III
He was born in the Void.
In some moments, he was convinced of that. The Void had always been there, surrounding him, inescapable and impenetrable. How could anything exist outside of its leaching blackness?
But a flicker of memory would come – the feel of a silk dress under his fingers, the smell of a ripe apple. Often, the flash of blond hair in the sunlight. And he would think, would realize, that such delicate sensations could never have been borne out of the abyss. The existence of Elsewhere would crystallize as a certainty in his fractured thoughts.
He clung to the idea with a frantic strength, but it would inevitably slide away as the blackness obscured his sight again. And he began to question. Memories or hallucinations? If he dreamed these visions up, what could he make of the phantom warmth they conjured deep in his chest?
Not all the visions were pleasant. The recollection of an icy touch set his guts to twisting round themselves. A face with one eye had sweat coating his palms. But he embraced even these nightmares as proof of a separate reality.
And then there were others. These did not spark any recognition, not even the faintest sense of familiarity.
He saw a shattered asteroid, the remnant of some ancient cataclysm. A well, with deep black water, surrounded by silver trees. A star shining blindingly bright with blue fire. The shadow of some leviathan moving through the emptiness of space, blotting out distant points of light.
A massive, mottled purple hand, reaching, reaching for him – he twisted away and kept falling.
He cried and he laughed and he screamed until his throat was raw. He knew he was still falling, yet felt as if nothing changed around him. No current of air or blur of movement. The fall could have been years and centuries or only seconds stretched out by endless despair.
Sometime amidst the meaningless eternity, he felt a tug on his arm. The first tangible sensation he'd felt in the Void that he wasn't half-sure he'd invented to keep the tatters of his consciousness together.
He let the unknown force tug at him, and then without warning he was whipped and pulled and thrown through what felt like a narrow passage. And he was falling again, but this time buffeted by a chill gust of air. The wind raised prickled flesh, set him to shivering uncontrollably. It wasn't particularly cold, but the abrupt return of feeling was overwhelming and unpleasant.
Pain spread like a web of lightning over his body. He must have known how electricity felt coursing through muscle and tissue, for his mind immediately supplied the comparison. It seared him, exquisitely burning.
He had no more thoughts until the agony ebbed the slightest bit. Time must have passed, but it was an abstract concept. Slowly, he became aware of a hard surface under him, the rasp of grit uncomfortable against his exposed skin. A new sensation, infinitely preferable to the pain, but just as impossible to tear his mind away from. And the wind still whispered through his hair, brushing strands against his nose in a distracting manner.
He liked that he could feel his hair. He liked that he was aware of his body again, that he knew his limbs hadn't been devoured by the hungry black depths. Gently, stiffly, he tried to move his legs. The muscles twitched and spasmed. He tested every appendage on his body and found they responded, even if he couldn't yet control them. He lay there, trembling and convulsing and deliriously relieved.
The blackness around him began to resolve into murky shapes, and he realized that his eyes were open. Perhaps they had always been open. The silhouette of a tree materialized in front of him.
He was watching the tree fondly when a distant metal rumble cut through the enveloping silence. Jolting in surprise, sharp shooting pains lanced along the length of his spine. A searing white light burned his eyes. He shut them tightly and waited for the ache to diminish. Behind his lids, the glare of light grew in intensity. The metal rumble crescendoed into a roar. They receded together.
When next he opened his eyes, the surrounding world was bathed in a muted grey light and the sky heralded a fresh dawn. He stared at the undulating line of the horizon and wondered how he could know with certainty the riot of colors the sun would bring in its wake.
Stumbling towards the sunrise, he abandoned the crater of his landing. He crossed fields and a uniformly blackened stone path and clambered ungracefully over a drooping wooden fence. The brilliant orange disc was just crowning the edge of the world when he saw a rickety white house, shaded by meandering bushes and a great tree.
The incongruity shocked him out of his dazed wandering. Pain returned with a gasping intensity, and he collapsed to his knees. He knocked over a pile of stacked wood as he fell, sending a cascade of it colliding with a green metal box. The hollow, banging sound frightened several birds from their nearby perch.
He had just enough time to see a light flick on in an upstairs window before he blacked out. As his eyes closed, he had one thought to spare – please, please, I don't want to return to the Void. Please be real.
IV
He leans back in his chair and watches Agent Roberts depart with a thoughtful frown.
Lukas has only been on Midgard for two stellar orbits. But even a relative newcomer such as he would be foolish to not be suspicious. A visit from a clandestine government agency is not as innocuous as the female agent would have had him believe.
He wonders at the title. As best as he's been able to determine, it refers to a particular class of Midgardian warriors tasked with maintaining law and order on behalf of the country's leader. He and Roseanne watch a television show on Wednesday nights that dramatizes the exploits of one such team of agents. Lukas privately thinks their fixation on sexual relationships with each other should be discouraged with a firm hand. It is horrendously unproductive and hazardous to be so preoccupied when in the midst of battle. He'd said as much to Roseanne, but she'd only hushed him and jabbed him in the side with her elbow.
