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Black Bayou, 1879
She hadn’t meant to wander out past the Barton’s farmstead. She’d gotten distracted by the butterflies fluttering along the wild weeds and she hadn’t realized the danger. The ground bled out to the dark, algae covered swamp water and before she knew it the path was behind her somewhere and... and…
It was getting late. The sun was already on its descent and the cypress trees loomed like spindly claws rising from the murk. She could feel eyes on her, most likely those of a gator or two thinking to make a snack of the foolish little girl who’d lost her way.
She shivered when the wind whistled and moaned, the harbinger of a coming storm. She could practically smell the rain in the air. It was bound to be a bad one. There hadn’t been a worrisome hurricane in months and old lady Wilson was warning everyone to beware.
The snapping of brush underfoot caused her to freeze, her pulse jumping into a frantic rhythm. Turning, she gasped as glowing amber eyes pinned her to the spot. Slowly a lithe black wolf slunk from the underbrush, its head low and its stare far too shrewd.
There weren’t supposed to be wolves around these parts. Or none that she’d heard the trappers talk about, at least.
It didn’t look hungry. It didn’t look mean either. But that didn’t mean much. Parker Gulliot didn’t look mean, but that didn’t stop him from pulling her hair and pushing her in the mud.
She waited for the wolf to attack, her eyes closed tight as her bottom lip trembled with the effort to hold back her tears. She was scared and alone and Mama wasn’t going to come looking for her-
Something wet and cold pressed into her hand and she screamed.
“Fenrir! That is not how we treat guests! You must be polite. Begging for scritches is hardly setting forth a good first impression.”
She opened her eyes and flinched as the wolf darted in close and ran his pink tongue up her cheek. She couldn’t help but erupt in giggles at the unexpected show of affection.
“Do forgive him, Miss. His manners are atrocious.”
She finally took a good look at the young man who had spoken. Tall and thin, he was dressed casually in a white shirt and black vest and matching trousers. Somehow she didn’t think a hat and overcoat would suit him well. Then he’d be all stuffy like Doctor Banner. But he seemed nice and friendly so she grinned, proudly displaying her missing front teeth. “It’s alright. Constable Stark has an old coonhound named Jarvis and he likes to give kisses too.”
“Ahh, well, that explains it then,” the stranger smiled, his unusual green eyes sparkling mischievously. “You are quite a ways from your home. Surely someone is missing you.”
Mama always said people didn’t like liars so she figured answering his question honestly was the right thing to do. “Mama’s busy with her gentlemen callers,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t really know what that means but a lot of people spit when they say her name. It’s really gross. And my teacher, Mrs. Potts, always tells the other kids to be nice to me and that it’s not my fault but they don’t listen. Did you know Bucky put a frog down my dress yesterday? That was gross too.”
Something sad flitted across the man’s expression, there and then gone. But she didn't think too much of it, everyone in town gave her that look. When they weren’t running her off or saying mean things. That happened a lot too.
To her embarrassment, her stomach growled and the young man chuckled pleasantly.
“Perhaps you would care for a snack before beginning your journey home?” he offered kindly, holding out a pale hand.
Mrs. Potts said to never talk to strangers, but Mama always said be nice to people and they’ll be nice to you. She was starting to think her Mama wasn’t always right but she was hungry and afraid to say she didn’t know the way home. Putting on a brave face, something she was good at, she took his hand. “My name is Darcy. What’s yours?”
“Loki. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance Miss Darcy.”
She liked his fancy talk, it was funny. She was still giggling about it as he led her toward the rickety shack she hadn’t noticed set back amidst the trees.
The town of Marville, 1893
Darcy clings to the shadows, shifting uncomfortably as she keeps a keen eye on the spectacle before her.
“Behold, the plague is upon us!” cries Father Sinclair from where the old man preaches atop two rickety whiskey crates. The majority of the townsfolk have gathered in the square, applauding and encouraging the priest’s lecture. “First came the rains and then swarming mosquitoes. And now the worst is upon us. The fever will see us all in our graves.”
A chorus of shouts and angry murmurs follows the macabre statement. From the corner alcove where Darcy huddles, she sees Farmer Barton with his wagon heading toward the Pratt’s funeral parlor with another sheet covered corpse.
The third one of the night. And it looked small. Another child?
Darcy swallows hard and looks away, back to the mob gathering their ire. She knows where this is heading, she can feel it in her gut. Sure enough, someone in the crowd shouts the dreaded words.
“It’s that witch! She’s cursed us!”
“It’s high time we burned her outta the swamp!”
“Hang her then burn her!”
“My good people, calm yourselves. Prayer is the only salvation now-” The tumult of voices drowns out Father Sinclair and his redirection falls on deaf ears. The “good people” are incited now and there is nothing worse than frightened simpletons with a convenient scapegoat.
It shows what they know. She is actually a he and he hadn’t hurt anyone at all.
