"She looks so peaceful. Do we have to wake her?"

"It's nearly noon. She has to eat!"

"And then she can dress--"

"Oh, she can try on the satin gown!"

"Does she have a schedule?
Do we have time to go over each piece?"

"I think it's our job to know that."

The voices were silvery, almost singsongy. They held a great effort in trying to be soft spoken which was greatly appreciated, failed attempt aside. I kept my eyes closed as I woke in the midst of their conversation—an assassin's habits die hard—but for a nice change in routine, their concerns didn't necessarily seem to involve killing me in my sleep.

Yet when I opened one eye, two dainty, fair skinned women hovered over me like they were ready for an ambush.

"You're awake!" The woman's face lit up with such delight that you would think I had just woke from a two year coma.

I open the other eye and prop myself up on my elbows as the two rush from my bedside in a fit of joyful squealing I thought only reserved for caffeinated ten year olds. The dullness in my justifiably unsure, "Yeah, I'm awake," was barely heard over the rustling in the closet and the instinctive giggling between the two, but their attention was not strayed for long.

I pull the sheets up to cover more of my body as they settle at the end of my bed, faces wide with flashing, youthful smiles.

"Well Good Morning, Sleeping Beauty! We have your breakfast set at the end of the bed for whenever you are ready to rise--"

The other woman cuts in as if she the words had been squeezing her every nerve. "Which is hopefully soon because we spent all night putting together your wardrobe and we want to see how the pieces fit!"

"Kari! Do not rush her!"

"My apologies..."

The room was silent for a moment, waiting for her to finish the sentence she clearly wanted to continue. Her lips draw a thin line and she held her breath, but every other part of her was jittering with charged enthusiasm.

"..but I could bring them to you now if you'd like! You don't even have to leave the bed!" She finally spit out.

"Kari!"

"Thank you both," I interject, raising my voice above the two, quickly softening the unintentional roar with a light smile. "For the breakfast and the clothes. I think I'm going to take a shower before I start the day though--"

Kari's face lights up again after just a moment of disappointment. "Would you like me to draw you a bath? We have this wonderful lavender scent--"

Perhaps the realization hit me a little delayed, but my eyes grew wide nonetheless. These women are some sort of lady's maids. My lady's maids. The whole dynamic makes me feel disgusting.

I guess I can argue that Earth still has their everyday, modernized servants in some capacity, but the normalcy of that here is something that will take me quite a long time to adjust to. Degrading notions aside, there is only one thing I hate more than asking for help myself, and that is being tended to or to have my things tended to in my absence.

I do my best to force anything to my face that could resemble appreciation, but I probably looked sickly. For the first time in awhile, I start to feel helplessly overwhelmed. And I do not do good with helpless.

"Please, don't bother. You have done more than enough."

Both of the women widen their smiles in a desperate attempt to cover any seeping sorrow. At this point, we all looked ill and perhaps on the verge of a breakdown.

"Oh..uhm..of course! Yes, of course! Please, call for us if you need anything! Especially for the wardrobe. We have it tailored to your size, but let us know if you would need anything pinched!"

Some strange wave of resentment seethed through my teeth, threatening the fall of my already weak composure. Details. I don't give out details of my life nonetheless let them slip into the hands of strangers. "How do you know my size--"

"The Allfather personally assigned us to you last night!" Kari steps in front of the other woman, carrying more pride than what she had come in with. "We get to make your breakfast, your bath, your dresses, and anything else you may require! He gave us most of the information we need to know so you will not be inconvenienced, like your measurements."

I'm truly afraid that if this poor girl says one more word that I could rip her head from her body. I close my eyes as I take a quick breath for a desperate attempt to feed the last of my sanity. My eyes flutter open holding the most restraint I feel I've ever practiced. "How does he know my measurements?"

"Oh. Um..w-we don't really ask him questions."

Only one allusion to his name had released the floodgates of last nights memories. His hands roaming my body, his eyes tracing over every curve, his mouth on every inch of my skin—sizing me up.

That mother fuc-

I throw myself back into the bed, close my eyes, and grip the sheets into my fists for dear life. I'm fucking suffocating. The wings in my chest start to flutter awake, flapping faster and faster until I nearly start to choke on the overwhelming amount of air in my throat.

Kari clears her throat before stuttering over three different words she wanted to start with. She's sweet, and I'm not doing a very good job at assuring her of that. She has that sudden, uncertain smile of a girl who, at some point in his life, had been conditioned to ask for permission before she expressed any joy. She is probably the only one here who chose to serve as a maid to the royal family. Hell, she could be a royal herself, but you could see it written right on her face that she would much rather chose a life of forced smiles for the moments of shameless cheer than a life that suppresses all its good.

"Right..um..we will check on you later Ms. Natalle--"

"Safiya."

She swallows her voice back into her throat before realizing it wasn't a scolding correction. "What?"

I stay lied down, fists still carrying a bundle of the sheets, but I roll my head to her as my eyes flicker open. I take a deep sigh to bring me back to the ground. "Please. Call me Safiya."