And to be asking after the Tesseract –
Roseanne pokes her head in and interrupts the reverie he had slipped into. "That didn't take long."
He shakes his head slightly. "Someone from the grant committee, asking about my research."
Lukas isn't certain why he lies. Habit, he supposes. Roseanne has nothing to do with S.H.I.E.L.D. Shouldn't, in fact. Roseanne is a simple elderly lady with a fuzzy beast of a canine who lives in a little white farmhouse and has three grandchildren. She makes very strong coffee and included meals with his room and board when she realized he was eating mostly bread and butter. The clutter of curious machines in the kitchen had proven confounding: they seemed to serve very specific yet inscrutable purposes. He had since discovered how the mortals harnessed electricity as a power source instead of seidr, but still hadn't divined the function of the machine Roseanne referred to as a kay-sah-dill-ah maker.
She glances at the corridor through which Agent Roberts departed, then tosses him a speculative look. His eyes narrow without conscious command. "Something you wished to say?"
"Nothing, nothing. Don't mind this old lady." Roseanne pats the carefully curated nest of curls atop her head. "She was a little peach, now, wasn't she? Very sweet. Cute as a button, too. Just thinking aloud."
Lukas resists the urge to roll his eyes. Roseanne persists in trying to coax him into social engagements with women even though she has not yet won a single victory. He supposes he should be thankful her own granddaughter is yet twelve years of age.
"I prefer zippers to buttons," he says blandly. Roseanne huffs and waves him away. That is true. Midgardian clothing seems particularly concerned with ease of use and comfort. All of his casual clothing has zippers. Much more amusing than Asgardian attire, with all the fastenings of armor and—
Lukas amputates the thought before it can fully form. He does not think of that place anymore. Midgard is the home he claims now, the first home he has claimed by choice.
Choice? A dark corner of his mind whispers to him. You made the choice to let go without the slightest notion you would end up—
"No need to be ornery, Lukas. You never know, you might have fun!" Roseanne is lamentably enthusiastic. He can hardly be irritated that she wishes him happiness. It would be uncharitable.
That knowledge does not prevent him from feeling irritated. Lukas has never claimed to be virtuous.
"All I'm sayin' is it would be a darned shame to waste that charm and those good looks on a ole blue hair like me. I can just picture you all gussied up." She emits a little squeal of delight, leans across the desk and affectionately chuffs his cheek. "Look at them eyes. Pretty as all get out. Anyway, I'm fixin' to head on home. You taggin' along?"
Sometimes, Lukas can hardly parse out Roseanne's expressions, even with the aid of Allspeak.
"No, I shall not tag," he says with a mimic of her accent. She smiles at him and Lukas feels absurdly pleased. "I have a manuscript to polish up a bit."
"Dinner's at six thirty on the dot, mister. Take care you're not late," Roseanne warns him.
"Nothing short of Ragnarök will stop me, I swear it," he intones solemnly.
She gives him an amused chuckle and fond glance before tottering out.
Lukas absentmindedly taps his fingers on the fake wood grain of his desk. Had he tipped his hand with the Agent? The fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. is asking after the Tesseract has piqued his interest. And his suspicious nature.
When he had received the cryptic request for an interview, a thousand thoughts had flitted through his suddenly buzzing mind, a storm of potential the likes of which he had not experienced since he had arrived in this quiet corner of this peculiar realm. It was as if he'd been half-asleep, wandering about in a daze, as if he'd slipped so deeply into this mortal skin he'd begun to forget there had ever been anything else. The other life, his past life, returned with a hungry vengeance, preying on stray, unwary moments of idleness.
The Tesseract. It had been easier to focus on that shining beacon, with its heady pulse of magic.
If they had found the Tesseract, or a lead to it, he had to be kept informed. He had considered slipping into a facility, unseen. But which facility and where? Perhaps it was more prudent to remain passive. Let the information deposit itself in his lap.
The simplest approach would have been to ensure the agency considered him an expert on the subject, of which there are demonstrably few, someone to call on when they invariably found themselves out of their depth. He has already been contacted once, ostensibly to gauge his knowledge. When they failed to unravel the cube's intricacies… that scenario was rather unlikely, however. Lukas suspected S.H.I.E.L.D. was keen to keep their counsel within their own ranks unless absolutely necessary.
But if he let on that he knew more than he was saying, perhaps Agent Roberts would recommend to her superiors that an interrogation be in order. The questions asked during such a confrontation were often more revealing than any straightforward exchange of information. That could be the best way to judge just where the agency is at in terms of understanding the fundamental nature of the Tesseract and where it hails from.
And where he can find it.
He hopes he's played the part well, hinting without rousing too powerful of suspicions.
