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A Hollow Promise [27] chapter vi, part iv

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : what you waiting for?, gwen stefani

tag list: @femmealec @mischief2sarawr

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54 weeks and 1 day out

“Sir. We have movement.”

Tony felt the lines of his spine and shoulder blades pull straight, almost reflexively, swivelling into motion at his holographic worktable like a well-oiled gear.

He was going on a self-imposed work diet- an attempt to rebalance, after living in his work for the past few months, building and breaking and remaking in an endless beta-testing phase, a Sisyphean attempt to patch every vulnerability he could imagine- but it had been pushed back, under the circumstances, and he had rationed out enough time for him to deal with the situation, before starting the full detox.

“Where are we, J?” He asked, with a casual upwards flick above the table.

The gesture summoned a hologram above the desk: an architectural scale model of the Tower, crafted in vitrified blue light.

“There is some unusual activity near the roof.”

The area in question turned orange on the three-dimensional map, zooming in for an exploded view of the topmost two-dozen floors.

Tony had remodelled the top of the Tower, after the Battle of New York. Damage had given him the excuse, and the team had provided the reason. Repaired and restructured, several stories added to its height, the broad, smooth curves and open layout modelled after his cliffside home in Malibu were scrapped, the exterior cleaner and sharper- streamlined, from the slanted crown of its roof, through the convex glass-faced layers of the penthouse floors, to the landing pad extending out into the open air.

Locals had taken to calling it Avengers Tower. None of the roster aside from Tony had taken up residence yet, but they all agreed that it was a good base, and Tony kept the personal suites ready for whenever they might need to drop in.

The luminescent A badge shimmered on the side of the building, level with the landing pad. Just below it- within the three floors dedicated to Tony’s private laboratories, workshops, storage, and fabrication facilities- a red diamond marked his current location.

“Surveillance feeds and motion sensor detectors are offline,” JARVIS announced, highlighting the locations in a chain, “as are the door sensors.”

Tony visually tracked the path that it created.

It led from the roof access, into the emergency stairwell, before terminating at the door into Thor’s suite: no more and no less than would be needed to gain access to the building.

It was more than twenty floors above him- a distance that would take several minutes to traverse. He had time.

“You locked out, buddy?” Tony asked quietly, summoning his touch keyboard with a sweep of his palm. “Or are they trying to be subtle?”

“Neither, sir. As with the first occurrence, this appears to be a mechanical failure, not a cyber-attack.”

His gaze narrowed briefly, jaw moving.

Somehow, that was both more and less plausible than JARVIS being hacked.

“Shall I prepare to go into lockdown protocol, sir?” JARVIS proposed. “It should be possible to isolate intruders to one of the penthouse floors, once they are inside.”

Tony contemplated the offer for only a heartbeat.

“No. Clear the way down for her, J,” he decided breezily. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

There was a brief, audibly judgemental pause in the response time.

“As you wish, sir.” Tony could hear the mild disapproval and concern behind his AI’s cool, crisp tones. “Shall I at least stand by with security protocols?”

“Doubt we’ll be needing them, but- feels like this one’s got a few fireworks up her sleeve.” He conceded blithely, pre-empting the reproach about putting himself at unjustifiable risk. “Alright. Safety off, but finger off the trigger.”

Tony turned in his chair, scanning the room. The workshop was cluttered with a rich confusion of half-finished projects, both metal and digital, strewn across screens and surfaces between discarded coffee cups and various tools.

“And clear the decks, J. Window Dressing Protocol.”

At the command, the screens cleared.

Detailed blueprints and test data were replaced with generic schematics and randomised code, like cellophane pasted on a device fresh out of the box. They reflected in the wall of glass that faced the length of the room- diluted against the dark hallway beyond.

With a gentle swipe, Tony dismissed the render of the Tower.

Rising to his feet, he slid the rolling chair aside, summoned a program and began typing, looking to all the world like the very image of productivity and genius at work.

He wasn’t kept waiting for long.

A gentle rap of knuckles sounded on the reinforced, shatter-proof glass.

Tony’s head snapped up.

The girl whose real name definitely wasn’t Alethia waited just outside, painted like day in the light spilling from the workshop.

She was dressed for the winter night, a New York romance in a soft black sweater and jeans the colour of dried roses, champagne hair pinned in in a braided coil, emphasising a pretty set of cheekbones and long eyelashes. Backs of her knuckles still raised to the glass, snow-dusted and pleasantly windswept, she tipped chin down slightly in greeting.

She looked better, Tony observed. Her skin was clearer, her eyes brighter, expression smoother- less tension-soured, less angry, and more like the person that she had sounded like, aboard the Helicarrier.

Without looking, he tapped a command into the control panel.

The electronic lock switched open with a heavy snap.

Alethia turned the handle, stepping inside, flawless and measured.

“Dr Stark.”

There was a low thrum in her voice, as though cautiously pleased to see him.

“Not-agent.”

Tony’s reply was blandly jovial. Shunting the lines of code aside, he stepped away from the workbench, one hand tucked into his pocket. He had remained outfitted in dark sweats and a gym shirt, standard gear for the workshop, but his posture was that of when he was in a three-piece suit and a boardroom- eyes fixed on her face, chin tilted up slightly, sizing her up with an air of casual challenge.

To her credit, Alethia remained unaffectedly at ease.

It had reminded him a little of Pepper- but not by much.

Virginia Potts was like a ceramic knife. There was a deliberate poise to her, born of a consciousness of her disadvantages in the industry, a refusal to be anything less than a worthy player of the game; she was everything prim and correct and refusing to be intimidated, the result of thousands of observations and lessons learned and choices made, constructed into a statuesque, pleasantly intimidating facade.

Alethia reminded him far more of someone else.

Tony had realised it when she was leaning over the Tesseract transport device, her voice focused and softly mirthful.

Relax. I have steady hands.

For a moment, he had been hurled back in time. He had tasted metal, and dust, lung tissue still burning from the water with each breath, the heat of the forge at his back and the dim cold of the caves at his front, the weight of a car battery slung over his shoulder, and a pair of lean hands- Yinsen, sure and calm and steady, mild-mannered yet ruthlessly insightful, guarded and tired and yet earnest- pouring molten palladium into its cast.

Relax, he had chided Tony gently, tilting the long handles of the tongs, inclining the lip of the crucible over the mould. I have steady hands. Why do you think you are alive, ah?

After removing it from his chest for the second time, Tony had quietly returned the first miniaturised arc reactor to the display mount that Pepper had commissioned, sealing it back in glass.

It was still powered by that delicate ring of palladium, poured by steady hands under a mountain in Afghanistan.

With a steady sweep of her lashes, Alethia looked past Tony’s shoulder, at the screen display where he had been typing.

Her head tilted.

“Was there any particular reason that you were translating the lyrics of ABBA’s Dancing Queen into base64?”

Huh. Well.

Tony had more or less expected that she would see straight through the chains of randomised letters and numbers, like an awl punching through leather, but- the casual quickness was a little disorientating. It was like expecting a card trick, and getting shoved into a swimming pool instead.

“Everybody needs a hobby,” he said, bald-faced and shameless.

“Mm.” Hazel eyes flicked to his, warm as vanilla and laughter. “I’ve heard worse.”

They trailed into silence.

“Ran a trace, on the phone number you left,” Tony admitted boldly. “Before I called.”

Alethia smiled slightly.

“Ah. Were you disappointed?”

“I think I’d be disappointed if it was that easy.” Tony decided, circling the desks, feigning distraction. Alethia was missing a coat that would make sense for the cold. Her nails were trimmed neat, without polish. The only traces of makeup were a swipe of soft black kohl at the corners of her eyes and the sheen of lip balm. Practical, yet impractical. “Complete no sell, though. Impressive. That SHIELD tech?”

The corner of her mouth pulled up further.

“No.”

“You still with them?”

“If I ever was, I’m not now.”

“So you’re a free agent?”

“Free not-agent.”

“How long?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“I mean, I’d call it due diligence, but I’ve got a pair of cuffs somewhere, if it’d make you more comfortable.”

Alethia’s smile bloomed into a brilliant grin.

“Didn’t think you’d be into that, Dr Stark.”

She sobered slightly, clear as glass.

“Ask me what you want to know. I wouldn’t have left a way for you to contact me, if I wasn’t willing to talk.”

Tony held her gaze for a long moment.

He tapped at the keypad.

Several pages opened across the screens.

Pages of instructions, formulas, tables, calculations, and skeletal molecular structures illuminated the digital glass.

Alethia kept her gaze on Tony.

“What is this?” Tony asked, quiet and direct.

She breathed a slow exhale, hip cocking.

“The formulas, chemical synthesis processes, and medical procedures for stabilising the biological effects of the experimental serum known as Extremis,” she announced clinically, “when introduced to the human body intravenously, subcutaneously, or intramuscularly.” Alethia paused, pointedly. “I did include an abstract.”

“And you broke into my building to leave it here.”

“I apologise for the necessity.” Alethia replied evenly. “It was safer, than a courier.”

“You couldn’t think of another way?”

She arched an eyebrow.

“So- a package, delivered to this building, or a file sent to the general inquires inbox for Stark Industries, addressed directly to you, from an unknown sender- wouldn’t have been lost in the system?”

Despite the lingering irritation, he could admit that she had a point.

And at least she hadn’t tried to hack JARVIS, or threatened to taser him, or ripped the arc reactor out of his chest, or thrown him through a window.

All in all, this break-in was probably in his top three.

Tony flicked his hands into a shrug, keeping his expression blank and blithe.

“Alright. Let’s say I buy that.” He did buy it, but she didn’t need to know that yet. “You wanna tell me what this really is?”

He saw the subtle shift in her eyes, becoming a little shrewder, a touch sharper- and a little pleased.

She pulled up one shoulder.

“A gift? Or a bribe, perhaps. Gratitude. Diplomacy. A resumé.”

“What, you’re in the market for a job?”

The quip was as pithy as he intended, but in the split second that followed- huh.

Actually.

That wasn’t a terrible idea.

