The Avenging of Loki Laufeyson

by YouLookLikeFOOD

"So… the shadows are coming to life, we're all gonna die, and the only way to save three separate worlds is for Loki and the Avengers to quit whining and work together for once. And of course, I'm the one who, somehow, has to make that work out. Yep, sounds like a Tuesday. When's my coffee break?" Sequel to 'The Avenging of Natalie Frost'. T for violence and language.

18. The Phantom

A/N: I updated! YAY! Another late chapter! YAY!

-_- Sorry again.

---

Natalie Frost was the first to fall.

Our separation- that eternal moment of rage and pain and desolation- was the most painful experience I have endured in my many years of life.

And I do not even remember it.

I remember that day, the very moment that she was removed, in a thousand different ways. And each and every one of these memories is more powerful and real and convincing than the last.

Some days, I remember my other half defending herself, being torn out from my head forcibly while she battled with all the bravery and ferocity of the finest of any Asgardian warrior. Other days, I remember her surrendering quietly, with great grace, a lost and lonely smile on her lips. Still other days, I recall her shouting her hatred at me, cursing my name as the echoing silence began to resound in my head.

But of all these memories vying for my attention, there is but one that I believe. For it is so very like her.

In this memory, Fraye had only just touched our minds with the coldest, most feather-light tendrils before Natalie, her face empty, began to separate her thoughts from mine. She moved back, away from our connection, allowing me to remove myself from her. And, in the end, it was not Fraye who separated us; but we who separated ourselves.

Natalie did say that she would follow through with whatever decision I made. And so she did.

As our last remaining tethers to each other began to snap, I realized that I should, perhaps, say something. That perhaps I should thank her, apologize to her, bid her farewell-say something, say anything.

But as I opened my mouth to speak… Natalie took a single step backwards and shook her head. There were no tears in her eyes, no hint of begging in her voice. She did not demand that I reconsider, or say that I was making a mistake, or tell me that she was disappointed in me. Perhaps she knew that any of these statements may well have broken me.

Instead, she looked me in the eyes, trapped me in those pools of brown, and said one word. One word that shook my very soul.

That word was 'Sentiment'.

Natalie Frost was the first to fall.

Clint Barton had already fallen; but it was his partner who fell next. In the deadened silence of the night, Fraye struck the Tower, dispatching of three Avengers before they were made aware of her presence. Romanoff, Barton, and Rogers were all placed in shadow-cells, created for the very purpose of keeping them contained, before Rogers managed to alert the rest of the Tower.

And I? I was moved to an empty room, somewhere I had never seen, never been. After all, what use would I be as a warrior? My very mind had been torn in two, split apart, one half left to slowly rot and the other left to be devoured by darkness. It was all I could do not to collapse until Fraye placed me directly on a bed, kissing my forehead gently and assuring me that, "Everything is fine now, Little Giant."

(But it was not)

I drifted to unconsciousness knowing one simple fact: Natalie was gone. She had vanished-likely off of the face of the planet- and I could not hear her thoughts in mine any longer, could not feel her emotions, could not sense her anywhere. There was just the lightest throb of a heartbeat behind my own, a shadow of what once was, and I suspected it would die out before long. Just as she would.

I remained in this state until the battle had finished, but it was not difficult to find video footage later, to know what had happened by watching the remnants of mortal news. And thus, I watched Fraye dispatch of each and every one of the Avengers with ruthless, merciless cunning.

When Tony Stark fell, the planet had assembled its armies. Fraye had taken the Tesseract, taken away the Earth's ability to contact other worlds and plead for aid. There would be no intercession from Asgard, nor from Jotunheim, no matter their treaty. There was only the primitive weaponry of Earth; and whatever collective might they had, it was not enough.

It was nowhere near enough.

There was no triumph in me as I watched Thor struggle with the Daughter of Darkness. As his knees buckled beneath the shadows that struck him, that weighed him down, as the Hounds lunged forwards to rip him apart, I felt nothing. I knew that Fraye had agreed to leave them alive- as far as was possible in war- but at that point, it would not have mattered to me whether my brother lived or died.

Perhaps if he died, he could lie in my grave beside me; for surely I was dead, too. Surely this pain was too much for any living creature to endure.

But as Thor's crackling lightning was swallowed whole by the darkness, I found myself smiling. Oh, a living creature could very easily live through this pain. After all, Fraye was alive, was she not?

Alive enough to kill, at least.

Thor was the next to fall.

Bruce Banner had transformed long ago into that mindless monster. And as the Hounds dispatched the Earthly armies, as the shadows swarmed all weaponry and swallowed everything, he and Fraye found themselves alone on the battlefield together. Both had been bloodied. Both had been damaged. And with the absence of myself and Natalie beside the Avengers, with the advantage of surprise… the Hulk had taken a greater deal of damage than he should have, had we all stood as one.

I watched in what could almost have been called interest as the mindless brute was forced to its knees, to all fours, and finally as it fell to the ground completely, slick with his own dark green blood, slick with Fraye's black blood. I watched as its muscles rippled, then contracted. Watched as it shrank back down to size, as the monster became a man… and the man was of course the weaker.

Bruce Banner was the final Avenger to fall.

But of course there were others. Armies are not so easily dispatched: if not because of their strength, then their sheer numbers. New York was first. And then America. North America. South America. Europe. Asia. One by one, every country's leadership, every country's regime fell. Every continent taken over. And everyone bowed. Surrendered their armies, surrendered their lives and their people. All this happened while I screamed. While I felt Natalie's fear still lingering in my veins like a poison, when Natalie herself was long gone…

The part of me that was still her shrieked, battling at the inside of my skull, trying to pry open my ribcage. Look at it! She raged. Look at this! This is… this was my home! You're destroying everything!

But they were not Natalie's thoughts, not anymore. They were mine. It was… surreal, to have something be only mine again; that had not happened in almost two years. But it was something that should have been hers, that should have been her thought… and it was much worse to know that it could not be. She was no longer in my head or my life.

But our minds had been interlocked, and when we were severed, so much of her mind had been left in mine, and so much of mine had been left in hers… and soon enough, that part of me that lingered in her would cease to exist, because she would be gone, she would be dead, Fraye would kill her and this would all be over once and for all…

Earth launched a final defense to destroy Fraye. Their last desperate attack; a nuclear assault. A barrage of missiles to destroy their enemy. The moment she learned of it, Fraye evacuated herself to Antarctica and urged the world on; she knew that I wanted my world as undamaged as possible, and she thought that radiation may put a damper in that plan.

The missiles found her, surrounded by snow and ice, a manic grin gleaming on her face. The world was going to burn. The ice was to become fire.

But before that fire could even burst to life, before the flames even had a chance to live, the shadows swallowed them whole.

And darkness advanced on the planet again.

And so, for all of her defenses, for all of her Avengers, for all of her protectors from other worlds and protectors who had been born on her soil… for everything that had been done to stop this very event from occurring, in the end, all it took was one decision, one sacrifice, and two weeks before the Earth fell.

The door to my room was opened, and Fraye Burns stepped inside, gesturing theatrically to the outside world.

I stepped towards it, into the light, out onto a balcony that I had not even been aware of, and realized that I stood far above the ground, far above a beaten people. And as I watched, one by one, the crowd of people below sank to their knees.

I looked to Fraye, and she snickered. "Your planet now," she said. "After all, you bought it." She brought her thumb and forefinger to her lips and let out a shrill whistle which pierced the air, and shadows formed in massive columns on either side of me, shadows that swirled and reshaped themselves into wolfish figures. Hounds. Two of them, who stood at my either side as guard and sentry.

"They'll keep an eye on things for you," Fraye purred, stepping behind me, moving with fluid grace. "And they'll let me know if any pesky Asgardians show up to spoil your fun." I knew that her hand was on my back and yet, I could not feel it. I could not feel her behind me. I could feel nothing. I could only watch the world on its knees before me.

Something slid onto my head; I glanced up to it as Fraye produced a mirror before my eyes. I stared at my reflection dully, my features dead. It was a helm. My helm, but changed, altered. For the gold was now shadow-black, and it did not gleam so much as make everything around it seem darker.

"Hail to the King," Fraye murmured in my ear.

And then the shadows swarmed, swallowed her, and she was gone. My throat was tight. My chest was empty, my head empty. And no amount of noise would relieve the silence inside of my head.

And yet…

And yet…

I was smiling.

---

That is the way your world ended, I reflect to myself as I watch out of the window, stare at the city below. One month ago today, that was how one world ended. That was how another began.

I have held the throne for one month. I have worn the Shadow's Crown for one month.

I have been alone for one month.

(No)

(Forever)

(I have been alone forever)

The wall that I stand before is not truly a wall, but a window, staring out at the city below. There is still some damage, yes. The world is still being repaired. But it is happening. Humanity works and lives, as it has always worked and lived: under the watchful guidance of someone else.

I suppose, in that respect, nothing has really changed. For all that there are rebellions, for all that they call me a 'tyrant', it is as though nothing has changed. They complain of their lack of freedom; but freedom is something that they never really had.

I turn away from the window that I look out of, and walk to the throne. It is quite an impressive one, made out of twisted and bent blackness, a throne made of living shadows that writhe about inside of themselves. At one time I may have feared these shadows, feared the dark. And though I shall never particularly care for it, it is now my ally, and the darkness now stands beside me. I remember that fear well, though, and it gives me no small pleasure to think of how those who still fight will find themselves trapped, caught, thrown before me… to think of how the darkness itself will hunt them, how they, too, will learn to fear the shadows.

The throne room is quiet and empty of all but two guards, who stand sentinel beside the door. It would be difficult to trust these guards, had I not seen a peculiar- and all too familiar- bloodlust in their eyes. Some types of humanity welcome this change. They welcome the chance to rise to power. I smile to myself; in the end, every species is the same. They all have kings and convicts. They all have men and monsters.

I sit on the throne and allow myself some time to think; I know I cannot do so for long. The longer I sit in silence, the longer I have to contemplate what silence truly is. The longer I have to think of…

I close my eyes.

(Natalie)

"No!" I snarl, standing abruptly. The guards do not hesitate or falter, do not even blink at this harsh and unexpected movement. It is not uncommon, not any longer. A king has many things on his mind, and many reasons to show fury. The rebellions, for one. The Asgardians and the Jotuns, and their attempts on my world, for another. Failed attempts. Failed rebellions. Earth is mine, it is mine, it will always be mine and as long as I am on the throne I will not say her name, I will not even think her name…

(I dare not say her name)

I fall back onto my throne, sitting once more, glaring out at my kingdom. One month. Fraye told me it would take longer than that to adjust, told me that this pain would remain with me for the rest of my life, just as the scars on my back were meant to.

(Before the Healers looked at them)

(And I would never have let the Healers near them)

(That was her)

(She did that)

(She did everything for me)

I shove these treacherous thoughts and non-thoughts aside. This pain would stay forever, yes, Fraye had sworn to that. She had told me that time, the great healer of all wounds, could not heal this one. What she had omitted was that it would get worse with every day that passed.

It is only as I sit, as I think, as I brood, that I see the movement in the corner of my eye. I glance over and, at the sight of him, I almost find myself smiling again. Almost. He is very accustomed to this place, despite everything; but then, he was used to it long before my renovations even occurred.

Jekyll walks over to the throne, sniffs the air, then turns around a few times beside it as though to trample the ground underfoot and lies down. The last of the Tower's residents still standing free, the animal still proudly bears the thick, shadow lash scars down his side, curled around his tail, and the smaller one on his muzzle. He fought as bravely as any human that day, defending his home, his home that I took from him… and yet, now that the battle is over, he stays by my side, as though I am not his enemy. As though I fought beside rather than against him. As though I had not taken the Tower for my own when the world fell. As though the palace that I built was not constructed on its remains.

But it was always to be Stark Tower. That was always to be mine. It was such a symbol to so many, such a symbol of wealth and power, and here I was, sitting in its heart, proving with my very existence that such things were lies. That wealth and power for anyone but the great were just as much a deceit as freedom was, just as much a deceit as she was.

I brush thoughts of her aside before I can recall her features, before I see her face in my head again, before I hear her voice in my ears. How I hate her. How I hated her every word, her every action, her every breath, I despise it, I despise the mark she left on the world, the mark she left on me. The scars she gave me are far larger, more lasting, and more damaging than any that she may have helped to heal.

(Eight of your precious nine realms are safe, even if earth is mine)

(So stop haunting me)

Jekyll sighs deeply beside me, the melancholy of an animal… but what does a dog have to mourn? Its life is simple. It lives and it dies and whatever is in between is of little consequence. There are no decisions of monsters and men, no worries of thrones and kings, no defense of a realm. But I leave Jekyll to his unexplained pains. If any animal has such a right, it is he.

