Many years had passed from the moment in which a friendship had bloomed between the young Henrietta Knott and Loki Laufeyson, who was no longer the king of Asgard or, in fact, its prince.

Actually, it was long enough for everybody to forget the damage done to New York City, save perhaps a few areas in which the Invasion had thoroughly destroyed. Safety was once again tangible. You could hear peace in the areas which were not reached by the hum of cars and vehicles constantly on the road and forget that any sort of danger existed as you cracked eggs in the morning or watched TV in the evening.

In one of these peaceful areas, in which the hum of the traffic could be forgotten about during a still day, there was a large park which was used by folk who did not own land as a quiet area to walk in. The grass bloomed, viridescent even beneath the shadows of the trees, spattered with daisies and dandelions, for it was spring and quite a warm one.

It was six AM, and so it was quite empty, save an elderly man walking his dog along a route which had become engraved in his cognition and muscle memory, for he had walked there for the past sixty-five years. He hummed to himself, glad that it wasn't raining, wore an old coat, a cap on his balding head and a friendly expression which came from a softened heart.

"Come, Bradley," he urged his dog on without haste, as it paused to examine a particularly beguiling gathering of weeds. "Let's go and sit down on that bench, why don't we."

He did so. Bradley sniffed at the bench, making sure that it didn't pose a threat, then contented himself with sitting under the one his master sat on, whilst his master - Jack was his name - watched the world go by in quiet.

It truly was a beautiful day. Even the wind hadn't come visiting and the foliage seemed to be a painting, still, as a result, no breeze tangled between the leaves.

Or at least it seemed that way, for a wind half the strength of a hurricane suddenly whipped up and snatched Jack's hat off his head.

He frowned and stood up to reclaim it, but it was too late - it disappeared at the same moment as a crack sounded, the sky darkened, and a chasm outlined with green light opened in the vicinity right in front of him.

Nothing could have prepared him for this sight, not his voyages with the navy in his youth, not even his science-fiction books and comics he so avidly collected as a young man. The vicinity turned near to black, so that Jack had to squint then shield his eyes and gasp as green lightning appeared, spitting sparks at unsuspecting bushes and parts of the path. Bradley barked madly, cowering beneath the bench. A nearby bin was knocked over and its rubbish began to skitter over the ground frantically. Sparks flashed. Jack's heart nearly stopped, but the chasm grew wider, then stilled.

It spat out a man onto the path. He rolled a few metres, mangled and broken, chains trailing off him, then became still as the chasm simply vanished out of existence.

Jack clutched at his chest, bent over, gasping. This must have been sorcery. No, of course not, there was no such thing. This must have been a fluctuation of… something. Though now it was gone! The only evidence of anything of the sort had happened was Jack's missing hat, the skittering rubbish and, of course, the broken figure lying like a ragdoll on the ground a few metres to his right.

It didn't move. Jack did.

"Good heavens… good heavens."

He regained his breath and enough strength to stand, whilst Bradley thoroughly abused his ears with mad barking.

"Shush, Bradley!" Jack flapped his hands at his dog and moved towards the stranger. "Shush!"

When he reached the man, his heart gave a funny flip and he felt as though he might topple over.

"Good grief," he went on breathlessly as he bent down. "Good grief!"

There was black liquid stuck to this man's shirt in great clumps and snatched strands of his ink-black hair together at his neck. If Jack didn't know better, he would have thought it was blood, but it was far too black in colour to be blood.

Jack bent down and squinted, then touched the metal clamp around the man's neck just to be sure - yes. There was a golden shackle on his neck, to which three chains were still attached. And one on his wrists… and his ankles too… his feet were bare and looked as though they had been badly treated. They were burned and blistered, as though they had been doused with flaming gas.

"Gosh," he breathed. "By jove, what is this?"

He moved to his other side, the side towards which his face was turned towards, and wished he hadn't. His hair stood up in horror.

"His lips!" he cried, covering his mouth. "By jove, his lips-!"