Tony acknowledged that he needed to step back from Iron Man- at least until he could reorganise his head and redraw the lines so that it wasn’t the all-consuming furnace of fear and duty and penance and freedom-safety that it had become- but the work wouldn’t wait. The planet was on a deadline, and Tony had more resources than most to pull the necessary defences together. Having good people on board, who could keep his projects ticking over while he reorientated, was essential.

And Alethia knew. She had recognised the monsters lurking in the dark between the stars, and had looked for someone to warn when she decided that Fury couldn’t be trusted to listen.

And then there was the truth in all things, and cannot lie aspect. That was a hell of an ace up Earth’s collective sleeve- if, if, if-

“I don’t need a job, Dr Stark. What I need is an ally.” Alethia spoke as clear and calm as daybreak upon the mountains. “We both do. As many as we can get.”

Tony swallowed, carefully.

He turned his head to look at the screens, grappling down the swoop of intermingled terror and relief.

“So this is your pitch.”

“I was working on other areas, but- I saw the news,” Alethia said mildly. “The bombings. Malibu.”

She hesitated.

“I was worried.”

Tony flicked a slightly surprised glance back at her.

Alethia’s gaze was on the screens, inscrutable.

There was a note of quiet sincerity in her voice that rattled something within him, like marbles in a jar.

“Well.” Tony began, turning back towards the illuminated text. “I’ve come back from the dead before.”

“Even so.” She demurred. “You were- you were kind to me. I didn’t forget that. So I was glad to find that you were alright. Then I found out about AIM, and Extremis, and I- thought you could use the assistance.”

Tony didn’t know what to say.

He still couldn’t decide, even after a moment to reboot.

Instead, he deflected.

“I knew you weren’t an engineer.”

“Hm?”

Tony flicked a practiced, flippant gesture at the screens- a quick upturn of his palm, fingers loosely curled- turning away.

“Back then. The instructions you provided for the Tesseract device- I mean, we talked about it at the time. Hot garbage, right? Intentional hot garbage, but still. There was a solid working understanding of the physics and the mechanics, but it wasn’t written by someone au fait with the field. There are things that you only learn if you’ve studied it, read the books, learned how to speak the language. It’s all in the common practice- the jargon, the shorthand. That was missing, from your papers. There were a few pieces, but not enough. You’re not an engineer.”

Tony turned to face her, expression a flat, inscrutable mask.

“You are a doctor, though.”

Alethia didn’t flinch.

He would expect nothing less, from someone who had kept secrets from Nicholas Fury and was still walking around, doing as she pleased.

“This,” Tony raised a finger to his shoulder-line, indicating the screens behind him. “Is perfect. Flawless. You could send this for peer review and get it published in The Lancet.”

A chink appeared in Alethia’s expression- something that she had allowed to break through, intense as sunlight striking on a shard of glass.

Pride.

It was earned. As far as Tony could tell, she had whipped up the antiserum formula within a matter of days; any sane research institute or private company on the planet, including the medical subsidiaries of Stark Industries, would be putting a bounty on her corporate headhunt if they knew.

Blasé as he could afford to be with money, however, Tony rarely made a purchase without knowing the price.

“So. What are you?” He paced back towards her, gathering a slow momentum like the wind of a crank, closing in. “Biochem? Cellular biology? Genetics? What’s your speciality?”

Alethia smiled.

“Neurosurgery.”

Tony’s brow twitched at the admission, taken aback.

He wasn’t actually expecting a straight answer. He wasn’t expecting that answer.

And he wasn’t expecting its wistfulness.

“You’re a brain surgeon?”

She let out a short laugh.

“I should probably introduce myself.” An incandescent, media-ready smile lit up her features, relaxed and confident. “Dr Astrid North, MD.”

Tony stilled.

That was her name, he could tell. Not an alias.

Tony quickly calculated the risk, that she was taking.

“Date of birth recorded as the twenty-ninth of February, 1988,” she continued, as though this time she was actually reciting and submitting her résumé for consideration. “Graduated from Columbia in the class of ’03, summa cum laude, completed my neurosurgical residency in 2010. I also worked under the surnames Stephenson and Stephensdottir- spelt like the doctorate, not like the super-soldier. There should be records of me available here in New York, as well as the UK, Italy, Switzerland, Sweden, Singapore, and Brazil.”

Tony could feel the staccato of his heart, stuttering behind the arc reactor, a thrum of anticipation.

“Hm. SHIELD know any of this?”

Alethia’s- Astrid’s- lip curled with a hint of contempt.

“No.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

She lifted her shoulder. “I thought you’d want an insurance policy.”

“And what have I done to earn that?”

“You listened.”

“I passed the test,” Tony inferred. “That’s why you’re here?”

“I’m here because I would like to trust you,” Astrid said coolly, “and because I think there’s a more than fair probability that I can. And- because I would like you to trust me. Even if only enough to work together.”

Tony observed her for a few dragging seconds.

“What’s your endgame?” He challenged. “You told me back then that you’re not an altruist.”

“Oh, I’m not.”

“Then why? What’s in it for you?”

Her brow tensed slightly.

“Enlightened self-interest? Or, is I don’t want the planet I currently live on to be destroyed insufficient for you?”

“Eh, plenty of people don’t find it compelling. Look at climate change.”

Astrid’s lips parted to reply- before she grimaced, glancing aside in admission.

“Alright, fair point.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But maybe I’m just more circumspect.”

“Or you have another reason.”

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling with a slow blink.

“You are being very obstinate about this.”

“You know, I don’t actually care, what your actual reason is,” Tony blurted out, sharp and caustic as battery acid, a sudden flare of anger and impatience shoving him forwards, “because you’re right. We need allies. Including each other. So I’m willing to work with your reason why. But only if I know what it is.”

The moment that Tony stopped speaking, he became aware of how Astrid was looking at him.

Tony felt like he was being taken apart, disassembled, the cover plate pulled off to check the hardware.

Truth in all things.

She hummed, soft in the back of her throat. It was the kind that he could feel in his sternum, even with most of it carved away for the arc reactor.

“Alright,” she said softly. “Fair’s fair.”

She straightened, looking away.

“There is- someone.” She said carefully. “Someone that I love.”

Tony blinked.

It was like the twist of a kaleidoscope, patterns reforming, in four simple words.

“And the one responsible for- that-” Astrid snapped a finger heavenwards, her entire being smouldering with a leashed, soul-deep hatred, “took them, at their most vulnerable. Captured them. Tortured them. For months. Years. Twisted their memories, tainted their emotions, and manipulated their pain until they no longer knew where they ended, and the sceptre began. They barely kept enough of themselves to ruin it all, and break free of the control.”

Tony felt a muscle in his bicep and jaw twitch, flicking an appraising, calculating look across her.

Interesting.

“The one that I love will be hunted as a traitor. Or, as a failure- I don’t think it matters, and I don’t care. It all has the same end. What matters is that the one I love will never be safe, until and unless that is no longer a threat.”

Astrid dropped her hand, meeting his eyes addressing him with a tone of complete, terrifying certainty.

“I have decided that it is not going to be a threat.”

The floor of Tony’s stomach dropped out, the room seeming to tilt.

He was suddenly struck with a strange thought- like some survival instinct coded into his evolutionary ancestry, tapping at his nerve endings, lingering like a chill in the vertebrae of his neck. It was the feeling that he was looking at something ancient, and angered- half-mad and unhinged and doing an admirable job of containing itself to its human skin.

He realised, in a split second, that Astrid was probably something not entirely human.

And she was baring her teeth at whatever was threatening to swallow Earth whole.

Fuck it. He could work with this.

“All of the sake of love?” Tony asked.

He took pride in the fact that his cadence was even-keeled, despite the stagger of his pulse.

A humourless, self-deprecating smile wrung through her features.

“You can laugh,” Astrid told him, rueful and without rancour. “I know how I must sound.”

Tony forced himself to shrug, nonchalantly. “I’ve heard worse.”

And he had. Tony had been worse. He had cut deals with worse, because he was a realist, and anyone pursuing utopia had to be willing to drag themselves through purgatory first.

After a long moment, Tony inhaled sharply, pulling his shoulders back.

“Okay,” he said powerfully. “If this is a bluff? I’m calling it. Cards on the table.”

A spark ignited behind Astrid’s eyes, like a struck match.

“Pepper’s been injected with Extremis,” he continued brusquely, “I need to get her stable, along with any other test subjects that AIM decided to turn into literal walking time bombs. That’s why you gave me these papers, right? You thought I could use it, and I can. So let’s get to it. You in?”

Astrid looked startled- before her entire demeanour snapped into a honed, clinical focus.

“Wh- are you monitoring cortisol levels? Internal temperature, heartrate, WBC-?”

“Per doctor’s orders.” Tony flicked his head towards the reams of detailed medical instructions, listed out on the glass. “Followed your procedures to the letter. We’re tracking down anyone else who might have taken part in clinical trials, but it looks like there were a limited number, at least.”

Astrid tugged up her sleeves with an efficient pinch of fabric, pulling the soft knit clear of her wrists and forearms. “How many potential patients?”

“Caps out at a dozen, maybe.”

“The antiserum? You’ve started synthesising it?”

“As we speak, lab’s running on auto.”

“How much?”

“About two hundred and fifty milligrams, in the first batch.”

“Not enough. Triple it. And quintuple it for the others, per patient. I don’t want to be caught out with less than we need. Have you started on the round of pre-antiserum IV fluids?”

“About three hours ago.”

“And no adverse effects, contraindications?”

“Nada. Smooth sailing, all in line with where you said we should be by now.”

“Good, but keep Miss Potts closely monitored. And we’ll still need to test the antiserum on a live tissue sample, if possible.”

“I’ll get on it.”

Tony swiped two fingers down through the air, dismissing the pages on the screens, the room dimming slightly as they slid away.

“If this works,” he said, his enunciation crisp, “we can talk.” In one fluid motion, Tony plucked a StarkPad from amongst the chaos of the workbenches, flipping it in his grip to hold it, outstretched, within her reach. “Sound good, doctor?”

Astrid smiled, light and wild, and Tony felt his decision settle in his chest with a feeling of rightness.

This could work.

She took the tablet.

“Lead the way, doctor.”