Though perhaps he sacrificed that right when he remained by my side.

The doors open, rather unimpressively, and I look up to see a young woman step inside. The guards immediately stiffen and aim respective weaponry towards her, but as soon as they see her face, they relax. She gives them all cold looks. On her shoulder, a crow ruffles its feathers, resettling into place, watching the world with beady black eyes. It is not the crow who followed Nat- her parents home from Asgard, but rather one of three whom Fraye sent to Earth after her departure. Three crows, and each one hand-picked certain generals and strategists out of the masses of humans on this world.

I suppose these humans are necessary. But that does not mean that I despise working with mortals any less.

Still, these three-my generals- do have a certain cunning to them, and a fierce loyalty that makes them very useful. And I trust Fraye's judgment with them; I know that the Shadow Child wishes for me to live. After all, she believes that I will crack under this pressure, that I will cave in to the silence that presses in on all sides at all times. She wants me to live long enough to die in the way that she has. I, however, refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.

(Because I have already given her everything else)

The woman steps forwards, walking to the halfway point between the door and my throne, and gracefully drops to one knee, fist rising to her chest in respectful salute. "Your majesty," she says, her eyes on the ground. She never looks me in the eye without first gauging the room, being certain that I will allow it. She is very adept at doing whatever it takes to save her own skin, and to gain power wherever she can get it. It makes her very dependable.

It also makes her very dangerous.

She glances up; the minutest of nods from me indicates her permission to rise, and of course she catches it and does so. She stands in an almost militaristic style; but then, she was in the military. A low-ranking officer who was suddenly given the greatest promotion of all; that of the King's general. A sudden gift of power such as this can craft a person's darker side into lethality, if given correctly.

Her dark brown eyes do not quite meet mine, not as an equal, but I can still see the brutality inside of them. Her dark blonde hair is pulled back in a tight band behind her head, and she wears no other ornamentation, save for a small silver bracelet on her left wrist. She seems well suited to her Asgardian-esque clothing, the half-armor that protects her mortal form better than anything she has likely worn before.

"Miss Whitacre," I greet her. She, along with my other two generals, is one of the few humans whose full names I have bothered to learn and remember. After all, Shay Whitacre runs a great deal of my military operations. Most of her duties are limited to the care and keeping of war criminals, as-with Fraye on my side- planetary defense is a rather low priority. But a defense against the creatures that lurk in the cells beneath the Tower… that is an invaluable thing indeed.

Whitacre bites her lower lip, a trace of fear and vulnerability flashing across her face. It is gone in a heartbeat. "I'm sorry to intrude, sir, but there is a problem." Her eyes flit away just briefly, and I find myself momentarily curious. She, of all of my generals, appears to be the most human. The others have their reasons for serving, and they show no weakness, no touch of desire. Shay is different, always seeming to hold something back. But it is of little consequence; she will not betray me. Fraye herself has guaranteed it.

"It's… Stark, your majesty," Whitacre informs me. "He did it again."

I blink at her, then slowly turn my gaze to Jekyll. The animal meets my gaze and yawns hugely, entirely apathetic to the happenings of the world around him. I smile very softly.

(I don't know why I smile)

(Why it doesn't just break my face in half to do so)

(Everything hurts)

"Of course," I find myself muttering, and I shake my head, laughing quietly. It is a dry laugh, empty, but it seems convincing enough to the humans in the room. I stand, walking towards Whitacre, slow and assuredly. "Show me," I order.

She bows stiffly, curtly. "Yes, sir." She immediately turns, walking with snapping steps out of the exit. Ever the obedient soldier. I follow, and though my stride is long and filled with purpose, my footsteps are silent, wraithlike. As though I am a ghost.

(Oh, you're not a ghost)

(I'm a ghost)

I blink, then force the not-thoughts aside. There are many things in my mind now that no longer make sense, fragments of thought and reasoning. They follow dream logic; that is, no logic at all. They make no sense and they clutter my mind and I have no use for them, no time for them, but they so frequently make me feel as if they come from another part of my mind- a part that I know no longer exists, a part that used to have a name and a face and an infectious smile (and that laugh)- and so I sometimes allow myself to keep them. I sometimes allow these loose threads to exist, and some days I even welcome them.

But I cannot afford to do so. It is beyond weak, to cling to illusions for happiness. Beyond weak, to cling to lies to make you feel safe.

(Like she did)

(And I lied to her, I let her believe it)

(Because I knew how much even an illusion of happiness means in that place, in Fraye's hands)

Whitacre leads me to the stairs in silence. That is one thing she does very well: silence. It is rare that she will speak out of turn, though she frequently believes herself in the right on many things. As we journey down the stairs together, deep into the darkest depths of the Tower-depths that did not exist before my rule- I force myself to think of her, and not of… anything (anyone) else. Shay is a very useful soldier. She has talent. She is loyal. I've given her everything she ever wanted, more than she could have dreamed for in her old world, and all I've asked is that she kneel. And why not? Why not bow before a creature far more powerful than you?

(Dignity)

My teeth clench. That thought was not a thought. That thought did not exist. I will not allow it to exist.

(Because it is her thought)

(And I can't hear her anymore)

(Just her echoes)

It does not take us long to reach the Shadow Cells. There are six of them, one for every Avenger, spaced out and separated so that they cannot see each other, walls between them to cut off their access from each other. Fraye created them specifically for each of them, with shadows that will not allow them to escape; though should one of them somehow manage to do so-and a number of times, one has- she comes back the second I call. Or I deal with the escapee myself. It is a far easier feat, now that I have weapons and armies to my name.

There are a number of doors, each leading to a respective cell, marked with Asgardian symbols, marked with each of their names. Only I can tell the difference, as there is no longer any free Asgardian in this realm, nor anyone that I am aware of who can read it. I select Stark's; and immediately am greeted with his collection. The room is divided in half by bars of shadow, with the prisoner on one side, and I on the opposite. A number of odd things-things that were confiscated from him- litter the ground beneath my feet, taunting him, so close and yet out of his reach. He obtained these materials from the strangest of sources- it is actually rather entertaining to see him do so- and builds whatever he can with what he has. Crude devices that he hopes will aid his escape. Weapons, mostly. Of all the Avengers, I had not figured Stark to be the most dangerous when imprisoned. He quickly proved me wrong.

I look to the latest item of the collection. A rudimentary knife, mere inches from his cell, fashioned from…

"What is that, Whitacre?"

Shay glances to the object and sighs deeply. "We thought it was some silverware that he hid before his rights to it were taken away. Turns out, it was smuggled in to him. We still don't know who did it."

I nod slowly, the pieces falling into place. So we have a traitor in our midst. No matter; if he is not caught soon, there are other ways to discover true loyalties. Particularly when one is in contact with a gifted telepath.

I bite my lip. Or, if I still had control over my own telepathy, I could do it for myself, and not have to whine to Fraye over every possible threat to my rule, like some child complaining to a parent. But I dare not use my telepathy again, not after what has been done, and I do not see how Fraye herselfstill uses it to its full capacity. Perhaps she is used to this this agony. Perhaps she is in so much pain that it doesn't even matter anymore.

I expect a not-thought to chime in to that (a remnant of her, perhaps), to add that I am in more than enough pain for it to not matter, but my head remains… silent. As it has always been silent. And suddenly that silence begins screaming, and I gasp softly, slouching to the side, propped against the wall as my heart lurches, battering against my chest.

Not again, I think as I press my palm heel into my forehead. Whitacre is immediately by my side.

"Your majesty?" She asks, genuine fear and concern in her voice. But of course she is concerned. If something were to happen to me, perhaps the planet's old regimes would fall back into place. And I doubt that the old laws could forgive her many crimes as easily as I can command her to commit them. "My king, are you all right?"

"It shall pass, Whitacre," I say through gritted teeth, the frustration bleeding through. It is a lie. It will not pass, it never passes, I can only ever force myself to not think of it, to ignore the ringing silence, and even then only for a little while at a time. My head… my head aches. I feel split, feel as though a half of my entire body has just been… pulled away, and somehow, by some cruel trick of fate, I am still standing, still breathing with one lung, still pumping blood through half of my veins with half of a heart. What puppet strings pull this shell of a being? What commands my lifeless corpse to keep walking?

Hey, the not-thought is so loud it almost takes a voice outside of my head. Maybe if you put a bullet in your brain, it'll stop it. You know, like a zombie!

Definitely an echo of her, even if it feels like my thought. Even if the thought is mine. Because there isn't a 'me' anymore; there is only one half of me in this body, and another half in another that is far away…

(Far away and slowly being tortured to death by a sick, twisted creature of chaos and darkness, the thing that you handed her to. You're not her executioner. You're worse than that)

But there is still part of her in this head, and it needs the other half just as badly as the part of me needs my other half… because only together were we ever whole…

I stand there and wait for the pain to subside. It never does. And so I wait until I have the strength to pretend that it did. After a long while, I straighten, and without another word to Whitacre, I pick the makeshift blade up off the floor and step towards Stark's cell.

The wall of black, twisted bars- bars as alive and writhing as my throne- separates me from the great and ingenious Tony Stark by a mere few, unpassable inches. He does not look so great and ingenious anymore, only beaten and weary. His hair is messy, his entire form unkempt, his face-and that beard that she used to say was so 'famous'- has overgrown its typical barriers and boundaries. He has not even looked in my direction, but as I step up, he turns to me. There is nothing more or less than pure hatred in his eyes.

The instant I lay eyes on him, as what happens with every Avenger, I fall into another persona, I become… someone else. I play a part. I begin an act. An act of a king.

(The king I pretend to be, because inside I'm really nothing but a corpse)

"What have I told you about this, Stark?" I ask, slowly twirling the crude blade around in my fingertips. The mockery in my voice is a razor's edge in this place, cutting to the quick. "It only ever makes your life worse."

Stark, still seated, looks up at me. His eyes burn. They are not lasers, burning holes in me, and they do not spread magma across the floor. They simply burn. His eyes convey all the hate in the world while his casual tone implies the reverse. "What are you going to do about it, Loki?" He asks, with his typical sneering arrogance, a brazen smile on his face.

The fool. Does he not realize where he stands? Does he not recognize that he is a mortal?

(Did I ever recognize that I was a prisoner?)

Fine. Let the mortal have his fun and games. Perhaps it will translate into some fun for me, some extra humor in my life. I doubt it. Nothing has made me laugh-truly laugh- since the death of one Nata-

No.

"Are you going to kill me?" Stark asks, his lip still curled up in that half-smirk, half-snarl, and his eyes still burning. I do not know if that fire in his eyes is directed at me, or if it is burning him instead. He turns away and begins to work with a single shred of cloth from his pillowcase, undoubtedly trying to think of a way to craft it into his next weapon or escape attempt. "I really doubt it," he carries on. "But hey, if you think you've got the guts to order my execution, I'm not going anywhere."

Part of me wants to reach forwards and break his neck through the bars, destroy him and all of his defiance. But another part of me holds back. It is so easy these days, for me to fracture into this indecision, to crack in half and become two people who want separate things with their lives. If I am already split, does the damage created with that first separation not make it so much easier for such a fracture to occur again?

But the second part of me wins. I swore to this. I made a promise to the one whose life I took. That shouldn't matter. I am a murderer. In some terms, I could even be called a torturer. It should be the simplest of things to break such a promise.

(But it does matter)

(Because I promised her)

I turn away. "That you live, Stark," I say darkly, "Only means that you will live to regret this moment."

His only response is a quiet, sarcastic laugh, and I walk away from him, trying to push aside the screaming ache in my mind. A part of me is relieved that I did not take him up on his offer, did not destroy him where he stood. Still, I suppose I only have the crown because of her. This is but a minor inconvenience; and surely it is a tolerable condition.

"Promises, promises," Stark calls back airily. And then, after a beat, he says, "Just one question for you."

I fight the urge to ignore him and turn back, smiling wryly. "And that would be?"

Stark turns back to me, looking at me through the bars. There's a bleak intelligence behind his features, and once I respected it. Once I even saved his life because of that intelligence. I believe I have collected- and overstepped- that debt once again; but no matter. Sooner or later, one of us will die regardless of debt.

"The nightmares," Starks asks, a vicious glint in his eye. "Did they come back without her?"

He does not say her name, either. Is this because it pains him, too?

Even if that were the case… it could never be as painful as this. As painful as that name would be to my ears, if I should ever hear it again. I blink at him and do not respond; the former Iron Man chuckles without mirth.

