Germany, 1944.
Gunfire exploded around the HYDRA fortress, and orange flashes of mortar fire streaked the afternoon sky, which was so clogged with smoke and clouds it could have been full dark. Steve tore his way through the enemy, the Howling Commandos covering his back. BOOM! An explosive concussion nearly knocked Steve off his feet. Using his shield, he cleared a pathway through the turmoil of HYDRA agents trying to kill him. Bullets tore past his ears as he twisted, leapt, turned, and climbed. Reaching the chosen area, he planted the bomb and backed out again.
He flipped and rolled through the shockwave and found his feet. One quick glance behind him confirmed the destruction of one of the last remaining HYDRA strongholds. He raced along the ruins of the road. Ahead, barely visible through the haze of smoke, he saw Morita wave to him. He followed, rapidly closing the distance between them – then something rocketed between them and the world went crazy in fractured sound and light.
Steve cracked his eyes open. The ashy remains of several trees towered around him, dead branches reaching like starved creatures toward the hellish, smoke-filled sky. Something hard was digging into his back. He leapt to his feet, looking intently in all directions. Nothing stirred. “Jim? Bucky? Gabe?”
Something creaked nearby. He whirled, shield at the ready. A nearby branch cracked and gave way. crashing to the ground. “Bucky!” he shouted again, and waited.
No one answered.
Gut-deep fear clenched in his belly. Were they all dead? They would have searched for him. If they hadn’t found him… if they were not able to find him…
He took a moment, orienting himself. Despite the smoky air, the bad light, he knew where southwest was. He spent long minutes exploring the immediate vicinity, dreading what he might find among the downed trees and random debris. But the area was clear of bodies, and finally he headed southwest in the direction of the base camp. If they were able to go that way and if they hadn’t been able to find him for some reason they would have headed back for camp.
Every sense alert for the slightest sound indicating that anyone was present, he strode over the uneven, debris filled ground, until another hour passed and full night fell.
Smoke gave way to fog. Thick and damp and disorienting, it cloaked everything around him in an impenetrable haze. All sound was swallowed up by the encompassing darkness. He checked his compass and found his instincts were true; he was still heading southwest. But after tripping over one invisible tree root too many he decided the best thing to do was rest for a bit. It would be many hours until dawn. He’d wait for the fog and battlefield smoke to clear a bit. If it cleared before dawn, it would be easy enough to walk by starlight.
He settled down on the ground and reached for his canteen. His heart dropped at the light weight; his fingers found the bullet hole in it an instant before he looked at the damage. Drained dry.
Thirst flared, but there was nothing to be done about it. He set it down beside him, suddenly tired. Very tired. He closed his eyes. Just –
for –
one –
minute….
He opened his eyes slowly, his lids heavy. He became aware he was lying in soft damp grass, that it was daylight – late afternoon, he guessed – and that the air was clear, warm, smoke- and fog-free. How had he slept so long? The question faded from his mind an instant later. Somewhere a bird called, and another called back, a cheerful sound. He lifted his head and felt an odd detached wonder at what he saw. Men and women dressed in strange clothing were walking around a clearing surrounded on all sides by tall healthy trees in full leaf. He suddenly had a memory of holding a book in his hands. His mother had brought him all kinds of books from the library while he’d been bedridden. These people looked like drawings of medieval peasants he’d seen in one of those books.
And what was that object in the middle of the clearing? A low table or altar, constructed of white stone? He blinked. Were they walking around the clearing? Or floating? Their feet did not seem to be actually touching the ground, and when he focused his eyes he found he could see the trees on the other side of the clearing through their transparent forms.
None of them seemed to notice him, their gazes sliding right past him as if he didn’t exist.
He took in a breath at the strangeness of it and became aware of chanting, of the sound of voices sounding simultaneously soft and distant, immediate and clear. Til árs ok friðar. Til árs ok friðar.
The words made no sense at first, and then suddenly, inexplicably, he understood. For a good year and peace. For a good year and peace.
It was all very strange. Was he dreaming? He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy, limp. I’ve been sick again, he thought. Weeks in bed from rheumatic fever and now it’s happened again…
But that wasn’t right. He didn’t get sick anymore. Or did he? Had he dreamed about being well and only to wake to the reality of illness again? Of fever dreams that came and went, like rags of fog, mysterious and fleeting, mirages of good health that beckoned and lied and disappointed again and again?