Astrid made an addition to her list.

Flour.

50 weeks and 3 days out

Brunnhilde would be the first to admit that she was not made for subterfuge.

She was a woman of brash, blunt action, more inclined to punch her way straight through her problems that to deconstruct them. As such, her vocation suited her. The Valkyrie were the vanguard, the cavalry, the elite corps, revered shieldmaidens who cleared the field with a swift, graceful brutality that was immortalised in legend and song and carving.

They had been thralls, once. Slaves.

Most of Asgard had forgotten that.

As war raged across the Nine, they had been appropriated by the throne- a form of tax levy, on the wealthy of Asgard- and dispatched to the battlefield in the wake of Asgard’s armies, to collect corpses from the slurry. Choosers of the slain, the golden-plated Einherjar snickered into their cups, leering over the rims.

Then there was a shortage of disposable warm bodies. It had seen weapons pressed into their hands, shoved to the front lines to fill out the ranks.

Against all expectation, the Valkyrie had fought. The fought, and lived, and bought victory to Asgard.

In recognition of their deeds, Bor had purchased their freedom. The Valkyrie became the pride of Asgard, a symbol of its might, arrayed in battle armour of bright, sun-catching pearl-white and star-silver.

Their origins were probably why the Valkyrie could be found working, even in peacetime- conducting funerary rites, serving at great state occasions, maintaining Folkvang- while the Einherjar regressed into nothing more than decorative doorstops scattered throughout Gladsheim.

Brunnhilde had once remarked as such to Loki. Months later, he had presented her with a gilded doorstop for her nameday, crafted into the shape of an Einherjar in full regalia.

It had sent Brunnhilde into a fit of delighted, undignified cackles.

I’m calling him Sigurd, she declared with a feral grin.

Ah, he’s not going to last a week, Loki had commented, clicking his tongue with a convincing veneer of faux-pity.

Even now, few if any of Brunnhilde’s sisters were of noble blood or wealthy backgrounds. Most of them came from labouring families, apprenticed in a trade before they turned old enough to apply to the corps, and they bought their skills to Folkvang. The Valkyrie’s halls, sheltered in a chilled, fertile basin in the mountains, was almost entirely self-sufficient thanks to their collective knowledge. They raised fields of wheat and flax, milled their own flour and spun their own linen, wove and baked and built, felled timber and hunted and fished, tanned leather and cured meat, cut stone and dug wells, even kept bees and pressed oil and fermented wine and made candles.

And then there was the lace.

A few girls who knew how to weave had taken it up, transforming thread into pretty swatches of aerated cloth. They had begun teaching the craft to a few others, when they showed interest. Then the pastime became an additional source of income, to supplement the stipend provided by the crown.

And within a few centuries, Valkyrie lace was considered amongst the most exquisite craftsmanship in all the Nine. A single spool of inch-wide trim commanded a small fortune. When a Valkyrie was wed, it was customary for her sisters to spend the year and a day between engagement and marriage- or longer, if they saw the union coming- making as many yards of lace as they could manage, as her dowry.

Brunnhilde loved her sisters, admired their work, and hated lacemaking with a virulence that she usually reserved for bilgesnipe and strutting lordlings who thought that bedding a Valkyrie was a notch in their gilded belt.

Fortunately, she also had absolutely no talent for it. The others had quickly banished her from their tatting pillows and needles and bobbins, gently shoving her off towards work that actually made sense to her.

And Brunnhilde was content to have nothing to do with it. She honestly couldn’t understand what the others envisioned in the countless threads, or why crossing one here or knotting another there would somehow create a magnificently intricate motif several thousand more motions later, even if she was capable of appreciating the result.

In that sense, subterfuge reminded her of lacework.

She couldn’t see all of the threads, where they were leading, or how they locked together into a single bolt of woven fibre and air- but Loki so clearly knew exactly how each and every loop and twist and knot would build outwards, and took quiet satisfaction in seeing each one tighten into place, like a miniature noose.

There was an aching patience to it, each miniscule snag changing the fall of the delicate mesh, and Brunnhilde was often caught by the impulse to just hack her way through it.

She didn’t.

Instead, she did exactly as he asked.

Asgard underestimates him, a memory whispered- that of a warm voice, accompanied by a smile that darkened the eyes above it into amber. Or thinks it sees him, or thinks it knows what it’s looking at. A trick of the light. A shadow on glass. It is a mistake, you know.

The darkened eyes had begun to glow, instead, when they saw that Brunnhilde was paying attention.

I think he might be the most real person that I have ever met.

“I was surprised,” Loki admitted, on a low, distracted hum, “that you didn’t ask.”

The dungeons were quiet, at least in the wing where Loki was being held. It felt like an archive, a place for lost and forgotten things to be kept, shelved and stored out of sight until they were needed- the air settled as silt on the bottom of a riverbed, barely stirring with the sparse rounds of the guards.

Brunnhilde had counted eleven weaknesses that she could exploit, if it came to it.

She would have counted three dozen more in a fraction of the time.

She felt her heart clench strangely. It was the feeling of old scar tissue, untouched for so long, flexing and moving once more.

She and Loki were seated at the front of his cell, arranged parallel against the golden barrier on either side. Swathed in worn, nondescript suedes, Brunnhilde slouched on the stone steps, bare shoulder shoved against the forcefield; the air felt thicker the closer she came to the curtain of spellwork, like magnetic resistance, but she found herself leaning her weight into it, defiant and testing, like pressing her thumb down on a new bruise.

On the other side, Loki was sorting through several sheaves of handwritten notes, stacks surrounding him like panes in a half-rose window. His black hair was braided back at his crown, dressed in soft leathers and deep green linens and lightweight boots, finely made with immaculate quality, but far simpler than would be expected of an Asgardian prince- at least outside of the privacy of the residential wings of the palace.

Brunnhilde knew that he could have dressed himself in illusions, if he wished.

The choice not to was- interesting. In a way that she refused to think about.

There were a lot of things she refused to think about, with regards to Loki.

Not when it made her feel all those mollusc-soft sentiments that she had decided to kill years ago, for her own survival, after the gold plating of Asgard had begun to flake in her eyes.

In that, at least, she knew they were both in good company.

“I asked about this,” Brunnhilde countered his comment, tapping a nail against the arm ring that sat flush against the curve of her bicep. It was a deceptively simple band of brass, seeming to blend in against her, unremarkable regardless of lighting. Between it, and Loki’s magic, they were shielded from the Gatekeeper’s watch- Loki as a glaring lacuna in the script, a blank space, and Brunnhilde as though from behind a fine, misting rain, the specifics blurred out of focus.

Loki rolled his eyes, in that prissy, superior manner that left Brunnhilde more amused than irritated, these days.

“Yes, about whether it would turn your skin orange or set you spitting toads, of all things.”

“It was a valid concern, knowing you.”

“Hm.” There was a slight upturn at the corner of Loki’s mouth- the closest thing to agreement that she would probably wrest out of him.

Brunnhilde slipped loose a smirk.

“I didn’t bother asking,” she admitted, in a crisp-consonant drawl, “because I knew that I probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. It would be like asking to read a contract before I sign, when I don’t know the language it’s written in.”

Loki’s eyes sliced up from the papers, without lifting his head, fixing her with a serpentine gaze.

“You do yourself a disservice, Brunn.”

Brunnhilde paused, a little surprised by his quiet vehemence.

She shrugged it away.

“This is just not something I’m suited for. Politics and subterfuge and spywork. Moving the pieces by moving entirely different ones, lightyears away. It’s like my sisters, and their lacework,” she admitted blithely. “I understand the theory. But even if you had told me where this was going, I wouldn’t know enough to tell if you were lying.”

But.

Brunnhilde wasn’t entirely ignorant to Loki’s plans. She had made certain of it.

She had heard the gossip, on dozens of planets across the Nine. The arm ring not only shielded her from Heimdall’s sight, but also from the perils of using the secret passageways that were specked across Asgard- allowing her to move freely between worlds, at Loki’s direction.

Steadily, disparate pieces and seemingly unconnected incidents were coalescing, into a clear picture.

Muspelheim had struck an unexpected trade deal with Ria. When the revival of the disused trade route had attracted Marauders and Ravagers, a new defence coalition had formed, stationed at crucial waypoints to prevent piracy and smuggling.

The Crown Prince of Vanaheim had headed a diplomatic envoy to Alfheim. By the time he had arrived, Niflheim’s queen just so happened to be also be visiting her fellow monarch. The triumvirate meeting occurred without a single Asgardian dignitary present.

A few weeks later, the realm of the light elves had also hosted several representatives of dwarven guilds.

The Nova-Kree War was turning cold. The Nine had become neutral ground. The Nova Corps had offered aid to those on the outskirts and most affected by raids, and had sent engineers to retrofit their older, short-haul vessels with swifter engines and stronger defences. The Kree were in tentative talks with Nidarvellir, to have the dwarves invest in maintaining local jump points, in exchange for Kree arms to protect their merchant fleets.

The realms were moving, like the interlocking turn of dials and gears. And for the first time in millennia, Asgard was excluded from its workings.

And it was Loki’s doing.

At his instruction, Brunnhilde had bribed and baited Ravagers to harass Nidarvellir trade routes. She had placed bets at various ports, on the likelihood of a Kree civil war. She had sold information on Knowhere, changed figures on shipping manifestos, stirred up bar fights and complained about the export tax on goods out of Ria, destroyed shipments and switched documents and delayed correspondence, paid off and blackmailed and persuaded civil servants and stewards and aides into suggesting or omitting a minor detail from a report, or handing a project to a different department.

Brunnhilde was the stage hand in a great, orchestrated play. The Nine were being gently herded into a strengthening current- one that was looking outwards, into a galaxy where the balance of power was shifting.

It was a coup.

And Loki hadn’t even left his cell.

Brunnhilde refused to be impressed.

After a moment, she realised that Loki was looking at her with a glinting amusement.

It wasn’t the kind that was intended to mock, but rather the prelude to bringing her in on the joke.

“Of course you can’t see where this is going, Brunn,” he said softly. “You’re the needle.”