"Hope some of 'em are about me," he says, deathly cheerful. "'Cause I dream every night about kicking your ass straight to the moon." His eyes narrow, and he turns away, muttering, "Since you were too much of a coward to face us the first time."

I don't remember lunging towards him. I don't remember slipping my arm through the bars so that my hand can wrap around his throat as he sits against them. All I know is that he is suddenly at my mercy and beneath my grasp and I am seeing red and that the emptiness- that hollow side of me- is, for a brief second, filled; filled with shadows and blood and blades. Words are hissing out of my mouth and I don't remember saying them until after they are said.

"My mind, my core, half of my entire being had been ripped out that day, Stark," I say, the words bleeding, the world bleeding. "An agony no mortal could live through. I would hardly call it an act of cowardice."

He was wrong, he was so very wrong, it had not been cowardice. I had not been afraid of my choice; I had taken my time, I had made it, and she had allowed me to make it. It was pain that kept me from the battle; and that kind of pain was an agony he'd never know, let alone live past.

(Even if… she has survived it)

(Well, she was always stronger than other mortals, anyway)

Stark struggles against my hold, fingers trying to dig into my skin. "You expect me… to feel sorry for you…?" He chokes, struggling to spit the words out. From where I stand, I cannot see his eyes, but I can feel their fire nonetheless. "Trust me… when I put you down like the animal you are… it's not going to be out of pity."

I unleash a disgusted snarl and, gripping tighter for just a brief second, I release him, pulling my arm out of the cell. He collapses forward, coughing and gasping. I swore that he would not be harmed, it is true, but that does not mean that I can tolerate his insolence. Some people are simply born with minds too little and mouths too large for self-preservation. I whirl, stalking towards the exit, feeling my coat snapping behind me with each step.

I step up to Whitacre, who has been watching the transaction in silence. As I exit the room, she closes the door behind me. "Find the traitor," I bark out the order, my throat feeling oddly tight, my voice sounding strangely hoarse. I clear it and try again. "And deal with them!"

"And Stark, your majesty?"

"Leave him be," I answer, glaring over my shoulder at the prisoner's door- and the five others- as we leave. "And let him rot."

"Yes sir," Whitacre answers obediently, dutifully. After a moment, however, with a great deal of hesitation, she speaks again. Her voice is almost shy, gentle and nervous. Her tone has become slightly less professional and more personal. "If I may ask a question, your majesty?"

I look to her. I know that this is a query that has been weighing heavily on her mind for some time now, I know, or she would not bother to ask at all. I give her a curt nod, halting, not far from the prison doors. I can read my brother's name engraved there in one of the black doors, written in Asgardian symbols. I look back to Whitacre in an effort to avoid it.

"Forgive me if I am overstepping my bounds," Whitacre says hastily, trying to put a touch of formality to the words, an extra lining of silver to each to keep her skin intact. She already has a few scars from speaking too far out of turn. I try not to think of why I do not remember giving them to her. "I am not doubting your decisions. But it is my duty to understand all facets of this prison and I-"

"Speak your question and spare your words, Whitacre," I snap, feeling impatient. "Tell me what it is you want to know."

She bites her lip gently, her eyes flitting down. Brown eyes so harsh and cold, reduced to a strange softness now. "My King, the Avengers pose an incredible threat to your rule. Even imprisoned as they are, it is very possible that they can escape; and if they ever do, then they will probably have the support of a great number of people. With even one of them as a symbol, the rebels could rally together and overthrow you." Her eyes lift back up, questioning, trying to understand. The crow on her shoulder shifts about and begins to run its beak through her blonde ponytail. She ignores this, all too used to the creature by now. "I must ask… why do you still keep them alive?"

It is a question I have been asked before, but only by the fewest, the bravest. Jenner Goldsclove, another of the three selected by the crows (and thus, by Fraye) asked me this the moment we met. He is a very blunt type of man; and he dislikes being in the dark on any subject, even that which was not in his own field. A useful trait, in a strategist. He was also chosen well.

I give Shay Whitacre a bemused smile that does not match my exhausted mood. Already, I am tired. I am tired of people, tired of mortals, of humans. I am exhausted by humanity in general, and now I wish for nothing more than my day to be finished.

(But not to sleep)

(If I sleep, I'll dream of her)

(Of what I sentenced her to)

The thoughts are pushed aside, and I carry on smiling bemusedly at Shay. "You are a fairly clever mortal," I tell her in a dangerously velvet voice. "Tell me why you think I do this."

She bites her lip again, twirling strand of hair that the crow has loosened from its usual binding. Slowly, choosing her words with caution, she answers, "I know that they are your oldest and greatest of enemies. That they defeated you once before." Her eyes harden briefly. "But quite honestly, sir, I only hope that they are not here as your trophies. It would be… uncharacteristically foolish to keep them alive, simply for the sake of gloating." She places a special emphasis on the word 'uncharacteristically,' as though trying to prove that she does not think me to be a fool by nature.

I chuckled very quietly at that. I don't know why; I do not find it particularly funny. But the person I used to be might have. The person I used to be before her. Before she did what she did.

(Before I tore her out with my own two hands)

(And I would do it again, I would do it just to hear her scream, to see her blood on the floor, because I hate her, I hate everything about her)

"Perhaps it would be," I muse quietly. There is a moment of silence between us, and then I ask, "What do you know of my relationship with Thor Odinson?"

She pauses. "Only rumors, sir," She answers momentarily. "I try not to listen to rumors. Or to anything that I have no factual proof of."

I smirk. She is clever. She could be of great use. I am quite pleased by this. I am glad to have someone of such value in my army.

(Aren't I?)

"Then I shall lay those rumors to rest for you," I say, a strict, hard edge to my tone. "Thor was my adoptive brother. I grew up beside him."

I say this because I want to see how she will react. And she does beautifully, just as I hoped she would. Her face remains calm and unsurprised, simply taking in another fact in a long line of them, compartmentalizing them for later use. "I see," she answers tonelessly.

"To kill him, Miss Whitacre, would destroy a part of my past, and thus a part of my present." I shrug mildly. "The Avengers… they are much the same. Perhaps for different reasons, but still very much the same." I look away from her. "And I have already lost a great deal of myself," I add quietly. "I will not lose any more, no matter the risk."

Whitacre seems to sense that this conversation is finished, regardless of whether or not she has understood all that I have said, and she turns forwards. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

She believes the lie. She believes what her king tells her. That is what a mortal is supposed to do; follow orders blindly and accept my word as complete truth.

(Yes. This is how it should be.)

---

Stark was not wrong about the nightmares. I stare at the ceiling above the bed, battling sleep in spite of my fatigue. This battle is always waged when nighttime comes, when the darkness swallows the world. Because no matter how large and comfortable the bed, no matter how bright the lamp beside me may shine… the bed will always be empty, and that lamp will never glow as she did.

I sigh deeply and try to close my eyes. They refuse to obey. There are sentries outside of my door and there is a weapon at my side, and I know that nothing can hurt me here, not any longer, and yet, I can feel fear in my veins.

That is when her heart starts beating faster.

I gasp, sitting upright, throwing my legs over the side of the bed and clutching my chest. It is only the barest echo of a shadow above my heart, but I can feel it, as I always feel it, this screaming of frantic beats, pounding and racing in a hectic rhythm behind my own heart. Her heartbeat, which somehow still remains. I had hoped that it would vanish, that this echo would diminish and fade. It doesn't. And I fear it will not entirely vanish until the day it stops.

It beats at the speed of a hummingbird's wings, fluttering but powerful. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the images that stream through my mind -memories of the times in which Fraye had me, memories of what she did- pressing my palm heels into my temples, trying to force them out. I will not think of this. I will not think of what is being done to her. I refuse to think of these memories. I refute my past, her present.

(Why now?)

(Fraye has left her alone for almost two weeks. Why start again now?)

(What is she doing to her?)

(Natalie, please, hold on)

I pull myself to my feet and begin to stride towards the door. With each step I leave that past behind me- (or so I try to believe)- and push her name away to the farthest corners of my mind. I try to force her erratic heartbeat away from mine, but it will not fade. It defies me, defies the darkness, and lives.

Why, I wonder, is it so silent here? Why do I allow such silence to exist? This is my world, in the city that the mortals said never slept; so why are they silent now? Why do they sleep now? There has to be something, some way to relieve the silence…

A smile begins to spread across my face. Of course, I could always play my favorite little game, play with my favorite toys. Perhaps that would relieve this endless quiet…

(You sound just like Fraye)

I quickly dress, placing my helm back on my head and glancing to myself in the mirror. The helm is still as black as night, tainted by the shadow's influence. She would never have admitted it, but she loved my helmet; and she would have hated this… this shadow's perversion of it. But I no longer have to live to please her. I am free of her, free at last from the chains she bound me with.

Even if a price had to be paid.

I walk towards the prisons, feeling the eyes of my guards on my back. It is not uncommon for me to wander at night, and even if it were, it is not their place to question their king. I do as I wish. That is my rightful place.

I walk to the prison doors and stand before them, reading each name. I contemplate who I shall speak with, what I shall say, what game I shall play today. As though I do not know already that it will be Thor. Because Thor still tries. Thor still pleads. Thor still acts as though there is hope and still releases his rage so pointlessly against the shadow bars, and all of that pleading, all of that shouting, all of that rage and hate, all of that betrayal and anger, maybe it will relieve this cold, arctic emptiness in my head. Maybe when he shouts and tries to lift his precious Mjolnir out of the shadows, maybe the sight of that can stop this… this absence. Maybe I can fill this void with the hatred that I used to hold for him, that I still hold for him…

But as I walk towards those doors, it is another's that I open.

It is a moment like a nightmare. Rooted to the spot and then forced to carry onwards, even as I try to turn my feet away, even as I tell myself to stay away from here. I despise walking into that room, I despise the blank, empty sounds that linger inside of his cell. But in that moment, my memory lapses again, and suddenly I am inside, suddenly I am standing before him.

He, too, is awake. He never appears to sleep.

Bruce Banner's head lifts up as I enter, and his eyes look at me. I do not remember entering the room, only standing here. I do not remember speaking until the air is ringing with the words. I do not remember smiling at him until my lips start to crack.

"Trouble sleeping?"

He says nothing. Slowly, he turns his back to me, facing the wall. He sits on his bench, alone and silent, and stares at the black walls of his cage. His face doesn't change as he turns away. It never does.

Of all the Avengers, he is the only one who has stopped trying to escape. He tried only once: beginning his transformation for only a brief few seconds before the shadows swarmed him, poisoned him until he was unconscious, and stopped him before he could even complete the change.

After that day, he has done… nothing. Nothing but sit and wait. What he is waiting for, I do not know. I don't think I will ever know.

I keep talking. This room only ever amplifies the silence, reminds me of it; and it is suddenly everywhere, surrounding me, closing in. There is an ache, or an absence of one, in my mind at all times, and I feel… numb. Riddled with empty holes, places that are deteriorating and crumbling and I cannot feel them, cannot feel myself being torn and shattered, I cannot feel the cracks. But I know that they are there. Because there is so much of me that is missing.

But still, I try to fill this noiseless place with the sound of my own voice, with the sound of my mocking whispers, hoping to illicit some response from the man before me. "You know she still lives, do you not?" I ask him quietly, an edge of a laugh in my tone. "She has been under Fraye's hold for a month… and yet she still lives." I laugh quietly. "She was always the strongest of you, wasn't she?"

No answer. My smile, impossibly, grows. "Oh," I whisper, as though discovering a great revelation. "But she never was one of you, was she?" I can feel my voice dance, I make my voice dance. I am so proud of this. I have everything I ever wanted. My life is perfect. Everything is perfect. And with the Avengers in pain, that perfection is all the sweeter.

"You never accepted her," I say quietly, moving forwards, each step relaxed but lethal. My hands close around the bars- which burn my palms and fingers- bringing me a short distance from the man himself. From this angle, I can see the barest shred of his profile, of the blank look on his face. He does not look defeated. He has never looked defeated. "You always cast her out, and for what? To stop me?" I laugh softly. "Did you want to stop me from doing this? From doing exactly what I have done?"

Bruce remains silent, as does my mind. She does not berate me, does not scold me for this, as she would have, if she was still here. I don't hear her voice in my head, telling me to stop this, pulling me back, pulling back on my leash as she always did…

"It did you no good!" When did my voice begin to rise? When did I begin to get angry with him? When did fury begin to tremble inside of me? "It did you no good! It didn't save you, in the end!"

But why shouldn't I be furious? He will not talk, will not speak, will not say a word. I need this emptiness in my head to stop and if he will not speak-(and if she will not speak)- then who? Who will break this silence?