The man's lips were sewn together with crude, thick thread gleaming black, distorting his skin and making him look like something Victor Frankenstein was capable of creating.

"Oh, no-!" he blundered, shaking his head. "Oh no-!"

Then, voice came and shattered some of his shock:

"Is everything alright, Sir?"


Henrietta Knott thought she had imagined something, when she saw a black mist descending in her peripheral vision, quite a distance away from where she was walking along the dirt path in the park. But she hadn't; green sparks had followed, anguished and cruel, spattering and striking the bushes and ground in their uncontrollable outburst.

It disappeared as quickly as it had come, however, and so she tried to match its haste in her step, because for Henrietta Knott, green sparks could only mean one thing. And it was nothing good.

She hurried on, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. If it was him, it was a miracle. A miracle that she had been so close to catch it happening. Heaven knew what would happen if she had chosen to get up an hour later - perhaps she would have found a swarm of reporters about him. She shivered to think what would have followed if she had.

Henrietta almost missed the location, but she heard an exclamation and turned to see a man losing his mind over something which looked like a casualty in a particularly horrible dungeon massacre and hurried over.

"Is everything alright, Sir?" she called to the elderly man, who obviously had no idea what it was he just witnessed - not that she did either, really - and was tearing the little hair on his head he had left. "Did you see what happened?"

"He just-!" He gestured at the man lying on the floor. "He just fell out of a lightning spark!"

"A lightning spark? Oh…"

She stopped a few metres away from them, her mind whirring as she looked at the being's ink-black hair and felt her heart both sinking and soaring at the same time. It was him! Oh, Odin. It was him…

Nobody could find out he had returned, she thought. This had to remain hidden, concealed. Nobody should know, and especially nobody with anything to do with the authorities.

Henrietta left her lip alone and straightened, settling on the safest scheme, which was still a huge shot outside the boundaries of credibility but the safest one, nevertheless.

"I am terribly, terribly sorry…" She wrung her hands to make her point. "But that is my brother."

The elderly man looked flabbergasted, then opened his mouth in horror.

"Oh, dear, that is terrible." He brought a shaking hand up to his temple and pressed the base of his hand to his forehead. "I think he might be dead!"

"No, no." She shook her head and smiled sheepishly. "No, definitely not. He's completely fine. He's an actor, actually."

Well, she wasn't exactly lying. She had witnessed just how many different people he could become if he wanted to, with stunning credibility too.

The elderly man looked at her incredulously.

"An actor?"

"Yes." She nodded. "He uses a lot of special effects and advanced make-up. And he must have chosen this location to practise… Oh, I'm sorry that he gave you such a terrible fright."

The man looked down at the corpse-like body to his left, then back at her. Henrietta tried to ignore her racing thoughts and heart at the way he seemed to be dead and stick to her role, though she had to swallow a few times before smiling.

"He won't move even if you prod him," she said slightly desperately. "He gets so into character… he's a bit of a fanatic. Don't you, Lucas?"

The man on the floor, of course, stayed still. She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"I'm awfully sorry for the inconvenience," she pressed, approaching the man on the floor and putting her hands on her hips as she surveyed him, then looked up. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you, Sir?"

The elderly fellow got up slowly, dusted his trousers, then chuckled.

"No, I don't think that will be necessary, young lady…" He moved a few paces away, then glanced down at the figure again and chuckled again. "Quite clever, this whole act."

Henrietta nearly shut her eyes with relief. She watched with a heavy smile as the man took his hat from his dog, placed it on his head and took up its lead with a smile.

"Quite amazing indeed," he said with a nod. "It's a wonder what young people can get up to nowadays."

Henrietta briefly considered what would happen if this elderly man knew that the being on the floor was at least twenty times his own age. He definitely wouldn't believe it.

He chuckled again. "Hopefully, I'll see him on TV. He deserves to be on it, with such talent."

"I thank you on his behalf, Sir. He appreciates it." She smiled, hiding her clenched fists behind her back. "Have a good rest of your day. I'll deal with him."