A smile builds slowly across her face as she digests the honor that comes with an informal address. Oh, what an honor. She gets to call the assassin by her first name.

It made me feel dirty that my name could possibly have that kind of effect on anyone. It's as if I don't even need to try to be deceptive any longer. That I can hurt bystanders without any effort. I'm perfectly comfortable with my name carrying the taste of death. That makes me feel..polished, especially when it's used as a warning of some sorts. But honor?

She took my name like it was a gift. God, I want to laugh and hit myself for using myself like that, but it was a small expense in exchange for her smile. It was a genuine one which calmed us both.

"Safiya." She tests the name in her mouth before flashing her teeth under a simply nod in my direction. "Call for us if you need us."

The two women finally find their way to the door and close it almost silently behind them. I honestly started to think they forgot they could leave.

I force the sheets from my hands with a quick and almost urgent release. It was almost robotic, but my mind quickly starts to make sense of it.

My eyes scan over the room. Food prepped at the end of the bed. Closet bursting with sundresses, gowns, sleepwear....did she say lavender scent? Like a scent for a bath?

I hum, closing my eyes to a substance that crept into me wholly. It didn't pour in. It was hesitant. But it was here. Slowly charging itself from the resentful feeling he knew would beckon the darkness back into my crux with guns blazing.

Submission.

He was taunting me. Personal maids. He has to be kidding me. He's ensuring treatment that takes care of my life for me so I don't even have to live it myself.

I grin, eyes closed to welcome the darkness back a little longer.

That's what he wants. He wants me tamed.

"Nope!" I yell it into the air as I shoot open my eyes. "Fuck no. Absolutely fucking not," I loosely repeat, but just as loud.

I bring the sheet tighter around my chest and start to wrap it around my body like clothing. To decide whether or not this was a declaration of war was beyond even my slightest consideration. I swing my legs to one side of the bed with undoubtful belligerence.

No more waiting. I'm going to kill him. Right here, right now. I'm going to--

"Ah!"

My head follows the rest of my body in hitting the dark, wooden floor. I bring my hands to my head, wincing at the pain of the impact.

The doors flew open and in came a single guard that rushed to my side. "Oh my gods, are you okay?"

He brought his hands gently to my face and turned my head to look at him. He was younger than the others. Handsome, blonde, built with muscles that could tear me in two, but fresh faced nonetheless. He moved my head around with a strong finger—which isn't the best thing to do with a possible head injury—to inspect for any cuts or bruises—that couldn't possibly be there from a fall from a few inches above. If I wasn't so angry, I would probably be smiling.

Something in that face told me he only did things to where he could still look himself in the mirror the next morning. He's not necessarily the type of guard I would expect Loki to assign to me. He seems too...vulnerable.

I wince again just from the thought of his name.

It's really just flowing
out of me now, isn't it?

"Yea--yeah, I'm okay. I don't know why--I don't just fall."

He smiles down at me with the softest god damn eyes I've ever seen. "Do you want to get off the floor?"

"That's probably the next step to take."

"I would say so."

He hooks an arm under shoulder and hovers the other over my stomach. I fastened the sheet quickly so it stayed put around my chest and flowed freely beyond my feet. It was only when I brought my foot to stand when I felt the intense throbbing throughout my lower body. An overwhelming soreness. My leg gives out under me as soon as I lay my weight on it, but the guard brings me to his chest before I hit the ground again.

"Can you walk?"

My eyes narrow down to my legs before slowly, gradually, widening until the muscles strained. The realization built at the same speed that my head rose to meet the guards eyes.

My whole body seethed with the crazed excitement for one purpose.

"I'm going...to kill him."

He didn't move his eyes away, but he forced a quick laugh with both edging nervousness and confusion.

"Don't do that?" His discomfort unintentionally posed it as a question.

I grab his shoulders with both hands and forced myself to balance through the aching muscles. I kick my legs behind me, shake them out a little, and do anything to get some feeling back. There's no denying they will be sore for the next day or so. My enhancements should have taken care of this already, but I suppose last night was a bit more rigorous than routine muscle training.

After a minute of forcing my legs to work again, I'm able to step on one foot steadily. I work the other a bit longer, but I let myself calm down enough to look up at the man I've been using as support.

"Sorry. Thanks. Hi. Safiya."

He smiles down at me again. This time with a softness you would usually only sparingly offer a old friend.

"Good Morning. Kahlil. Odin has appointed me as your personal guard."

I cock an eyebrow. "Personal guard?"

"Yes," he grins as if he could sense my own resentment.

"Like more of an assistant?"

"Not exactly."

"Do you run my errands or something?"

"Absolutely not."

"Babysitter?"

"Baby what?"

I narrow my eyes to get a better read, but he really is the open book type. "What do you have to tell him?"

"Everything."

"Where I am?"

"Yes."

"What I'm doing?"

"Yep," he pops the 'p' in his own amusement.