"And it most certainly did her no good! It certainly never helped her, ostracized and alone, with no one but me to turn to!" My voice quivers, irate. "Did you ever even consider that? Did you ever even think that treating her as an outcast would send her straight into my arms?" I demand these things of Banner, but he won't speak.

(No)

(He won't answer)

I hesitate for a long moment, glaring at Banner, but he has not even moved. And then I chuckle quietly, remove my hand from the bars, and take a step back, nodding slowly.

And then I turn away, biting back the scream that wants to rip out of me as Fros-her heartbeat speeds up, faster and faster, despite how calm it has been for weeks, how slow it has been for weeks… My heart, always wishing to keep in rhythm with this beat, even when separated from it, also begins to race, and I can feel it throughout my entire body, loud and fast, echoing in my ears…

I stumble out of Banner's cell just as I recall the only words he ever said… the only words he has said since his imprisonment, the first and last words that he said to me when he saw my face and the helm on my head. The words that gave me all the answer that I needed.

"You know, after all this time… I really expected better from you, Loki."

I let out a wordless growl, stalking back to my room, my heart's speed still increasing. How dare he say this, how dare he speak those words with such disappointment in his eyes, how dare he lie to his King? He could not have expected better from me. For him to say that indicated that he believed that I was capable of being better, when everyone knew… when we all knew that I was not. There was one person and one alone who believed that I could refuse Fraye, even if she was not certain that I should, and she…

She…

Well, she was proved wrong in the end, wasn't she?

Damn him. My thoughts roared. Damn Bruce Banner, damn the Avengers, damn them all! I should have them killed. I should have them all executed, one by one, in front of my eyes, I should watch their blood soak my floors, regardless of whatever I may have promised. She'll be dead soon, in spite of her influence on my life, so what does it matter?

"Well, that would be incredibly stupid."

I freeze, stunned into place. And then, in an instant, my spear is materializing in my hand, my eyes searching everywhere for the source of the voice.

But there is no source. The world is empty. No one else speaks; and I stare around, still scanning everywhere, still trying to find the speaker…

Nothing.

No one.

A frown pulls at my lips, and I straighten, banishing the spear with a careful wave from a magic-laced hand. I did not recognize the voice. Or, perhaps I did, but it is not a voice I have heard in a very long time, and I can not match a name to it. It is most certainly not hers- (I would always recognize hers)- but there is no one around. There is… nothing.

It's interesting, I think to myself. I have already lost half of my entire being; so when I finish losing my mind, I wonder how much of me will be left?

Shaking my head in irritation, burying the thought deep in the darkest recesses of my core, I continue walking back to my throne room.

Her heart still races on.

---

"You've got to stop doing this to yourself, Natalie."

I jump, leaping to my feet at the sound of the voice. I freaking hate how easy it is for her to sneak up on me. My heart jump-skips, but remains steady as I glare at her, fists clenched at my sides. It is a very weak act. My knees are shaking. I know my skin is pale. And I broke out in sweats almost an hour ago.

But what else can I do?

Fraye sighs theatrically as she sweeps across the room. I try not to look at the blood on her cheek. My blood. My blood that she still hasn't washed off.

Give her time,I think acidly. It's only been two days.

Two days. I swallow tightly, my throat sore, and my stomach twists and rumbles. A scent catches the air; Fraye holds a tray of food in her pale hands, which she sets on the floor near me, kicking it my way with a single deft movement. Nothing spills or slides as it makes its way towards me.

My mouth starts to water. I close my eyes, but that doesn't block out the smell. Dammit, it's only been two days. I've gone longer than that without food. I'll do it again.

Fraye rolls her black eyes and skips towards me. "Come on, Natalie," She coos. "I'm your friend, remember?"

I know it only makes things worse, but I still can't stop myself from reaching out to strike her. The force field that's still wrapped around me extends about a foot away from my hand as she skips back deftly, expertly, away from the blow. She shakes her head, sighing deeply.

"That force field will only last for so long, you know," she informs me patiently, for the umpteenth time. Like it makes a difference.

"Lasted for a few weeks last time," I retort irritably. Yeah, a few weeks. A few weeks of trying to get whatever food I could through the gap before Fraye showed up, trying to eat as quickly as possible before she came back and I had to hide that weakness once again, or seal it shut (which I've somehow learned to do, thankfully. I suppose necessity really is the mother of invention). A few weeks where I could avoid the hell outside of this room, could ignore what she did to me… but listening instead to the hell in my own head, the silence that he left behind…

I grit my teeth against the numbness. How is it possible for me to feel so much pain at Fraye's hands, and yet feel so numb to everything else?

Fraye giggles, the sound forcefully pulling me back to the present. "Aww, my sweet little naïve Natalie, don't you remember? Your force field is powered by the Tesseract. By Loki's connection to the Tesseract." I wince as she says his name out loud, because that name is… it's everything. And it's everything that she's not allowed to touch, let alone say aloud. "Without him, dearie… you're powerless. The longer you stay like this, the longer those little machines in your blood are taking their power directly from you." She gives me a pitying look. "Drop the act, darling. Eat something. Relax a little. This only makes everything worse."

My eyes narrow. Without giving myself time to think about it, and knowing that it may be the last opportunity I have to do so before I lose my willpower entirely, I scoop the tray off of the floor and fling it towards her. Because I dare not risk shifting the weakness to eat, not now. One bad blow from Fraye could bring my shield crumbling down; and if she figures out where the weakness is… she could land a blow on me that would be much worse.

Fraye dances to the side- like she always does- when the tray comes towards her. The part of me that is still Loki snarls out an Asgardian curse.

Fraye sighs and shakes her head. "Very well," she twitters, turning away. "I was going to give you a reprieve…"

And suddenly, she's an inch away from my face, shadows expanding, growing on all sides. An embarrassingly loud squeak comes out of my mouth (not that I particularly care about being embarrassed anymore) and the shadows strike against the force field, time and time again. Fear starts to make my heart race.

"But now you've given me no choice," Fraye purrs. The shadows continue their assault. The shield ripples in Tesseract blue. It should not be this weak. But without their magical element, without the Tesseract, the scientific side of them is so much weaker…

Without him, I am so much weaker.

My force field buckles beneath the shadows' weight. It warps and strains… and finally gives. The shadows swarm, enveloping me, and suddenly the world is on fire, and I'm screaming, feeling the darkness in my throat…

I wake without waking, scream without screaming, and stare at the ceiling, panting. My breath is choked in my throat and my heart… my heart is losing beats and struggling to keep others, aching behind my ribcage. I sit upright and try to breathe, try desperately to swallow as much air as I can, but the room is getting smaller, the walls closing in around me, until there is nothing left inside to breathe except the darkness…

I tear out of the room and into the washroom, to the mirror, and stare at my reflection. I am unsurprised to see what stares back. I am unsurprised by the brilliant red eyes and the dark blue skin, unsurprised by my Jotun reflection, because this is what I am and this is what I will always be. I can't stop the laughter despite the pain, despite how I have no air to laugh with. It just keeps spilling out.

"Is it beautiful now, Frost?" I whisper hoarsely, and her name sends a keening of agony straight through my spine, quivering throughout my entire body. "This form that you so admired, do you find it beautiful now?"

I am trembling and my bones hurt, a splintering ache through each of my joints, and I am on the floor on my hands and knees and I am laughing, laughing so loudly. There is a numbness behind my eyes which spreads throughout my veins, and I can feel it creeping over every drop of blood, over every nerve, inside of my bones, until I am nothing, until there is nothing left to feel. This laughter… this is hilarious, is it not? Her fate is the greatest of all great jests, the Trickster's finest trick…

So why do I feel… nothing?

There is nothing of me left to laugh, and yet it is spilling into the air around me, and I am trying to hold it back, my arms wrapped around myself as I remain on my knees on the ground. Is that wrong, for me to be on my knees? To kneel? After all, I am the king, am I not?

Do I care?

"This is kinda pathetic."

I turn, whirling in place, to the black marble counter. The speaker sits there, feet kicking back and forth. I can barely make out a shape in the glowing shadow-light haze that forms this… thing, whatever it may be. I can see elbows resting on thighs and hands propping up a chin, but its features are clouded. I stare at it, the laughter stopping in my throat. I am… stunned… perhaps. I cannot feel the emotion, though I feel my features go through the necessary reactions. Eyes widen. Breath stops.

But there is nothing. I am… hollow.

The empty shape straightens, then jumps off the counter lithely. A hand runs through my hair. "Seriously. Pathetic."

And then it vanishes into smoke, and I am left alone once again.

Just as I have always been.

---

That is how it began. With a ghost.

I knew she was a ghost. Even before I became aware that it was, indeed, a 'she', I knew for certain that it was a ghost. For she portrayed every characteristic of a ghost; fading in and out of my life when she wished, reappearing at whim and will. She would move objects in my palace without my knowledge, open doors, make sounds in the silence, and occasionally whisper things in my ear when I could not even see her. The places where she had been and the things that she had touched became cold, so that even I could feel them, these frozen places in a room.

But above all, she did as a ghost would do.

She haunted me.

She became my own personal specter, a phantom, whose sole purpose, it seemed, was to cause me misery. As though I needed her assistance in that regard.

I knew that she was mine, that she was my ghost, that she was haunting me, for there was no one else in the palace who could see her. Who could hear her jests and taunts, who could hear her screams, screams that somehow only ever made the silence grow more prevalent.

But there was one other reason why I concluded that she was mine; and perhaps the strongest evidence of all. She was my ghost, for I was the one who had killed her.

Or at least, very nearly. The distinction was pointless to make.

I sit on my throne, drumming my fingers restlessly against the armrest as Jenner Goldsclove gives his report for the day. My Ghost sits on the stair beside me, running phantom fingers through Jekyll's fur. The animal gives no indication that it recognizes her presence in the room as he puffs out a quiet sigh.

"The rebellions in Manhattan are getting stronger every day, sir," Goldsclove informs me. He is a strategist, my strategist, but the rebellions fall under the jurisdiction of all three of my head lieutenants; the three chosen by Fraye. Shay Whitacre, (who headed all military aspects, including war prisoners) Jenner Goldsclove (tactics and other strategies) and the Murmur (head of espionage and, amusingly enough, diplomatic relations. He never gave his proper name; only this title, to which Fraye attested was the only name he would ever need).

"Manhattan's rebellions are among the worst across the world, your majesty," Goldsclove continues on. "We believe it is due to…"

"Their leadership," a voice cuts in, emerging from the darkness. A crow seats on the new speaker's shoulder. My Ghost looks up from where she strokes Jekyll, her eyes bright as they zero in on him. The man gives a low, sweeping bow, draping himself onto one knee. Goldsclove looks to him coldly. Long have I known of the rivalry between my two generals; though they deny it has any lasting effect on their duties. Jenner Goldsclove is a stubborn individual, with a very down-to-earth, nigh simplistic way of viewing the world. Murmur, however, shrouds his every word in mystery, a dance of smoke and mirrors. These two personalities are not well known for their cooperation and coexistence with each other.

Murmur glances up to me and smiles with every last one of his teeth. I observe him without truly noticing, trying not to grit my teeth as My Ghost says, "You know, he's kinda gorgeous. In an evil sorta way."

I ignore this. She may speak all she wishes. Nothing she does can harm me.

(Except that, whenever she speaks, the numbness gets worse)

"My king," Murmur greets me gracefully, his words flowing. And then he turns to Jenner. "Yes, we are aware that the leaders of this particular rebellion have a certain… ah… drive, to them, that makes them more of a threat." He waves a hand. "But this is hardly news, and I do not believe it necessary for you to waste the king's time any longer."

"Perhaps," I say in a quiet tone; both men stiffen and turn their gazes to me, refraining from glaring at each other. "But it is not your place to dismiss my generals. Nor is it your duty to give orders to one whose rank is equal to yours."

Murmur looks startled. My Ghost rolls her eyes. "Oh, please," she said, flicking her dark hair back behind her shoulders, standing and walking towards him. I try to ignore her face as she walks so close to my general, try to look away. But I know I must look at him to retain my image of steady hostility. She only settled on a face a while ago, settled on one image out of a thousand, but it had to be that one, it had to be her…

I blink and turn to Jenner as My Ghost says to me, "You just love belittling people and bossing them around, don't ya? You think it makes you special? Think it makes you great?"