A memory clicked into place, flickering in like guttering lamplight.

There was a bolster pillow in her lap, a lace pad template pinned atop it, embroidery needle gripped uncertain and rigid between her forefinger and thumb. The chatter and bickering and teasing of her sisters was a cloud of ambient sound that seemed to glow like nimbus, in the apple-golden autumn afternoon.

A warm shoulder brushed near her own.

Gently, Brunn! A voice laughed. Treat your needle with respect. Relax your hand. The needle can feel where it needs to go- you’re just guiding it.

This is a terrible idea, Brunnhilde had muttered. We all remember what happened when Svanhit tried to teach me.

Stay away from my bobbins, Brunn! Came a sharp call from across the hall, to a few snickers. Olrun, Hervor, keep her away!

Brunnhilde had made to wave a vulgar gesture at her, and almost stabbed herself with the needle.

Needlepoint lace is more straightforward, a clear voice interjected. Brunnhilde had looked over to her- the glint of her needle moving in brisk freehand stitches, looping and tightening, all deft skill and focus, one moving part, one thread. You don’t have to keep track of seventy different bobbins, and the order you need to cross or twist them in.

Your prince prefers bobbin lace, doesn’t he? Brunnhilde asked, smirkingly.

Brunnhilde received a gentle, reproachful elbow to the ribs.

A flush, through golden skin, head dipping and pearl-white hair slipping forwards.

Prince Loki has a mind for it, she replied, deliberately and damningly neutral. The dance of it, the complexity- it suits him.

Well, what do you prefer?

She had paused, head cocked.

I like both, I suppose, she hedged. Bobbin lace is essentially weaving- looping the strands together, pulling them into place against each other. It tends to be- lighter, more of a fabric with motifs created inside of it. Layers of opacity. Needle lace is often studier. Like- scaffolding. The pattern is all that there is. And the needle has to work back and back and back to bring it into existence, to make sure it holds in place, knotting back where it has already been.

Her eyes sharpened.

No- I think I prefer bobbin lace. Needle lace is- putting a great deal of trust on just one thing.

Brunnhilde blinked back into the present.

Oh.

Loki had learned some lacemaking. He would have likely received that same explanation, heard the same comparison.

After a moment, she scowled, looking away.

“I still hate lacemaking.”

Loki laughed.

Worlds away, Astrid made a cautious addition to her list, framed in brackets.

(Lace).

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olet-lucernam · 4 days

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progress update: A Hollow Promise, CHVI

word count: 26,232 estimated percentage completion: 67%

progress notes: so i ended up taking an editing machete to several parts of this chapter (including parts that i've published- will update those posts later) to fix some pacing issues.

but then i also wandered into accidentally writing my first sex scene.

so it's a net positive i guess.

(preview snippet of said smut scene is under the cut. as a treat. especially for those sitting through me doing a lot. of. foundation. building. i promise it is going somewhere, i have Plans)

i'm getting into the final stretch, albeit my current status is "trapped in a Very Interesting scene that I Do Not Know How to move along". i'll figure it out, but think i may actually need a beta at some point. i'll probably keep putting it off for forever, though, since i can still barely stand to let @femmealec look at my barely-edited stuff. (true trust, right there)

PREVIEW

The mattress dipped as he levered back up the bed, slipping loose from her hands, before dipping down to smudge a kiss against her cheekbone, just under her left eye. Astrid sighed, tipping her face into him. Her hand shifted up to find the ridge of his forearm, where he was propped up above her, stroking along honed muscle and the curve of bone. Although she had sincerely never felt deprived, Astrid could admit that she wanted this. Two deft fingers scraped the inside seam of her shorts. The friction of soft jersey against her damp, expectant flesh set Astrid’s hips snapping up reflexively, muscles pulling taut. “Mn-!” Loki exhaled his satisfaction against her, his breath dusting her lashes like frost, before his lips grazed upwards to the corner of her eye. Let me hear you, he reminded her, darkly, setting a shock of pleasure through her bloodstream. His fingers curved against her again, pulling a bitten-off cry from Astrid that pitched higher towards its tail, becoming strangled in her throat as her head pressed back. The pads of his digits barely scraped against her, swirling in a tight droplet shape, testing and gathering the dense slickness that was clinging to the gusset of her shorts, heavy and rich. Astrid’s grip upon Loki’s arm tightened, nails dragging into his skin for purchase, heels dragging against the sheets as she drew her body open to him. Loki lowered his head to slide his tongue languidly along the line of her clavicle. From behind closed eyelids, Astrid blindly reached for the artifice of his shoulder, anchoring herself against him; her palm slid along to the curve of the nape of his neck, carding her fingers through the cool satin of his hair, scraping pared nails against his scalp and lilting her body up against his perfect mouth. It elicited a faintly agonised noise from Loki, ghosting across and cooling the saliva on her skin. Loki’s form dragged a few desperate inches against her, his spell wavering and sparking under a rush of uncontrolled mana, rippling through Astrid as its conduit. Almost in retaliation, he dipped his touch deeper, and began setting a rhythm in earnest. She was lost in under four strokes, pulled under like a riptide, raw nature hijacking her brain.

#writing #progress update #writing update #a hollow promise #it smells of the lamp

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olet-lucernam · 6 days

Photo

#not writing #aesthetic #spring #springcore #drinks #sometimes i just want to look at something pretty #wait for your queue

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olet-lucernam · 10 days

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Spring 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Primavera 🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

#not writing #aesthetic #spring #springcore #flowers and foliage #sometimes i just want to look at something pretty #right on schedule

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olet-lucernam · 13 days

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youjustneedtoremember

#not writing #aesthetic #spring #springcore #photoset #yellow and white #flowers and foliage #sometimes i just want to look at something pretty #wait for your queue

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olet-lucernam · 15 days

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note to the forces of the universe, if my productivity and motivation to write could stop suddenly spiking less than four hours before i have to get up for work, that'd be just great

#i have a 1.5 hour commute into the city. one way. p l e a s e.#can we not just have the writer equivalent of the zoomies when i'm due for a wfh day??? please????#not writing

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olet-lucernam · 15 days

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A Hollow Promise [26] chapter vi, part iii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : let's get it started, måneskin

tag list: @femmealec, @mischief2sarawr

special thanks to the lovely @mischief2sarawr: when i had to rewrite pretty much all of this, their encouragement helped me get it done within a matter of days, instead of weeks. (thanks for the virtual tea, sarah <3)

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Actually- Ophelia wasn’t even her second appointment.

During daylight hours and early evening, the tight-woven alleys of Shinjuku’s Golden Gai were almost serene, lined with potted plants, faced in pale stone. By nightfall, however, the countless micro-bars that hemmed the narrow passageways threw open their doors and exploded into neon light and colour and conversation, entrances plastered with stickers, interiors crammed with patrons, walls pasted with advertisements and unique theming, spilling with the smell of beer and charcoal smoke, electric signs and sandwich boards and utility boxes jutting out like soliciting hands over the stone stoops.

Each establishment only had a tiny footprint- two storeys high and barely large enough to host more than a dozen patrons at a time- and therefore tended to be selective, some only catering to regulars and refusing tourists.

Fortunately, Astrid had been introduced at a few of the bars before- and she was due to meet someone there.

She had been waiting outside, carefully tucked out of the way of passing foot traffic- the same wool coat from Cornwall now arranged as a cape over her shoulders, draped over a black cocktail dress with one sleeve artistically falling off her shoulder, polished up with her favourite pair of blush-pink heels, filigree golden hardware glinting- when she felt a familiar presence storming up from behind, Manolo Blahniks snapping on the pavement.

A hand seized her elbow, dragging her into the bar with a hiss.

“You suck, ‘Strid.”

Astrid heard the annoyance, and general insincerity beneath it, and grinned.

“Hisashiburi, Miko-chan,” Astrid said in sugar-coated, casual Japanese. “Genki desu ka?”

“I hate you,” the voice groused.

Laughing quietly, Astrid allowed herself to be shoved into the tiny space, and towards a perilously narrow staircase, climbing to the second floor to seek out one of the small booths.

She had barely lowered herself into her seat, shrugging the coat from her shoulders, when the other person dropped heavily into the chair opposite her, unceremonious and pointed.

Socialite heiress, fashion icon, and sole grandchild of the chairman of Fujikawa Industries, Rumiko was confident, intimidating, and the consummate, catty epitome of the rich bitch archetype; she was Regina George’s grasp on social capital, thrown into a blender with Heather Duke’s utter ruthlessness, topped up with Cher Horowitz’s fashion sense. Overdressed in a silk Givenchy slip dress, complete with Cartier earrings and a matching watch, her satin-gloss hair tumbled to her waist and wisped above her downturn eyebrows, jaw locked in a scathing disapproval that would make a lesser being curdle into themselves.

“What are you even wearing? You could have at least worn that Dior piece I got you.”

Astrid smirked at the familiar barb, electing not to point out that her dress was Valentino, and the shoes were Ralph and Russo.

“Good to see you too. Am I buying the cocktails?”

“Fuzakenna yo, kora! You disappeared for two years, yes, you’re buying the cocktails-”

“It was eighteen months, I gave you the heads up, and in my defence, I was abducted for fourteen of them,” Astrid rattled off, already slipping out of her seat and pulling out her wallet, stuffed with freshly obtained yen. “I’ll be back.”

Rumiko jolted. “What?! You were abdu-”

“Later. Long story. Drinks first.”

“You’re a dead woman, North, I swear-”

Astrid hid her grin.

Predictably, Rumiko had loosened up enough to listen to her by the time she reached the bottom of her first drink. If they had talked over coffee, or brunch, Astrid wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgeways. Rumiko was incorrigible when her temper was piqued, and Astrid had expected her disappearance to be an issue.

The two of them had met by chance, years ago. Rumiko’s paternal grandfather was Kenjiro Fujikawa, the CEO of Fujikawa Industries, a tech company with a niche in sophisticated surgical robotics. While she was merely expected to marry whichever worthy successor Kenjiro selected for her, Rumiko was still regularly pulled to attend medical conferences, and various industry-based galas and dinner.

It was at one such event that Astrid- as Astrid North, not as Alethia- had met her.