"You're not leaving my side."

"Not for a second."

I stop there after finding I had successfully gotten myself to balance on two feet. I tap both his shoulders twice before taking my hands away and refastening my sheet.

He was mirroring the smirk I gave him, but his eyes were clear as they looked down to me. There was no desire in them. No wanting. I almost found it offensive. I mean, I'm wrapped in only a thin sheet and his face projects nothing but the hope for a good friendship. Nonetheless, I liked his eyes enough to decide he was the way in. He seemed like he offered forgiveness easily, which was quite unfortunate for him.

I hold my sheet up and let the excess drag behind me as I make my way to the drawers that are now overflowing with clothes.

"Alright Kahlil," I turn my head over my shoulder just slightly to catch his expression. He nods, assuring me I said it right. I may have turned my head away too quickly for him to see a smile, but it was fleeting anyways.

With a gentle glance over the drawers, my eyes catch the only pieces of clothing that don't look like an art piece in itself. It was a more casual sleepwear set; a long sleeved, navy shirt that would reach at least mid thigh and a pair of black silky shorts that really shouldn't be worn outside of this room. Although with options limited, I really could not care any less.

I turn back to him with the set in my hand. "We're sadly going to have to part for just one second if you would be so kind as to step out into the hall."

He smirks playfully before slowly turning to face the bookcase in front of him, his broad shoulders taking up a great amount of my view.

"I assure you I am capable of dressing myself."

"Mhm." He crosses his arms in front of him, showing no intentions of moving.

"Fine. No peeking."

He laughs under his breath as if it were only meant for his ears. "There was a reason I was selected over many other more qualified guards, Ms. Natalle. Odin needed someone—and I quote—'able to withstand impulse'. It seems the masses can agree that your most vicious weapon is not the punches you throw."

I let my sheet fall to the floor before slipping on the shirt. "And what is my most vicious weapon?" The sarcasm floods each syllable.

"Not the one you used to stab my partner with in the shoulder."

I'm. going. to. kill. him.

I slowed myself as I pulled the shorts up my legs. "I hate to break it to you, but your boyfriend is definitely not gay."

He throws his head back in a fit of his own laughter. "Not the prison guard, Ms. Natalle. Mine was last night's casualty."

My teeth clench together for the biggest oh fuck smile I've imagined on myself in awhile. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine." Kahlil turns around and runs an eye up and down my outfit. "That is not fine."

My mouth falls open for pure dramatics as I force out a little huff of disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

"You are to be wearing appropriate attire before we can leave this room."

"I have a dress code now too?"

He smiles again. Softly, like a look between close friends. "Call it an adjustment period. You will grow to like Asgardian wear."

I let any lingering spots of a smile fall through the end of my sigh. "I will save us all some time here. There is no way in hell I am wearing any of those dresses like casual outfits. I'd look like a walking art museum."

He sighs back louder than I had, without a doubt mockingly. "I will call for Laini and Kari. If you truly insist, we can bring you a set of armor that our women warriors wear as uniform."

"No!" I grab his shoulder with an urgency that brought his eyes wide. "I mean yes, please, warriors costume. But I don't want those two to know. They worked so hard on this spread and they were so excited--"

"We either call them or you're putting on one of these dresses."

"Come on."

"I'm serious."

"Mm. You look serious."

He grins down at me, visibly edging on a laugh, but his words are clear as day. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That tone."

"Tone?"

He huffs in complete amusement. "You can't seduce me, Safiya."

"What? I'm not trying to!"

He starts towards the closet, brushing past me with a smirk painted across his face.

I pivot to follow his attention, not looking to lose a battle over my own dressing. "Can you please go get it yourself?"

"I don't run your errands," he lulls lazily as he sorts through the dresses.

"I'm not going to go anywhere if that's what you're afraid of."

"I don't trust you."

"Well I trust you."

He frowns. "That's not how that works."

We stand off for a few more seconds before his shoulders fall after a long, defeated sigh.

"Stay here." He starts towards the door, turning around before he leaves completely. "I'm serious."

I follow him to the door and grab it as if I were to close it behind him. "You look serious," I hum in an intentionally suggestive tone this time.

I watch him until he makes it at least halfway down the hallway before I slip out of my room. The sound of the door closing would be definitive enough for him.

And I have no time to waste.

... ... ...

It's as if the halls worshipped my every step. Despite any attempts to tread lightly through the bedchamber wing, the palace feeds off of the rage I have awfully hidden. The slightest sounds I make are bounced around the walls like a crowd would scream the words to their favorite song.

It only took two pleas to the walls around me—one quiet shh and one shut the fuck up—before I surrendered my last splinter of patience. My feet took it upon themselves to match with the warpath in my head, giving the halls the murderous chorus they have been waiting to cheer for.

The halls were bare which took me by great surprise. In my last visit, I timed each guard rotation down to the minute and calculated just how much time each chambermaid took for their morning and evening chores. I should have passed by two guards and Thor's head maid who would have just finished laying out his clothes for the day. I guess I should be glad I haven't needed to rid of anyone yet, but I don't accept these kinds of surprises well.