"And do we know who is behind these rebellions?" I inquire of both generals, trying to ignore her, trying to push away the screaming in my head. It won't stop. I would say that it burns, but nothing has burned, and I have felt nothing warm or hot or anything of such temperatures since her departure, since…

And why would I feel fire? She was fire. And fire… fire rages and burns and consumes until it burns itself out and fades away to ash and dust… while ice… ice preserves all. It takes over a world and holds it in place and only grows colder and colder, harder and harder, until it is unbreakable crystal that freezes the life out of every living thing…

A frown pulls on Murmur's lips. "I'm afraid that we are not aware of that at this time," he says, as though the words have some foul taste to them. "However, a number of my men are infiltrating their ranks as we speak. We will know them, sir. Soon."

"I shall hold you to that," I say quietly, placing a delicate veil of dark menace over the words… menace that makes My Ghost laugh, a pealing sound that splits the air and my ears.

"'I shall hold you to that,'" She mimics, then bursts into giggles. "Oh, man, you sound like… I don't even know! No one talks like that!"

I give her the coldest of cold looks, not caring if the mortals may think it strange that I am staring at a space that, to them, seems empty. She ignores me, carrying on with her snickering. After a moment, I glance back to the two generals, and the crows on each one's shoulder.

Goldsclove's hair is as midnight-black as the crow's feathers, his eyes an intelligent brown. Sturdily built with stocky shoulders, he reminds me of my brother in only one respect; he is everything that my brother could be, but is not. He has Thor's directness, but his goals and purposes vary vastly from the Thunderer's.

Murmur, on the other hand, is a much slimmer individual. The type that, despite lean muscle and evidence of many fights won (evidence that takes the form of scars), appears as though he could slip through a crack in a wall and vanish. He seems like a slice of a creature, and yet, his eyes, his face… they are hard, stony, evidence of a life lived in turmoil and danger, and made the stronger for it. His hair is a light brown, short and curled, and bleached blonde at the tips by the sun. His eyes are a washed-out grey, seeming pallid and watery, but they are continually darting about, assessing situations, piecing things together. They hold a hidden spark, and his rather plain features are always arranged in a display of cunning.

They both have their strengths and weaknesses, their attributes and flaws. My Ghost always takes her time to indicate every one of these flaws; and she seems to have no end of my flaws to mention.

I sigh deeply and wave a hand. "You are both dismissed," I say airily. I look to Murmur. "And you shall report back to me when you discover the identities of the Manhattan Revolution's leaders. Until then, I do not wish to see you again. Is that perfectly clear?"

Murmur swallows. His hand automatically strokes a mark on his arm. I do not know if it was by my hand or another's that this scar came to be, but it seems to have taught him well in either case. He bows low again. "Of course, your majesty."

The two exit as quickly as possible. I sigh heavily and lean back in my throne.

"Heavy is the head that wears the crown," My Ghost says airily, sitting on the armrest. I try to push her aside, and she vanishes into a cloud of vapor… but only reforms again. It is nothing less than torture, that she may touch me, that she may injure me, whilst I can never lay a hand on her.

"Torture?" She asks, because, as though it were not enough that she existed, she can read my thoughts as well. "Like the kind you did to-"

"Say that name," I growl at her, "And I shall personally tear you to shreds."

"Promises, promises," she says, briefly shifting shape. She does that so frequently that she has given up on giving herself a title; and thus she often refers to herself in the third person. A rather irritating habit, but I suppose she does not always recognize what form she is in, despite how frequently she keeps this one.

I bury my face in one hand, trying to clear a thousand thoughts from my mind… but their absence makes another, far more prevalent absence scream in my head, and suddenly I am standing again, pacing, trying to get it out.

"You know there's a simple solution to all of your problems, right?" She asks, seating herself on the throne- on my throne, damn her- as I begin to stalk back and forth.

"And that would be?" I ask wearily. There is no solution to this problem. There is only the pain; or the lack of it. The lack of everything.

"Get the link back," she answers, looking up at me with innocent eyes. "Easy enough, really."

I laugh once. "Entirely simple," I agree sneeringly. "To sacrifice everything that I have ever worked for in order to return to a choice that I have already made, to save a woman who likely despises me- and rightfully so- whilst battling a creature who has tortured me, who would kill me. Of course. You are correct. That is perfectly easy."

She rolls her eyes. "You are such a Drama King," she says, waving about a hand and turning onto the side so that she can lie on the throne sideways, legs dangling over one armrest as her head rests on the other. She is so relaxed. So calm. Why is she so calm? She is sitting before her murderer, is she not?

But then… what do the dead have to fear of the living? It is true, that the living would be wiser to fear the dead. I, myself, know a great number that I would never wish to encounter; one of which being this very specter before me.

"And you always over complicate things," She goes on. "If you need her, go get her. No muss, no fuss."

"I need no one!" I rage through my teeth, thinking that I should be angry. Thinking that I would have been, if it were possible for me to be. She yawns hugely at my reaction and holds out a hand to examine her unpainted nails.

"You are so… predictable," she drones, her voice dull and uninterested. Jekyll, beside her and beside my throne, looks at me, as though wondering if my words are addressed at him. My Ghost stands and shakes her head slowly. "Tell you what. I'm going to make your life a little more… interesting." She walks up to me and fades before my eyes, her promise still lingering in the air. Making my life 'interesting'? She's done nothing but make it unbearable since the moment she arrived. She ruins everything that she touches.

I shake the thoughts from my mind and turn back to my throne, seating myself on it. I stroke Jekyll's head as he places it on my knee, looking for attention. I give it to him, trying not to look into his eyes, those eyes that trust me so absolutely, just as she did…

I banish the thoughts from my mind and try to return to my rule, thoughts of My Ghost still ringing in my head with the silence.

---

"There aren't many people who can sneak up on me."

A small smile dances on my lips as half a laugh slips out. For a moment, the two of us- Natasha Romanoff and myself- are where we were years ago, the first time we ever truly spoke to one another. But now our roles are reversed, and I answer in the way she did, all that time ago: "But you figured I'd come."

The words are harder, more derisive than hers were, back then. She looks down at the floor and smiles with an ancient, weary sadness. For a brief second, her eyes are as old as any Asgardian's, as any immortal's. She has seen more in her mortal lifetime than some immortals could ever see in thousands of their own. "After," she says quietly. "After whatever tortures she taught you. You would appear as a friend." She looks back up to me. It is the first time the conversation deviates from what it was before. "Like you did before."

I chuckle again, very softly. "And now that I've won… now that I'm 'king of the mountain'…" I find myself stepping towards her. I don't know why the words come out. They are not what I intended. I do not know what I had intended. "What's happened to her mind?"

She has the most twisted, most terrible of all smiles on her face. It is dark and… wrong. But it is also very much her. She steps forwards, and her hands wrap around the shadow bars. I know that to touch them is to burn, that even now those shadows are cutting into her hands, and I can see blood pouring out between her fingertips and rolling down the bars, but she seems not to notice. Or rather, she seems to not care. The soft, whisper of a sound that comes out of her could almost be described as a laugh. "Is this love, Laufeyson?"

Her reply is on my lips without thought, and yet, it has never been truer than at this moment, never been truer for anyone else, not in this realm or any other. "Love is for children," I breathe, "I owe her a debt."

She doesn't react. She simply meets my gaze. And then she removes her hands from the bars and steps back, gesturing with opened and bloodied palms. "Tell me," she prods gently, and just as before, just as it was all those years ago, it is very clear that, at least for now, the prisoner is the one in power here. And yet, I do not protest this change in leadership.

(In fact, a part of me welcomes it)

"It really isn't that complicated," I answer quietly, as there is no point in telling her of the debt I owe. She already knows. She has always known. "I have red in my ledger."

A thought that is and is not mine, a thought that comes from both me and My Ghost (who does not show her face, but remains screaming in my head instead) slices out of my throat and cuts me to ribbons as I try to keep from speaking it aloud. But I cannot. The words come out of me anyway, and suddenly I am gripping the bars that she held, my blood pouring through my fingers and falling in droplets, so that the blackness has now been coated in red. "And I would give anything to wipe it out."

Where did the ferocity behind those words come from? Why am I not pretending as though none of this matters? Why am I not acting like a King?

Why does she not look surprised?

"Can you?" Her query is naught but a breath. "Can you wipe out that much red?" Her eyes meet mine. For a long second, she holds my stare evenly, her gaze cold, unyielding… but haunted. The blood of her world is on my hands. She is staring at her world's conqueror and king, a murderer and a traitor. She knows precisely how much red is in my ledger, and she knows that none of it matters when compared to what I've done to the one person that I betrayed the most, the one who had always sworn that I was better than this…

I smile and remove my bleeding hands from the bars. I cannot feel the burn of shadows, nor the slice of each injury. They are numb as they drip blood onto the floor, blood that is no longer red, but blue. A darker blue than my skin. When did my form change? Why? Why won't it change back?

Why is she looking at me as though it does not startle her in the slightest, to see me this way?

I smile, white teeth flashing against blue skin, red eyes gleaming. I take a step back, back to the door. I am pushing that door outward, almost outside of her cell, when I reply, "Never."

And then I exit, leaving the prisoner, with all of her power, behind.

And a Ghost watches from the shadows.

---

Blood pools down my arm as I glare up at Fraye's black eyes. "That all you've got, sweetheart?" I ask through red-coated, bloodied teeth. I do not know where this latest stroke of defiance comes from, but it is only inevitable. Without ice, fire will burn forever; and my fury will last into eternity, even in this shadowed night that Fraye has cloaked me in. Light will burn away the darkness before it consumes itself.

That's the hope, anyway.

Fraye snickers, that simpering little laugh, the one that has haunted my nightmares for so long now… and even more so now that I have no one beside me, no one to help me banish those nightmares…

"Never," She hisses; and the pain becomes intolerable, pain and numbness all mixed together in a crazy, convoluted storm of chaos, hollow screams pumping through my veins with each beat of my heart…

I bolt awake, my heart hammering. My hands are shaking. It takes a very long moment-and a sweep through my mind- to remember where I am, to remember that I am safe, that Natalie is safe. I manage to regain control of my emotions as, with a relieved sigh, I put my feet over the edge of the bed, running my hands down my face.

I glance to the other side of the bed, unsurprised to find that it is empty. It's not the largest of beds, and this room is certainly not the lavishly furnished quarters that I had in my dreams, but then, I am no king here. And I do not regret that; we make do with what we have, as we've always done.

I stand, stretching out my arm, which has gone numb from sleeping on it. But it is the only numbness inside of me; none of that horrific emptiness that I had felt in those dreams…

I try to banish the thoughts. It is a terrible thing to contemplate, that decision that Fraye gave to me. And if I had accepted her compromise, if I had agreed to her terms… I shudder to think of where I would be now. In that realm of nightmares, I suppose.

I walk out of the room, following the smell of cooking into our small kitchen, and smile at the figure in there. Natalie hums to herself absently, her thoughts distant, tuning me out.

Carefully, silently, knowing that it is nigh impossible for me to startle her, I walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her, bending slightly so that I can rest my chin on her shoulder. "'Morning," I mumble absently, my mind still addled by sleep. She does not jump, or show any signs of being startled. But she does smile, relaxing into the embrace happily.

"Mornin'," she replies, cheery as always. "I made pancakes." She frowns. "Well…it's either that or some kind of new life form." She pokes the pancake in front of her with a spatula. "Whether or not it's intelligent still has to be determined."

I chuckle quietly. Her cooking has always been awful, but she tries. When she's bored, at least. I shift out of the embrace and stand, walking over to the table. "Did you wake early?" I ask, with a trace of concern.

"Maybe," she says, a touch wary, and I take it to mean 'yes'. "Why?" I translate this as: 'how did you know?'

I shrug carelessly. "It's nothing," I answer. "Only a few nightmares."

Her eyes tighten. "Sorry," she answers quickly. "I just…" she sighs. "I couldn't stop thinking about them," She admits, rubbing her arm and shuffling on her feet awkwardly.

I have no need to ask who 'them' is. Even if I did not have her thoughts in my own, I would have known. I feel a wave of something that is almost sympathy for her, and as she sits down next to me, I take her hand across the table.

"They will be all right," I reassure her quietly. "We did the best that we could for them."

"I know, I know," she all but rolls her eyes. "Doesn't mean I'm not worried."

I smile softly at her. She never changes.

Following Fraye's offer, following the 'deal' that she gave to me, after Natalie had made her views clear on the matter… I had made the decision to accept. I had decided to become king, to hand Natalie to Fraye, and to separate myself from this connection forever…

But then Natalie asked me to lie to her. Asked me to tell her that everything would be all right. And I had done so; I had even gone a step further and told her that I would not do so, that I would not break us apart, because I loved her. Because I loved her as she loved me.

It was then that I realized: it was not a lie.

