XI
Excerpt from "The Sacred and its Surrogates: Veneration of Physical Objects in a Ritual Context among Norse Religious Cults Prior to Christianization" by Mr. Lukas Eld in Vol. 4 of Journal of Nordic Archaeological Science, published January 2012
As evident in Fig. 3 & 4, the wooden cubes were carefully crafted to the exact same specifications. Even the cube recovered some three hundred miles from the cluster on the Jutland Peninsula appears to share the same specific artistic embellishments in the carvings on the cube faces. The tree motif is constant as well, in all its exquisite detail.
The question becomes – why was it so important that these ancient craftsmen maintain such a strict standard in their construction? My conjecture is that each cube is a replica, meant to symbolize a single sacred artifact. This artifact was most likely vital to the religious rituals and magical rites conducted by the cults venerating Odin near the turn of the millennium. An object of such importance would not have been ferried around from temple to sacred grove and back. Rather, specific replicas would have been fashioned to represent the artifact, to symbolize its divine power, and serve as surrogates during the various rituals observed by cults without access to the original artifact. Such symbolic representation is a common theme among many religious practices – as in the body of Christ, if the reader will excuse the timeworn example.
The obvious speculative leap to be made - that this conclusion supports the oft-derided theory of the Tesseract's existence – is not precisely the point of this paper. The intriguing yet sparse oral history and folklore surrounding the Tesseract's origins and existence are a tempting subject all on their own. For our purposes, we may consider the Tesseract as simply an inspiration in whose image these replicas were cast. The actual fact of the Tesseract's existence is less important than the belief of the local population and members of the religious cults that the Tesseract was imbued with divine power.
XII
Lukas has not been summoned to the metaphorical throne room. His online research indicates the Triskelion is the public face and physical representation of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s power, a grandiose architectural statement of dominance.
This compound of buildings is nowhere near as impressive, situated quietly among shady streets and large houses instead of the compact glass towers of downtown. The Triskelion is nearer to the President of America's white palace and the seat of his oft-maligned Council of the Hill. This structure is no more than an outpost, though the brick façade is nondescript and pleasant enough. The landscape is dotted with circular shrubs just beginning to flower.
A neat young man waits behind a gleaming black countertop when Lukas enters. He gives a perfunctory smile. "Good morning. Did you have an appointment?"
"Yes. With Agent Brenna Roberts."
"I'm afraid this building is restricted access, so you'll have to just wait right over there while I call her down to escort you." The young man taps at a device attached to his ear.
Before Lukas can do more than step away, a voice hails him. "Mr. Eld! You made it. I hope the drive wasn't too bad."
Agent Roberts strides briskly from the elevator. The receptionist gives him an unnecessary wave in her direction. Lukas inclines his head and goes to greet her.
Roseanne had offered him the use of her car, which he had driven approximately ten minutes before abandoning in a parking lot. He had instead materialized down the street from the address he'd memorized for this complex, in an area he'd studied from images found on the Inter-Net.
The mechanical motions necessary to operate Midgardian vehicles are not difficult to master in and of themselves, yet Lukas finds himself immensely mistrustful of other drivers and their unpredictability. He does not know if Roseanne's dented metal vehicle will explode in a towering burst of flame if he collides with another, but he has seen too many instances of such fiery conflagrations on the television to be anything but wary.
"It took no time at all," he assures.
"Great. Why don't you follow me to the security station, and we'll get you a visitor's badge before we head up to the conference room."
Lukas is soon outfitted with a little card of white plastic that clips to the lapel of his suit. He adjusts it so it does not cover the maroon striped tie Roseanne had selected for him this morning. She had fussed entirely too much, as if this was his first official presentation to the court instead of an introductory meeting among potential colleagues.
Though of course this isn't simply an innocuous consultation. This is a test of sorts. Agent Roberts' superiors aim to determine his capabilities, the extent of his knowledge, his potential loyalty. Lukas would bet a golden apple that they're probing for what he knows of the Tesseract and how he gleaned this information.
And Lukas is here to take their measure in return.
Also, he can't deny a certain curiosity. His sojourn on Midgard thus far has been restful and quiet. Both qualities he had needed when he'd arrived in a haze of pain and grief and rage, unable to stand any sound louder than a whisper or touch heavier than silk.
Yet he has grown a bit impatient and bored without a riddle or enigma to whet the sharpness of his intellect. Devouring the entirety of Midgardian history had provided a useful distraction, but he craves something altogether more exhilarating.
Agent Roberts ushers him into a wood-paneled room with a sturdy table dominating the center. A flat black screen covers the north wall. Squarish white numerals representing the time float across its surface, bouncing off edges and corners before spinning in the opposite direction.