She watched the man totter off until he was completely out of sight, then turned and threw herself beside the man on the floor. Heavens, she cursed his name at least three times since the last time she saw him, in the dead of night when it was particularly silent, empty and dark, but she didn't want him dead or injured beyond repair, which he looked as he lay motionless on the floor.

Looking at Henrietta, quite a lot had changed about her since she first met the god of mischief. She was twenty-two, no longer a small girl, and that fact was clear; her lips had blushed over the years, turning as red as blood roses and her black hair hadn't been cut since she was twelve, now piled up on her head in an updo which had taken quite some time to perfect.

"Odinson," she hissed frantically, turning him over, knocked out of her proud posture and pragmatic approach by this incident. "Odinson, wake up. Can you hear me?"

He slumped onto his back. His front was in the same state his back was - the cotton shirt was plastered unevenly to his torso, glued to it with dried black. Heavy chains trailed off the shackles and the metal choker around his neck. His skin was pale and clammy, his eyes were sunken and rimmed with a black which bordered with purple, and his face... Oh, dear heavens, his face.

Henrietta stared at his lips, blinking back tears, her own lips parted like his couldn't be anytime soon, because they were sewn together with metallic wire, scrunching up his skin and making his face seem narrow; sealing his words, his gift of speaking inside him, leaving him to speak with his eyes which did not open.

Henrietta broke out of her trance and slapped him across the face. Her chest heaved up and down as she went stock-still, searching for any sort of reaction.

Nothing happened for a few moments, but then his eyes flickered open. Just enough to detect, at first, then halfway up, revealing washes of colour, though they didn't move. They were blank. The blue was no longer like animated glaciers. In fact, they looked too dull to ever move again and his whites were grey.

But they had moved. He was alive.

Henrietta breathed out a sigh, clutching his shirt, feeling as though something invisible was pushing her down towards the ground as she swayed with relief.

"Can you hear me?" she whispered, then raised her voice. "Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me."

His eyes stayed still and glassy.

She brushed his matted hair out of his face, patting his cheeks. No reaction. Perhaps she ought to smack him again…

"Odinson, I can't carry you," she said, then pinched the bridge of her nose. "We need to get out of here. Please answer."

She took his shoulder hesitantly, the last thing she wanted to make an injury worse, then shook it gently. She patted the being's shoulder. The Asgardian's shoulder. The chains clinked as she stirred him, but he didn't react.

She bit on her lip, thinking, then pulled out her phone and dialled a number, but it went to voicemail. She tried again, then again. He must have been asleep and in any other circumstances she wouldn't have woken him up, but this was an emergency. The third call was successful.

His voice was hoarse and heavy like eyelids at midnight. "Hello…?"

"Hello, Filip?" Hattie spoke, her voice light with relief. "It's Henrietta… Are you awake?"

"I am now," the reply sounded. "What's the matter?"

He sounded slightly disgruntled, but Henrietta didn't blame him. After all, it wasn't yet seven and the doctor, a friend she met when Uncle Haldanson hosted a particularly secluded gathering for other beings not from this world quite a few years back, worked night shifts.

"There's an emergency," she said, looking down at the crumpled man beside her. "Someone is probably dying…"

There was a pause.

"What?"
"It's…" She bit her lip and shut her eyes. "It's my friend. He's passed out in a park and he's bleeding, his legs look broken, and he's from Asgard, so I can't just call an ambulance-"

"Right, right." Filip sounded much more awake now. "Where are you? Is he breathing?"

She splayed a hand on Odinson's chest and felt it rising and falling faintly beneath her hand. "I think so, but it's definitely not firm. And I'm in the park. You know the one next to my house? Near the benches. The ones your father accidentally bent, remember?"

"I'm on my way. Give me five."

The call ended and Hattie put her phone away. She looked down at Odinson, looking very much like he wouldn't last much longer. And though she had spent years crying bitter tears of anger at him and thinking of all the sharp and accusing things she would say to him if she ever met him again, she didn't want him dead, nor hurt, nor anything for him which would have made him look like this. He used to be her guardian, before his memory became a heavy shadow looming over her future and past and became ingrained as rubble hundreds of names upon death certificates.