The two had become friends, in the kind of half-accidental way that might have happened if they had attended the same school. But they had become close enough that Astrid had expected Rumiko to be a little sour, when she returned, even with the warning that she would be disappearing for a while. Rumiko hated being left in the dark, and Astrid had told her nothing.

She hadn’t expected the sourness to be masking masses of pure, trembling relief.

So as Rumiko guzzled down her second sidecar, Astrid gave her the truth.

It was far from everything, but it was enough- and more than Astrid volunteered to most- either those who knew Astrid, or those who knew Alethia.

When she was finished, Rumiko set her half-empty coupé glass on the table, not quite slamming it down, faintly disconcerted.

“Okay. If it wasn’t for New York, I’d be getting out the straitjacket.”

“If it wasn’t for New York, I wouldn’t be telling you this,” Astrid rejoined, swallowing a mouthful of her espresso martini. She felt oddly drained, brimming with endorphins, like the aftermath of a workout.

“That’s fair,” Rumiko said dryly. “You sound insane. It’s literally like the plot of Men In Black- wait. ‘Strid. Could you be an alien?”

“Maybe.” Astrid admitted blandly, shrugging one shoulder. “I haven’t eliminated the possibility.”

Rumiko blew out a breath, head dropping forwards briefly. “Okay. We need beer. And fried chicken.”

“Mm, good call.”

Once their table was packed with piping-hot plates of fried izakaya dishes, their glasses refilled- Rumiko switching over to a frothing plastic pitcher of beer and Astrid taking up sake- Rumiko was significantly calmer, hardening over with the kind of ruthlessly practical, efficient composure that would have made her an excellent successor to FI, if her grandfather had been an ounce or so less of a misogynist.

“Okay, so- let’s figure out where you stand.” Rumiko said efficiently, picked up a piece of karaage with her chopsticks, grease and sesame seeds glistening on the batter. “I mean, it all depends on what you want, but either way-” she pointed her loaded chopsticks at Astrid, before popping the fried chicken into her mouth, “this agency.”

“This agency,” Astrid agreed with a dip of her head, sipping on her sake.

“You’re off their radar right now, but it sounds like they have the sheer resources and numbers to just keep looking, so, that’s likely temporary.” Rumiko tapped her nails against her glass, leaning forwards against her elbows. “Okay. Do you have any backchannels you can use? Anyone who seemed sympathetic, or might hear you out if you got in contact? You might be able to cut a deal, if you can figure out some leverage. It’s either that, or you’ll need a deterrent. Some way to make the cost too high, or the gains too low, to keep coming after you. Again, you’ll need leverage for that. Where are you staying right now? And how long can you lay low? If we can buy you some time-”

Astrid’s expression had cleared, focused as a lens, and Rumiko paused.

“What?” She prompted.

One shoulder lifting, Astrid bought her cup to her mouth.

“You really need to start that PR crisis firm, Ru.”

Startled, Rumiko reared upright from her casual slouch. “The fuck, ‘Strid?”

“Well, I have just told you that I am wanted by a secretive multinational agency,” she pointed out, dropping her voice low enough to blend within the camouflaging ambient chatter of the tiny bar, “who abducted me and has been covering up the existence of magic and monsters since the forties- and you acclimated within fifteen minutes, then launched straight into working out how to handle it. Remind me again why you’re not making bank from this? Aside from your grandfather being a jackass, I mean.”

“Oh my god, we’re so not doing this right now,” Rumiko muttered into her glass, followed by an unladylike gulp of beer.

One corner of Astrid’s mouth curled.

There was a subtle, telling flatness in Rumiko’s scowl, as the words and their sentiments sank in- like water soaking into soft earth, swiftly and undramatically, absorbed and drawing itself down.

Setting her cup aside, Astrid let Rumiko ignore it, for now. “Are those my only options? Bargain, deter, appease?”

“What, you have another plan?”

The question wasn’t quite rhetorical, but it was tinted with a rational scepticism.

If Astrid had been anyone else- anything other than truth incarnate, or someone who had gone up against SHIELD for years with nothing but her wits and her ability to arm her, fallen in love with a demigod, and promised him everything- she might have agreed.

“If the world doesn’t work for you,” she said, taking up her chopsticks and plucking a cube of fried tofu from one of the plates, swiping in through the dipping sauce, “then change the world. Right?”

Rumiko froze, looking from under her fringe to glare at her incredulously.

“You’re not fucking serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because that’s insane.”

“Is it? The world already broke in New York. I would just be rearranging the pieces.”

“I take it back,” Rumiko said bluntly, dropping her chopsticks and topping off her beer glass. “I’m getting the damn straitjacket.”

“Good luck with that,” Astrid answered breezily. “I’ll give you a clean number, later, so don’t worry about me disappearing again. Not completely, anyway.”

“You’re insane,” Rumiko reiterated.

“But you think I can do it,” she stated neutrally, meeting Rumiko’s eyes, the words tasting golden and hot in her chest, metal and bright.

Rumiko stared back at her for a long, fierce moment.

“You’re serious.”

Astrid picked up and popped one of the mayo prawns into her mouth. “Yes.”

Rumiko hissed out an exasperated breath, worry creeping into the crimp of her perfect eyebrows.

“’Strid.” She said grimly. “Seriously. Going up against a multinational spy agency. Is this really worth it?”

“Yes.”

The heat in the word burned like a brand.

Rumiko looked back at her, despairing and incredulous and impressed.

“You’re insane,” she said resignedly.

Astrid laughed. “If you set up the scaffolding for that PR firm within two years, I’ll give you a gift.”

“I am not starting a-”

Rumiko paused.

“A gift?” She echoed, intrigued and sceptical. “What kind of gift?”

“That would be for you to find out. You know I give the best gifts, Ru,” Astrid pointed out. “Remember when I gave you the wing mirror from your ex’s car?”

Rumiko’s mouth tilted into a nostalgic smile.

“That was a really nice present,” she conceded fondly, before grimacing, reaching for the pitcher to top up her beer glass. “But tonight, all I want is alcohol.”

Astrid laughed, and leaned in to clunk her cup again Rumiko’s glass.

“Ah, fine. I suppose I owe you that much,” she agreed easily. “But in that case- shots?”

Rumiko’s eyes glinted.

“Karaoke?”

An hour later, as they stumbled out of the bar, arms linked and heading out to get into trouble somewhere in Kabukicho, Astrid dropped her notebook into her pocket with its second entry.

Ink pens.

Ophelia would be deeply insulted if she ever found out that she wasn’t even Astrid’s third port of call.

Astrid was tempted to tell her. It would be good to regulate her ego.

The taste of alcohol was still sour in her mouth, swilled with water, the tang masked by the fresh espresso and gelato that was gently melting in a glass bowl in front of her.

The afternoon air in Rome was cool, despite clear sun-soaked skies and the heat of the crowded streets. Clouds of chatter and the clink of plates and glasses reflected against the warm, pale-yellow brick, the buildings carved with classical ornamentation, spilling with artfully cultivated vines, stained with graffiti. The sett-block pavement was hemmed with café boards, parked motorcycles, and folding wooden-slat bistro tables; cream parasols and restaurant awnings created pockets of deeper shade, between arched shopfronts.

Astrid spooned up the last of her affogato with a swirl of silverware, lips sealing over the spoon.

Seated at the café bar, she was twisted side-on against the counter, watching the passing foot traffic and outside tables through the windows. A cross-breeze drifted over her every so often, cutting in through the entryway and seeping through her clothes, refreshing her overheated skin.

“Propiro l’affogato, sì?” The ageing server behind the counter prompted, briskly pleasant as he calculated her bill. “The, ah- qual è il nom inglese-”

Astrid swallowed a melted mouthful of vanilla, cream, and espresso.

“It’s affogato in English as well,” she told him, startling the waiter. “Il mio Italiano è pessimo?”

“No, no, per niente! Il tuo accento è- your accent, it’s very good! Molto bene. Ma- in Rome,” the server bought a wrinkled hand to cup his ear indicatively, “you hear it, sì? I can tell you’re English, a little.”

Astrid nodded, setting her spoon down and gently pushing the empty glass bowl away from her.

“Ah, vedo- è il tuo orecchio, non la mia bocca, sì?”

“Sì, esattamente! Ho sentito che- I can hear, that you learn it when you are grown,” he said with a grin, “not when little.”

“Ah, vedo- ciò ha senso. I did a summer at Sapenzia,” she explained gamely. “I had a friend who used to say the same thing. That my cadence gave me away.”

“Aha, bene, bene! You’re here to visit your friend?”

“Sì, ma- as a surprise,” Astrid admitted, unsnapping her wallet from where it rested at her elbow, before glancing towards the windows, and the bistro tables arranged within their sight. “Ah- do you see the two women seated under the vines?”

The waiter paused, looking up and leaning to see. “Sì- la bruna e la rossa?”

“Sì. La bruna? Quello è il mio amico.”

His dark eyes widened demonstrably. “Veramente?”

Astrid grinned at him, resting her chin on the hell of her palm. “She doesn’t know that I’m here.” Slipping a credit card loose from her purse with her free hand, she rapped it against the bar top. “Do you think I could pay their cheque, signore? Come una sorpresa?”

His mouth formed a silent exhale of understanding, tapping the side of his aquiline nose before returning to the register. “Naturalmente, signorina- ah, you want me to tell her it was you? Or will you tell her later?”

“Mm.” Astrid watched the server pull up the order details of the table. “Do you have a serviette, signore?”

Less than five minutes later, Astrid left the café, stepping out into the sunlight just in time to see the same server pausing at one of the al fresco tables.

As Astrid had observed on her way into the bistro, two women were seated underneath the arch of a vine clinging to the outer wall, with several half-finished plates on the table between them.

The first- a redhead, the coppery tresses cropped into a flattering pixie-cut, broad-shouldered in an olive jacket and white capris jeans- had her back to Astrid, the slight curve of her face in profile just barely visible. The second woman was facing towards her, torso leaned askew and head tipped up, mildly annoyed askance painted across her face like a fresco as she spoke to the server.