A trim middle-aged man stands from his seat at the head of the table next to the screen. His expression is placid and his appearance is generic. If not for the economical precision of his movements, which intimate a warrior's awareness of the position of his limbs, and the focused attentiveness of his blue eyes, Lukas might have overlooked him.
Until he'd seen the deference given him by the other agents in the room, as they angle their bodies towards him and wait for him to move first before they stand themselves.
"The man in charge, I presume." Lukas extends his hand.
The man takes it, firmly but not aggressively. "Until someone higher up comes along. Agent Phil Coulson."
"Pleasure."
Agent Coulson gestures to the two other women. One is pale and brunette, smiling timidly. The other is black-haired, with a smooth tan complexion and flinty dark eyes. This one holds herself like a warrior as well, but makes no effort to hide it, rather challenging one to comment.
"These are Agent Simmons and May."
He shakes the younger woman's hand, letting his smile turn from polite to warm. His ploy works, and a faint rosy blush spreads along her cheeks. "Lukas Eld." His smile has no apparent effect on Agent May, who continues to regard him stonily.
Lukas takes a seat opposite the two and Roberts sits at his side. Her dark hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail today, brown skin contrasting strikingly with her white blouse. She matches Agent May for composure, without the edge of menace.
Agent Coulson returns to his seat. "Before we begin, Mr. Eld, I want to make sure you understand that anything discussed in this room is classified. You signed an agreement when you received that badge, that you won't divulge any information mentioned here to outside sources, not even your family or friends."
He nods solemnly and rearranges his face into its most trustworthy expression. Who would he tell? Roseanne? Not likely. Besides, Lukas has always been a skilled secret keeper. He has no intention of divulging, though the agreement he signed didn't even have an appropriate line upon which to smear his blood to seal the oath.
Mortals leave too much to chance and to capricious sentiments like loyalty and honor.
The man scrutinizes him for a minute before he nods. He clasps his hands together on the table in front of him. "S.H.I.E.L.D. specializes in handling unusual events," Coulson begins. "Or people and objects for which traditional law enforcement and the military are not equipped or prepared to deal with."
Making it more than likely it is S.H.I.E.L.D., of any government agency, who has possession of the Tesseract.
"When we come into contact with strange items of unknown origin, we refer to them as 0-8-4s. You follow me so far?" Lukas gives a wordless noise of agreement. "Right now, we're in the middle of a delicate situation. There are two possibilities that are equally distressing, though I'm holding out for one outcome over the other. Either this situation is the result of a traitor within our organization, or…"
"Or this situation is the result of an 0-8-4," Lukas finishes.
"Exactly. I'm hoping you can help us figure out which is the case." Coulson activates the screen with the press of a button. The clock disappears and a man's image fills the space, along with a smaller array of various others.
The agent points to the man. His blond, stringy hair is receding from his scalp, and his cheeks and neck are thick with extra weight that gives his skin the unfortunate appearance of puffy dough. But his smile is bright and his pale eyes are kind. "Agent Henry Morris. Longtime desk jockey in the Intel Analysis department, served as a sort of liaison between our lab people and our field agents. No history of disciplinary actions, no complaints from Human Resources. Regarded by his coworkers as cheerful and friendly, a good listener."
Agent Simmons puts a hand to her mouth briefly before nodding. Her brown eyes shine in the blue light reflecting from the screen. "Definitely. Henry always comes round to ask how we are and what we're working on. He's a sweetheart. Last time he came by, he showed me a picture from his daughter's high school prom."
Coulson's lips are a grim line. "Two weeks ago, he didn't show up for work. The day after, the identities of eight of our undercover agents were compromised. We had to pull all of them out of the field. Several were injured and one was killed." He indicates the images surrounding Morris.
"Agent Morris turned himself in that night. He's been in detention ever since. He confessed to divulging the names of the agents involved in the operations he'd helped design." Coulson leans forward, bracing himself on the table. "The man's confused, guilt-ridden and upset. He claims he doesn't know why he revealed the information or remember much about who he gave it to."
Lukas sees Coulson and May exchange glances. "What does he remember?" he prompts.
"A woman's voice. Asking him the questions. He remembers feeling something warm and metal touch his skin. He claims… that whatever this object was, it's the source of his burns."
"Burns?" Lukas repeats with interest.
Coulson calls up another image, of pale skin scorched black, ringed by irritated red. They look to be across Morris' chest, painful maledictions that Lukas instantly recognizes.
Surprise tinges his tone. "I know these."