Is there anything more warming, yet chilling than when something seems to just have 'worked out' in your favor?

A dry, bitter laugh keeps itself under my breath. "How lucky of me."

Natasha has only truly threatened to kill Clint twice. The first time was when Clint and I were both sent by our different agencies to kill the infamous Black Widow. He had awkwardly walked into the room as Nat and I stood across from each other, a gun in each hand, and blood rushing down our faces from a fight that didn't look like it was ever going to end. He instinctively took two of his own guns and pointed one at each of us.

There was a lot of shouting, a lot of damning each other to a patriotic hell, but after half an hour, it was clear that the tight circle of trigger happy assassins were not going to actually pull any triggers.

The second time was at the start of a long lived debate between the three of us that is still ongoing. It doesn't make sense and perhaps thats exactly why it's so frustrating to Nat and I, but Clint Barton is the only person I know who believes in luck.

I think that was the night she dangled him over the side of a fifty story building while screaming at him to "fall before I push you off! Let's see if luck will personally reach down and cradle you in his hands."

So he smiled, and then fucking rolled off the side of the roof.

We watched him hug the side of the building as he plummeted to the ground floor. We didn't think he would actually do it and when it looked like he wasn't slowing down anytime soon, we nearly jumped ourselves. Until he did. There was an open window somewhere around the twentieth floor that he simply slid into on his way down to his sure death. He didn't know it was there. He just smiled when he told us he'd hope it was.

It seems 'luck' is reserved for Clint Barton. He always comes out alive. He always sticks the landing. He is perhaps the one spy without an expiration date. He only entertains the debate when he wants to get a rise out of us, but there is a little part of me that believes he places all his cards into the universe as apart of his daily routine.

Imagine feeling that secure in yourself? That sure that the odds would be in your favor? If there's to be any defense, it would be simply that he's a good man and that is something to be rewarded for. He's not as broken as other people think he is.

On the other side, Nat takes the universe's hatred of her as a compliment. It's the same empowerment that comes when you have an entire army charging at you with everything they have. It's the idea that you alone could make that much an impact. That you alone could scare the world around you.

When he came back up to the roof, Nat screamed at him for being so shallow as to fall down so willingly. And fuck did she scream. "You can't just rely on someone or something to save you," she yelled. "You're the only one you have, Clint. We can't even guarantee that we won't disappoint you." To prove her point further, she then ripped the hearing aids right out of his ears and threw them over the roof.

Luck. It's an acquired taste. Bitter to anyone who is bitter themselves.

And here I stand in an empty hallway in the palace of Asgard. Frigga's dead. Jane's back on earth. Heimdall and Thor—my only friends here—are missing. Odin is...god knows where.

In fact, there is only one god who does know and he most likely exiled them all himself. He took over the throne, he runs around disguised as Odin, and is given free range to start taking over the entire realm. And here I am, standing in an empty hallway in the palace of Asgard after being thoroughly ravished by the psychopath himself who now considers me and my precious death 'his'.

This luck is anything but.

Fuck you, Clint.

The walls start singing to me this time. A sweet, seductive ballad that the dark prince must have composed himself. It sounds like him. A classical, midnight, romantic piece written in either the gothic or golden age. Each note like a physical touch. Every chord like a tempting whisper into my neck. Each scale gliding against my skin like...red silk.

It incentivized my every step, praying for more of me to shine through the last of any composure. It wants me raw and bare in every sense. My rage, the darkness, my entire body—it has but one target. Oh hell it wants him and he made sure of that.

"What are you doing to me?" I breathe softly as if he had my surroundings on strings and watched me from above.

The ballad only gets louder as I march down the hall. The faster I get to him, the quicker this will end. It should have ended in New York. He lied next to me unconscious for minutes. I was selfish, arrogant, silently praying to see more of what his selfishness and arrogance can bring before I get to tear it down.

"Safiya, come on." I spit my name like a curse as I pick up my pace. This needs to end. It was a fascination I let myself have. Look where it got me—right into his den. This needs to end. Now. This isn't curiosity anymore. This isn't a mere fascination.

This is an infatuation that comes for nothing but my blood. A greedy, vainful pursuit. I want to see it all. All of it. All of him. Everything he has and everything he is. I want it.

I grab the handles of the double doors that lead outside with both hands, throwing them open with an almost violent groan that stopped all movement in the packed yard.

It took a second too long for my dark, smoky eyes to meet with the clear, fearless blue sky. I blink twice before looking down over the garden and meeting with the stilled expressions of those who had been taking their usually peaceful morning walks. My outfit choice was given a second glance over by a number of eyes, but what else was to be expected? It was a pure contrast to the woman before me that glided up and down the paths in dresses that flowed behind them as if it were conscious of their every step. I manage a soft smile and nod, and I get about forty of them back.