Arms folded forward onto the table, the fall of her black hair almost bleeding into her tank top, Vittoria Montesi hadn’t changed much from when Astrid had last seen her. She was still model-lean, as though she subsisted solely on coffee and cigarettes- which was probably accurate, if her on-call diet hadn’t changed since residency- with a full, sceptical mouth, poised to argue and drive and diagnose.

Astrid waited just long enough to see the server hand her the napkin, before melting into the crowd with a grin and a lilt in her weaving steps, escaping towards the tourist trap of the Fontana di Trevi.

A new addition was jotted into her notebook with a borrowed pen.

Coffee grounds.

Several hours later, Astrid departed from the Gallery.

Arriving back at the Madripoor penthouse, she stripped out of her clothes, changing into a comfortable camisole, jersey shorts, and thigh-high socks, and retrieved her notebook from the breakfast bar.

New shoes, Astrid wrote onto her list- before flipping the cover shut, tossing the pen down, and collapsing into the sofa with a soft groan.

Four.

It was a start.

Lying in the demi-dark, cheek pressed into the arm of the couch, impatience hummed under her skin like an electric current, settling in the roots of her teeth. Her heart drummed hard and impatient against the adipose-softened wall of her breastbone, eyes open.

The silver light of the city rinsed through the windows, across the apartment, pooling across the floor like the shallow waterline of the incoming tide. Her synapses were slowing, sloping into a long-overdue caffeine crash- but four felt like not enough, not enough, not enough.

She had done more on less sleep.

Four would need to be hundreds. Thousands. Tens, hundreds of thousands.

Four was not enough.

It had only been twenty-four hours, but it had been almost natural, for her to slip into the mindset that she had lived in for years: keep moving, keep working, don’t stop, don’t hesitate, be smart, be quick, be relentless, use your greed, use your selfishness, next step, next step, next step-

Everything else became easy to ignore. The storm within her, whatever doubt and anger and loneliness and turmoil broiled inside, pressing behind her eyes like to urge to sob, became simple fuel, like glucose, until she was done.

None of it would matter, once she got what she wanted- and if it did matter, she would deal with it then, when it was safe.

It was easy, because Astrid was her father’s daughter. He had taught her how to use her worst traits as a whetstone, to make herself scalpel-sharp.

Her flesh was cooling, the cushions were warm, and her limbs grew heavy and slack with every passing moment.

And she suddenly remembered Loki’s parting words to her, as she had finished the dregs of their rose tea at the Cornish tea parlour.

I should get up, darling, he murmured reluctantly. I must get to work. But make sure you take your rest- I want to see you later.

Astrid sighed into a smile, defeated.

Sly bastard, she thought fondly.

She shouldn’t keep him waiting.

Lifting her head just long enough to set an alarm on her phone, Astrid dropped the device on the coffee table and sank back into the sofa, limbs sliding across the upholstery in a drag of wool and cotton and bare skin, as she let sleep claim her- just for a little while.

54 weeks and 6 days out

“I’ve walked the deserts for miles Swam the waters for a tide Searching places to find A piece of something to call, mine A piece of something to call, mine- Coming closer to you-”

You will be careful, won’t you, Astra?

“Hm?” Astrid paused her singing, fingers still strumming at her keyboard, the click of the keys weaving her response into the comment box like a shuttle in a loom. “With what?”

She clicked post, watching the response box disappear.

The text popped up within the thread, slotting into place in the conversation, sealed into format. Astrid clicked away, skimming the rest of the forum.

This, Loki replied, with the mental equivalent of an expansive gesture. Whipping up a group over which you do not have full control.

“Mm, you’re one to talk, alderliefest,” Astrid commented, eyes unmoving from the screen of her laptop, reaching for the plate at her side, “with what you’ve been doing through- Brunn, was it?”

Brunnhilde, Loki confirmed- but immediately becoming distracted by what Astrid had bitten into.

Cut thick, the slab of pain pavé was spread with unsalted butter and honeycomb- treacly and faintly earthy with clouds of unprocessed pollen

It tasted of late summer and wildflower meadows, and dirt on her skin, a shock of calories into her system.

Over the weeks, Astrid had been narrowing down Loki’s preferences. Within his sweet tooth, it seemed that he had a particular weakness for anything that featured honey, or chocolate; honey reminded him of Asgard, of better memories and better days, of the royal city at golden hour and light-hearted laughter, of his brother’s broad grin and of a flash of pale-bright hair that always sent Astrid’s stomach swooping with something unidentifiable whenever it flickered into her mind, through his.

Chocolate seemed to provoke thoughts of Midgard. It made him think of city cafés, of her bed in the penthouse, of cold mornings as she went through her morning routine, of the warmth of the crook of her neck and the view of snow-capped mountains through broad windows.

Astrid had gained a new appreciation of chocolate.

And touché, Loki conceded, his thoughts still humming with pleasure at the taste of the honeycomb.

She tongued the soft film of beeswax from her teeth, quietly content for a precious, ephemeral moment.

It felt better, at least. The ache of their separation- and the omnipresent lack and malcontent that she could live with, but never quite ignore- was less when he was there, and she was reminded that she was doing something, moving closer.

Coming closer to you, Astrid hummed the sweetly-lilting bar.

A warm breeze swept over her, as she glanced up over the top of her screen.

They were in Chile today- on a rooftop amongst the soaring metropolitan clutter of Santiago. Astrid had positioned herself to gaze out at the distant summer-red of the Andes, looming above the basin of the city, hazy through the sun-bright smog; the building she was perched atop was within view of one of the city’s many green spaces, the lush foliage a shock of emerald against the concrete, a faint rush of traffic carried up on the thermal lift.

She changed where she worked every day, cycling through a roulette wheel of hemispheres, climates, continents, countries, the only prerequisites being a stable internet connection and a good view. But she had noticed that Loki liked mountains, and cool open air, and she had begun peppering them in as often as possible.

I, however, am far more removed from my work, Loki pressed, edged with caution. And circumstances leave me beneath suspicion. You are far closer to the fire, songbird.

“Mm.” Astrid traced her collarbone absently. “True.”

Her gaze dropped to the screen, sucking a smear of honey from her opposite thumb.

“But these ones are less the fire, more the firestarters.” She added lightly.

The forum was thick with activity.

The hacktivist group known as the Rising Tide was a hornet’s nest- a collective that had sprung up in the wake of Culver, devoted to dragging SHIELD from the shadows into the cold light of day- and one that Astrid had repeatedly agitated, pointed in the right direction, and watched swarm SHIELD’s most recent project.

With New York, they had been galvanised, by a publicly validated raison d’être.

The corner of her mouth folded up ruefully.

Their organisation was an ad hoc nightmare, and they were incapable of communicating with the general public without coming off as uncredible, melodramatic, conspiracy theory whackjobs - but the Rising Tide were her first true allies, arguably, and incredibly skilled at what they did.

They had given her the lead in New Mexico. Astrid would always owe them a debt, for that.

“Anyway,” Astrid said, straightening, arms extending above her head, feeling her shoulders and spine click and realign, “arguably- if anything is the fire, it’s me. It’s only a matter of time before they try to extinguish me. Before the inevitable, I should burn as bright and hot as I can- don’t you think?”

She felt Loki sigh, fondly exasperated.

As long as you don’t burn out completely.

“Completely?” She noted the specificity.

He smirked, and nipped at her shoulder. A little destruction is good for the soul. Cathartic. You deserve a little of that.

Astrid laughed softly, and imagined her own fingers running through his hair.

From his shiver, it seemed that practice was slowly beginning to pay off.

“Well, I have heard that volcanic soil is amongst the richest and most fertile in the world.”

Ah. You do have a rather volcanic temper, beloved.

“You think so? Interesting. I would call yours glacial, prince.”

She felt his eyebrows steeple in askance, faintly sardonic.

Passive and slow to act?

“Quiet. Patient. Underestimated,” she listed, leaning back slightly, feeling the illusion of him catch her weight. “Ruthless, and relentless. And with the power to reshape the world while no one is paying attention.”

Loki breathed out a laugh, and planted the sensation of a kiss behind her ear, eliciting a pleasantly startled noise from her.

Such shameless flattery, he murmured against her nape, mood warmed beneath the teasing. What am I to do, in the face of such an assault?

Astrid sighed, sinking into him- and willed herself not to think.

“Surrender,” she suggested breathily. “And believe me.”

The phantom of his arm curled around her waist, mouth nestling at the shell of her ear, folding himself around her.

His mood was tepid, opaque.

The anxiety she felt was a pit, somewhere behind the wall of her abdomen.

She refused to dwell on it, and risk drawing the keen edge of Loki’s attention onto it.

Her laptop gave a chirp of distress, and she looked up. The internet connection had dropped again.

Grateful for the distraction, Astrid sang the signal back into strength.

“I’m moving, I’m coming Can you hear what I hear? It’s calling you, my dear Out of reach-”

The bars rocketed up back up, Wi-Fi boosted from a café several dozen feet below.

Astrid exhaled a smile, propping her chin on her palm. “Take me to my bea-each…”

Old songs- ones that she had listened to and re-loved thousands of times over- were best for weaving magic as she multitasked.

Combing her hair back behind her ear, Astrid flipped through her tabs, refreshing each one, keeping up the melody under breath.

“I can hear it, calling you I’m coming, not drowning Swimming closer to you-”

One of her dummy social media accounts reloaded.

Astrid scrolled through her feed at a reflexive skim, idly liking a few posts to keep up her account activity. She was keeping track, but not sincerely expecting to see a moving of the needle, just yet.

It was something that the Rising Tide, for all their skill and drive and passion, hadn’t quite recognised yet: they could afford to lay out the trail, prompt the question, and wait.

Slow is fast, Astrid reminded herself.

Ah. Stark is trending, Loki observed idly.

“Hm?”

Astrid paused, glancing at the trending topics sidebar.

“Ah. Hardly surprising, beloved.” She lifted her shoulder. “Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. And the world’s first modern superhero.”

Loki rearranged himself nonchalantly, like draping satin.

Is your heart still set on him, as an ally?