At the very least, not entirely. Those words had been harder for me to speak than a lie would be, harder for me to say aloud. That was when I discovered that I could not do this to her, that I could not give Natalie to that nightmare, that I could not sacrifice this second half of myself even for a crown, even for a world, even to prove to my family that I could be greater than they ever dreamed…

Natalie had, of course, been thrilled; but there was still the issue of Fraye to think of. It was a very long discussion between the two of us, but it was eventually decided that the Shadow Child was keeping this war far too focused on us. That we were becoming a danger to the Avengers, that if Fraye continued to chisel at our relationship with them, then it could only ever end badly. We needed them to trust us, or we could not work with them at all.

And so it was decided. Natalie wrote out and signed the note:

Loki and I have gone off-world; we can't say where. We can't let Fraye know. We're away from the nine realms, so if she manages to follow… so be it. We can fight her somewhere else; somewhere with less collateral damage.

You see, this was all getting too close, to personal to us. We couldn't let our issues threaten this-or any other- world.

But we will be back, I swear it. This is still our war. This is still our fight. And we will still face it. And hopefully, we can face it together.

Maybe you don't believe me, and maybe you're pissed off that I didn't talk to you about this, but that's okay. Because this was the only way, and you probably wouldn't have let us go.

I'm sorry I have to do this. I truly am. And after we defeat Fraye, feel free to chew me out for it. Until then… good luck. And we'll be back.

-Natalie Frost.

It took her perhaps five re-writes of that same note before she finally signed it and placed it on her bed. Even now she thinks of it, thinks of how she could have re-worded it. Following this, I opened a portal to a world that I knew lay abandoned, where we made our decision about our final destination. We had to go to some world that was empty to make that choice, so that Fraye would not hear our decision in our thoughts while we were on Earth, and would not see us through the thoughts of another person, either. In order to throw her off of our trail, we traveled to a number of worlds such as this; worlds of ruin and ash, or worlds that had simply never been inhabited. I knew of a great many, though it was nigh impossible to create such rips in the fabric of reality over and over again. To create a portal in a place where said fabric is not already weak is a very difficult and draining task indeed; and by the time that we finally arrived on an inhabited planet- and our choice of home until the Avengers needed us again- I was utterly exhausted. Natalie was forced to all but carry me to our temporary home.

This world was Natalie's suggestion; and a very good one at that, for this world was home to a fair number of creatures; a collective from a thousand other worlds. We blended in as part of the crowd, faded into the scenery… and I came in contact with a telepath that I had met long ago; one who was strong enough to block Fraye out of his thoughts, to keep her from knowing what he was thinking at all times. We… persuaded him to help us; and thus he continually made checks on the Avengers, made certain that we were not needed; and that our location was safe from Fraye.

But Natalie still worries for them. Still wishes to be back on the front lines. It has already been two months away from her world, and with each passing day she fidgets more, becomes jittery.

I run my thumb against the back of her hand, meeting her eyes. It is a quiet, meager life that we live here, not the life of royalty that I am accustomed to; but I have lived in worse conditions, and at the very least, I still have her by my side.

And I would rather be a whole convict than half of a king.

She worries for another long moment, biting her lip… and then she pushes the thoughts aside. "Eh, thinking too much again," she says with an awkward laugh. She stands, kisses the top of my head, and returns to her cooking. We have not yet discussed what we mean to each other. I know that she loves me. And I am fairly certain that I love her. She is very obvious with her affections, even knowing that I may not return them. But we are both allowing each other to discover our feelings for ourselves. All that matters is that we now have time to do so.

"Well, breakfast," She announces, twisting her face as she places a plate of an unidentifiable, crumbling substance in front of me. I give her a look, and she grins sheepishly. "I take it that I'm going to have to go get us some more weird alien food again."

I lift a fork, gently using it to prod the food that was once a pancake. Raising an eyebrow, I ask, "And what makes you think that this does not qualify under that category?"

Her eyes narrow, and she slaps me on the back of the head. "Cheeky," she grumbles. "I try to be nice… make breakfast once…ungrateful little frostbite…" she mutters under her breath as she throws on her coat and shoes and walks to the door. As she leaves, she calls back, "Love you, moron!"

I roll my eyes as the door slams shut behind her and grin softly to myself.

She truly never changes.

I stand and begin to walk back to my room, intent on reading until she returns…

Only to be stopped by a Ghost.

I stumble backwards, staring at this specter from my nightmares, the thing which haunted me in my sleep…

And suddenly I am waking once more, sitting upright and gasping, as though I have been held underwater for a number of minutes, not allowed to breathe. The numb ache in my mind strikes me a thousand times worse than it ever has, and I can't feel my body as I gasp, I can feel nothing, I am floating somewhere far above my form and yet I am still inside of it, I can still see my hands as they strike against the mattress, as they clutch the sheets. I can still hear my screams with my ears, even if I cannot feel them emerging from my lungs.

I fall from the bed, onto my hands and knees on the floor, and begin scrabbling, clawing at the walls, trying to pull myself upright when I cannot feel… anything. I am crawling-the most undignified of things-crawling towards the mirror, where I see the Jotun staring back. I look away in disgust, my fingers digging into the walls so deeply that blue blood begins to well up, to pour onto the shallow wounds that I have already inflicted upon myself, the cuts caused by the shadow bars… but I can feel no pain. There is nothing. There is absolutely nothing. There is no heart in my chest, no air in my lungs, no blood in my veins. There is nothing but ice. Pure, untouched and arctic, I am nothing but the permafrost, the frozen sickness…

And then hands are on my shoulders, hands that I can feel even if they belong to a ghost. My Ghost. She turns my head towards the mirror, pressing me up against it, forcing my eyes to the red ones that stare back at me.

"Look at it!" She screeches. "Look at what you are!" She shakes me desperately. It is the first time that My Ghost has shown herself in days, but she seems only stronger for the reprieve. Her voice echoes throughout my chambers, resonating, reverberating. "Look at what you've become! Look at what you did to yourself!"

I struggle within her grasp and try to close my eyes, only to find that it is an impossible feat, that I cannot tear my gaze away from the horrific image in front of me. The Frost Giant, bleeding blue, with eyes as red as hate and a ghost wailing beside him. She holds me there as I try to twist and wrench away, and she is a thousand times stronger in death than she, as a human, could have ever been in life…

She shakes me again, and my hand goes to the glass, trying to hold myself upright, to push myself away… but I cannot get that hated image out of my head as she keens, "LOOK AT IT!"

I can't shut my eyes, I can't stop staring at this monster, this thing that lurks inside of me, that is always inside of me no matter how numb I may be… this thing which tore me apart, this thing that gave her up…

(This thing that is me)

"NO!" I shout, as a surge of agony pierces the deadness inside of me, as I throw my fist forwards, into the mirror, striking it, sending a splintering web of cracks throughout its silver and once-smooth surface. It only makes things worse, fracturing my reflection so that I can see my face a thousand times over. The face of that nightmare. The face of the monster that destroyed the only person I have ever…

The only person I could ever…

"NO!" I yell again, so loudly that it makes my throat hoarse, and I strike the mirror again, tearing the shards out of their frame, pulling them to the floor and crumbling them in my hands, so that they cut and slice into my skin- (and I can not feel it)- so that they shatter all around me, and now that monster is staring at me from all sides and it is no longer a chore for My Ghost to force me to see it; for it is all around me. She keeps me from stumbling backwards, keeps me from trying to run. And all around me, fractures of myself, fractures of a broken giant, all stare back at me with horrified red eyes…

Finally, finally, I manage to close those eyes, the world spinning, the darkness taking hold. Ice is everywhere, and I breathe it in with each pull of air into my lungs, and it freezes me over and I am dying inside of it…

My Ghost releases my shoulders as I bury my face in my hands, as the tears pour down onto bloodied palms and fingers… and after a long while, I realize that she, too, is exhausted. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand, panting, as though this was something that drained her, too.

After a moment, she shakes her head, her eyes still on me. "Damn you," she says harshly, her voice rough, and the words crack. Her eyes are glassy as I turn to her. "You just… can't…" She slouches back on the wall, and for the first time, I see her… broken. "Why can't you just see? Why can't you let yourself see… that this isn't what you wanted?" She closes her eyes and does not look at me. "I mean, after all of those times that you were told this, that you were told that this wouldn't make you happy, that you would just become… this twisted wreck…?" Her eyes lift to me, and her voice begins to quiver, fists at her sides. "Why, Loki? Why?"

Her form suddenly shifts again, back and forth, between her face and a nonsensical blur, and when she speaks it is an echoing, desperate scream, a voice that truly seems to come from beyond the grave, terrifying and ghastly, a desperation known only to death. "Why couldn't you have listened when you had the chance?"

I look to her as she shakes, staring at me with a specter's fury, an ethereal rage that surrounds and cloaks her. And she has every right to her fury. She has every right to her hate.

"Look at me," I say quietly, and all I can feel is the trembling. It is the only thing that is not numbness. I stare down at my hands, bleeding blue on blue skin. "This is what is inside me." I look up to her again. "Do I look as though I ever truly had that chance? And… if I did…" I close my eyes. "When I did… do you truly believe it was a chance I deserved?"

Her hand suddenly grips my collar, wrenching me off of my knees and pulling me a scant inch away from her face. I can feel the ice of her breath on my skin, somehow colder than even I am; but then, she is a ghost; and I am certain that there is little colder than death. She is shorter than me, and she should have been far weaker, but somehow she towers over and overpowers me with ease.

"No," She snarls. "No, I don't think you deserve it," she drops my collar, so that I fall to the floor in front of her. I may be able to make a living human kneel before me, but where a specter is concerned, it is I who must bow. "But then, I never have." Her eyes turn away and blaze with an eternal anger. "But that doesn't matter. Whether you deserved it or not, whether you were worthy of it or not… you had that chance." She looks to me, utterly disgusted. "And look what you did with it."

I find my eyes turning back to the mirror shards slowly, moving inexorably towards my shattered reflections. I do not intend to, but it is as though she holds me again, as though she is forcing my eyes towards the glittering silver shatters on the ground.

And then she leaves, fades away to the darkness, swallowed whole by the shadows and the walls.

(Because even the ghosts leave me in the end)

---

I don't know when I began following My Ghost's orders, nor when I began to agree to them so… blindly. I believe it simply became easier than arguing with her, than trying to deny and defy her; for she could make my life so much worse.

It started with the smallest of things, in the days that followed. Refraining from a strike against one of my lieutenants. Not saying certain cutting things that I knew would slice through bone and blood and marrow. Imprisoning, not executing, a spy. All of these things I did, at her command.

Perhaps I wondered, somewhere, why she bothered. Did she think that she could save this world one human being at a time? Did she think that one life mattered when I had the blood of thousands on my hands? Did she think that one life could scrub away all of that?

But I asked none of these questions and received no answers, and her requests only grew more complicated as time went on. I did not bother to explain myself to my generals when I performed them. I did not bother to argue with My Ghost, either, and simply did my duties as told.

These more complicated requests mostly had to do with the world outside of my palace; and for the first time in months, I found myself on the streets of my own world, wandering the city. There were guards behind and beside me, keeping watch and shooing any onlookers. At least, any that were not on their knees. I ignored this; there was only one destination in my mind. And on my Ghost's.

"Why here?" I ask when we arrive, though I know the answer. She doesn't respond, because she is fully aware that I know. I stop, halting just outside of the door. "I will not enter this place."

She crosses her arms and slouches to the side, propping herself against the door. "You don't have a choice," She replies coolly. She jerks her head in the direction of the house. "Get moving, Blue."

I shudder as I stand before the house, the house in which she once lived… and I force myself inside.

The moment I enter, a thousand thoughts flood through me, and they all start the flare of numbness, to the point where I cannot feel my feet moving forwards, where I can feel nothing but my heart in my chest, pounding too fast and too hard.

I move through thehouse as quickly as I can force myself to, walking directly towards her room and ignoring the pictures on the wall-(pictures of her friends and family, where she looks so happy. I may as well rip her face out of each one of them, for she can never feel such emotion again)- ignoring the smell in the air- (the smell of dust and stale air, as even before I handed her over she hardly used this place, she loved the Tower instead, the Tower was her home)- and ignoring Jekyll, by my side- (because he is so happy to be here, because he is searching the house, and even now he is scrabbling at her bedroom door and whining so loudly and piercingly, as though certain that he will see his beloved owner on the other side).