I take a deep breath that could only be spotted if someone would have trained their eyes on the rise and fall of my shoulders. Stepping down into the gardens is like entering another world, one that wouldn't recognize any symphony in the palace's bloodthirsty key. The only sounds among the flowers were the birds singing back and forth to each other and the faint snips of gardening tools.

The gardens seemed to expand beyond their usual confinement. The flowerbeds spread from the edges of the more private wings into the common ground and center of town for the rest of the citizens to enjoy—to which it seems they have taken full advantage of.

The grounds were carefully tended to by gardeners who look to be finishing up their morning tasks. They're greeted by those who walked the paths and their conversations were more than a simple exchange of pleasantries.

As I walked along, I stitched together bits of conversation. They spoke about the flowers rather enthusiastically and taught each other tricks to keep them blooming past their season. They spoke of the weather and how it only seems to rain now a days in the most convenient of times. They spoke of the hard times that do not seem to come as often anymore.

If they don't all stop smiling soon I may have to put this place up into flames again. Here they stand in the busy, blossoming center of Asgard. So civilized. So unaware that their realm is in the hands of the fucking antichrist. So ignorant to the fact that their lives are being toyed with by the most sadistic, barbarous, ruthless, complicated, dramatic diva I've ever--

My feet stop in their tracks, a large slab of solid gold blocking the rest of the path. It only took me a few seconds to realize that the slab had been molded into the shape of a boot.

The rage drains itself from my face, challenged and beaten by the overwhelming thought that Loki could have possibly had a statue built for himself in the center of the city. My eyes carefully run themselves up the golden form until my head is nearly thrown back.

Up in the skies, towering over Asgard is his horned helmet. His suit of armor. His golden eyes watching over us, and I swear I've never seen a part of a statue to be so realistically intimidating.

I press my lips together, but the laugh pushes through the weak seal. Huffs of disbelief and spite ...and pure amusement tumble from my lips and there is a good chance I look completely manic. I'm honestly surprised when I hear a pair of feet settle behind me instead of running away.

"I remember his hair being a bit longer. A little more...greasy."

The voice was feminine, inviting, but it sure wasn't timid in any sense. I suppose you need a sort of confidence about you to let yourself be seen with a disheveled maniac who looks like she's not wearing any pants.

Yet, it was somehow familiar. I turn around to face the voice and take a quick scan of her face. Her lips fought back a smile, but she gave into it when she saw mine. Her darker, maple hair was thrown into a messy ponytail and judging from the red and gold armor she sported rather unapologetically, I caught her just before some kind of training.

I flash her a soft grin. "We've met before."

"Sif," she simply nods. "I'm surprised you're back."

I clear my throat in an attempt to slowly regain my sanity. Thank god I lie for a living.

"Yeah, you and me both. It was rather unexpected. The Allfather asked for consultation on military strategy."

She narrows her eyes at me and parts her lips as if to say something, but she refrains. She seems to digest my words carefully as she quickly runs an eye down my body. She didn't look fully convinced in the slightest, but she smiled as if to tell me she would accept it—for now.

"Well, I was supposed to find you before you left last time, but I never got the chance." Sif starts walking towards the training grounds and I fall into stride next to her. "Thor asked for me to be your sparring partner. He fed me some flattery as if I would have said no, but it turns out I'm the only one who would accept the position." She scoffs under her breath before turning her head to me. "Do you usually go straight for the head or can we learn from each other?"

I hang my head to mask a pitiful grin. "If the head is still on after a few seconds, then that's a mistake I need to learn from."

When I look up to her, she does little to mask her own pity. Her frown was almost haughty, as if she could possibly think of herself as the superior survivalist between the two of us. 

She takes her time breaking away from her focus. Her eyes have trained themselves on some scripture written across my face, but I've never been as careless as to ink that outer canvas with anything substantial. It seems she would beg to differ as she intently reads a page from a closed book that had lost its lock and key long ago.

"No beheadings today," she huffs and swings open a wardrobe of weapons. "Take your pick, but I swear on our dear Queen's grave if you make just one step that isn't towards me, I will not waste a second in sending you to the realm just beneath this place."

An eyebrow raises well above the other as I stare back at her. My lips part only slightly, but subtly kick up on one side. Her words were much less threatening than they were challenging, and the identical smirk growing across her face almost urged me to do it.

Here's the thing about survivalists. You are whoever you need to be in one moment. You are ever changing and never constant, forever transforming into whatever will prove to be the most effective. For someone to think they know you, well, the only ones that get to live are the ones who never get to live themselves. Whoever Sif thinks she knows has not even been given the chance to know herself.

I turn towards the wardrobe and run my fingers along each of the blades. Asgard's choice of weaponry is swords, each one somehow tailored to the skill set of it's holder. Someone could have a gun to my head and I still wouldn't be able to tell the difference between them aside from the colors of the hilt, but there's a reason the trigger has never been pulled and why my brain is still in tact.