This had to be a dream. But it was still a struggle to prop himself up on his elbows, fighting the awful weakness. A minute, two, then he felt recovered enough to sit up and inch back to where he could lean against a tree, its hard uneven bark rough against his back.
It suddenly struck him - there was something he needed to remember – some place he had to go. Then the feeling faded away and a dreamlike haze settled over his mind, leaving him feeling no urgency to do anything. He rested and watched the people as they slaughtered animals, and prepared food and passed around drinks from one person to the next. He felt as if he were sitting on a stoop in an unfamiliar neighborhood, watching random people walk by, detached from their lives. There was more chanting, more talking, but whatever that brief understanding of their words had been, he could no longer make any sense of what they were saying.
No one took the least notice of him, and somehow he didn’t find this surprising. The sky was getting dark again, and it occurred to him to wonder why he was there.
He should be somewhere else. He had important things to do.
He scoffed at the idea. What could weak, puny Steve Rogers have to do that was ever going to be important to anyone?
The ghostlike people were making another circuit of the altar, each of them leaving an offering of food and drink on its rough surface. They were chanting again, faster, louder, and as the last person left a final offering they stopped moving, reached out to each other, and linked hands.
Their voices soared to a final crescendo. The altar stones suddenly glowed a brilliant green-white then vanished - as did all the people. Daylight drained from the sky; an instant later it was full dark.
He leapt to his feet, breathing in the chill air, even as the realization hit him. The HYDRA fortress. Getting separated from the Commandos. Falling asleep in the fog.
Feeling strong again, full of energy, all traces of lethargy thrown off, he looked closely around the entire clearing. No one was there. He looked up at the sky. Traceries of cloud wove around a full moon, but the rest of the sky was clear and filled with stars. It had just gone nightfall when he’d stopped to sleep. The position of the moon now showed it was closer to midnight.
That was it, then. He’d fallen asleep and had a strange dream. Just one more dream of the many he had where he was still weak and ill. He sucked in a breath, feeling a surge of joy at the strength and power of his body. Weakness, illness - that was in the past, over and done with.
Now, it was time to go, back to the base where, he prayed fervently, his friends awaited him.
He’d only taken one step then stopped abruptly. The fog was gone, but the clearing itself began filling with an odd diffuse greenish-white light. He noticed, also, the straight smooth boles of the trees formed an almost perfect circle. And now the light retreated, condensed, and hovered over what appeared to be several scattered stones, bright white in the moonlight, which were positioned at the exact center of the circle where the table or altar had been.
He frowned down at the stones. They looked to be of the same material that the altar had been made from, too regularly shaped to be natural.
He stepped toward the center of the clearing. Something whispered past him, a shimmer of gold and green that moved past and around him too quickly to focus on. He started and whirled, looking everywhere, but nothing moved among the trees.
“Hello?” he called.
“Hello,” a man’s voice whispered. It had a strange resonance, as if the speaker were in another room, or at the other end of a telephone. He turned, peering into the darkness between the trees, and there it was again, that quick shimmer of green-and-gold-against-black, which suddenly slowed and solidified.
A man – a very tall man – was standing directly behind the scattered stones. Wisps of greenish-gold light sparked around and silhouetted the figure. His head lifted, revealing a bone-white face. Two intense green eyes stared at him.
Steve felt a superstitious chill and resisted the temptation to take a step backward. The world was full of many strange things, he among them, and who knew what the Nazis were hiding in these mountains?
“How interesting.” The man’s lips curved in a wide grin as he surveyed Steve head to toe. Steve returned the favor. Details were becoming clearer in the low light. The man was wearing some kind of complicated leather and metal armor, and – of all things – a dark green cape. Ink-black hair fell nearly to the man’s collar, framing his pallid face.
Steve craned his neck as the man walked around him, returning to stand in front of him. He gave Steve an intrigued smile. “I had not expected to find anyone here.”
“There were people here earlier,” Steve offered cautiously, surprised the man spoke English, wondering at the man’s unplaceable accent. Not German, not Italian. Not anything he recognized. He tilted his head slightly to look up into the sharp-featured face. “Not long ago. If I didn’t dream them, that is.”
