Darcy is standing, one hand pressed on the intercom, the other against the perspex wall. That tingling warmth moves over her fingers again, then the air begins to grow cold. She releases the intercom, wraps her arms around herself. His eyes don't miss the movement; they flick down to her hands, then up to her face again. The cold begins to ebb away. The hallway is by no means warm, but at least Darcy doesn't feel like she's going to succumb to hypothermia in the next five minutes.

"I don't get it," she says. "They send you here, God only knows how without the Bifrost. Jane is working herself into the ground to find a way back to Asgard, trying to see Thor again. And then poof, you're just here. As punishment. If they can send one person here, why not send Thor? We could use him these days."

The intercom isn't active, so there's no way he can hear her. He does not move, just watches her. He might as well be carved from ice.

"What the hell are you even doing?" she continues. Her voice is louder now, echoing in the small space. She can feel the blood pulsing at her temples. "Just sitting here pretending to be asleep or comatose or whatever. Stark is wasting food on you, you have clean air, clean water, electricity, when most of the city has none of that. People are starving, people are dying, and you're tucked away here all cosy. As what? Punishment?"

Loki does not move.

Darcy presses her hands against the perspex again. The tingling feels soothing, calming. Her rage is ebbing, leaving her feeling hollowed out. Her head is beginning to spin, reminding her of how long it has been since she has eaten a proper meal.

"Was it even you who opened the gate?" she asks.

One side of his mouth curves up ever so slightly, and then he closes his eyes again and is still.

"I am so not doing this," she says. "I am not playing these stupid little games with the man - with the monster - who tried to destroy our world just so he could wear a crown and call himself king. I hope Jane finds her way to Asgard soon, and Thor can return. He's worth a dozen of you. No wonder your father rejected you and made him king."

She splits the last, surprising herself with her own vehemence. And though there's no way that Loki can hear her, he winces.

She turns from the cell, stomps through the gate, slams her hand down on the button to close it. She half sits, half collapses onto the couch. Her vision is greying out, her ears ringing. She curls into a ball, pressing her knees into her chest.

She should feel better. She doesn't.

#

This time, when she slides into dreaming, she is aware of it. One moment she is curled up on the couch in the guard room, staring at the wall and trying not to think of Loki on the other side of the wall.

Her own breathing, her heartbeat stretch out as her body slows, slips sideways into sleep.

Everything goes black. Everything is silent.

She is aware first of the feeling of air moving past her. It slides over her skin, lifts her hair from her scalp. Next comes light: points of illumination which press out from the darkness one by one. White lights only at first, and then colours: emerald nebulas, sapphire planets, gold and silver stars.

She is falling through space.

She falls, and she falls, and there is no beginning, no end to it.

She has always been falling. She will always be falling.

She is falling, alone, forever.

Then something reaches out from the darkness between the stars, takes hold of her. The starfield shifts, and then she is falling gently, a leaf on the wind, warm water rising up around her.

Gentle hands press her down beneath the surface of the water for a heartbeat, and then she rises up, water streaming from her. Darcy knows immediately this time that it is still a dream, that she is riding in someone else's body. The girl is closer in shape to her this time, though her body is softer, more buoyant.

The girl is in a copper bath, the warm water shimmering with oils and strewn with small white snowdrops and lilies. Next to the bath is a woman with pale copper hair fastened into long braided loops. She wears a simple white shift, and has more snowdrops twined into her hair. Darcy knows, because the girl knows, that this is her mother, and she is preparing her. The girl will not think of what she is being prepared for, but Darcy can feel the fear tight in her.

The girl's mother holds up a swathe of white linen, gestures to her daughter. There are no words during this ceremony, and there are no names. There is only the movement of linen against soft flesh the warmth of fire on all sides.

When the girl is dried, her mother slips a white linen shift over her head. She uses her fingers to comb out the girl's long ruddy hair, twisting locks so they dry into ringlets. She takes a long time doing this, combing over and over through the strands, pausing to press her fingers against pressure points on the girl's scalp. When she is finally done, the girl's hair is dry, hanging soft and loose as a cloak around her. She turns the girl around, looks into her eyes for a long time. Kisses her on the forehead and steps out of the circle of light.