"You need to hold on," she told him firmly, glaring at him, then bit back a sob and gently rested her head against his chest, remembering the times when she could plunge her head into his coat and feel him throbbing with laughter and so alive, her own chest light and her laughter carefree. But now, his heart did not beat as though there was nothing which could bring it down. Now it sounded like it was fighting for movement. It sounded like the dwindling beat of a war drummer who had just watched his king fall from his horse and not get back up again.

Filip Greer arrived at a run. His dirty blonde hair was dishevelled and falling around his forehead, his blue eyes wide from anticipation and his clothes crumpled over his developed form. He skidded to a halt a few steps away then threw himself down on his knees beside them.

His eyes widened still when he saw Laufeyson's lips.

"Odin," he breathed, stilling. "What in Hel happened to him?"

"No idea," she replied, her voice slightly more controlled now that she wasn't alone. "I found him like this."

"Right, alright. Let's check a few things…"

Henrietta watched Filip muttering to himself under his breath as he splayed his hands over Odinson's body, his eyes lighting up golden as he moved them and checked for injury.

"His lower ribs are definitely damaged," he said louder, when his hands passed over Odinson's middle. "But there's no danger of them sticking into his lungs. He should be breathing fine."

Henrietta nodded weakly. "Thank the heavens. What about his legs?"

"One's broken, the other's a dislocated knee. Nothing too bad, not for this healer." He gave an absent smile and kept at his examination, then grew solemn and almost fearful as he passed his hands over his abdomen and upper chest. "Odin…"

"What is it?" Henrietta whispered, watching carefully.

"His whole body's on the verge of collapse," Filip replied. "Such fatigue I've not seen… Well, ever. He's been… tortured."

Filip's hands passed over Loki Odinson's head. "This seems fine, finest, at least physically. Good. The rest we can deal with. Head injuries are always the most complex."

Henrietta watched wordlessly as the god of mischief's legs were put back together, then as his right arm was too. Filip moulded his lower ribs back together, then peeled up his shirt and frowned.

"I need to clean these before I knit them together," he muttered, then his eyes returned to their normal, blue colour. "Let's take him to my house."

"No," she replied almost too quickly. Filip didn't know who this was, and Henrietta didn't know for certain how he would react if he realised that he was tending to Loki Laufeyson, the fallen prince of Asgard, who had previously blown apart streets and gave speeches about the human race being inferior. "No. Let's take him to my house. You've got children, Filip. You'll terrify them if they see you taking in a man in this state."

He paused, thinking, then nodded. "Let's do that, then. I can carry him, he doesn't look heavy, does he… He's all skin and bone."

He is, Henrietta agreed internally. When Filip had lifted Loki's shirt, there had been a cave beneath his ribs where his stomach should have been and each bone could be counted. Not to mention how his neck looked beneath the metal choker - the veins were almost black his collarbones didn't look as though they could uphold his head without creaking with strain.

"He needs to eat something as soon as possible," Filip said with his brows low over his eyes as he picked Laufeyson up and slung him over his shoulder. "I don't want to say anything too soon, but…"

He hesitated as they walked.

"What?" Henrietta asked. "Please tell me, Filip. I want to know."

"Well, it looks like Asgardian steel," he said with his voice low, as though the tragedy of the situation could be lessened with the strength of his vocal chords. "And you know what cuts Asgardian steel, don't you?"

Henrietta felt her shoulders sinking. "Odin's Quarts," she whispered. "Good grief… Where are we going to get that from?"

They were silent until they got to Filip's truck. Loki was placed vertically across the joined seat and Henrietta sat beside him, hesitantly securing his head on her knees.

The engine sputtered into life and they began to pull from the parking lot. Filip spoke when they got out onto the streets.

"I may know a blacksmith."