The man glanced around the clearing, then a tiny smile quirked his lips. “They were here longer ago than you may think. Now,” he hummed for a moment, and turned in a complete circle. “Yes. There are echoes and shades. There was much power here, once, when they gathered for the blót.” He lifted one long-fingered hand and made a trailing gesture around the clearing. Steve watched, fascinated and unnerved, as trails of green and gold light followed those fingertips in a complete circuit around the clearing, and – for just an instant – vague shapes of people appeared, then vanished again, leaving nothing behind but the trees.
His heart pounded faster. HYDRA agents he could face all day, but this? What was going on here?
“Only traces left,” the man continued softly. “But…” His brow furrowed as he concentrated, his gaze going distant, as if he were seeing objects a great distance away. He turned, turned again, until he was facing north. “Ah. There it is. So they have wakened Father’s little treasure. How amusing. He thought it safe here, hidden away, and yet…” He smiled, bemused, still staring off into the distance. “And yet its power is unleashed. Shall I tell him, I wonder? Or say nothing?” He turned to face Steve directly and looked at him speculatively. “How very exciting it will be, to see what chaos you all will wreak with it. Shall it bring you mortals to our very doorstep? Will you make demands or threats?” He huffed a brief laugh. “Won’t he be surprised?”
Mortals? Treasures? Steve decided to ignore this incomprehensible – insane – speech. He needed facts, information. “Who are you? Where are you from?”
The man gave him a crooked smile. “My bedchamber, most recently, in the arms of another false lover. The company I was keeping was skillful but quite tedious when he - ” he gave Steve a lewd grin, “opened his mouth to… speak. He had as many favors to ask as you mortals once did. But while he slept I could feel it: something has awakened on Midgard. I decided to go take a look. So I came to this place. It was the closest entry to what aroused my curiosity. It is always easiest to go to the places where once they called upon us and sacrificed to us, until they did so no more. I had expected this place to be utterly abandoned. And yet here you are.”
Steve gaped for a moment at another incomprehensible speech and fought down alarm. Hiding his shock at the casual mention of a male lover, he got back to his point. “Who are you?”
The man chuckled, amused. “Not he whom you have called upon, I am certain of that.” He gave Steve another close look. “I see you are a soldier, in the middle of a great war. If you have come in worship of Tyr, he is not here. No one is. They do not come here anymore. They all became…” he gestured theatrically, “bored with mortal doings. But I see they have missed much. Tyr, I know, were he here would be quite proud.”
Tyr? Something about that name seemed familiar to Steve, something he’d read once… Worship… Midgard… He could almost remember. The strange man was contemplating him, an interested gleam in the grass-green eyes. “Why would this ‘Tyr’ be so proud?”
The other man swept an arm in a broad gesture seemingly encompassing the world. “You are doing so well with war. You slaughter each other in droves! Your armies are everywhere. You slay more in a day than lived in your realm in days past. You do not need Tyr’s assistance.” His mouth quirked again. “I have my answer now, to what drew me here. But what of you? Tell me your prayer. Perhaps I shall grant it.”
Steve, half-convinced he’d met a madman, recoiled at the sacrilege of being asked to pray to him. “Are you the Devil?” Steve sucked in breath, gooseflesh rising on his skin, and managed not to back away.
“I know not that person.” The man shrugged and raked him with his gaze once more. “You are quite comely. And tall, for a mortal. Tell me what you desire.”
“I don’t want anything from you!” Steve lifted his chin to look up at the man, who was suddenly very close, surprise evident in his eyes.
“How very intriguing,” the man murmured. “You are one of the few. Ah, but I forget myself. I am plagued with people asking for boons in Asgard. But we are not there. Do mortals not beg boons of their gods anymore?”
“There is only one God – ” Steve began.
The man smirked. “You mortals have had many gods over the centuries. How easily you forget them, though. Look here,” he indicated the clearing. “Many said prayers to us in this place in years past. But now, silence. Except… But yes,” he stood, listening, “There are those who call upon us even now.” He laughed soundlessly. “They are playing with Father’s toy, making weapons from it, but they call to him in vain. He has forsaken mortals. None will come because they no longer listen for your prayers. But, on consideration - ” he leaned in confidingly “ - No one ever prayed to me anyway. None ever cared for my gifts. Though I did give splendid ones. When I chose.”
