes, in fact I am considering leaving you for the inkpot. You may now go."
She gets up, following his instructions, but he snags her wrist before she can get too far, pulling her down onto his chest.
"Hi," she says, kissing the corner of her mouth.
"Hello, my dear."
"I'm sorry you are so bored."
"I am not bored. You are here."
"Yeah, now."
"It would be worse in the dungeons. Now, was there something you wished to discuss with me? You seemed quite excited upon your return to our rooms."
"Oh!" she says, sitting up. Loki frowns, pushing up to lean on his elbows. "Look what I learned today."
This is the first time Eleanor's come back remotely enthused after one of Frigga's lessons. Loki is not sure he likes this.
"Ready?" she asks, placing two fingers on the side of her neck. Magic sizzles there, bright and yellow as a star. "Luke, I am your father."
Loki blinks, as the voice coming out of his wife's mouth is far from her own.
"I thought it not possible, but you've managed to ruin Darth Vader for me," Loki says. "And he was my favorite. Plus, that is not even the correct line."
Eleanor rolls her eyes, removing her fingers from her neck. "I finally managed to figure out this vocal manipulation stuff and you are giving me a lecture on Star Wars? Really?"
"You learned this with my mother?" he asks. It's something they've been working on for weeks and jealousy burns in the pit of his stomach at the thought of another being responsible for Eleanor's breakthrough. "It was my mother that finally taught you to master this?"
"No. Today's Princess Lesson was socializing at a fucking tea party with the country nobility or some shit and that is my least favorite of all Princess Lessons, even though everyone loves me, or they are at least fascinated by me, but still it's exhausting." In her excitement, Eleanor is babbling inanely about nothing that has anything to do with magic. Loki nods along as if she is making total sense. "Anyway, I slipped out to practice for a while and finally did it. Magic is so much easier here. Seriously."
Loki relaxes and returns her smile. "Well done, my love."
"This is my voice on helium," she says, high and squeaky and unpleasant. The two fingers are back to her neck. "Auto tune," she continues, her voice electronic and jarring with the addition of unnecessary syllables to her words. "Aw ye-ah."
"Eleanor," he replies, trying not to laugh. It would only encourage her.
"This drink, I like it. Another!" It's his brother's voice now and Loki is no longer amused. He is too horrified to make it stop. "Brother, have you seen meow meow? I seem to have misplaced it."
"Mjolnir," Loki corrects. "And this is disgusting. I do not like anything resembling Thor coming out of your mouth."
"Eleanor," she says, using Loki's own voice now. This is only fractionally less disturbing than hearing Thor when Eleanor speaks. "Stop this immediately or I shall be forced to stop you myself. Language! I am bored and cranky so we should have sex all the time. Asgard smells nice. You are my wife although I never actually discussed it with you." She lets out a hysterical laugh that sounds like him but is not a noise he would ever actually produce.
"Eleanor," he says, smiling slightly but only because the laugh was absurd.
"Thor sucks," she says, still using Loki's voice. "I'll slay you where you stand!"
"I do not speak in such a manner."
"I do not speak in such a manner."
"Eleanor."
"Eleanor."
"Now I really must stop you," he says. Loki rears up, capturing her face between his hands, but when he attempts to pull her in for a kiss she resists, tugging his hands from her face. "But I am bored and cranky so we should make love all the time," he says, getting dangerously close to pouting.
"Hold that thought," she says, shuffling away from him. He sits up fully, crossing his arms over his chest to scowl at her properly. "Just listen," she says, lifting two fingers to her neck.
If she speaks at him with Odin's voice next he will lock himself in their bedroom until she promises to win back his favor with favors of her own, preferably those sexual in nature.
But then Eleanor sings.
Three voices come out of Eleanor's mouth, but they are all her own. She harmonizes with herself in triplicate, closing her eyes to focus on the low, medium, and high registers.
The song is simple and haunting.
Loki leans forward, watching her face as she masterfully crafts each phrase in her three-part harmony. Her voice – or voices – shine light on even the darkest corners of him, overcoming all those long shadows that were much more threatening before he found her.
The words themselves hold little meaning, but it is the way she sings them with her whole self. Her voice – or voices – rings bright and hopeful, with just an edge of melancholy. It is a wonderful contradiction, much like Eleanor herself. Such sadness juxtaposed with such light.