Morris' burns are runes, ancient runes. Not simply Old Norse, these are Asgardian runes - though they bear a great similarity, given that the Æsir taught the mortals the symbols for casting magic and divining the future centuries ago.
Asgardian runes had been incorporated into the mortal's existing language easily. The runes hold their own power, but only if the one carving or writing knows what they represent. Simply transcribing the runes does not exert a tangible effect.
These symbols, seared in flesh, were not simply transcribed. Lukas can feel the subtle hum of their power even though the image is but a shade captured by Midgardian technology.
They are ugly, hateful aberrations in the pale skin of the agent's chest. Oathbreaker. Lie-spinner. False witness.
Lukas' throat closes. It is as if the Norns themselves have intervened, and laid their charges against him plainly, writ in another's pain and blood.
Coulson disrupts the claws of panicked shock that have burrowed themselves deep in Lukas' chest with a question. "What are they?"
He clears his throat, then approaches the screen. "Runes. Elder Futhark, by the look of them. They brand Agent Morris here as a liar." He points to the center runes, their shape altogether too close to Liesmith for comfort. He names each of their meanings for the assembled agents.
Roberts speaks up. "So, who did he lie to?" She glances around. "Us, or them?"
Lukas is too caught up in examining the runes to reply. He hears the others discussing possibilities behind him. This combination is familiar. He gropes through his memory.
Brands of a liar, embedded into not just the skin, but the man's very life-flame, with powerful magic. Harmful truths uncovered. The betrayal of a previously loyal servant. A warm metal object of mysterious origin.
The conclusion hits him like a lightning bolt and he is intensely grateful he accepted Agent Roberts' offer of consultation. By the Nine, how is it on Midgard? And what foolish mortal has claimed it despite its curse?
He turns sharply to face the agents. "The Ring of Andvari."
Coulson, who had been in the middle of a sentence, closes his mouth with a flicker of irritation. "The what now?"
Lukas stalks back to the table. "If we put aside the fact that it is entirely mythical, your object of unknown origin could well be the Ring of Andvari." He has their complete attention now. Time to demonstrate exactly how useful he can be when he has a mind for it.
"The story goes that Andvari possessed an enormous hoard of gold, which he guarded jealously. He was deprived of his cache through a clever trick, and in the throes of death, he cursed the gold with a powerful truth spell to enact his revenge. The gold traded hands several times, each instance ending violently, leaving the hoard with a legacy of destruction and bloodshed. Eventually, part of the hoard was fashioned into a gleaming sword, and another part… into a golden ring."
Lukas had fallen easily into the cadence of a storyteller. Now he crosses his arms over his chest and straightens up. "It is said one who bears the ring can distinguish between a truth and a falsehood. If we take this admittedly incredible legend to its logical conclusion, and set aside the absurd notion of its actual existence – if the bearer is clever or skilled enough, the ring's magic could be bent to compel the one who wears it to speak only the truth."
Agent May is not openly incredulous, but there's a disbelieving crease in her brow. "You mean to say Morris was compelled to reveal our undercover agents' identities by a magic ring."
Lukas shrugs. "I mean to say it is a slim possibility that nevertheless fits the facts of your case. And you did make it quite clear you were looking for an unusual object of extraordinary provenance. I just supplied the most likely option from mythology."
Simmons' gaze is fixed on the burns when she speaks. "Let's say this ring is the 0-8-4 we're looking for. How would whoever has it even know how to manipulate the ring's… magic?"
She can't say the term magic without a pained grimace. Lukas suppresses the urge to demonstrate just what a skilled mage can do. "The ring is already inextricably woven with truth magic. In theory, the owner could carve further runes into the gold to direct the magic to compel, instead of only revealing. This would, of course, require that whoever possesses this ring has a working knowledge of the Old Norse runic alphabets."
"Like you," Coulson says evenly.
"Indeed." Lukas licks his lips and lets the implication pass. "The pool of suspects is rather small. That should only aid in your search for the culprit."
"Assuming we are in fact looking for this Ring of Atari," Roberts interjects.
"Andvari."
"Yeah, yeah. Andvari."
"I'm afraid that is the only artifact that comes to mind with the mythical properties necessary to result in this… damage. Agent Morris could have been burned when he attempted to resist the ring's compulsion and lie regarding the identity of your agents."
"So Agent Morris could have been framed. This might not be his fault." Simmons is evidently hopeful.
Coulson makes a noncommittal noise. "If I was permitted to speak with Agent Morris, perhaps I could offer more in the way of confirmation," Lukas offers.