The girl stands next to the tub, breathing slowly in and out. There is smoke on the air, the scent of heady incense. The smoke flows into her blood, making her limbs heavy, fogging her mind.

When hands lead her away from the tub and the fires, she does not resist. A cloak is placed around her shoulders - the same white linen as her shift - and the hood pulled up to hide her face. Those same hands lead her away again, up a winding path. Her bare feet move over rocks smoothed as though with the passage of water, and she thinks of herself as a river flowing upstream.

She is led into a small cave lit by candlelight. A fire is set in a small natural alcove, and someone throws handfuls of herbs onto the flames. They flicker deep green, thin smoke flowing into the cave body. The girl breathes it in, gulps it down, welcoming the fog that it brings.

She kneels just inside the cave entrance. And she waits.

When the storm comes, the girl begins to shake. Darcy wants somehow to hold her, to comfort her, but she is simply a passenger, only able to watch.

In the distance, drums sound, then voices rise in a wordless chant. Another voice comes, this one powerful, commanding. The girl does not listen. She cannot listen. She is filled with fear despite the smoke, terror a black thing holding her frozen.

The sound of boots comes on the path leading up to the cave. Locked in the girl's fear-filled mind, Darcy listens as they come closer. Finally, the girl can see boots before her. Black leather. There is a smell like burning in the air, like the dark scent in the air a moment after lightning hits a tree, the split second before the wood catches flame.

A finger beneath the girl's chin forces her face up, and she sees who stands there.

Loki.

He is young, still, as in the other dream, but a hardness has begun to tighten his features. He is dressed in black leather tooled with gold, his golden helmet covering his hair. In the girl's eyes, he is a monster, he is a god, he is a devourer. Her fear rises, and she is shaking as he pulls her roughly to her feet, pushes her into the cave.

Outside, a great cry goes up, and then the drums sound one more time and then are silenced.

Loki pushes the girl into the cave, tears her cloak from her shoulders, tosses it onto a bed of furs waiting in the corner. A small chest rests next to the bed. He opens this, removes a flagon and two goblets. He pours a splash into one, fills the other to the brim. The full one he drinks down, then he brings the other to the girl's lips, tilts it, as if he knows that she is too frozen with fear to hold it.

She does not open her lips, and he leans down, looks into her eyes. As he moves, golden light moves around him; his helmet vanishes, along with the armour. He wears a dark green linen shift, trousers of soft brown leather, his feet bare.

"It will be well, little one," he says. He does not speak English, but Darcy understands him all the same. "The wine will make it easier." His eyes are surprisingly soft as he tilts the goblet again.

The girl opens her mouth, takes a swallow of the wine. It uncurls in her stomach, warmth spreading out, melting the icy fear.

Her muscles grow lax, and it is easy for Loki to direct her to the furs, to press her down onto her back, careful to disturb the white linen cloak beneath her as little as possible. He stands again, appraising, adjusts an arm, a leg. When he grasps the hem of her shift, the girl freezes again despite the wine, curls up tight in her mind. So tight that Darcy is hardly aware that she's there at all.

And suddenly it feels as though it is only Darcy in this body, that it is her limbs that Loki is arranging, her skirt that he is pulling up over her thighs. The rush of sensation is overwhelming, taste and scent and touch flooding her mind. She can only stare at him as he rocks back on his heels, looks at her. His pupils are dilated, and his breath has quickened. She expects him to touch her, but he does not. Instead, he reaches over to the chest, withdraws a small dagger. Darcy stiffens at the sight of the sharp blade.

"Hush, little one," Loki says. He smooths back her hair from her face, smiles. "It is a small deception only. You will be safe. And when they send you to your new husband, after the ceremony, simply tell him that Loki's magic restored your maidenhead. As a blessing on the marriage and upon your people."

He smiles again, but the expression is tight, sadness in his eyes. He draws the dagger across the inside of his own wrist, drips blood onto the linen between her parted thighs. He wipes the dagger on his shirt then replaces it in the chest. As he pours himself more wine, Darcy sees that the cut is already fading. He sits down next to the bed, his back against the cave wall, staring into the fire and sipping his wine.

Darcy watches his profile. Her mind is fogged by the smoke, the wine. Loki's goblet is half empty before she realises what is happening. This girl is a sacrifice sent to Loki, a virgin to be bedded in return for his favour or protection. He could have taken her, but he has chosen not to.