The man’s voice was light and ironic, but there was a layer of something beneath that hinted at far more complex emotions.
“You’ve been saying a lot,” Steve said, his thoughts veering from the supernatural, presenting him with solid, real world theories on who this man might be. Madman, HYDRA agent, Nazi? What possible game could he be playing in this place of war? Did he know who Steve was? “But you’ve left out the basics. Who are you and why are you here?”
The man’s mouth formed a wide, expectant smile. “I am Loki of Asgard.” Steve started, and Loki’s smile became amused. “You do know my name. So it is not just those few fools playing with Father’s toy who remember us.”
“I heard about you from storybooks,” Steve said, humoring him, remembering the times his mother used to read to him from library books. Remembering all the hours he spent confined to his bed, alone while she was at work, reading one book after the other – myths and fairytales and war tales and heroic men having heroic adventures. “All those myths about ancient Norse gods.”
“Myths,” Loki murmured, bemused.
But Steve had grasped the memory now. “Tyr – that’s it! He was the god of war.”
“He remains quite bellicose,” Loki observed. “Ah, the tales mortals told about us. All lies. Mostly. Some I told myself.” His eyes were sparkling with amusement.
Steve took in a deep breath. Madman, then. And one who imagines himself the god of trickery and deceit. But what had those sparks been that had surrounded his hands and body when Loki had first – appeared? A trick of the light?
A stage magician’s trickery. Everything he had seen could be explained by sleight-of-hand. Or… “I’m only dreaming this, I suppose,” he said, wanting the other man’s reaction. “I’ll wake up back at camp, and none of this will have happened.”
The – god? legend? – gave him a benevolent smile and said, “I was dreaming on Asgard before I woke. Am I your dream then?” he asked suggestively.
Unsettled by the sexuality in the other man’s voice, Steve swallowed and decided to ignore the implication, and the rush of heat that raced along his skin. Should he be really engaging in this conversation? Should he try to leave? If this were merely a madman, it should be easy enough. But he could be concealing all kinds of weapons beneath that outfit of his, and there was no way Steve was going to turn his back on him. And – despite his attempts at finding a rational explanation – his arms were covered in goosebumps by Loki’s uncanny presence, and an instinct older than reason kept him standing where he was.
“I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted, everything I dreamed of doing.” Confidence flowed back into him as he spoke. He didn’t run away, not in the face of bullies, and not in the face of… whatever this was. “I wanted to be strong enough to serve my country – to fight for justice. And I am.”
Loki gave him another long, appraising look. “You certainly appear to be a strong warrior.”
“Strong enough to do what needs to be done.” Steve felt himself settling into the conversation. Dream or reality, it had its own peculiar logic to it. And if the other man – Loki – were insane, he hadn’t yet made a threatening move. Quite the contrary – that seductive voice had brought images to Steve’s mind that he tried to push away. And failed.
“Do you dream of nothing else? Of nobody else?” Loki’s smile widened.
Steve blushed at the thought of Loki and his male lover. He thought of the hidden places in the neighborhood where he grew up, where men met with other men. He thought of all he had seen and dreamed and desired. He had no answer he could speak aloud. “What do legends dream?” Steve asked instead.
“Of many things,” Loki said. “Of worlds you will never see and treasures you cannot fathom. Or,” he offered Steve a sly smile, “perhaps this night I will dream of you.” His gaze travelled the length of Steve’s body. “But I rarely limit myself to dreams.”
A shiver crossed Steve’s skin, sparked by unease and sudden desire. He blushed and shifted uncomfortably under Loki’s knowing gaze. Loki’s smile widened. He swallowed and decided to pretend he didn’t understand the implication of Loki’s words. He grasped at the previous subject and fought to keep his voice even. “My mother read so many old tales to me. Tales of you and all the others in Asgard.” He hesitated, as images his child’s imagination had given him at that time came into his mind. Loki the trickster, Loki the shapeshifter. Loki, always getting into and out of trouble. He took in a breath and went on, “I loved those stories, and the tales of Greece and Rome and Egypt, of their gods and monsters. Their heroes and demons. Happy endings. And sad.”
Loki’s lips twisted slightly. “And what of one who is neither hero nor demon?”
“We all are that,” Steve said, puzzled. “All people walk between the angels and devils. Regular people, that is.”