The notion of finding the Tesseract teases at his mind for the remainder of the evening. He can't refrain from dissecting every legend he's ever heard of its power, from scouring his memories for mentions in the numerous magical texts he's read over the course of his studies. But his thoughts are awkwardly fractured and disjointed, as he tries to remember pertinent details without dredging up the specters haunting the past.
That person is dead, he reminds himself viciously. He died alone and unmourned in the Void. You are Lukas now.
His mind strays to a journey undertaken to Midgard centuries past, and that's enough. Lukas jerks out of his chair and gathers his personal effects, shoving them haphazardly in the bag Roseanne insists on referring to as a satchel.
Typically, Lukas relishes the mile and a half walk home through the quiet countryside. In his agitated state, however, he knows he'll not be able to enjoy the spring sunset. He parts the fabric of reality like a curtain and steps into the ether. Another step brings him to the winding gravel drive leading up to his lodgings. The drive is dotted with cottonwood trees, already shedding their seeds like so much soft snow.
Lukas breathes in the air, rich with the scent of soil and forest musk. The rolling hills and wide, lazy branches drifting in the humid breeze are refreshingly unique. Nothing like the tall, dark pine forests of the mountains and the rocky oceanfront of his youth. The people here are not rigid or formal, nor boastful or quick to draw a blade.
The image of plump, elderly Roseanne clad in golden armor and wielding a short sword is enough to startle a laugh out of Lukas's throat. He closes his eyes and holds onto that feeling of lightness until the tension eases from his neck.
In moments like these, when Lukas feels like nothing more than a collection of sharp, brittle edges, he tries to immerse himself in the present. He notes every sensation and revels in them. Even in the darkest night on Midgard, there is no blackness, no absence. He can still see the stars and hear the cicadas and their whirring, clicking song.
Lukas opens his eyes when he hears a deep bark and the clatter of paws on gravel. A large, fuzzy, grey and white beast comes bounding up to him. Lukas pats him gingerly on the head when the beast sits attentively at his side, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.
"Good evening, Pickles."
When he first arrived, Roseanne had informed Lukas that Pickles was a sheepdog. Lukas had privately thought the woman was senile, or possibly that humans had become quite ambitious with their breeding programs in the intervening centuries since his last visit. But she had happily shown him several tomes on canine breeds and he at last conceded the beast was in fact a variety of dog.
He was of course familiar with the human penchant for keeping the strange animals around, feeding them scraps and relying on their keen sense of smell to alert them to any predators or miscreants. Mortals had a curious way with the beasts, he had noticed. No Æsir had ever thought to tame the wolves of Niflheim or their smaller cousins that loped through the forests bordering the golden city.
Pickles is perhaps the farthest from a wolf it is possible to be while still identifying as a canine. Much too friendly and with a startling tendency to rear up and lick a person right on the face. The first time Pickles had dared such a maneuver, Lukas had believed the beast intended to maul him and had almost embedded a dagger in his neck. But he had simply licked his nose and cheek and sat back on his haunches, tail brushing against the floor as it waved back and forth.
Lukas looks the dog in his dim black eyes. For all that he is not a handsome beast, nor intelligent, Pickles does have a curious ability to perceive emotion. Whenever Lukas is teetering on the edge of an abyss inside his own mind, Pickles seems to materialize at his side and distract him. He's grateful to the dog for that, at least.
With an imperious hand gesture he had previously used to command palace servants, Lukas beckons the dog and strides up the gravel drive. "Come, Pickles. We must not dawdle. The flowerbeds are in need of watering."
The sheepdog obediently trots at his heels, though Lukas feels sure he will not be much of an assistant whilst tending to the daffodils or tulips. Roseanne's white farmhouse appears as they crest a gentle slope. Lukas is currently situated in the guesthouse set just to the east of the main building, though he takes his meals with Roseanne in her warm yellow kitchen. He and Pickles skirt the wraparound porch and enter the garden. Neat plots in straight lines are bursting with the first blooms of spring. Roseanne has planted unfamiliar Midgardian vegetables and herbs as well, though they are not ready for harvest.
His own plot is set apart on the far left. Roseanne had provided him with a choice of seeds in little colorful packets, and he had chosen mostly at random. Sunny yellow daffodils cluster together in one corner, next to pink and orange tulips and purple crocuses. Lukas studies the array with a satisfied eye. The stems are studded with green buds, thick with the promise of further blossoms.
Out here among the fragrant earth, his mind is quiet. The associations this place stirs in his memory are not fearful or tinged with bitterness and resentment. He lets his thoughts lightly brush an image of a gentle woman with long honey blonde tresses before tugging them away.
His seidr is active in the garden as well. The sense of growing things tingles and hums pleasantly, strong with its captured stellar energy. Lukas weaves among the plants and shrubs, tending and watering until Roseanne whistles at him from the open kitchen window.
"Lukas! Come on in now and getcha somethin' to eat! You too, Pickles!"
The Tesseract and its current whereabouts are a mystery to be considered at a later date. For now, Lukas is expected for dinner.