"Trickster," Darcy says. The word comes out in the girl's language, oddly shaped in her mouth. Inside her mind, she feels the girl uncurl slightly, watching.

Loki does not look at her, simply smiles thinly around the rim of his goblet.

Darcy pulls herself up off the bed, careful not to disturb the drying blood. Loki watches her through narrowed eyes as she comes around to kneel before him. He holds his goblet between them, a shield.

Darcy looks at him. It takes an effort to hold onto her thoughts, thanks to the herbed smoke, but she does so. She remembers Yrsa, the younger Loki who came to her willing and innocent. She remembers the man who destroyed New York. Remembers that this is a dream.

No, that this, as with Yrsa, is a memory. Loki's memory.

"How many have there been?" she asks. "Girls like th-" She bites off the word. "Like me."

He sets his goblet down, the metal making a soft sound against the stone floor of the cave. "How many harvests have there been?"

"And have none of them come to you willing?"

He searches her face for a moment. "None of Midgard come willingly to Loki, little one. I am not my brother. I am simply his shadow." His lips twist on the words.

"Is he…does he…?"

"Take sacrifice?" Loki finishes lightly. "Willingly, and often. In Midgard and in Asgard."

"This is part of what made you, isn't it?" Darcy asks. Impulsively, she reaches up, brushes a strand of hair away from his face. He grows still, and she wonders how long it has been since anyone who wasn't family has touched him. "They came to you, but not because they wanted to. And you took none of them. You could have, and you chose not to."

He looks away, but she can see the light of the fire dancing liquid in his eyes.

Inside Darcy's mind, the girl uncurls more. Darcy sends her a wordless question, feels the girl's assent. She swallows hard, takes a deep breath of the smoke, feeling the girl's muscles loosen. Her fear is still there, a taut thread, but there is curiosity, too, and there is willing assent. She is happy to be a passenger, to experience, to let Darcy direct.

Darcy presses her hands against the cave floor. It feels more real than any dream, any memory that she has known.

It is more than a dream, child, her mother's voice says in her mind. As she speaks, the voice changes, becomes something almost, but not quite, her mother. It is a gift, and you are truly here. Choose your actions, your words, well.

A thin sheen of sweat rises on Darcy's skin. She swallows again, her throat suddenly dry. It is the girl curled inside her mind who gives her the gentle push to begin, to raise her hand and push back another lock of Loki's hair, to trail her fingers down the sharp plane of his cheek.

He looks back at her, his lips parting slightly. The pulse in his throat beats erratically.

"You do not have to be kind to me," he says, his voice hoarse. "It is not necessary."

"I am doing this," Darcy says, letting her fingers move back up, trailing them through his hair. Though there is a greasy sheen to the black strands, they are impossibly soft beneath her fingers. She keeps moving her hand, twisting one of the locks to form a ringlet in the same fashion that the girl's mother had. "I am doing this because I wish to. Loki." She lets the girl's curiosity flow into that word, her willingness.

Loki reaches up, takes Darcy's hand in his own. He turns it over, cups it in his palm. Her hand is smaller than his, more fragile, but close enough to Darcy's own shape that it isn't jarring for Darcy to see.

"What is your name, little one?" Loki asks, tracing a finger across Darcy's palm.

Darcy notices, for the first time, how beautiful Loki's hands are. His fingers are long, with the dextrous look she has always associated with pianists and artists. And she wonders suddenly who Loki would have been, had he not grown up in Thor's shadow. She withdraws slightly, allows the girl whose body she rides in to answer, to give assent.

"Bera, my lord," she says. "And I am willing."

Darcy allows Bera to stand, to grasp the hem of her shift and draw it up over her head.

I want to experience this, she says inside her head to Darcy. Show me how?

Bera recedes again, allowing Darcy full control of their shared body. All too suddenly, Darcy is aware that she is standing naked before Loki, who is still fully dressed, sitting with his back to the cave wall. His eyes darken, but he makes no move.

Darcy shifts her weight, Bera's body almost as comfortable as if she was in her own skin. Loki follows the small movements with his eyes, and his fingers press against the ground, nails whitening.

"I am willing," Darcy repeats. "Loki."