Well, not this time.
Pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders, Darcy slips from her hiding spot and starts off toward the south end of the town proper. She walks quickly, keeping her head down, her heart growing heavier with each door that is painted with a black X. The sight is also a grim warning that desperate people will resort to desperate measures. She needs to warn Loki and it wouldn’t do to be seen now.
The last thing she needs is to add another slur to her already soiled reputation.
As the daughter of a tavern whore, her mother’s shadow had cast her under a stigma long before she’d had the chance to earn the town’s scorn. The fact that the only work she can get is as a maid in the town’s funeral parlor says a lot. Oftentimes it feels as if even the dead judge her.
But that is of little importance now. She needs to hurry, before the people of Marville decide to make good on their threat and head off into the swamp after their so-called “witch”.
Darcy hunches her shoulders against the autumn chill, the night air feeling colder when paired with her fear and the relentless humidity. The route to Loki’s dwelling is familiar and she knows it as well as the backwaters that surround it. But the swamp is a different world at night and she’s never braved the trek in the darkness. By necessity a lantern is not possible. She’ll have to make her way by the light of the full moon.
Loki had called it a Blood Moon. She fervently hopes that wasn’t a premonition.
Darcy follows the cobbled streets that eventually turn into a winding, dirt track. Eventually it gives way to underbrush and she has to break from the trail, picking her way along the thicket. Mindful of her skirts, she slips through a break in the brambles, forced to slow her pace along this lesser traveled foot path that is barely visible in the dark.
Unexpectedly, a grumpy growl from the nearby shadows has her breathing a sigh of relief.
Crouching down, Darcy holds her hand out to the slender black wolf that seems to bleed from the darkness, smiling as he butts his head against her palm. “Fenrir, I must speak with your master. I will reach him faster if you lead the way. Can you do that for me?”
The wolf swishes his tail, a low rumble coming from his throat.
“I will give you all the scratches and treats you could want later, but first I need to warn Loki,” she pleads, her voice nearly breaking as she says his name, the desperation to get to him turning her stomach into a knot of anxiousness.
Fenrir yips and then takes off at a trot, light and sure of foot, leaving Darcy scurrying to follow.
The darkness nearly steals Darcy’s breath the deeper they traverse into the swamp, the fog rising from the murky waters as thick clusters of spanish moss hang low from the cottonwood and cyprus trees. Owls hoot, an eerie call that is answered by the frogs and crickets. A hiss and splash sends a chill down her spine as reflective eyes watch from the water line.
Her only comfort is Fenrir and she trails him closely.
Finally there is a break in darkness. Up ahead, perched on sloped ground is Loki’s shack. The weathered wood and a rusty tin roof are details all but lost to the darkness, but the grimy window emits a cheery pale glow and Darcy feels a measure of her urgency begin to fade. That she has found him before anyone else is a great relief.
Fenrir lets out low, crooning howl as they approach and the door to the shack flings open with a creak of protest as Loki’s head pokes out with a disgruntled frown.
“Fen, I specifically said I was not to be disturbed- Oh! Darcy?” Instantly the annoyance melts from his expression which shifts to concern as he comes forward to greet her. “Whatever brings you to my door at this hour? Is something amiss?”
Her heart tugs painfully when Loki takes her hands in his. There are dark circles under his deep green eyes, ink smudged on his cheek and his hair is in disarray as if he’d run his fingers through the ebony strands repeatedly. He looks startlingly young and incredibly tired, a deception only in part.
Before she can answer Fenrir growls, loud and menacing, baring his fangs at something only he can hear. Loki tenses and sharply tugs her toward the door. “Inside now. There’s an ill presence about this night.”
The townsfolk talk of ghosts that roam the swamp. Loki has never said otherwise.
Darcy braces for the tingle of magic that accosts her from head to toe as she crosses the threshold into Loki’s private lair. She has no concept of the magic at work, but the space she enters is clearly not the inside of a dilapidated shack. The ceiling is high, higher than the one in Marville’s church, and the chamber is massive. There is furniture scattered about, gold gilded but worn and every surface is covered in either parchment or books, in some cases both. She eyes the apothecary set up noting the assortment of potion bottles are in need of organization once more.
“I am not sure whether it is foolish or brave of you to seek me out at this hour,” Loki chides gently as he starts clearing a chair for her. “Come now, tell me what troubles you.”
Grasping him by the shoulders, Darcy forces him to still so she has his full attention. "Loki, the fever is getting worse. More people are dying everyday. The townsfolk are scared and some are already blaming you."
Placing little stock in her warning, Loki places a hand to her brow to check for warmth and she batts his hand away, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You need to go. I'm serious, they want to hang you and some have suggested worse. Please, you have to leave."
Loki simply arches a dark brow, unimpressed. "Your concern is wasted on me, my sweet. They will never find this place unless I allow them to." He grins lopsidedly. "Now, how have you been feeling? The tonic I concocted should render you immune to the sickness, but I am loath to take chances with your life."