Henrietta brought her gaze up from Loki Odinson's sunken eyes to the rearview mirror. Filip nodded.

"I don't know where he is now, but he works with a lot of… you know, black market stuff. For fun. He may have some Odin's Quarts."

Henrietta pursed her lips. "He can't know what we need it for."

"No?" Filip said after a pause, studying her in the mirror. "Why's that?"

Henrietta didn't answer.

"I know this may seem like the wrong moment to ask, but… who is this friend of yours, exactly?"

Henrietta kept her eyes on Loki, trailing them over his resigned face.

"His name is Layden," she lied smoothly, after a moment of consideration, her eyes still down. "He was a guard. Quite high up in Odin's personal cohort… He has quite a volatile character, which is why I imagine he was imprisoned. If he was imprisoned by Odin's forces, that is. I don't know what goes on in Asgard. For what we know, he could have been imprisoned by an enemy force."

She kept inventing smoothly as they reached the dirt track leading down to the Haldanson villa and the small, circular court preceding it.

"He was the son of Mister Anderson's friend. You know, the tax evader. And I think it's better if as few people as possible know his business… I don't think he'd be happy with everybody knowing his business. Especially, you know…"

She nodded her head to the left, to where the god of mischief's shirt was thick with his blood.

"Ah, right."

"I've not seen him for years, since he went back to Asgard," she muttered, remembering exactly why he had vanished without trace and her uncle did, too. "It's a good thing I came across him."

Filip gave an easy laugh as he switched off the engine, which meant he believed her. After all, why would he not? As far as he was concerned, she had no reason to lie.

A few moments later, Loki was slumped over Filip's broad shoulder again and carried up the crumbling, stone stairs to the front door. Hattie produced an old, elaborate key and slotted it into its rusting keyhole.

"You really ought to get servants in here," Filip muttered as the old oaken door swung open and they were hit with the smell of dust and old things. "You know. It would fit the whole forever stuck in the 19th century vibe."

She smiled, though she didn't feel very much like doing so. "Uncle Haldanson loved the 19th century," she answered. "And he didn't believe in servants in the house, he didn't want anybody prying into business which wasn't theirs… quoting him. He never trusted anybody. You know, he always used to say that the only person you can ever rely on is yourself."

She shut the door behind them and locked it, then slipped the key back into her dress pocket.

"And unfortunately, I've come quite close to believing him, recently."

The old, mahogany furniture greeted them, as did the small chandelier in the porch and the many tall, wooden coat racks which still had brass swords and spears propped up against them, and iron cannonballs between their legs.

Filip eyed the intricate, mechanised crossbow proudly displayed on the wall above the carved, wooden stairs along with a few wicked-looking arrows and shook his head. "Your uncle didn't exactly believe in peace, Henrietta."

"Of course he did," Hattie replied, this time with a true smile, as she looked at the many photographs arranged on the shelves, of them doing things together over the years: eating ice cream on top of a hill when hiking, teaching Mister Anderson's nephews how to shoot from a pistol together, Hattie's first time riding an armoured horse at Uncle Haldanson's good friend's paddock, grinning. "The reason we didn't ever get burgled or any sort of that nonsense was because Uncle was really good at getting his point across."

"Which was?"

She tittered as they went up the stairs, then directed them to the spare bedroom door.

"You enter uninvited; your bones will pave the drive."

"Damn," Filip shook his head. "That's one way of getting your point across. Heavens above, that man was-"

He cut himself off and looked at her, biting his lip.

"It's alright," she said, though with less of a smile as she remembered the man who raised her. "He had a lot of habits which nobody usually does. I suppose he could be called crazy, here. In Asgard, society's different. That's where he grew up."

Filip raised his eyebrows, looking uneasy, then breathed out a sigh through his teeth. "At least now I know why the drive's so uneven," he muttered, then waited for Hattie to open the door and carried the god of mischief into the bedroom.

