Manipulation of Memories and Minds

“Hello...Little One.”

Your steps softly padded along the stone floor as you still tried to figure out just what in the world had made you come back down to this wretched, abandoned place, reeking of desperation and hopelessness. Astonishingly, his voice seemed oddly interested; curious rather than irritated and enraged as it usually sounded. He must have been just as confused as you were.

“Hi. Alien-God,” came your answer, voice calm while you fixated him.

You had contemplated for a moment, but then decided to still settle for the dumb nickname you had come to use. First name basis apparently wasn’t okay and he didn’t seriously expect you to go all ‘Your Highness’ now was he? After everything that had happened? 

He cast a quick glance to the side, not even trying to mask the hint of annoyance crossing the sharp features of his pale face before he strode closer to you with long steps. The silence between the two of you appeared so unbearable that even Loki opted to break it as soon as possible—though not without the hint of a smirk darkening his expression with a curl of his lips.

“Back so soon?”

He folded his hands behind his back while he spoke, straightening his posture. As always he looked perfectly royal, with his oddly ironed clothes lacking any hint of creases and his soft looking hair barely reaching the nape of his neck. Now that he was confined to a cell his hair seemed a lot less spiky and greasy—or at least a bit so, instead neatly cascading down his head.

You stopped right in front of the barrier in the secluded niche between the stone wall and his cell, staring at him while forming an answer in your head to respond to his more or less sarcastic remark,

“Seems like it.”

The light tilt of his head paired with a narrowing of his eyes and a furrow of his dark brows told you that he wanted you to elaborate. Not that you had much more to say.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you said instead, turning your head to the side, “I’m exhausted and confused.”

He started to pace, lightly. Directly in front of the barrier, eyes never straying from yours while the yellow glow casted an interesting shine on his figure; as if trying to brighten the black shadows within him.

“Then why are you here?” he inquired, growing visibly agitated.

“I don’t know.”

“You do not know?” he practically deadpanned, freezing and staring you dead in the eyes while you gave a feeble shrug. After a few seconds of agonizing silence he uttered a dry chuckle.

You couldn’t help but notice that you felt much more at ease standing down in the dungeons than you had felt lying on the soft bed—even despite your frustration at his behavior. And without him needing to say even the slightest thing in return, you felt that it was the same for him.

With an almost comical movement your eyes widened as the full revelation of its implications hit you full force, so much so that your feet caught on each other and you stumbled backwards ever so slightly, barely catching yourself.

The thing.

“Do you feel that too?” you asked, cautiously.

He stood still, right hand scratching on his left in a miniscule movement you detected as a hint of stress and anxiety. Interesting.

“Whatever do you mean?” he replied, eyes shifting before interlocking with yours once more.

A wisp of air escaped your mouth in a dragged out noise before you made to answer his question.

“I’m not sure,” you began, hands pulling the coat you had draped around your body tighter against you, “Some sort of pull I guess? Difficult to explain—“

Putting whatever it was you felt into words proved to be even more difficult than you had anticipated, hands letting go off their tight clutch on your clothes, waving them into the air as if to help in putting your thoughts into spoken words.

His ice cold and apathetic expression as he picked up his pacing through the cell once more betrayed nothing of the agonizing anticipation and suspense he actually felt.

Your sigh tore through the silence.

“Could you please stop that?”

The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could have fully comprehended them and he stopped dead in his tracks, almost threateningly slowly turning his body to face you with a piercing glare.

“—How do you believe to be speaking to me, mortal?” he spat, but you quickly raised your hands in surrender, keeping a tight grip on the stress and familiar burn you were feeling.

“Your behavior, it’s...it’s irritating me. I know exactly what you feel. And—and that’s weird. I know I have abilities, but that level is new.” You stepped closer, biting your lip in frustration as you caught his disbelieving expression.

“Whatever I absorbed from you is to blame, I guess.”

A strained sigh tore through your throat once you had finished voicing your discovery. Your feet started to feel heavy with the weight you felt placed on your shoulders; the Princeling was difficult to be around that was for sure, rage often steaming and boiling out of him like water left for too long on the stove. Talking around him was like having to sneak through a room filled to the brink with eggshells—every misstep could possibly lead him to lash out at you.

In a cautious movement you sat down right in front of his cell with crossed legs, not missing the shift in his facade which showed his honest surprise for but the fraction of a second. 

You smiled.

“Okay, the thing, whatever that was—“ you began, folding your hands in your lap and watching as he stood terribly still, “Do you remember the last time I came down here? Or when you brought me here? Or back when I visited you in that weird glass cell back on Earth?”