Eleanor sings in triplicate and despite everything – his imprisonment, his hatred for his false father and his true father and himself, his restless energy and constant fear for Eleanor's safety – Loki will be fine. He will endure and possibly even flourish, as long as Eleanor can sing for him. As long as she wants to.
When she finishes, Eleanor looks to him to offer an opinion, but Loki is without words. She is stunning and there may be something close to tears blurring his vision.
It is stunning, how Eleanor's voice can change the mood of a moment from mischief to one so emotive.
"Pretty cool, right?" she murmurs, giving him a small, shy smile.
The phrase "pretty cool" is grossly inadequate so Loki kisses her with the reverence she deserves.
For long moments he does not even touch her, save for the tender press of lips. He kisses her on the floor of the rooms that were once a sanctuary from a world to which he never truly belonged, now a prison, and something raw builds in his chest.
Loki has no words to properly articulate all he feels for Eleanor Tate.
But she has a word, a childish, fanciful notion that absurdly seems too weak to apply to his feelings, but he can think of no other description that comes near as close.
"Loki?" Eleanor breaks the kiss with a gasp, her eyes searching his face and holding questions he does not have the words to answer.
So he rises, sweeping Eleanor into his arms and kissing her once more as he makes his way to their bed. He is determined to worship her this way, the way he knows best, and it requires no words at all.
He unwraps her, layer by layer. Eleanor understands his reverent mood and his deep need to be utterly focused on her pleasure alone. For once, Eleanor allows his painfully slow pace and does not tug insistently at his hair or grope him shamelessly until he is out of his head with needing her.
She simply strokes his face, his shoulders, his back as he makes certain there is no part of her that goes neglected.
He lingers between her legs, using tongue and fingers to draw out a wholly different sort of music from Eleanor. He memorizes each pant and whimper and scream, joining in the symphony with a groan of his own as she arches off the mattress, anchoring herself with hands fisted in his hair.
He crawls up her body, watching the effect of her rapid breathing on her breasts, pausing to trace dark pink nipples with his thumbs. Eleanor shivers and her hands find his face, but her touch is not demanding. She smirks at him, wiping the gleaming remains of her own pleasure from his bottom lip.
Kissing her is as heady as it always proves to be, but it is different also because Loki hovers on the verge of accepting Eleanor's infantile word to describe all he feels for this woman.
When he finally slides into her, it feels sacred. There is no need to demand she open her eyes for she already is looking at him. She truly sees him, yet here she is mewling and desperate beneath him, touching his face and looking at him as if his eyes hold all the secrets of the universe.
Eleanor is delirious with wanting and he is also.
Her eyes fluttered closed and Loki freezes, making Eleanor groan and hitch her thighs a bit higher on his hips. He lays a palm on her cheek and she opens her eyes. He needs her to truly see him, to validate his own existence by looking, to nurture that fragile thing inside him she herself created, and to assure him that he did not dream her up.
Her eyes open and smiles in a way identical to what he saw in a blue vision long ago. He moves once more, thrusting slowly, desperate to feel every piece of every cell of every part of her, desperate for it to continue on infinitely.
Each time he fills her completely, Eleanor's breath hitches sharp, spurring him on. He is both at peace and violently needy when they are together in such a way and Eleanor is absolutely all there is.
Her moans and sighs are more songs written for him only.
"Loki." It is her first word spoken since she last said his name in the living room, and Loki groans in response, dropping down to his elbows and resting his forehead on hers. Their faces are too close for him to see properly, but Eleanor's eyes remain open and looking directly at him.
Eleanor is quivering, her nails digging into his back as Loki's ever-quickening pace loses rhythm and becomes more frantic.
Eleanor shatters once more and he shatters also.
When he finally regains his breath and use of his limbs, Loki attempts to roll off her minuscule frame, but all four of her limbs tighten around him.
"Don't." Her voice is small and sleepy and vulnerable.
Loki stays, nuzzling into her neck while Eleanor strokes his hair, sighing in contentment.
"I cannot think of a word to better describe how I feel for you," he muses. "I suppose love will have to do, although it hardly seems like enough."
What an irritating, limiting thing language is in this moment.
Eleanor pushes at his shoulders and he goes willingly, halfway between sitting and lying at her side. She is smiling, unconcerned with her nudity.
"You love me," she declares, as if it's been obvious for a great deal of time.