“I’m hardly that,” Loki said in mock affront. “Are you?”
“Yes,” Steve said, because it was true, because inside he was the same person he always had been. Trying to do what was right. Trying not to think of what he wanted, what he should not have, what was forbidden. What pleasures others took, in secrecy and shadows. What was clearly being offered now. “I am,” he said resolutely.
“The man who wants nothing. And yet here you are, in the place where prayers were once answered.”
“I’m not even sure how I got here,” Steve said, remembering walking through the ruined trees, their bare dry branches, the choking smell of smoke. Remembering how he walked further into the fog and darkness while everything around him faded away and he stopped to sleep. Looking around him now, seeing the trees in full leaf, smelling the spring sweetness of the air, impossible at this time of the year, convinced him. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He would wake up soon.
Loki took a step closer, and there was heat and hunger in his face. Steve swallowed and didn’t try to pretend he didn’t recognize what he saw. He’d seen it in the eyes of others often enough. With women, he didn’t know how to respond. With men, he didn’t dare respond. With this man…
With this man standing before him – tall, mysterious, a vision in chiaroscuro – Steve desperately wanted to respond. He wanted to see all of this man. He wanted to paint him. He wanted to touch –
Mouth dry, body aching with need, wanting to respond to the other man’s clear invitation, mind filled with trepidation, still unsure if this was a dream or reality, then, suddenly, not caring, he asked, “You say people are always asking you for favors. If you were to ask someone for a favor – a ‘boon’, what would you ask for?”
A look of pure surprise crossed Loki’s face. He was silent for a moment longer than necessary. Something of pain, of yearning, of an age-old disappointment crossed Loki’s smooth features. With obvious effort, he arranged his face into a blank mask. “I do not ask for boons as I do not expect to receive them.”
“If you were to ask… what would you ask for?” Steve persisted, feeling emboldened by the other man’s hesitation.
Loki didn’t answer for a long moment. “A lover who seeks no boons from me,” he said softly, meeting Steve’s eyes as if he were suddenly seeing him for the first time.
“I’m not asking anything from you.” Steve took a step closer. Loki remained still. Steve took another step and found words he had always kept silent. With an entirely different kind of courage than any he had ever possessed, he said, “Unless you’re asking something of me?”
Desire blazed in Loki’s eyes. He flashed a strange smile, rueful, then hungry. “I will show you what I ask of you.” Loki raised a hand. An aura of green light surrounded his skin as he gestured and the clearing abruptly – changed. Steve took a startled step back as a bed appeared in front of them, richly strewn with furs and pillows, made up with luxurious sheets in rich shades of green and gold. A wall appeared behind the bed, insubstantial in detail, and through it he could see the vague outlines of the trees. He was barely surprised.
An image of himself appeared beside the bed. “I really am dreaming,” Steve muttered to himself, watching horrified and embarrassed and extremely aroused as an image of Loki appeared before his avatar and bent down to kiss his mouth. Long-fingered hands trailed down his avatar’s chest, and he shivered as if those hands were touching him.
He looked to his side, where Loki was avidly watching his own illusion, desire and sorrow warring in those green eyes.
In the illusion, his avatar tangled his fingers in Loki’s black hair, disordering it as they kissed passionately. And Steve at last acknowledged the contours of this fantasy. He’d dreamed variations of this dream before, nonsensical images and scenes opening the door to the forbidden desires he kept repressing. Opening the door, to find a man inside, naked, aroused, waiting for him.
Though none of his dreams had ever felt quite this strange, this magical, this removed from anything he had ever experienced before.
He reached out in wonder, to touch, to caress the edges of the vision, but his hand slipped through a corner of the bed and the scene shimmered and vanished.
“An illusion, that is all,” a dark silky voice murmured in his ear. “Nothing that I conjure thus is ever real. Simply, a private amusement.” And the seductive tone gave way to a bitter regret.
“I don’t think any of this is real,” Steve said, daring to touch Loki’s hand, which felt warm and strong. “But you feel real.”
Loki’s other hand, as it circled around him and pressed him close, felt just as real. Loki’s mouth was warm and demanding when it claimed his. He opened his mouth willingly, allowing the exploration, daring to return it, losing himself in his senses, letting go of all the priests’ warnings of sin, all guilt and shame, letting go of everything that told him he should not want what he most wanted.