I grab the sword with gold and black details, placing a safe bet in my own colors. Sif narrows her eyes and walks backwards towards an opening in the middle of the other sparring duels.

"That's a bold pick." She readies herself and raises her own blade. "I didn't take you as a sword connoisseur."

How lucky

I walk towards her and spin the weapon in my hand before settling into position. "You would be surprised."

"If you get to the point where you could actually strike me, pause, and we will consider that round one. That's how we do it here."

I laugh quickly under my breath. "I've never trained and had both people standing at the end of it."

She drives her sword towards my stomach and I instinctively bring my blade to hers. She lifts it quickly and we clash up by our shoulders, starting the brief exchange of metal.

Sif smiles slyly and takes a step back. "More than patience, willpower is a virtue."

"I've been told virtue is not in my nature." The extension of my arm almost reaches the skin of her bicep, but she spins swiftly and clashes with my blade once more when she turns to meet me again.

"Tell me," I huff out through a breath, "What prompted Asgard's military buildup?"

She throws her arm out to challenge the strength in my wrist, sending me back two steps, but her face does not reflect that aggression well. She tensed for a few seconds in a silent confusion. "I'm not quite sure what you mean. Is that why you're here? Is Odin planning on bringing back the draft?"

I swing again, regaining my steps back, but my face falls to mirror hers. "We haven't had much time to talk formally yet..." I push the sword forward with more force than before. Uncertainty has always provoked the most emotion. "What draft?"

"It has been an Asgardian precedent for centuries that when a male is of age, they start to train as warriors, but not long ago, Odin chose to terminate that law. He let those who were forced into warriorship go back to their villages and get proper schooling which, if you ask me, should have been done years ago. They were wasting all of our training resources and not to mention all of my valuable time--"

I shake my head and narrow my eyes as if to convince myself there was some kind of sarcasm hidden in her words. I aim for her blade this time, but with unreserved force. More than enough to cut her sentence short. "You're telling me he has actually reduced the size of Asgard's defense?"

"Almost by a quarter." She meets each of my strike attempts with a hint of puzzlement, but she continues despite herself. "And we're stronger this way. Odin made it clear he has no ambitions for war anytime soon, but he encourages us to take this time to make ourselves more versatile. He's more strict than he was before and the training is more rigorous, but not just anyone can be an Asgardian warrior anymore. We have sort of reclaimed the title's sense of honor so to speak. At least, that's how I feel."

"Four guards are positioned at the front entrance instead of two, and three watch over my room instead of one."

Sif nods slowly as if to finish reading the undertones of each syllable before throwing her sword my way. "Ah. There have been a lot of changes recently, not just the military. In fact, anyone can tell you we are of Odin's least concern. He had a grand meeting not too long ago—warriors, chambermaids, cooks—everyone who worked in or for the palace was sent to the throne room and Odin personally assigned each person to a specific job, big or small. It was a very long, intimate process which surprised us all, but it turns out he knew what he was doing. He even stripped some guards of their ranking, but that was long overdue."

The tension in her eyebrows slowly drains itself and a..smile?...starts to brighten her face. "He has prioritized anything that opens the palace more to the citizens, but that of course comes with risks. So when he was relocating the palace guards, he placed more at the main entrance. Better to be safe than sorry, I suppose. I cannot speak on your personal situation. To be honest, I had believed you and the Allfather had a rather...unfavorable relationship."

I hadn't noticed it, but the grip on my sword softened significantly. Every word that came from her mouth played with my entire concept of reality and she saw that. Sif runs her blade quickly across my arm, tearing the fabric and breaking the surface of my skin. I run my fingers along the tear and bring them up to my face, as if I had to see for myself that she actually drew blood.

She cocks her eyebrow and readies herself once more. "Round two."

I wave my sword towards her without wasting a second, focusing on every opening around her blade. Sif's quick, I'll give her that. She meets every one of my advances whether it weakly or not. From the glances we are getting from those training around us, all men, it's clear in their eyes that she's intimidating to them—understandably so.

It's a shame, though, in places like Asgard, that she will never be just a warrior. I've heard it whispered down the halls in my last visit; Asgard's female warrior, as if the simple addition somehow eliminates the threat she imposes on the men around her. God forbid they would have to subdue themselves to comparison.

For many reasons alike this one, The male ego is my favorite victim.

"Odin has not only demilitarized Asgard, but he's opening the palace up to the people? That's rather uncharacteristically liberal, don't you think?"

Sif steps back and twirls her sword, eyeing any openings she can take as she absentmindedly continues. "Oh gods, you don't even know. He has been stressing over making sure the gardens are the best over all the realms. The grounds are remarkable, don't get me wrong. So are the five new libraries, the new culinary apprenticeships, and--my gods--those plays are continuous. I think there's one every hour, on the hour."

I think I actually choked on air. "Excuse me?"

Sif quickly spins out of my next hit until I find her behind me. Each of her advances are within a second of each other, but I block each one. She gradually slows her movements over the next few seconds in a surprising change of pace before bringing the sword to her side.