It was far too flowery for current circumstances, and hadn't been used for months. The sheets and wallpaper were patterned with spring foliage, pretty books slept on the light, oak shelves, and there were primrose, porcelain vases holding dried, forgotten flowers on the drawers and windowsill. Dust hung in the air thickly and turned lively as Henrietta opened the sticky, mullioned windows to let in some air.

"Put him on the bed. Don't worry about the bedsheets," she said. "I'll go and fetch your medical bag."

"It's in the back seat," she heard him call. "And we'll need a bowl of warm water!"

When this was done, Henrietta stood and watched as Filip cut Odinson's ruined shirt open and peel it off him, then clean his wounds with a warm, wet, woollen cloth.

"This is from a whip," he muttered, as he knitted the wounds back together, scowling. "And I won't even get started on the ones that have healed over."

Henrietta leaned over him to see what he was talking about and covered her mouth in horror, hissing.

"These are burn scars," she whispered. "Odin, look at them."

They were layered, one on top of the other, rippling in uneven patches on his shoulders, neck; on his sides and up and down his limbs.

"He's been through something," Filip muttered, shaking his head, dumbfounded. "His head may not be injured physically, but…"

He pursed his lips as he finished knitting his wounds together, then moved him onto his back, setting the chains clinking.

"...but one would need a will of steel to be alright after what he's sustained," he muttered. "Let's hope he has one. Look at his back."

The burns continued on the reverse of his torso worse than ever. Henrietta had to look away for a moment, her stomach turning at the blisters which took up great chunks of his skin. There almost wasn't a patch of undisturbed back.

"This really doesn't look good," he said, as he finished cleaning the whip inflictions and knitted them together, his eyes glowing gold as he moved his fingers up the shape of the wound. "We need his lips cut apart as soon as possible. Without food, I don't see how he's going to last much longer."

He stood, dried his hands, then ran one through his unruly hair, blinking. He turned to her.

"Are you sure you're going to be alright with him here?"

She smiled at him and nodded. "Yes, of course. I trust him," she lied. "He wouldn't do anything to displease me."

She wasn't sure about the latter. If she hadn't seen him killing, if she hadn't narrowly avoided an explosion from his hand while he laughed with sadistic glee, perhaps she wouldn't have doubted. But she did, and now, she didn't know what to think. She needed time to think.

"I'll go and call Jorgen… you know, the blacksmith I told you about. Yes," he said, when she opened his mouth, "I won't tell him what it's for. But…"

He looked sheepish. "I really doubt he'll give it to use for free."

"Don't worry about that," she said firmly. "My uncle lived in this dimension for over two hundred years. In this mansion, if I may add. If there's something I have, you know. It's money."

"Glad to hear that," he said in half a whisper, then picked up his bag and nodded. "Call me as soon as he wakes up. I'd stay, but… I need to crash."

"Yes, you do that," she urged him, standing. "I'll make sure he's alright. Thanks again."

Filip left, leaving her alone with the man which had torn her heart in two without knowing. Or perhaps he knew? Perhaps he didn't care? He was the god of lies and deceit. He created tales and lies like an artisan cloth-weaver, his eyes were sharp with genius. He could easily fool her.

And Hattie would have believed herself, convinced herself, if she hadn't seen him hide the vast chasms of sorrow under a mask of laughter and glee when he thought she wasn't looking.

Loki Laufeyson stirred, heaving in a sharp breath and letting it loose again, his bare chest moving up and down, then grew still.

Henrietta mirrored his sigh. "Oh, Loki of Asgard," she breathed, looking at his gaunt form. "Whatever have you gotten us all into?"

He didn't reply, sleeping without dreams, his face restless though still.

Henrietta looked away. She clenched her fists, willing herself to be understanding, tolerant, patient, forget the death and destruction he sowed while laughing, and went to see if she had any clothes that he could wear while he was here.


Hello! I have a full-time job, so the updates won't come very quickly, but stay tuned, for I am far too fond of this story to let memory of it fall into disrepair. As usual, hope you've enjoyed, and do leave a review - they inspire me to write more!

God bless,

Anonymitea64