"That would take some time to arrange." Coulson and May have another silent conversation. "And approval from my superiors," he adds. The agent in command taps his chin thoughtfully. "Are you staying in town, Mr. Eld?"
"I certainly could. I have never visited this city and would not mind the opportunity to do so."
Coulson nods decisively. "Okay. Then we'll contact you tomorrow about a potential interview with Agent Morris. Or we might just have you come in and give more details about this ring to some of our other specialists. Is that agreeable?"
Lukas accepts magnanimously. "Agent Roberts has my cell number." The woman herself offers to escort him back to the lobby. He bids farewell to Agent Simmons, who returns his smile with enthusiasm he suspects is related to his theory, which brings newfound hope to the cause of Morris' eventual redemption. Agents May and Coulson are inscrutable as ever, though he thinks he detects a bit of relief in their faces as well.
Agent Roberts leaves him with the promise to call the following day and the name of her favorite coffee shop and its location. Lukas traverses half the distance, a mere five blocks, before he becomes aware of a shadow. He pretends ignorance, entering the small establishment and ordering a latte and a scone. It took him several weeks to grow accustomed to the ingenious mortal brew, but now he is partial to coffee in all its forms.
The woman doesn't approach until the scone has been reduced to crumbs. She sidles up and smoothly deposits herself in the chair across the tiny table.
"How was the scone?" she asks.
"Delightful. I recommend the raspberry."
She seems amused by his nonchalance. "I'll keep that in mind for the next time we meet."
He raises a mild eyebrow. "Next time?"
She smiles sweetly. "I'm here to offer you the chance of a lifetime. An opportunity you couldn't possibly bear to miss."
Well, well. Two offers in one day. He's never been in such high demand. Lukas studies the woman. Her heart-shaped face is pleasant, with soft features and striking dark eyes. Both her posture and her voice are demure and polite. Lukas has oft used such a manner and his own admittedly appealing features to similar effect, though he had hated the perception of his prettiness as compared to – other's - brawn and broad handsomeness.
The glitter of intelligence in her eyes warns Lukas she has had extensive practice at this ploy as well and can likely use it to great effect. He proceeds cautiously, letting his reluctance show. "Pardon me, but how could you offer grand opportunities without any knowledge of my desires?"
"I feel confident that I can guess." She smiles again, just a gentle upturn of her lips this time. "My name is Raina, Mr. Eld."
He feigns a surprised blink. Her smile grows more genuine. Raina seems to enjoy having the advantage. "Yes, I know you. I've followed your work for sometime now. You're a very accomplished academic."
Lukas folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his wooden chair. His scrutiny is obvious. "Thank you. Are you a member of a particularly aggressive university history department?"
Raina laughs lightly. "Not quite. I work for an organization dedicated to the expansion of human knowledge. An organization that wants to advance civilization, not hold it back, unlike some others."
"You mean S.H.I.E.L.D.," he surmises.
She inclines her head. "I know they approached you. Here's some free advice – don't trust anything S.H.I.E.L.D. says. Their mission is one of secrecy and forced silence. If they cannot control objects of great power, or talented individuals, they treat them as a liability. Imprison them. Or remove them. Permanently."
Raina lets the silence hold for several seconds. "My employers mean to expose S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hypocrisy, their dark secrets. We mean to encourage every person to be a part of something greater. To create a new age for humanity." Her voice contains the fervor of a true disciple. Whatever else she is, Raina believes in her vision.
"I think an academic of your caliber would appreciate the opportunity to contribute to a cause that will remake the world. To be a beacon of enlightenment and progress. And I think you're in a unique position to help us achieve our goals. For which you would be compensated most handsomely."
Raina wants him to consult for her mysterious and quite obviously illegal organization. Lukas isn't particularly surprised, given the roundabout method by which she approached and her careful way of speaking. What he can't fathom is why her employers would need to hire an unremarkable historian as a consultant. Is this simply a case of wanting to prevent S.H.I.E.L.D. from obtaining something they made an effort to acquire, like a child stealing a toy only for the sake of depriving another? He'd no doubt the clandestine government agency is adept at making enemies, yet this seems rather a waste of time for so petty a goal as that.
His suspicions lay in rather more intriguing directions. Perhaps Raina and her conspirators want an expert on Norse mythology and history for the same reason as S.H.I.E.L.D. The artifact that is the source of Agent Morris' burns is not in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s possession, yet they have circumstantial evidence of its use and its effects.
Lukas has an inkling he's just met one of the keepers of Andvari's ring. And if that is the case… he knows his answer to Raina's inquiry.
"You present an interesting proposal," he muses. "I would like to hear what you have to offer."
Raina favors him with another smile.