I open the door, and Jekyll tears past me, sniffing the air, his tail wagging. After a moment of fruitless searching, he begins to whine. I do everything within my power not to hear him. I have one duty here, only one that I must fulfill, and I must do so quickly, before…

(Before I stay here forever and let the dust settle over me as well, a stolen and lost relic of another world and another time, just as she has become, just as I have made her into)

My Ghost watches me carefully as I walk towards the desk. Her pile of sketchbooks- the few that she did not keep at the Tower- rests in the corner.

"Sir?" Shay Whitacre asks, at my side. Her words are almost kind, almost sympathetic. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but… why are we here?"

I turn to her, feeling my eyes frost over, though I am not angry. I am not alive enough to be angry.

(I am only alive enough to kill. Just as Fraye is.)

My Ghost rolls her eyes at the thought but says nothing about it. I glare at Whitacre, who takes a step back, bowing. "I apologize sir, I simply-"

"Out." I order. I turn to the other guards who had followed. For the first time, I believe I feel something. I believe that I may feel anger.

(Why are they in her house? Why are they ruining her home? Everything else has been ruined and destroyed, why her house? Just leave the dead be!)

"Everyone!" I bark out the order. "Everyone out!"

One by one, quickly and urgently, they obey. I look down to the floor, my eyes briefly passing over a picture of her-

(Her face with those half-tanned features that she always thought were too pale, her brown hair falling over her shoulders in a single wave, frizz standing up loosely around her head. Her tank top showing off that damned freckle on her shoulder that she always thought was so strange, the one that had no purpose and no point being there. Her small nose, her brown eyes, deep and seeming to see all. Brown eyes that have seen the darkness the world has to offer and yet her face is brightened by a smile.)

(I think I may throw up.)

(I hate her)

(I hate her to the end of time)

(I wish she was here)

-and I look away, away from the picture frame, back to her desk, back to the matter at hand. And suddenly I am shaking, and I think that I am enraged, but I am still digging through her sketchbooks and tucking them under my arm, still stuffing them carelessly into her backpack…

My Ghost seems to sense a change in plans as I finally clasp my hands on what I had come for in the first place. She stiffens, looks almost… frightened. But what does a phantom have to fear?

(Me)

I look at the notebook in my hand, labeled very largely and obviously, with a number of boxy, geometric shapes doodled into the sides and around the letters: April's Blueprints. Beneath, scrawled in a slightly untidier scribble, is written other slogans; the most prevalent of which being: Touch and Die, Humans!

I stuff the object into the pack in my hand, the pack that carries everything that I may ever wish to have of Na-of hers, or everything that I may wish to destroy. My Ghost swallows.

"What are you doing, Loki?" She asks, in a hard but husky voice. I turn to her and smile with a grin that I have adopted from my very own personal nightmare; a smile that I stole from Fraye herself.

"You know precisely what I am doing," I answer her. I snap my fingers. "Jekyll, we're going."

The dog doesn't budge from his place on her bed. He looks up at me and whimpers. I turn to him, eyes burning, because the numbness is starting to thaw just enough for me to feel a splintering agony, and I know that what I am about to do will only make it that much worse.

(And I don't care)

(Because maybe chaos is beautiful)

I grip the dog by the collar and forcefully drag him off the bed. Once on the floor, he digs his paws into the carpet and squirms out of his collar; a particular talent of his. He keeps whining, but now he is defensive, ready for an attack.

I glare at him and slip his collar back over his neck. He doesn't protest to it until I hook my hand under his chin, holding the collar there so that he can no longer wriggle out of it. I start to drag him along.

"She's not here!" I shout at him. He just shakes his head back and forth, trying to throw off my grip. "She isn't coming back, do you not understand? She is never coming back!"

He doesn't seem to care. His lips finally pull back from his teeth and he snaps at my wrist. I pull my hand back quickly before they make contact. His ears press flat against his head, and for a long moment our eyes stay locked on each other, a low growl in his throat. Slowly, the growl dies off into a whine, trailing into whimpers, and he lowers himself onto his stomach, his eyes still looking up at me defiantly.

I cannot stand that defiance- (it is too much like my own). I lurch towards him, hand raised for a blow.

"Loki, don't!" My Ghost shouts, disappointed and disgusted. Her cries fall on ears that are as numb as the rest of me, ears that have gone deaf. I strike, and Jekyll lets out a sharp whine, his jaw snapping back at a bad angle… he gets to his feet and backs away from me quickly, whimpering and cowering.

"You either come with me now, or you die here with her!" I shout, as though he can understand. I somehow feel that he can. I somehow know that he can. He continues to whimper, his head lowered, his gaze no longer on me, no longer meeting my eyes, no longer challenging me. But he does not move. I am trembling.

"Very well then," I say, straightening, adjusting my coat. "If that is your decision."

He whimpers again. I turn away. (I do not think of what it will be like without even him by my side. Without even him as her last remnant. Without him at my feet when I sleep or at my side as I rule a kingdom.)

I exit the house, the pack still clenched in my hand as I walk towards my escort of guards. With eyes as hard as diamonds, I order, "Burn it."

Eyes widen. Eyebrows lift. No one moves.

"Did you not hear me?!" I demand in a shout. "I said, BURN IT!"

They immediately fall into action, spreading out to obey my command. My Ghost stands at my side, hard-faced and dark. "I warn you now, Laufeyson," she says in a quiet voice. "Should you do this… should you try to silence me with this, with your own foul deeds… it will only ever get worse for you." She steps forwards. A deadly, sharp smile sparks on her lips. "I'm already honor-bound to annoy the living crap out of you," she says the words cheerfully, but it is the purr of a wildcat, a silent panther that slices you open with claws and teeth. "You go down this road… and I have all the time in the world to make you pay for it."

I walk up, directly into her face, and spit out the words, "Then do so. Do your worst. Make Fraye's task that much simpler."

She doesn't flinch away from the words, as though she expected them. I turn back as I watch the building begin to smoke, as I see the windows beginning to glow with orange… a brown streak flies from the inside of the house and runs out. I smirk to myself. So Jekyll decided that he would rather live. I ignore him as he begins to whine more sharply than ever.

I watch as the flames consume the building… and then I walk away. Jekyll does not follow. He remains in the ashes of what was once his home and howls for the loss of one whom he once loved unconditionally, as any animal would.

On my return, I discover for the first time how twisted and convoluted my castle truly looks; my skyscraper-turned-palace, some demented cross between what was once Stark Tower and an Asgardian palace… My Ghost is quiet beside me, making the abyss inside of me wider, making the silence ever worse, and for a moment, I welcome it. I welcome the numbness. For at least when I am numb I can feel no pain.

(But I want to feel pain again)

(I want to be alive again)

(Tell me, My Specter, how does one return from the dead?)

I smile at the demented building and walk towards it with my escort at either side, surrounding me, 'for my own protection'. Surely it is fitting, for a king to have such a castle; but it is far more fitting, for a monster to live in such a place as this.

I walk back inside and lock myself away from the rest of the world.

It does not take long before, through nightmares and taunts, through jests and barbed words, my Ghost has me following her orders again. I follow along like a puppet on a string, all with the memory of the house in flames, watching it burn, watching fire consume everything…

And all with the memory of being so close to an inferno… and still being unable to feel the warmth.

(And I know that I would burn the world to feel it again)

---

The Manhattan Rebellion had always been doomed for failure. All rebellions were. But it was still a cause for rumor and talk, a cause for cheer and nigh celebration, when Murmur announced the capture of the Rebellion's leaders.

The General is quite pleased with himself, quite proud as he saunters into the Throne room, Jenner and Shay at either side. Jenner's eyes are narrowed at Murmur, a silent promise of his jealousy and possible retribution, as Shay's guards push the two prisoners forwards, towards me. Their heads and faces are hidden beneath a sack, their hands shackled in front of them. One man, one woman, I can tell from their figures, and I can guess their relation to one another by the matching bands on the ring finger of their left hands. My Ghost straightens beside me, watching me intently.

"Don't be an idiot," she warns me airily, flippantly. It's a natural chastisement for her; like a mother telling a child not to run in the house or to look both ways before crossing a street. Like most of those parents, she has repeated it often enough to warrant being ignored by even the politest of people; and I certainly do not fall into that category.

"Your majesty," Murmur takes a sweeping bow, lowering himself even further until he is on his knee. Whitacre and Goldsclove do the same, though their bows are stiffer and less… flowing, than his. He smiles wolfishly, his pale grey eyes shining. "As promised, my men successfully infiltrated the rebellion; and we have identified its perpetrators." He gestured with a sweep towards the bound prisoners as their guard kicks the back of their knees, pushing down on their shoulders, so that they are forced to kneel before me. The man's head bows. I can see him quivering. I do not think that it is fear that makes him tremble.

The woman's head remains raised as Murmur continues with his formalities. "And with them, perhaps the revolution itself will end," he says, still smiling brilliantly. He stands, walking behind them, and pulls the hoods off of their faces with a flourish.

They are still gagged, and as I study them, I see bruises and scrapes on their all-too-familiar features. The corner of her lip bleeds, as does a scratch above his eye. It is only too easy to read the hate in each of their eyes. Beside me, My Ghost straightens, stands, and slowly she walks over to them. It is with the eyes of the Grim Reaper that she turns back to me, a warning on her face.

I sigh dully. And now my time has been wasted. I turn my face away from my soldiers, generals, lieutenants. My elbow is propped on the armrest and my index finger rests just below my lower lip as I say in a bored tone that somehow conceals what fragments of emotion I may have (and what fragments of emptiness remain inside of me), "Release them."

For a brief moment, the entire room freezes, becomes motionless. A second of suspended time in which everyone tries to believe what they have heard.

"But sir!" Shay Whitacre seems to forget herself for a brief second. I can see something that is almost panic in her eyes. These are the criminals that she and her men have been searching for, the ones that they have been hunting for weeks. Months, even. And now, to see me release them so quickly and easily…

(But it is not easy. It is not anything. It simply is)

"Sir, they… they have orchestrated a rebellion against you!" She almost shouts, her voice very… familiar. She has always had little tolerance for rebels. "They must be tried, punished!"

"Must they?" I inquire softly, and for a second her eyes widen. She seems to recognize how far she has gone out of line this time, though my words are the barest tremor in the air. I turn back to her, back to my soldiers. "And their names, Miss Whitacre?"

She frowns, her eyebrows furrowing, and steps back. A man quickly steps up to her, whispering in her ear; one of the men under her command, no doubt. She appears to recite his words almost the instant they are out of his mouth. "Cameron and Anna Rose Fro-"

The entire hall becomes more silent than My Ghost's grave. Not a single man dares to breathe as dark realization passes through her eyes. Fear strikes her features.

"You made a vow," My Ghost reminds me, standing before Cameron and Anna Rose, protecting them. Cameron stares up at me with hostile, pale blue eyes, on his knees, perhaps, but not powerless. Never powerless. And the rage in his eyes burns almost as brightly as his daughter's once did.

(Before I extinguished that rage once and for all)

"You made a vow and now you will keep to your word," My Ghost continues, stepping towards me. I can barely see her. She is translucent- as perhaps a ghost should be- for my eyes are on Anna Rose, and the unfathomable look that she gives me. It is not her husband's hatred. And it is not her daughter's former pity. It is her own steady gaze, determined and fierce but at the same time… at the same time she holds a certainty in her eyes that I have never before seen in a mortal.

(Well, other than Natalie)

The name sends a sudden ache through my head, and I do all I can to push it aside as Shay swallows tightly.

"My apologies, sir," She says immediately, ducking her head so low that she is almost bowing. "We didn't…" She shoots a glare towards Murmur, who has gone extraordinarily pale. "We weren't informed."

"Of course not," Murmur says quickly.

It is only the three chosen by Fraye who are aware of my protection over the Frost family. It is highly possible that one of his operatives captured the two and brought them before him without giving proper names. He should have been far more thorough; and I can see the hidden amusement on Goldsclove's face, to see his rival thus humiliated. "Of course not, sir," Murmur continues. "They… they shall be released immediately."

"See it done, then," I lace my words with the barest hint of acid. Murmur flinches and immediately crosses over to Cameron, pulling him and his wife to their feet.

"And you," I turn my gaze to their guards, to Shay Whitacre and Jenner Goldsclove. "Leave," I order. It is simple enough. They obey swiftly, not keen on remaining behind for what follows. Murmur is sweating, almost ashen, as he removes the cuffs from around Cameron's wrists. The father of my debtor, of the woman I murdered, does not take his eyes away from me, even as his hands are released. He immediately tears his gag off and takes a step towards me.

Murmur halts him with a hand on his shoulder, but I wave him off. This man will say his piece whether he is free or bound. And he can hardly harm me, regardless of whatever 'rebellions' he may think to orchestrate. Murmur unshackles Anna Rose as Cameron's eyes blaze, sparking infernos between myself and him. But, as always, I cannot feel the flames of his rage, the irradiated ire that causes such carnage to the world around him.