Loki’s long-fingered hands, undoing his clothing and ghosting over Steve’s skin, sending shivers of need through his body, felt very real indeed. Loki’s hands and mouth explored every inch of his flesh; his own hands and mouth and body instinctively copying the other man’s movements, exploring the other man’s body. “This is new to you,” he thought he heard Loki say at one point, and he may have replied, but the touches of Loki’s cool hands and warm mouth blurred his thoughts. Then Loki guided him down to the ground, and the press of their bodies against each others, slow, then hard and fast, took away all awareness of anything but this man’s body against his own.
When it was all over and Loki drew him to his feet again, he sighed with satisfied pleasure. The grove lay quiet and dark around them, the moon lower in the sky, all traces of that earlier eerie light gone. He looked into Loki’s startling green eyes and pressed a kiss to Loki’s lips. I’ve done this, he thought, awed. I’ve done this, this wonderful forbidden thing, and it felt so very right. Some part of his mind was still telling him this had been wrong. The greater part of his mind didn’t care. Not when Loki was looking at him with such delight in his eyes, such a pleased smile arcing his lips.
He tangled his fingers with Loki’s. Long thin cool fingers circled his. Real - but a different type of reality than anything he had ever experienced before.
Loki kissed his forehead. “I must go. It is almost dawn in Asgard, and I have court business to attend to.”
Steve almost protested. He had a million questions about magic and illusions and dreams and myths, of sanity and madness and reality. None of them meant a thing except one. “Will I see you again?”
Loki’s lips were tinged with sorrow. “Ah, mortal,” he said regretfully. “I will sleep and wake and sleep again, and when next I look at your realm you will be gone.” He kissed Steve’s hands, then stepped back. Steve reached for him, but he was already turning, already fading, half dust, half starlight, finally disappearing in a swirl of green light.
It was full daylight when Steve woke again. He stood and stretched, feeling extraordinarily well. The clearing looked ordinary in daylight, exactly like any of the others he had passed on trips through these forests. The scattered stones, as bright as beacons the previous night, lay dull and covered with lichen and half-buried in the earth. Even the trees, now bare-branched, which had seemed to make a perfect circle the previous night, now formed a ragged oval. There was still a whiff of smoke in the air.
“Loki?” he whispered.
Nothing answered. A dream? But he could see and feel the last fading imprints of strong fingers against his skin. He smiled and shook his head. If the fairy tales were to be believed, all European woods were filled with strange and marvelous and terrifying beings.
“If you can hear me,” he began again, “And if you are willing, would you come visit me again?”
Somewhere a bird called. He looked up. Was that a flash of green-black wings? No, the sky was empty. He sat again, reaching for the small notebook he carried with him. Fantasy or dream, he wanted a memento. A few quick pencil lines, and a sharp-featured face emerged from the page. He took another moment to add some shading to brows and cheeks and lips, than looked at his drawing.
Loki’s face looked back, lips slightly parted in surprise, eyes eager with interest. He blushed and put it away.
Something caught his eye when he stood again. There, resting against one of the scattered stones, was a military issue canteen. He looked to his right side and there was his own empty canteen, bullet hole obvious in the light of day.
He picked it the intact canteen, opened it, sniffed at it.
Water.
Didn’t the legends warn about not eating or drinking anything the fey creatures offered?
He lifted the canteen in a silent toast. He took a long swallow and capped it. “If you can hear me,” he repeated, “And if you’re in mind to grant my wish, I’d like to see you again.”
Silence. But the air was soft against his skin, clean and clear of smoke, and the sunlight bright against new grass. He waited a moment longer, but nothing answered. He turned and strode off toward the southwest.
When he got back to camp, Bucky and the Howling Commandos were there, all alive, all well, slapping his back and grinning, all simultaneously saying some variation of, “Where were you? We searched but couldn’t find you.”
“I got lost in the fog,” he said simply. Then the Colonel was there, a crooked smile twisting his face. “I just about to declare you AWOL, soldier!” and then barked out new orders.
Surrounded by his men, heading to the mess tent, he took a moment to finger the outline of the notebook in his pocket, the flash of Loki’s smile, the look in those green eyes vivid in his mind.
He dropped his hand. He kept walking.
There was a war on. It was time he got back to it.