"We all grieve in different ways, I suppose."

I take a step back myself and straighten in front of her. It would be a different kind of cruel to strike at her after the mention of Frigga. The weight of her death still hovers over Asgard like the constant threat of rain.

But for the first time amidst all of this, something has started to make sense. In some strange way, renovating the city is a means to justify her death. Most grievances come from guilt.

She would like this wouldn't she? The smiles, the bright skies, some kind of renaissance, golden age for Asgard. It's him just as much as it was her.

He's planning something. I have no doubts about it, and I need to understand it before it's too late, but it seems I have the time for that. He has given himself time before that, but he would never admit it. The only way Loki would allow himself to grieve would be behind a mask like this. Exiling his father, possibly Thor. He's alone, hidden, safe to show something. Being alone is the only thing that can truly protect you. That I know all too well.

Sif quickly draws her sword once more and slashes my inner thigh, kicking me out of my own head. I hiss and step back to look ar the cut and then up to her.

"Round three." Her lips kick up to one side. "Did you expect me to start crying or something?"

God, I'm so sick of being nice. It takes too much effort anyways.

I let her initiate the next round. Her fighting pattern is rather predictable, almost lyrical. AB, ABC, ABCD, AB, ABC...it's clear she trains as if it is just training. She doesn't necessarily practice as if she were at war. Well, then again, I haven't given her a war yet.

I throw all of my weight behind the sword as I lunge towards her. I wouldn't be surprised if I start to see shimmering, black, charged spots replace my skin. I try to keep all my focus on studying her movements, but even the slightest indication that the god could be an actual human being irritates my entire body beyond words.

"And what do you do now that Odin doesn't have time to wage a war between his community meetings and this evening's show?"

She cocks her eyebrow and jabs her sword dangerously as if to warn me of speaking against him. "Well, it's safe to assume that he feels some kind of responsibility for Loki's attack on Midgard--"

"Naturally."

"I'm the Asgardian Ambassador of sorts. I've been splitting my time between Asgard and Midgard to help ease tensions between the two realms. Odin has sent a group of us down to help aid the reconstruction of New York, but even so, relations are not great. They seem to think Loki is an accurate representation of us all and It doesn't help that the other prince spends his time on Midgard in Janette's tiny, drafty, disgusting home."

"Do you mean Jane?"

"Oh who cares. Odin doesn't seem to at all! We are doing all the hard work and that blonde haired, distractingly muscled oaf wanders in whenever he feels like it before he takes off for weeks at a time--"

"Hold on! You're telling me Odin is playing politics with Earth, actually wanting to have good relations, and is trying to clean up the mess he-his son made in the first place?"

Sif falls silent for a few seconds, furrowing her eyebrows. "Wouldn't anyone? With the exception of Loki, I suppose. May he lay restless in Hel."

A laugh that had seemed to harbor itself in the deepest pit of my stomach escapes my lips. I throw my head back before spinning until I'm settled at her side, driving my sword to cut the back of her shirt that is not covered with armor, but giving careful attention as to not draw blood. It's only important that she knows I could.

Sif takes one step out of her own rhythm at the sudden change of my own. She had just gotten comfortable with the sequence I fed her, and I've caught her at a perfect fleeting moment of uncertainty.

I kick her legs out from under her as her eyes get distracted in mine. She falls to the ground and I quickly bring my knee to her chest and the edge of my blade to her neck. Her eyes grow wider than I've ever seen them, but her lips part to a subtle grin. I bring the tip of sword to her jaw and gently nip the skin on her jaw, drawing out just a drop of blood, but enough to coat the end of the blade.

She huffs out a breath and taps on my thigh to silently declare her defeat. "I take it you're still not too fond of Odin."

"Is it that obvious?" I grin and stand up above her, extending a hand out to help her up. She takes it and jumps up before me.

"For what it's worth, it seems he has actually earned Asgard's respect. I suppose he didn't need it, but there's a difference between obeying your king and respecting him. It's a different kind of power. I've never seen Asgard flourishing like this. For the first time, it's like it is being built for the people, by the people."

I feel like I could actually hear a muscle pop in my jaw and a tooth break from the pressure. I turn my back and walk over to the weapons case and hang the sword back up. The ability to actually speak was a risky one and the words would do no more than seethe through my teeth.

What am I doing here?

"Keep it," Sif yells as she walks over to me, her voice dimming as she nears closer. "Your hands wield it well."

My eyes stay fixed on the sword as I spin it around lazily in my hand, watching the golden details reflect over the black finishings. Never has the irony in my own colors been so apparent as they are right now.

"Thanks," I respond almost absentmindedly. I look up to her after hanging the sword up in the case under Sif's name for safe keeping. "Let me know when you're up for round four. It seems I'm better than I thought at keeping my opponents alive now a days."

... ... ...

"Ms. Natalle--"

"Safiya," I spit almost instantly as I speed deeper into the bifrost's entrance.