His eyes flutter closed as she smooths her fingers through his hair again, twisting the strands and tugging lightly. His breath catches in his throat, and then his eyes open. A slow smile creeps across his face, and then he is flowing to his feet. He stands close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his flesh, the smoke and leather scent of him rising around her.

They stand like that, close but not touching, and Darcy feels warmth begin to flow through her. And then, finally, he moves. He raises a hand, pressing his fingers against her chin to raise her face so that her eyes meet his. He searches her eyes, and then leans down, presses his lips softly to hers. Everything is slow, and everything is so gentle that it brings tears to Darcy's eyes. Inside her mind, she feels Bera looking on, experiencing everything with open wonder.

When Loki breaks the kiss, Darcy moves. Her hands are shaking as she unlaces the ties of his tunic, eases it up over his head. He raises his arms to aid her, and a moment before the fabric blocks his face from view, she glimpses him smiling, pure joy and wonder shining in his eyes.

Bera uncurls more in Darcy's mind. He is just a man, she says. He is a god, but he is also a man. His heart beats, his blood flows.

It is Darcy who is smiling now as she pulls Loki's tunic free. He smiles back, then laughs. The hardness is gone from his face now, and he looks once more like the young man who came to Yrsa. She trails her fingers down his cheek, across the pulse in his neck, across his collarbone. He is much leaner than the men she has always gone for, but there is a contained grace to him, a strength that she couldn't have imagined beneath the layers of leather and armour she has always seen him wear.

The urge to just grab him and wrestle him to the floor of the cave rises in her, but she pushes it down, mindful of the fact that Bera is a virgin.

Holy crap, she thinks. I just thought of wrestling Loki to the ground. I just thought of him as beautiful.

But he is, Bera says, uncurling even more. He is.

Darcy trails her hands down across the plane of his abdomen to the waist of his trousers, fastened there with a leather thong. He is growing hard already, pressing against the leather. It is Bera who makes her look away, Bera whose cheeks flush.

"Nothing will happen to you that you do not wish, little one," Loki says, turning her face back to his. He keeps his hand cupped against her cheek; his fingers are warm. "Say the world, and I will listen."

Do you want this? Darcy asks Bera inside her mind.

Yes, Bera says. Yes. Both of us, together?

Bera uncurls fully in Darcy's mind, flows together with Darcy until she is not certain where one of them ends and the other begins. Loki leans down and kisses Darcy, and both Darcy and Bera feel the kiss, their shared heart quickening as Loki's fingers follow the same path hers had on him: skimming over the pulse in her throat, across her collarbone. There, he pulls away from the kiss slightly, his lips curving into a smile, and his fingers move lower, tracing the heaviness of Darcy's breast, spiralling lazily in until he is drawing slow, languid circles around her nipple, which stiffens in response.

Darcy moans deep in her throat, and when her body curves into his touch, she is not certain if it is herself or Bera.

Think of yourself as Darcy, Bera says in her mind. It will make it easier.

And so it is Darcy who reaches up to Loki, who pulls his mouth down to hers. The kisses are chaste, close-mouthed at first, and then Loki's tongue parts her lips, delves within. Her own tongue slides over his, and she moans again, presses herself hard into the kiss.

When Loki pulls away again, she makes a small involuntary whimper. He smiles that wicked smile of his, touching his fingers to his lips. "Your husband will be well served by you, little one."

Darcy flushes again, finds her gaze drawn to his hardness, pressing fully now against his trousers. He makes no move to remove them, but carefully shifts the bloodstained cloak from the bed of furs, then lies Darcy down onto them, pausing to smooth her hair back from her face. He smiles again, presses another hard kiss to her mouth, and then begins working his way down her body with lips, teeth and hands.

He moves slowly, so slowly that if Darcy were in her own body she would have no compunction about swearing at him for his lack of speed. Bera, however, glories in the small circles his fingers draw on her skin, his mouth as he seeks to taste every inch of her flesh.

Then he is kneeling between her legs, his thumbs circling on her inner thighs as he gently presses them apart. He smiles again, draws the backs of his nails down one thigh, pauses, his smile widening, and then draws his nails up her other thigh. Darcy whimpers again, her hips canting up to him. His tongue comes out to wet his lips, and he chuckles, repeats the action in the opposite direction.

"Please." The word slips from Bera's lips. "Please."