Astrid hummed through a sigh, leaning back slightly more, lounging against him and tipping her head to the skies, propped on the strong ledge his shoulder.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that not even trying to work with him would be like shooting ourselves in the foot, with our last bullet, while in the middle of a firefight, and then amputating the limb with an unsterilised knife and no anaesthesia.”

Graphic, Loki remarked dryly. But I take your point, my heart.

“Can I take that your approval?”

Why should I withhold it? Stark appears to be a wise choice. And the best option, amongst the Avengers.

“Damningly faint praise, prinsinn minn. We’re not exactly spoilt for choice.”

He snickered. Astrid couldn’t ignore how it sublimated at the edges into wistfulness, and a resignation that had fermented from frustration and outrage and hurt, like wine in a cask.

They both knew who Loki was thinking of- the one who should have been the better option.

It was a wound and a rift that Astrid hesitated to touch, for now.

“Still,” Astrid redirected, straightening on the palm of her hands, “I value your opinion. I want you to tell me if you think it’s a bad idea.”

I don’t, truly. An arm slipped around her waist, its weight comfortable and comforting. Astrid had to bat away the reflexive desire to feel the lean muscles flex against her abdomen, as Loki dragged her flush back against him, pinning her to the length of him. Stark listened to you, is aware of the threat, and offered me a drink, he teased. You can keep him if you wish, songbird.

“I have to obtain him, first,” Astrid riposted. “Or have him decide to obtain me.”

Just talk to him, sweet thing. How could he possibly resist?

She grinned broadly, shaking her head, the sickness in her abating. “Now who’s flattering?”

Refocusing on the trending bar, her head cocked as she caught up, wondering whether it was a personal scandal, a Stark Industries development, or a cheap editorial that had put the name in people’s mouths today.

Trending Topics #christmaseveeve #tonystark #mandarinbombings #happyfestivus

Mandarin, Loki noted, reading through her eyes. As in standard Chinese, the fruit, or the bureaucrat?

“None of the above- I think.” Astrid said distractedly, the pixels beginning to split in her vision. “It’s the supposed head of a terrorist organisation. They’ve claimed responsibility for a series of bombings, over the past few months.”

Supposed head? Loki echoed shrewdly.

She twitched her shoulder upwards wearily. “Someone is appropriating a name that doesn’t belong to them. I saw one of the videos, after the most recent incident. I know enough about the Ten Rings to know that this is someone dressing up in their colours. Especially with that moniker they-”

She halted.

Loki went still with concern.

Astra?

Gaze blank, her tongue was numb as she answered.

“The Ten Rings.”

What about it?

“Three years ago. Afghanistan. Do you remember what I told you? The incident created Iron Man.”

Loki froze.

And what better way to bait Stark, he said, quiet and sharp, than to use the name of an organisation that almost killed him?

Astrid’s hand darted out, clicking on the tag, hoping that it was just a coincidence of the algorithm-

BREAKING: Tony Stark’s mansion bombed in suspected terror attack – Iron Man missing

“Fuck!”

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olet-lucernam · 18 days

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#not writing #aesthetic #photoset #spring #springcore #landscape #architecture #sometimes i just want to look at something pretty #wait for your queue

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olet-lucernam · 21 days

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“In the end, we’ll all become stories.” -Margaret Atwood

#not writing #aesthetic #photoset #dark academia #brown and white #sometimes i just want to look at something pretty #wait for your queue

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olet-lucernam · 29 days

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A Hollow Promise [25] chapter vi, part ii

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : rebel soul, katharine appleton, maja norming

tag list: @femmealec, @mischief2sarawr

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Astrid had told the truth, as always. Ophelia was not her only appointment.

Neither was she the first, however.

Hours earlier, wrapped in a fine, black woollen pea coat and comfortable trainers, Astrid had been walking through the fog and frigid, sea-soaked air of the Cornish coastal town of Looe.

The historical fishing village was sheltered within a deep valley, prefaced inland by thick, verdant forests and winding country roads. Ivory villas and weathered stone cottages were built into the slopes of the cliffs, bordered by a riot of meadow-flora and hardy coastal shrubs, the settlement split in half by the river that decanted into the small marina, and the open, pewter waters of the North Atlantic.

The place held a kind of quaint, antique seaside charm that was ubiquitous to Britain, in Astrid’s experience- a nostalgia that was just slightly foreign to her, evoking the same feeling as the second-hand copies of those interbellum novels by Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie that she used to read on rainy days at home.

She could feel Loki watching through her eyes, dozing gently, shamelessly indolent as he clung to sleep.

Exhaling a smile, Astrid consciously drank in as much as she could. She drew the mouldering, salt-stained tang of seaweed and ocean shallows deep into her lungs, face raised to the damp air, clear-eyed and refreshed.

It was one of the many reasons to be relieved to be out of SHIELD’s custody: wherever she went, and whatever she saw, Loki could experience it through their link. And she was one of the rare, fortunate few who could go anywhere, at any time, with little enough effort.

A flush of affection bloomed in her, like a kiss at the nape of her neck, Loki reading her intentions like braille.

Astrid giggled, the ache of want in her chest ebbing slightly, and glanced out across the harbour.

It was the off-season; the tourism trade withered into hibernation with the last days of August, and first weeks of September. Even so, the picturesque village obviously received a fair number of visitors in the summer months. Across the town, there was an abundance of cafés, bakeries, fishmongers, local crafts shops, ice cream parlours, wetsuit and board rental stores. A sprawling car park had been cut at the base of the hill, and a number of small commercial pleasure boats were moored against the harbour walls, anchored between algae-stained tangerine buoys, advertising sea safaris and recreational fishing trips on printed boards affixed to the weather-rusted harbour railing. A few places were shuttered, but other businesses remained open even into November, catering to the permanent residents of the town.

As she chased the slope upwards, approaching from the narrow, eastern flank of the harbour, towards the ageing arcade and stone bridge across the river, a thought occurred to her.

“Loki. Do you like seafood?”

She felt Loki stir. Astrid could almost imagine his head lifting from his cupped hand- or rolling across a pillow to look at her, black curls spilling, eyebrows steepled in mild askance.

I tend to eat more game, I suppose, he answered cautiously. Hunts are too popular on Asgard for it to be otherwise. But I do like shellfish. Although it is seen as peasant food on Asgard. Cheap fare, common as mud, to be eaten at the harbour by tradesfolk.

“It used to be the same here, for centuries,” Astrid replied, the corner of her mouth twisting up sardonically. “Oysters were still delicious when they were only good for the poor.”

Loki laughed softly. It is ridiculous, is it not? The arbitrary standards of high taste.

He hesitated for a long moment.

I do like oysters, he admitted, almost nervous.

A lilt kicked into Astrid’s step, her mood lifting.

“Oysters, then.” Widening her stride into a loping gait, forming rolling bounce on the balls of her feet, she lifted her face to the headwinds, letting it blow her hair back. “Maybe mussels or scallops, if I can’t find any? Oh- and cream tea.”

Cream tea?

“It’s, ah- like a dessert version of afternoon tea, I suppose? It’s sometimes called Cornish tea.” Astrid crossed the bridge at a brisk clip, shoulder bag tapping at her hip. “You’ll love it. Black tea, served with split scones, clotted cream, and jam. Strawberry is traditional, but I prefer raspberry.”

At the mention of something sweet, she felt Loki’s interest instantly perk.

Astrid’s victory dimmed as Loki swiftly crushed down on his eagerness, cooling into reflexive indifference.

Then you should have raspberry, my heart, he replied mildly, like fingers skimming her cheekbone.

“Mm.”

Astrid strummed her fingers against the cross-strap of her bag, tension furling.

She wondered if she could just scream I want to give you this, let me give you this, I want to give you everything, be selfish with me, just ask me and it’s yours, yours, yours, just say the word, put me to the test, let me prove it across the connection, or if that would be too blunt.

She opted for a subtler option. For now. “Seeing as we’re breaking tradition, we could change the tea out as well.”

Peppermint?

“I thought you might prefer rosehip. Or something floral.”

It’s your tongue, darling.

Astrid nipped her lower lip.

“I like sharing my tongue with you.”

She felt his train of thought stutter, before heating.

You’re playing a dangerous game, Astra, Loki warned, dark and edging into primal, shifting into a voice behind her left ear that seemed spoken through gritted teeth.

Astrid startled, almost tripping, as she felt the sensation of the pads of his fingers swiping at her inner thigh.

Her brain short-circuited for a moment.

Hm. Are you curious, darling?

She bit her lip, restraining the impulse to goad him further.

Following Loki revealing how he could twist his magic into her through their link, Astrid had begun asking about the possibilities. The conversation had been mostly practical- but the thought had occurred to her, even if she had quickly become distracted when it struck her exactly how ingenious the method was, how brilliant Loki was, how blithely oblivious he seemed to that fact.

But now- despite herself, folding her lip between her teeth in an effort to pin her unravelling thoughts in place- Astrid lingered over exactly how far and how intensely he could project sensation into her, how much sensory feedback he received back through their link, and whether-

No. Nope. Nope, nope, no. Work first, North. We’ll explore that another time.

Despite the curl of delighted, thoroughly distracted mischief from Loki, he let the matter drop.

Astrid exhaled quietly, grateful.

Today, she was visiting an old friend. It would be unwise to arrive disarmed of her wits.

Astrid swung off the bridge and into West Looe, swerving in a hairpin turn back down the hill, sinking into the warren of the town. There were only a few figures out in the midmorning light, walking dogs or tending to their boats, the quiet seeming to echo against the rush of the sea. The narrow streets were barely broad enough to accommodate a single car, the cobbles uneven and worn smooth underfoot, none of the structures more than two or three stories tall; most of them were at least a century or two old, patchworked with modern features, dating to the days of smugglers and portside inns and the great age of sail, their timbers ancient and their walls full of ghosts and memories.

She came to a halt outside a particular storefront.

The entire street was built into the incline of the hill, its rowhouses sitting a foot or so below the edge of the pavement, squatting low. The windows of the ground floor were almost level with Astrid’s crown, the sills above within reach if she cared to make the short jump, walls a washed white between dark Tudor beams.