You looked at him expectantly, gaze filled with questions but he merely kept waiting for you to elaborate further—perhaps simply stalling for time as he did not feel up to answering to your inquiry. Yet you continued on in hopes of getting any kind of reaction whatsoever; any kind of reaction which at least showed that he didn’t feel completely disinterested about your entire predicament.

“Tell me, what happened after you brought me here?”

Still, he didn’t move a single muscle. 

It would have been nice to hear him not feign apathy for once, to hear the words, the answer out of his own mouth.

“I’ve heard you were in a very bad condition. Like, very bad. And guess what I did while you felt that bad?” you continued.

You could vaguely imagine the agony he must have most likely gone through while you were down. After all, whatever it was had rendered you unconscious.

He still didn’t move, but by now you knew he was following your words incredibly intently, turning every word around to come to his own conclusion, connecting the dots silently inside of his head. Apart from the fact that you could, in a way, feel it—you also saw it in his eyes. Every miniscule movement, every shift told a story of its own and they just carried a glint within which made you realize him to be almost terrifyingly intelligent.

Terribly perceptive, too. And cunning, resourceful.

“I was in a coma,” you spoke, answering your own question, “For two entire weeks.”

There was silence—a break you felt was needed as you watched the gears shift in his head quicker than you could possibly hope to follow.

With a clearing of your throat you continued,

“I think we are—“

“—connected,” he interjected.

“Yes.”

Even more silence followed, before you watched as he disappeared further into the cell. With a swift movement he pulled on a chair—not without his standardized amount of grace and elegance, obviously—pulling it all the way over to the barrier which separated him from you. He sat down with a fluent motion, sinking into the dark blue, velvety fabric before shifting to lean forward, hands in his lap, making his dark hair curl even further down his neck.

“Perhaps there is a method of breaking this connection,” he simply offered, head raised and voice cold, distant. So, despite both of you knowing that you were indeed capable of feeling everything he felt he still preferred to keep up his walls.

“Maybe,” you replied, shifting with unease at the way he stared down at you, “But no one here knows how. Not even your mother.”

He perched up ever so slightly.

“You have spoken to the All-Mother?”

“No,” you replied, “Thor told me.”

“Ah yes,” he said, letting his back rest against the cushions, faint hatred radiating from him unnerving you even further, “My brother.” 

You preferred to not fuel whatever memories were sparking the anger inside his mind by defending Thor—This had to wait for a later date.

“Say,” you tried to pry his focus away from his family, “Does that mean you feel what I feel too?”

The corners of his lips tugged into a smirk and you decided his odd tries at humiliating you—or whatever—to be immensely better than his flaming rage. His hand graced his chin in a swift movement, before he crossed his legs, propping his elbow on it while giving you his fully smug expression.

“There is no need for such extreme measures,” he spoke, not even trying to hide the amusement in his tone, “Every fool could possibly see it in your expression or simply hear it in your voice.”

You deflated.

“So I have no pokerface then, right. Okay,” you muttered, “No gambling for me then.”

The remark went over his head, smirk still way too overconfident as you stared at him, analyzing his posture and trying to see behind his facade as well. But it was no use; without the connection you would have definitely been clueless.

“Your facade is good though,” you mumbled, not giving it much thought as your eyes trailed his face in search of emotions, “But it’s kind of sad that you’re this good at it.”

Once more he shifted to lean forward, listening intently.

It must have certainly felt weird to him, having created a gigantic facade build of walls which no one could penetrate—only for some random person to suddenly appear and manage to see through them as if they were nonexistent all along.

“It’s usually not a sign of a happy childhood,” you offered, remembering Thor’s words regarding their father, the King. Your expression shifted to one filled with disdain and disgust and you tried to catch yourself, tried to actively control the way your face shifted and pulled with your thoughts—but found yourself unable to. You were simply too much like an open book, pages laid bare for everyone to read into, yet until now you had never thought about it much, never declared it much of a weakness. 

Not until now, no.

Your gaze was caught by his weirdly enthralling, piercing green eyes with that strange, knowing and understanding smirk gracing his lips and you forced yourself to break the intense eye contact. It felt like he was trying to analyze your very soul and it was honestly freaking you out. Thanks to his newest revelations you felt positively weakened.

That must be what your abilities felt like to other people.