"Well, yes. I suppose there is no other way to describe it."
For a moment she is beaming and radiant, but then she frowns.
"What else, Loki?" she asks and he knows exactly what she wants from him.
"I believe that you believe that you love me."
Eleanor crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, clearly unimpressed with his word-smithing.
Loki sighs heavily for this part is much more difficult than finding a word that doesn't do more than an adequate job describing his feelings for Eleanor.
"I believe that you love me also," he murmurs. Even as he says the words he is unsure of their truth. Eleanor's always been so constant in her own feelings, but it is unfathomable that one such as her could tolerate – let alone love – once such as him.
"It's not a lie, Loki."
He huffs, now irritated by her ability to see him so.
"It's not!" she insists.
"You love me." The words feel strange on his tongue, but not unpleasant. He is unable to keep from smiling. "You love me."
Eleanor takes his words for the truth they may or may not be because she is beaming once more, radiating joy as tears spill down her cheeks.
"You love me and I love you," she says. "Fuck, do I love you."
"Language, Eleanor."
"Let's get married," Eleanor says. "I'll be your wife for real." She kisses him soundly and then pushes him away, rolling out of bed and walking to the closet, her steps jaunty.
"Where are you going, Eleanor?" he asks. The whine in his voice is highly unseemly.
"Get dressed. We're tying the knot."
"Now?"
"Now."
Getting married, to Eleanor anyway, is a very odd affair that involves a brushed gold ring, sitting outside despite the cold, and making a variety of promises from the meaningful to the absurd.
Winter is a brief but potent event on Asgard. He once loved the season. While the majority of Asgardians seal themselves away in their warm homes, shutting out the cold, Loki thrived in it, exploring in the peace and quiet and the snow.
The season is no longer his favorite, not since the reasons for this preference became abundantly clear.
Of course it is during this bit of extreme cold that Eleanor decides their "wedding" must take place on the balcony.
"I know it's cold," she says. "But the sun is peeking through the clouds. I love the sun and you love the cold so let's do this outside. Plus, you need to get out of these rooms."
Grumbling about her command being the very thing that holds him in these rooms, he moves to the wardrobe, pulling out sable gloves and a matching hat. They dwarf Eleanor, but the effect is endearing and amusing. His fur cloak proves too cumbersome for his diminutive wife, so he pulls it on over his own shoulders as Eleanor layers on her warmer Midgardian attire. Before pulling on his gloves, Eleanor removes the ring he magically placed on her finger nearly a year ago and hands it to him without further explanation. He glares at her, but silently takes the piece of jewelry. She also pushes a leather book of blank parchment into his hand, along with a Midgardian pen before dragging him out into the cold.
"These are not Midgardian wedding traditions," Loki says.
"We are pretty untraditional, babe."
"Do not call me babe."
They settle on the balcony, on a seat Loki magically rids of snow. Eleanor sits sideways, facing him.
"Well?" he says. "What now?"
"Now we promise each other things."
"Such as?"
Eleanor scoots a bit closer and Loki shares his fur cloak.
"Okay," she says, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I promise to love you forever and I promise to always look at you, even when I'm super pissed at you. How was that?"
"Adequate," Loki replies, nodding.
"Write it down," she says, gesturing towards the book in his lap.
He writes it down.
"In turn I promise never to leave you, even on the off chance Odin declares me redeemed and doing so becomes a possibility," he says, thinking of the worst of their fights all those years ago when he pondered her demise.
Eleanor grins. "Good," she says. "Write it down."
He writes it down.
They continue on for a bit, asking and giving each other vows of fidelity and devotion and forever, before entering into the realm of the ridiculous. They make far too many promises involving sexual intercourse. In the end Loki agrees to "go blue" from time to time in order to get Eleanor to spend one full night a week in the nude until morning.
It's such a small thing, but she often manages to wiggle into an oversized garment at some point in the night, leaving Loki to dig around to find her skin before getting frustrated and stripping her at odd hours. It annoys him to no end.
There is some discussion of magic in the bedroom. It seems strange for a marriage agreement to Loki, but Eleanor has always strayed far from the usual.
She agrees to allow him to prolong her life without much discussion at all, indicating that she has indeed given this thought before. Although he mostly believes her when she says she wants him forever, her easy agreement corroborates her claims. Her life expectancy is a problem that he has a vast amount of time to fix but he already toys with several possibilities to build upon her Asgardian longevity.