"I, uh, I apologize. I was told you prefer 'Miss' over 'Lady'. I-I wasn't sure if you're first name was appropriate. I'm not too familiar with Midgardian culture. I know they have looser morals in general—not that you have loose morals...that is not what I meant--"

I had walked far enough so my back was to him, passing by his direct words even though they were a distant concern, but I can recognize someone's desperate need for reassurance even in my most unconscious state.

I turn slowly to him after inspecting the golden, domed walls and the ever expanding galaxy before us. Nothing has changed, except for the the loss of the one person I actually want to talk to right now.

"It's Skurge, right?"

The heavily armored, burly looking man straightens his posture as if he had to show that there is more of an honor about him beyond his name. "It is. What can I do for you?"

I take a few steps forward and let out a soft laugh. "You can relax, first off. I have no weapons on me."

He runs one eye discretely up and down my body as if he begged to differ, lingering attention on my chest. He remained guarded.

"And secondly, you can blast me back to Earth. I've had enough gold to last a lifetime."

Skurge clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably in his stance. "Uh-ha—Ms. Natalle..Safiya, sorry, as the new gatekeeper, I literally only have two jobs. One is to notify Odin when Thor returns," he clears his throat once more, "and the second is to ensure you don't leave Asgard."

I cock an eyebrow and stalk towards him slowly. "What?"

"Yeah, he wrote it out for me. Let me see if I-ah! Yeah, here it is. Just two bullet points. It's fairly simple--"

I grab the small paper from his hand and read it as if I were convinced he was lying. "...use any force necessary?" I read and yell back into his face. "Is he insane? I'm actually a prisoner! Imprisoned in this golden hell!"

Skurge takes a few steps back, gladly surrendering the note in exchange for his life. "I really don't want to, but he was very aggressive when he insisted upon it last night."

"Where is Heimdall?" I breathe out, whispering his name like a prayer. I crumble the paper in my fist and hold it tightly before walking towards the window. Looking out into space, my back to Asgard, I tilt my head up and close my eyes. "Heimdall, please let me know you see me."

Silence. A white, voided mind.

"That traitor? He is probably roaming somewhere in the deep woods of Asgard's wild. He couldn't have left the realm, I mean, I wouldn't have let him. I'm the only one who can access the bifrost. If he were smart, he wouldn't show his face in the city ever again."

I take a deep breath, fisting the paper more fiercely. I keep my eyes closed for the chance Heimdall would send me something. Anything.

Nothing.

"Those are some bold words coming from a man with the responsibility of only two bullet points." I turn quickly to him, projecting all of my rage into the protection of the only thing worth fighting for in this whole god forsaken world. The only thing I have never found fault in defending. "Heimdall is the only one capable of a position like this. The mere thought that you have any of the same privilege to even look at that sword makes me utterly sick."

The words flow out of me like I had created them myself, taking reign of my movements like a physical force. They step me closer to the false prophet before me. It's a natural gravitation; my hand through the heart of anything that tries to hold something they so clearly do not deserve. Anything that tries to corrupt the name of True Power.

"You are here because someone has put you here. You did not earn it. It is not your right. And you sure as hell do not have the respect that allows you to take control of this little fantasy of power you are trying so hard to convince yourself you have." Skurge takes two steps back with each one of mine forward, but I don't refrain. "Every second  you spend feeding your desperate, selfish ego on that stand...every second  you would rather spend abusing a power that is clearly only meant for the few, truly selfless in this world, you put Asgard and all the people in it in more danger. With every second you spend in this pursuit, you lose more and more control over your own fate."

"Take this as a warning, Skurge. Perhaps consider it more of the gracious gift of opportunity. Hm? Because as soon as you start to feel comfortable with the power trusted in your hands here...as soon as you start to compare yourself to men like Heimdall...I am going to kill you. It's not a want, Skurge. I never want to kill. I need to—and I will never not be needed, because you are all inevitable as much as you are predictable. Do you know what happens when men like you get a little power? Men who lust over how far this power can take them even if it completely destroys everyone around them?"

His back hits the wall, his eyes widening even more than I thought possible at the realization that he's cornered himself. He swallows his first attempt at words as I settle an inch away from him, my shorter frame proving no less intimidating. His words find him again amidst a moment he seemed to think his last. He forces them out, managing only the strength of a pale, wavering whisper.

"What happens?"

I stare deep into his eyes, finding a lifetime of entitlement. A lifetime of opportunity that he hasn't worked for. No loss. No struggle.

He has the perfect recipe. The ideal resume for the false prophets club. On top of it all, he coddles the delusion that true power and the brightest treasures of heaven could possibly be held by someone who has never experiences the darkest depths of hell; Someone who lives in fear of living.

I walk closer, brushing my chest against his stomach to revel in how the simple contact could bring forth his most crippled form.

"They fall," I whisper, my eyes falling instinctively to his lips. "And let me tell you, Skurge. I can ensure you an award winning fall."