“You’re weirdly perceptive,” you spoke, staring at the book resting on the bed to the left corner of the room. The golden spine vaguely reflected the yellow, dim glow of the barrier and kept throwing you back to how his helmet had reflected the lights of New York’s destruction a couple of weeks ago.

“So I was told,” he replied after a short moment of silence, oddly sweet tone underlining his phrase and you looked back to see him slightly absent, most likely reminiscing something. Something nice perhaps. Green eyes without the glower, face without its sharpness. He seemed serene, calm. No underlying hint of mischief, of troublemaking, of annoyance and the need to belittle everyone.

[That look suits him much better.]

He gave a weak chuckle, eyes carrying a hint of an amused and intrigued twinkle even more so than before as his mouth curled upwards into a grin.

“How kind of you.”

His voice rang through the deadly quiet, echoing relentlessly against the walls of your mind, as well as the walls of the dungeons over and over again. And afterwards a lot more silence followed as you stared at him dumbfounded; mouth agape and eyes wide open.

He held your confused gaze for a while, unblinking, before deciding to address your odd stare.

“What?”

“I—“ you spluttered, running a hand through your hair, “I didn’t say anything.”

Your confused expression was countered with one of equivalent surprise as his own dark brows lifted on his forehead.

“You did not?” he questioned, quite non-believing.

“No?”

He opened his mouth as if to say something, quickly closing it before opening it right back up with a sharp intake of air. No sound escaped his throat, leaving him to gape like a fish and you to utter a light laugh into the tense silence. Out of nervousness, stress.

His expression rested on annoyed with an almost audible click.

[Insufferable mortal.]

“Hey!” you interjected, almost sulking, “Cut it with that mortal thing—I know you’re not immortal either, so—“

He stared, quiet.

“What?”

You watched as he pressed his lips into a thin line, hand moving from his chin to intertwine with his other hand on his lap. With a look that pierced you as much as it made him appear to be lost in thoughts he started picking on his left hand again and you arched an eyebrow in response.

“Unfortunately it seems we are connected even more deeply than we have initially thought.”

“And by that you mean—?” you asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.

“In addition to sharing our sensations and emotional state, I am further able to hear your thoughts,” he spoke, matter-of-factly, “And you are able to hear mine.”

You scoffed, rest of his implications going over your head in an attempt to save your reputation, to defend the abilities you had never been proud of out of a mere instinct, “Well I could do that before too, so—“

“No,” he cut through you voice with his, jutting his chin up as if to reprimand you for your lack of knowledge, “Not with me. Not with my mother either, I am certain. We both carry high defenses against possible intrusions of our minds, having practiced them for centuries to millennia. Defenses not to be impeached by a mere—Midgardian.”

“—I couldn’t hear them?”

The fact that he didn’t say mortal didn’t go unnoticed by you.

“No,” he repeated and the certainty behind it made you fall quiet instantly. You had never thought about this. That there may be individuals your abilities didn’t work on.

“In all honesty—“ his voice was oddly quiet as he spoke and you found him to be keeping his focus directed at the stack of books located in the corner to his right, “—I am sure, have you not had the element of surprise as well as the advantage of physical contact on your side, you would not have been able to overwhelm my defenses.”

You watched as he was deep in thought, intrigued to follow his theories which he felt the need to share. Everything was better than his rage, and his insights were rather enlightening.

“I believe we have been connected since that incident, allowing you to—“ he didn’t want to admit it, but both of you knew it either way, so he continued, “—To invade my mind another time during my imprisonment on Midgard.”

To you it sounded like he tried to convince himself rather than you, trying arguments to explain what he thought of as a sudden, inexplicable weakness.

“Yet I am unsure as to how a mere surprise rendered my defenses futile.”

“Actually,” you interjected, wanting to aid in easing his mind, “Since I’m  here I’ve heard of a new theory regarding my abilities. That the thing in your mind was related to the Mind Stone—And that my abilities originate from that stone too.”

He fell oddly quiet for a second and you vaguely caught a glimpse of horror in his green eyes and felt a vague burning sensation coursing through your body, which luckily left in the blink of an eye as he composed himself, obviously stowing parts of his thoughts away in the depths of his mind.

“That does sound like a logical possibility,” he muttered, absentmindedly propping his chin on the palm of his hand once more, “They must have attracted each other once the physical contact had been formed.”

You nodded along, “That makes sense, yes.”

Out of habit you had almost grown accustomed to the silence which formed between the two of you whenever a new revelation had been made. Loki did not seem so accepting.

“What you had told me last time,” he began, eyes searching yours to make sure he had your undivided attention, “About memories you took—That was not a lie.”