"What about kids?" Eleanor asks, her nose wrinkling. "Do you want kids?"
"I do not think it is biologically possible," Loki mutters, suddenly very uncomfortable. A vision from the Tesseract flashes in his mind, but he ignores it as he always has and always will do.
"We could…" Eleanor makes a face as if she is sucking on something sour. "I can't even say it."
"Adopt. The word you are looking for is adopt."
"Can we table this one for like a hundred years?" Eleanor asks.
"Yes, please. Let's do."
And so it goes until Loki runs out of things to say.
"I promise that there is nothing you could do to make me not love you," Eleanor murmurs, serious once more. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and Loki feels quite warm, as if he is blooming.
But he withers because there are a great number of ways he could test this promise – he has already tried out a few of them, most memorably his attempts to break their bond – but Eleanor would love him still, even if it ruined her, even if it twisted the brightness from her.
"Are you sure, Eleanor?" he forces himself to ask, dreading the answer.
"Yeah. I'm with you. For better or worse."
"Eleanor—"
"I trust you, Loki. Write it down."
He writes it down.
"And to you, Eleanor, I will endeavor to give you no reason to question this foolishly given trust. Loving me will not make you hate yourself. I promise to make being with me as free of pain as possible."
Loki lets go of a few long sought ambitions, matters he covets still but would require bloodshed and pain to achieve.
"So, what?" Eleanor asks. "No more plots for world domination?"
"No plots for world domination."
"No senseless killing?"
"No senseless killing."
"No ruling?
He pauses for above all other things he has desired to be king for as long as he can recall knowing what it meant. But now there is Eleanor.
"I will not pursue the crown."
Eleanor's smile is beautiful. "Only I kneel for you."
"Damn," he says. "How shall I ever survive?"
Eleanor giggles and kisses the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes, determined to hold this moment.
But then he desires a more physically gratifying moment.
"Is that all?" he asks. "Are we married? May I now call you wife without you rolling your eyes?"
Eleanor rolls her eyes.
"Almost," she says. "One more thing."
"All right. Go on then."
"I promise to be your family." Eleanor gets a bit choked up and Loki's chest gets tight. "No secrets. No lies. Just you and me, our own real little family."
He kisses her then, making the promise on his part. He can write it down later. Suddenly he is ecstatic that Eleanor insisted on making such vows. They have never been particularly good at expressions of feeling, and Loki finally understands the importance of doing so.
Even so, he is quite ready to reach the promised honeymoon period, as Eleanor calls it.
"Wait," Eleanor says as Loki moves to bring her to their bed. The sun is now gone and the snow has returned. Eleanor catches a flake on her tongue.
"Eleanor," he says, huffing with frustration.
She removes the oversized glove from her left hand, extending it to him. It takes him a moment but then he understands her intent.
"I do," she says as he places her ring back on her finger.
"You do what?"
"I do agree to have you and hold you and cherish you, in sickness and health, as long as we both shall live," she says as if it should be obvious.
"Lovely," he drawls. "May we go inside now?"
"Give me your hand. The left one."
He does.
"So do you?" she asks.
"Do I agree to have you and hold you and all that dribble?" he asks, nearing the end of his patience. They must be to the pointless Midgardian section of the program, but Loki attempts to humor his wife.
And it is a rather momentous and shocking thing, that Eleanor has agreed to such a title.
"Yes, Loki," she replies, sighing.
"Obviously, I accept these conditions."
"You have to say 'I do.'"
"Do I? Why?"
"Loki!"
"Fine. Yes. I do. Whatever."
His words make Eleanor a smiling, crying, happy mess.
"Great!" she says. A brushed gold ring is on his finger. He wonders where she procured such a thing. The thin band is engraved with the same ceremonial markings as his armor.
This exchanging of rings seems an odd tradition, but not wholly terrible. He casts magic upon the small piece of jewelry, charming it to burn hot should Eleanor ever find herself in mortal danger.
"I now pronounce us husband and wife," Eleanor says, pulling him closer with the collar of his cloak. "You better fucking kiss me."
And he does.
So, that was really fluffy. I hope you liked it because the fluff will not last.
Thanks so very much for reading!
1st beta: Heather
Final beta: Erica