Astrid tipped her head up a millimetre, the aperture of her senses opening to sweep the interior, as she read the sign affixed above the door.

Witches’ Brew, it read, white font upon a rich violet backing. On the left side of the sign was the outline of a cat, paws upon the rim of a bubbling cauldron to peer at the contents.

Bookshop, was added underneath, in smaller, blunter font. Tarot. Occult. Café.

You know, Loki commented, there is an infusion made from íviðia blossoms called witches’ brew.

Astrid tipped her head. “Really?” She asked softly.

Mother sent some blossoms to my cell recently- if you care to share my tongue later?

She winced into a grin, knowing that he wasn’t going to let that go any time soon. “Mm, in exchange for cream tea?” She teased.

Astrid felt a pair of arms slip and loop around her midriff, a mouth skimming her crown.

She felt the gentle billow of his sigh, the phantom of his chest against her back.

You drive quite a bargain.

With a faint smile, Astrid stepped down to the shop’s door, and turned the handle.

A classic shopkeeper’s bell chimed overhead, jostled into motion, before the door clicked shut behind her.

She was met with the fragrance of incense- a thicker, heavier curtain of agarwood, compared to the delicately floral smoke that lingered in the training halls where she grew up, and which her father preferred- blended with the earthiness of burned white sage, and coffee grounds.

The shop was quiet. Her steps were muffled by a dark patterned carpet, the space airy and inviting, despite the low ceilings and semi-subterranean position. At the right, the space folded into a geometric puzzle of tall bookshelves, walls paved with spines, the stacks labelled by genre with signs in blackboard and chalk, a few tables laid out with bricks of bestsellers and new arrivals. To her left was the register- unoccupied, with a bell to ring for service- and several tables and shelves, displaying various occult-themed wares. There were box-trays of tumbled, semi-precious gemstones, kitsch plastic goblets with dragons curled around their stems, dowsing crystals and decorative glass figurines, starter guides to palmistry and divining the stars.

Her eyes skipped past all of them, and up.

A large sign was placed at the bottom of a flight of narrow stairs. It advertised the café on the second floor, and tea leaf readings.

Astrid didn’t move to ring the bell on the counter, but the one at the door must have been enough.

“I’ll be right with you, dear!”

A woman’s voice called down from the upper floor. It was American-accented, almost neutral, but underscored with something in the region of Massachusetts.

Astrid smiled, folding her arms and turning away.

“That’s alright!” She replied, voice raised to carry as clear as struck crystal, twisting at the waist to speak over her shoulder. “Take your time! I’m here to see a friend.”

Movement upstairs stilled.

A beat passed, before Astrid felt the familiar crackle of magical wards being activated.

Loki reacted, his mana surging into her nerves with a precision that knocked the breath from her chest, pressing up to the surface of her skin, preparing to force his own counter-wards into her flesh.

Catching her breath, fingers fluttering at the foreign magic in her blood, Astrid sent him a gentle nudge of reassurance.

“Did you not hear the word friend, Agatha?” She yelled up, tone dry and hip cocking. “Your wards didn’t react when I walked in. Now would you please quit it?”

Before Loki tries to rip apart your spellwork and fracture your magical core in the backlash, she added internally.

Don’t tempt me, darling, Loki warned, poised like an adder to strike. Who is she?

The wards lingered, bristling like spines- before settling back.

A moment later, Astrid heard footsteps, and the creak of the ageing banister under new weight.

As I said. She’s a friend… of a sort.

Of a sort?

The subject of discussion halted, a few steps above ground floor.

Astrid remained with her back turned for several seconds, shoulder blades open and unguarded.

After deeming that her message had sufficient time to sink in- if it was going to at all- Astrid turned.

It had been about a century and a quarter, chronologically, since they had last seen each other- during the last of her father’s missions that Astrid had accompanied him on, before she had gone looking for answers.

The inciting incident that drove her to look for answers, in fact.

True to form, however, Agatha Harkness had adapted, and today was the very image of a modern, new-age witch.

Stocky, square-jawed, and casually confident, she possessed the mien and bone structure that would command the description of a handsome woman. Dressed in plimsoles, thick black leggings, and a cable-knit sweater the exact velvety depth of wolfsbane, she looked deceptively, cosily middle-class, her dark chestnut hair styled in a cloud of tight waves to her shoulders, framing her fair, round face and dark cobalt eyes.

“Well.” She draped an elbow across the rail, sleeves rolled back, sizing Astrid up with a wide, crooked smile and a gaze as hard as flint. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Astrid was simultaneously reminded of a salacious, bored housewife with a mind like a steel trap, and a large crocodile sunbathing by the water’s edge.

“It’s good to see you, Agatha,” Astrid said sincerely, light as air. “You look well. I’m glad.”

She tried to sacrifice my soul to Mephistopheles once, Astrid admitted to Loki, deciding that it would be better to get it out of the way now.

She did what? Loki snarled, alarmed.

Long story. Daddy stepped in. She came to regret it.

She could feel Loki glaring into her. Because you made her regret it, or because she decided to regret it? Because that’s quite a distinction, darling.

Astrid almost laughed. His mind was always so quick.

Alright, fine. A little of both.

Jaw and mouth pursed tightly, Agatha’s eyes flitted sharply across and behind Astrid’s form, darting as dragonflies.

Astrid softened her stance, loosening her limbs and opening her posture.

“It’s just us,” she said reassuringly.

Conveniently, Astrid did not mention that us included the sorcerer-prince whose mind was currently linked to her nervous system.

Astra.

His tone was grim, steeled, but quietly restrained.

Astrid sensed the unspoken undercurrent underneath- that he wanted her out of that shop, now.

Astrid reached for him, slotting herself into his edges, feeling him shift to accommodate her.

Please trust me, Loki. I have this.

She felt him hesitate, her calm focus an emollient.

Besides, she added. You might find that you like her.

I highly doubt that, dove, Loki replied haughtily, even as he relented.

She kept silent. Something told her that Loki would refuse to see the similarities, even if she informed him of exactly how her long story with Agatha had ended.

Agatha’s expression had stiffened slightly, eyes narrowing to a squint.

“Just so that we’re clear,” she drawled, gesturing vaguely across her with a jabbing index finger, “you’re not here to check in on me, or- drag me away to some kind of tribunal, are you?”

Astrid tipped her head consideringly. “Have you done anything to warrant it?”

Once again, Astrid opted not mention that she already had a fair idea of the answer. She had made it her responsibility to know; confidence in her decision didn’t negate the gamble, and Astrid wouldn’t ignore her culpability if things went sour.

As far as she could tell, however, Agatha had been smart. She had spent the years since they had last seen each other travelling and researching and collecting, restraining herself to a few petty grudges, mild curses, and mostly harmless, mostly necessary fraud. All in all, nothing that Astrid had found worth getting into a snit over.

Besides. That thing with the carnivorous rabbit had been pretty funny.

Astrid could feel Loki trying to pretend that he wasn’t intrigued.

Agatha snorted. “Not in my book, but we both know that doesn’t mean much. Even my best behaviour means being a little badsometimes.”

“Mm. Well, so long as they deserved it, I’m happy to remain ignorant.”

Brows raised, corners of her mouth tugging into a shrug, Agatha looked pleasantly surprised.

“Huh. Well, in that case- it’s good to see you too, Little Miss Dante,” she said wryly, dragging out the old nickname as though she were dusting off a spellbook, descending the last few steps. “Now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way, how have you been for the past- oh, hundred and thirty years or so?”

“Not quite so long on my side, Madame Virgil,” Astrid admitted, satin-smooth as sugar ribbons, “but I’ve- been busy.”

The Divine Comedy? Loki noticed.

Mm, good catch.

He paused, quietly assessing- before relaxing slightly in realisation.

Aha. I see.

Astrid held down her smile, but sent its warmth in his direction.

“And what about your dish of a father?” Agatha asked.

“Not interested, Agatha.”

And still hung up on whoever gave him that watch.

“Huh. Pity.” Agatha paused, appraising Astrid with long, slow sweeps. One forearm folded against her lower ribs, the opposite hand raised, fingertips rubbing together. “Any luck, then, dear, with that little- soul-searching identity quest of yours?”

Lifting one shoulder, Astrid let herself smile abstrusely.

“Some. Thank you for asking.”

“Well, you know. I like to know who and what I’ve made a deal with,” she said, head lowered into an unblinking stare, as though wondering how Astrid’s liver might taste, “as a rule.”

“It’s a good rule.” She said mildly.

Agatha looked at her for a long moment, one corner of her mouth and eye tensing- then straightened, clapping her palms together and spinning on her heel.

“Well, since you came all this way- fancy some tea? I could read your leaves for you! I must say, I’ve gotten pretty good- or, well, as good as you can get, with fortune-telling. It’s always a bit of a crapshoot, you know. Less mess than the animal guts, though.”

Astrid adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder as Agatha began to head up towards the café, not even waiting for her reply.

“Why not? We do have a lot to catch up on.” She began to follow her up the stairs, drawing a shallow breath as she went in for the kill. “And I think I have a way to get Karmar-Taj off your back so that you can come out of hiding, so I’m sure you’ll want to-”

Agatha turned back to her sharply. “What?”

Her eyes were slightly wild, incredulous, and treacherously hopeful.

Reflecting briefly, Astrid supposed that she should feel a little bad.

That was, if not for the memory of choking sulphur, of her face and throat scorching with brimstone-heat, and the sound of dimensions ripping apart like adipose from muscle tissue and Agatha laughing broad and wild- just before Mephistopheles betrayed her, just before Astrid regained the strength to yank the witch away from the consequences of her own actions.

Just because she had forgiven did not mean she was inclined to be nice.

Besides. Agatha would respect her less if she was.

Loki watched her work, ruthlessly, using honesty as a weapon and the truth like she she owned it, cautious and amused and a little proud.

Astrid arched her brows, both at him and the witch standing before her.

“You didn’t think I’d come without a gift, did you?”

Some time later, a platter of a dozen shucked oysters in front of her, seated with a sea view and décor of scrubbed wood and clean white walls, Astrid made the first entry on her shopping list.

Tea leaves.

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