"You think we'll stop?" He asks, and his voice shakes. My Ghost watches him with distant eyes, thinking, perhaps, of her parents. Of what happened to them since her absence. Or perhaps not, for she turns and grins toothily at me.

"Well, Loki?" She asks. "Do you think he will?"

I keep my eyes on Cameron Frost as he continues, "Do you think that this… that this changes anything?" He steps forwards. He, like Clint, was released from Fraye's hold after I seized his world. She had no more use for him; and now, perhaps, he recalls the daughter that he loved. The daughter that he tried to love. Before life, circumstance, and a Frost Giant tore him away from her once and for all.

"After… after what you did?" he asks, and his voice cracks. I stiffen briefly, because I'm sure that I should be shocked, though I am not. I had not been aware that he had known of the deal I made with Fraye… but then, I realized, it would not have been hard to guess. She visited him a few days beforehand, after all, to say her goodbyes, to tell him she loved him… And if she had seemed to know beforehand what would happen to her, then surely he would have realized what had happened…

"That's right," he sneers. "I know what you did to her, Loki." He does not refer to me as 'your majesty', does not bow before his king, the most stubborn of mortals.

(Well, I think wearily, glancing to my Ghost, the most stubborn of living mortals, at the very least)

"I know what you did!" He shouts. "You killed my little girl! You killed my daughter, and I will make you pay for it, Loki, I will make you pay in blood! I swear it!" He takes another step forwards; it is too close. Murmur steps in again, pulling him back roughly.

But I am standing now. And I am walking closer to him, to this man who has thus vowed to take his revenge in its oldest of forms: that of a life for a life. Cameron holds his ground as I walk towards him. As I find myself less than an inch away from him. Were he armed, were he dangerous, perhaps he could have even killed me. But this man is no Avenger, no Asgardian, no Immortal. And he is nothing like the daughter, no matter how many traits they may share, no matter the blood that may run in both of their veins.

I laugh quietly. And for the first time since she was banished to that world of pain, I find that something is truly… funny.

I had once found it so fascinating, that Agent Romanoff's world may be in the balance, and that she would bargain for the life of one man… and now, here again. It seems to be a trait particular to humans: I have conquered a world and slaughtered thousands, enslaved an entire species…

And he reserves his fury for the loss of one?

I laugh again, louder. "Oh, Cameron Frost," I muse, and his last name tastes like acid, eating away at my tongue and opening holes in my throat. Because it is her last name. And he is not worthy of it. "Do you not yet understand?" I advance. He does not step back; but when I advance again, he is forced to. He holds my gaze even as he does so. But I keep advancing, keep moving forwards, so that he is forced to continue his retreat. "Do you not yet realize what I am?" Deep inside of me, I think I feel the faintest trickle of blood, though I cannot feel the wound that I know has been ripped open behind my ribcage. "I have killed countless by my own hand; and I sentenced countless others to die by my orders! My deeds slaughtered hundreds, my words, my promises to a nightmare, my vows to Fraye!" He has retreated so far back that there is nowhere left to go; he is pressed against the wall and I feel the overwhelming urge to call my spear to me, to slit his throat open and be done with it, with him, with her.

"I am a murderer by blood," I snarl at him. "A monster by nature! The thing that you always accused your daughter of being!" I laugh again. "I am that which you always feared she was becoming! I am that monster!"

I can see what is almost fear reflecting in his eyes now, fear that tries to shield itself with frail but resolute defiance. My Ghost leans on her shoulder against the wall and takes things in with her usual flippancy, with her usual lack of care for the dark thoughts of the living.

"Hey, Blues Clues," she chides. "Mellow out, wouldya? You made a promise, now let him go."

I do not listen to her. I am still laughing. I have a terrible suspicion that, perhaps, my Jotun form- so traitorously obvious and ever present in the days of late- has yet again bled through my Asgardian disguise. I do not know if I am glad of this or furious for it; would he not see the truth in my words now, if he saw me as I am? At the same time, is it anything that a mortal should be allowed to see of their king?

"I have more blood on my hands than you could begin to comprehend, mortal," I snarl at the man. There is the faintest stirring of laughter with the anger. "And I have done worse than this! Than kill one mortal! I have done far worse than bargain my life in return for the torture and execution of one mortal girl!"

My hand slams on the wall at the side of his head, and he conceals a flinch, still meeting my gaze with all of the hatred he can muster. For a second, I cannot breathe. I can't feel my lungs, regardless, so it hardly matters, but still, breathing seems important. Cameron has gone very pale; doubtless because he sees me as I am. And because he now knows the true fate that I sentenced his daughter to…

And then I hear a voice behind me. A voice that, for once, does not belong to my Ghost. It is gentle. It is soft. And it is filled with the pain of a mother who still grieves for her child.

"No," Anna Rose Frost says very quietly. I turn, slowly, so that I can face her. So that she, too, can see the monster. So that she, too, can see the truth. "No, you haven't." She takes a step forwards; she is closer to me than I thought she was, and I am suddenly backing away from her, away from Cameron, away from the wall. She takes another step towards me.

"Not to us," she tells me, resolute and nigh serene in her silent agony. Her eyes scan me, search through mine. It is a mortal saying, that the eyes are the window to the soul; and the way she stares at me, I can believe it. For I can feel her staring into me, searching out that soul.

I can only hope that she finds it.

After a moment, seeming absolutely certain, she adds, "And certainly not to you."

There is a long silence that passes between us. And, for a brief moment, it is almost as though she understands what silence truly is. As though the emptiness in my head is suddenly seen through her eyes, suddenly experienced in her thoughts…

And then she looks away from me, and the silence returns to me and me alone once again.

"Come on, Cameron," She gently prods, taking her husband's hand, leading him towards the door. He continues to glare back at me as I watch them leave, confident that my guards will allow them safe passage out of the palace; and that, if they do not, they will learn of the consequences.

Anna Rose halts briefly by the door. And then she turns back to me. "You know, I always… always hoped that she was right about you." She looks me in the eye as she says this. My Ghost watches in silence. Anna Rose's eyes tighten. "I really wish she had been."

And then she turns and leaves.

I am breathless, though I still cannot feel the need for air. I can only hear my own strained gasps in my ears. I turn away, dismissing Murmur with the wave of a hand, and heading back to my quarters, the empty place, the empty room where Jekyll sleeps on the edge of the bed, sleeping the day away… He looks up to me as I enter, one eye opening blearily, his tail twitching half-heartedly. My Ghost walks beside me with airy footsteps. She so rarely disappears these days, but, after giving me a long, hard look, she now does so, vanishing into mist.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stroke Jekyll's fur absentmindedly, my fingers running along the edges of his scars. Anna Rose's words echo in my head, and suddenly, I am hearing a thousand other echoes… but the most prevalent is the voice of my ghost, keening, "Why couldn't you have listened when you had the chance?"

Slowly, carefully, realizing that the sun is only just beginning to set, I place my head on the pillows, tilt my head to the ceiling, and try to close my eyes.

---

Following my Ghost's orders so rarely ends well. I am not certain as to why I still do so, regardless of this detail.

The book filled with April's blueprints went to where my Ghost had intended it to go; to Stark. Not that they would be of much use to him, but she had told me to give them to him, and so I had. I hardly thought it wise to argue with a ghost; particularly one who could-and would- physically damage me in one of her fits of rage.

My Ghost always seemed… more wistful, around Stark, than she ever did around any of the other Avengers. And on that day, perhaps even more so. Even when Stark did not receive those blueprints as I'd expected. Though, in truth, I hadn't known what I expected. I don't think that I put any effort into expecting anything in the first place.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" He asked, trembling. His eyes narrowed on me. "Are you just trying to give me one more reason to kill you?"

He had flung the book outside of the bars… I hadn't bothered to care. Kicking it back inside, I had turned away without a word. My Ghost was smiling and, once outside, I turned to her. "You anticipated this reaction." I said, and it was not a question.

She shrugged mildly. "Meh. I thought he might not take it well, but…" Her eyes grew distant. "It doesn't matter what he sees now. Only what he remembers later."

I did not question this at the time. It is unwise to query after the motives of a specter.

But that was a simple task, compared to the one she places before me now. I am uncertain as to why I am still following through with it. I am also uncertain as to why I care.

It is not until I am standing before Thor's prison that I recall that I have not seen him in a long while. That I have not returned there to torment him with the truth of his life now. That I have not tried to right him of his wrongs.

(He would have ruled this planet far better if I had only been beside him, and not with the crown on my head)

My Ghost enters first, gliding through the door without waiting for me. She is always directly beside me, always follows where I go. I push through the door and walk inside; my brother, who did not see My Ghost, catches sight of me and stands abruptly. His eyes are wary, cautious, guarded. As though he could protect his heart from me by trying not to listen to whatever I say, as though he could stop me from ripping it out of his chest and showing him what it truly feels like, to live without one because of the deeds of someone else. (Or because of your own.)

I can see him as he swallows painfully, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, reflexively calling for his hammer… not that it will answer. It is contained in a shadow's prison of its own. I watch him with dead eyes. Perhaps I wish to feel hate. Perhaps I wish to see his hate. But even though I do see it, I do not care for it, do not care about it. Why would I? (For it was fire that melted ice, that thawed out a heart of glaciers and taught it how to feel again, and without it I can feel nothing)

His hands are shaking. Is it from fear? Is it from hate? And his eyes… They show something that I cannot feel again. I cannot even identify it.

After a long moment of holding his gaze, My Ghost pokes me in the arm with her index finger; a silent prod to move on, to do what I came to do. Taking a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh, I step aside; it is the cue for the mortal, standing behind me, to move forwards.

She immediately catches sight of the Thunderer and runs forwards, a joyous sound emerging from her in the form of his name. "Thor!" She flings herself towards the bars, reaching in through them, pulling back only when they singe her hands. Thor, for a moment, is entirely bewildered by the sight… and then his eyes light up in recognition. Fear shines in his eyes even as a smile spreads across his face; fear of me, of what I might do to her, of why I might have brought her here to my prisons.

"Jane!" He exclaims, reaching his hands through the bars. He is more capable of withstanding their singeing lash than she, and bears it against his wrist so that they can clasp hands briefly, before pulling his hands back. "What… What are you…?" He looks to me, and the fear becomes more pronounced.

My Ghost leaves. Silently, slowly, lifelessly, I turn and follow her out of the room.

But I can still hear them. Hear them inside, hear them as they speak. Thor is still bewildered, torn between joy at seeing the woman he so deeply cares for… and fear that the brother whom he once cared for will harm her.

"Are you all right?" he asks, his voice so gentle and kind that it stirs an old pain behind my ribcage. The numbness is quick to swarm and devour it. "Did he hurt you? What happened?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she reassures him quickly, breathlessly. "He… He didn't do anything. He just…" A small sob hitches in her throat, and she clears it away quickly. I have never done anything to harm her; I had always assumed that the Avengers' respective 'close friends' were similarly immune under the vow I was forced to swear to her.

"I mean, after he…" Jane swallows, continues, "After everything, I thought that he might come after me, but he never did. I was… I was in hiding, S.H.I.E.L.D. managed to ship me out of the country before it was forced underground. And I thought… I thought I was safe, and then yesterday, he just… just showed up!" Her explanations are quick and almost desperate. But she is keeping her composure remarkably well. "He was… Thor…" Her voice lowers as she asks in what is almost concern, "Thor, what happened to him? What's wrong with him?"

I cannot see the look on Thor's face, but if I cared enough to, I can imagine it. And maybe there is pity on his features. He does not say a word, but Miss Foster continues with, "He was… he kept… talking to someone else, someone who wasn't there… kept saying something about his… his ghost, that she was the one who wanted me here, that he was just doing what she told him to…"

Thor's voice softens and becomes a little hoarser at the same time. "Natalie," he breathes.

The name is so unexpected, and sends such a keen throughout me, that I am suddenly on my hands and knees without remembering how I got there. I am shaking, my stomach roiling, and I feel for a moment as though I may vomit.

(Is this what it means to be a king?)

(Oh, if only it were her. Surely a ghost of her would be better than this nothing)

"No…" Foster says, and I can see her shaking her head in my mind. "No, Thor, that's the thing, it wasn't her, it was someone else, it was…" She thinks for a brief moment. Then, after a moment, she concludes, "April." I can imagine her eyes meeting his.

"He said her name was April."

---

A/N: So I thought you guys didn't hate me nearly enough after the last chapter, so here, hate me some more.

(… I'm sorry.)