Loki chuckles again, then he leans down and blows surprisingly cool air against her. Bera shudders, lifts her hips up to him. He is faster, sitting back and repeating the dragging of his nails up and down her thighs.

"When they bring to to your husband, after, you will tell him of this," he said. "Instruct him on how best to please you."

And then, finally, he lowers his mouth to her. Licks up the length of her, swirls briefly against her clit. Darcy feels him smile against her, and then he is sliding a finger gently into her.

"This may hurt a little," he says, lifting up enough that he can look into her eyes. "It is the way of it."

In answer, Darcy pushes her hips up, hard, against his finger. He chuckles again, and presses a soft kiss to her inner thigh, pushing harder into her. There is resistance when he tries to add a second, and Darcy jerks away despite herself. Loki makes a soothing noise, withdraws slightly, swirls his tongue over her clit, hard and fast. The explosion of sensation is such that she barely notices the pain when he presses deeper into her, adds a third finger.

Everything shrinks down to the feel of his tongue flickering against her, his fingers thrusting within her. And then, with a final flick of his tongue, she is coming. Darcy withdraws as much as she can, to allow Bera to experience her first orgasm as fully as possible. Even withdrawn, the sensation is enough to send her reeling.

Loki gently withdraws his fingers, moves to lie next to her, his hand moving lazily over her belly. Even as the orgasm ebbs away, she can feel herself growing taut again just from that touch, her heartbeat beginning to accelerate.

He leans in to kiss her again, and though he has wiped his mouth, she can taste herself on his lips. It is surprisingly erotic, and she curves herself against him. He gasps as her skin meets his, his arms coming around her, nails pressing hard into her skin.

Darcy is not thinking of anything when she pushes him over onto his back, presses kisses against the skin of his chest and belly. His skin is soft, the muscles beneath speaking of long hours training with weaponry. It is an addictive combination, unlike anything she has ever known. When she lifts herself back up to kiss his mouth, Loki's breathing is uneven, and his hands clutch at her hips.

"Do you know how it is between a man and a woman?" he asks.

Darcy lets Bera answer. "I have seen the animals, my lord. Enough to know that these-" She tugs at his trousers, "-are not necessary."

He smiles again. When he unlaces his trousers and slides them down, his hands are shaking. "Remember, you do not have to do anything you do not wish, little one. You can save this for your husband."

Bera shakes her head, and Darcy reaches out, wraps her hand around him. He gasps, his hips jerking and eyes darkening. And then he is pushing her back against the furs, his skin sliding against hers, and she is drowning in his heat, in his eyes.

He keeps his eyes open as he kisses her, and Darcy does, too. His pupils are so wide that she cannot see the green of his irises, and she can tell, as she skims her fingers across his back and hips, that it is taking a great deal of control for him to hold back. She curves her lips into a smile, reaches down and wraps her hand around him again, brushes her thumb against his head just so she can hear him make that strangled gasp again. Angles her hips up and guides him into her.

Despite his earlier ministrations, there is still some tightness, Bera's body resisting him. Darcy wants to wrap her legs around his waist, pull him hard into her, but she is aware of Bera's slight hesitation. Darcy pulls away, reluctantly, letting Bera take over. If she'd had control of Bera's eyes, she thinks she would have wept at Loki's tenderness, his fingers ghosting over the curve of her hip, her thigh, as his hips move, pressing forward gently, moving slightly deeper with each thrust until he is as deep inside her as possible. There, he pauses, lifting up on his elbows to look down at Bera. He says nothing, just lets his eyes move over her face, then kisses her gently.

Darcy is an observer now, watching the two of them as they find a rhythm. The gentleness fades, is replaced by need as they move together, Bera's breath hitching in her throat as she thrusts up at Loki. His hand moves down between them, working at her clit until she comes again with a startled cry. Only then does he release his own control, thrusting rapidly into her before he comes, his breath rushing hot against her neck.

Bera lets Darcy back in as Loki withdraws, lies down with her curled against him, his hand splayed against her stomach. They lie like that, their breathing returning to normal, sweat drying on their skin.

Only then does Darcy become aware of the drumming. It sounds like dozens of drums, all being beaten in unison, a deep sound, like the heartbeat of the earth. One drum detaches from the rest, sounding its beat in the silence of the others. With each beat, it comes closer. Someone is walking up the path to the cave. They pause outside, drumming a quick beat.