“Of course it wasn’t!” you replied with an exasperated tone gracing your voice, shifting to rest your weight on your hands in horror. You? Lying?

Definitely not!

“I see,” he continued, watching your outburst with amusement and intrigue—he most likely had heard bits of your internal turmoil judging by his smirk, “For what I have said, regarding being the God of Lies; I am indeed able to detect untruths within others. There was no such thing within you. Throughout the entirety of your visits, there was not.”

It was not like you didn’t know that you had been speaking truthfully and honestly to him—but hearing him admit to it felt oddly nice and comforting. As if such an occasion was rare in his books and it lightly filled you with pride. His finger tapped against his chin in thought before he graciously rose to his feet, still intently watching you.

“I must say I admire your honesty.”

[Not many have been this generous with me.]

You blinked, trying to separate the words sounding through the room from the ones sounding in your head. Whatever his inner thoughts were hinting at was not a desirable memory for sure.

“Uhm, thanks,” you quickly mumbled, returning to look at him as to not irritate him any further, yet he was already standing with his hands folded behind his back, green eyes staring you down. Under his scrutinizing gaze you slightly shifted, moving your legs to the side to keep them awake.

“Perhaps we should postpone our conversation to a later date,” he spoke, jutting his chin higher up into the air, “For you appear to be positively fatigued.”

It honestly weirded you out how he had noticed before you did—arms suddenly feeling heavier along with your legs, eyelids dropping closed.

“I do have questions of my own for the next time you intrude,” he said, turning to face the inside of his cell. His hands gently got ahold of the chair to further push it back into his accommodation, all the way back to rest next to the table. You couldn’t help but watch with half-closed eyelids, how the Prince forcefully averted his face from your direction, watched as he graciously sat down on his bed and got ahold of a book.

Now that he wasn’t yelling or dripping with rage he actually seemed like a decent person to be around. Terribly complicated nonetheless, but also much better than before. It didn’t help your assessment that you felt how lonely he was, how abandoned he felt deep down in the dungeons, tucked away under the kingdom which he might have been born to rule. 

Intrude—You couldn’t help the smirk which graced your face.

He definitely had rather odd methods of asking for you to return.

After a while his voice sounded through the quiet.

“Are you still there?” he said, barely loud enough for you to hear across the distance.

“Hmm,” you mumbled back, closing your eyes as a sudden wave of utter exhaustion pulled you under—quite literally as you felt yourself black out for the fraction of a second to find yourself on the floor the next time you opened them back up. The harsh stone dug uncomfortably into your side and it involuntarily reminded you of how Loki’s leather clad had poked your face while he had carried you two weeks ago.

The occasions were rare in which you were tired enough to fall asleep on such uncomfortable ground—apparently this was one of those.

For you closed your eyes and fell asleep.

——————

He closed the book with an audible snap and placed it next to himself on the velvet, blue blanket, turning his face to look at—

—Yes. You were still there.

Asleep.

Your body was crumpled up in a truly cramped and no doubt uncomfortable position on the moist stone floor, lips slightly parted and hair a mess on top of your head. The coat seemed to work as some kind of blanket, and he could but tilt his head in confusion, at seeing you that vulnerable on the floor. Mortals alone were weak and utterly defenseless enough; even more so compared to Asgardians and Aesir. But sleeping on the floor of a dungeon filled to the brink with the most brute and savage creatures of almost all nine realms seemed to reach an entire new level of idiocy.

He wanted to scoff but found himself unable to.

Your honesty appealed to him in an odd fashion; usually he found himself surrounded by lies and deceit—so much so he had vowed to make the very definition his own—but you? You had not lied a single time since he had met you and it eased the sensation he usually felt dwelling in the pits of his stomach whenever someone was untruthful around him, the sensation which opted to spread into his mind and always left behind a bitter taste on his tongue.

But was it honestly the truth? Were his memories all but lies, created to deceive him? Or was his usually incredibly accurate ability malfunctioning—as it seemed to have failed him during his tried takeover of New York? Could the being which had send him to Midgard possibly be tied up in the apparent erasure and twist of his remedies?

His head threatened to burst the more he tried to dug into the unknown and he found himself uselessly scraping against a barricade made of unbreakable steel, forcing him to give up upon noticing its futility.

No.

You were different.

His eyes fell on you one last time before he, too, found himself unable to fight the wave of exhaustion rolling over him, appearing so suddenly he was unable to comprehend it as his eyelids fell closed and he fell asleep on his bed.