Loki sighs, grasps Darcy's hand, pressing a kiss to it. "Time to deliver you to your husband, little one."

He insists on dressing her in her shift, tying the bloodstained cloak around her shoulders. It takes him a flick of the wrist to dress, grinning at her when she gapes at the use of magic. As the walk hand-in-hand towards the cave entrance, gold shimmers around him, and then he is wearing his armour again, his helmet with the curved horns. Bera quakes a little, then, but he squeezes her hand gently.

"Remember me to your children?" he asks. "Though, please, for the sake of them, do not name any of them after me."

He grins again, then releases her hand.

The drums, abruptly, fall silent.

The man who enters the cave. Bera's mind names him priest, though her mind renders the word differently, unfamiliar to Darcy. She bends her knee, then turns, so the priest can inspect her cloak. It is apparently sufficient, for her clasps a hand to her shoulder and turns her around. There is a sorrow in his eyes, but he smiles. Steps back to allow her to pass.

"Blessings, my child," he says.

Bera bends her knee again. These movements are familiar to her, practiced. "Blessings, father."

Darcy is aware of Loki standing behind her still, of the stickiness of his seed on her thighs.

The priest turns to Loki, who steps forward to stand next to Bera, both of them in a pool of light cast by torches burning outside the cave.

Loki raises his arms, his leather and armour creaking. "All is blessed for the coming year, my people!"

A great cheer goes up from the people gathered below. Bera smiles up at Loki, who, after checking that the priest is looking elsewhere, winks at her.

"Lord Loki, you may take your leave now," the priest says, stepping back, his hand on her arm ensuring that Bera moves with him.

"I believe," Loki says. "I believe that this time, I will remain for the festivities. I wish to see Bera dance, to wish her husband well."

The priest pales slightly, but he nods. His hand is tight on Bera's arm as he leads her back down the winding path, Loki following behind. Darcy realises that she has retreated in Bera's mind, tries to move forward again.

This path is mine to walk, Bera says in her mind. Watch, but do not interfere now. The ceremony is sacred.

If Darcy had possessed a stomach, it would have roiled with unease. When Bera looks back at Loki, she can see that his eyebrows have been drawn together in a frown.

The people waiting below fall silent as they see Loki, and, as one, fall on bended knee. He allows this, allows two of the men to drag a carved chair close to the bonfire for him, press a goblet of mead into his hand. A flat stone rests nearby, the rock strewn with white lilies and snowdrops. Bera shivers when she sees that stone, cold despite the warmth of the flames.

Another priest appears, this one carrying the small chest from the cave. A woman behind him bears the furs that Bera and Loki had lain on. One by one, she throws them onto the fire, following each fur with a handful of astringent herbs. The stench of burning hair rises, masked not at all by the herbs. Bera draws in a deep breath, another, forcing herself to stand straight, not to choke.

The first priest takes her by the hand, leads her over to the stone, onto it. It is hot beneath her bare feet, but she does not pull away. In her mind, Darcy scans the crowd around them, wondering which of the boys would be Bera's husband.

The drums begin again. A slower beat now, doubled like a heartbeat. Bera's own heart slows to match the pace. She draws in another lungful of the smoke, and it bleeds into her veins, makes her muscles lax and heavy. When the priest unfastens her cloak, she does not react. When the woman pulls her shift from her body, she makes no sound. Both articles of clothing are flung onto the fire, where they burn with a bright green flame.

Loki watches this, his expression veiled. He has not touched his mead, and though he appears to sit casually on his chair, Darcy can see the tense lines around his mouth and eyes.

Bera smiles at him, as if in reassurance.

And then the chest is opened, the dagger that Loki used to cut his wrist removed.

The priest passes it through the still-green flames, and, chanting, turns to Bera. Her eyes are heavy, each blink more darkness than light, affording her glimpses only of what is happening.

She sees the priest passing the dagger through the flames again, the edge of the blade blackening.

She sees Loki sitting forward, his goblet tumbling to the ground.

And then the dagger is pulled hard against her throat, the hot metal parting her skin, hotter blood flowing out and out. The drumbeats slow and slow and slow.

And stop.

All is darkness.