“I’m fine. Right as rain.” Reminded of the concoction and its vile taste, Darcy is struck with a glorious idea. “The tonic! Loki, you can help them!” she says excitedly.
Unfortunately, Loki doesn’t share her enthusiasm.
“That would be a right bother. Why should I burden myself with their pitiable circumstances?” he reasons. Satisfied with her health, he steps away quickly, careful to keep a polite distance between them. Returning to his desk, his attention promptly shifts back to the quill and parchments laid out as he takes a seat.
Black Bayou, 1884
“I'm hungry,” she complained as she idly scratched around the base of Fenrir’s ear. Chin propped on her palm, she sighed, her stomach complaining far more quietly.
“You are always hungry,” drawled Loki absently, not bothering to look up from the tome he was reading.
She watched him with narrowed eyes. “I wish I had an apple.” She waited but still Loki did not look up. Something hard and solid landed on her head with a dull thump and she fumbled to catch it. “Ow! Ooh. A green one. Thank you.” She crunched into the tart, crisp fruit and the sore spot on her head was all but forgotten.
Turning a page in the massive book, eyes glued to the text, Loki smirked. “Did you forget your morning meal again?”
She hadn’t forgotten. There was nothing to eat, that was all. And she wasn’t begging. Conjuring a single apple was nothing for Loki. He could do it with a snap of his fingers. Still, shame churned in her gut and she lied instead.
“Yes. Silly me,” she tittered, “Don't know where my mind is." She could feel Loki’s eyes on her and her cheeks flushed scarlet. She didn’t dare meet his eyes.
“You are many things Darcy Lewis, clever being chief among them. But a good liar you most certainly are not.”
"I'm not a charity case!" she cried, glaring furiously at the half eaten apple in her hand. Ever since Mama passed away some of the townsfolk had taken to treating her differently. They weren't nice exactly, but they all carried the same airs about them. She knew pity when she saw it and she wasn't pitiful. She wasn't a burden or a problem. She would take of herself, just as she always had.
"When I help Mrs. Hill with her vegetable stand she gives me the nearly spoiled ones for cooking. And Mr. Coulson will give me a loaf of day old bread if I empty the rat traps for him. I work for what I get. I don't take handouts."
Loki's expression remained carefully neutral as he replied, "Since pestering me seems to be one of your favored pastimes, I suppose you could make yourself useful and help me sort the herbs and flowers for drying."
Some of the shame clogging her throat eased and she made no comment on the cubes of cheese and hunk of bread that suddenly appeared in front of her. Loki knew her well enough and he treated her much like Peter treated his younger sister Wanda. She appreciated that and resorted to their usual bickering to lighten the mood.
"You know you enjoy it when I come around to bother you."
"I know no such thing," Loki huffed, his lips curling upward. "Perhaps if you cease being quite so bothersome I will come to think of you fondly."
Darcy grinned around another bite of apple, chewing hastily before swallowing. "Then you will miss me something fierce because I don't know how often I'll be able to visit anymore."
"Oh?" Loki arched a brow. "Why is that?"
"I found steady work," she replied gracelessly around a cube of cheese.
"Work? I suppose you are of age," he said with a frown.
"I am fourteen. Very nearly an adult. Nearly marrying age too. Why, Jane Foster married her beau and she's only just turned seventeen."
Suddenly Loki's eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a hard edge as he asked, "What kind of work exactly?"
"Mr. Pratt offered me a job cleaning at the funeral parlor he runs out of his house. He already has a house staff which leaves me responsible for the parlor where they hold the wakes and the back rooms where they embalm the bodies. I’m not really excited about that part but it’s honest work and,” she paused as equal amounts of guilt and bitterness filled her heart and her voice betrayed those feelings as she said, “and maybe people will stop comparing me to my mama and expecting me to be a whore too.”
She hadn't told Loki but she recognized the way a few of the men watched her and it worried her. Now that her figure was developing, her bust was on the large side and her hips were already widening. Young men, married ones, even a few of the old ones eyed her as if she were a mare on the auction block. It turned her stomach and steeled her resolve; she wasn't going to follow in her mother's footsteps and sell her charms to the highest bidder. She would rather starve first.
Lost to her sullen musings, she didn’t notice Loki had moved from his desk. She startled when his hands rested on her shoulders and offered a comforting squeeze. His chin came to rest atop her head and she leaned back against his chest, relishing the comfort of having someone to lean on.
“You are nothing more and nothing less than what you believe yourself to be. The words of other’s do not define you. Only your actions and your choices have that power. Remember that.”
How did he know just what she needed to hear?
Must be magic.
Darcy watches Loki, his attention sucked back into his spells and calculations, and it’s disconcerting. Sometimes she forgets that he’s not human and while she usually finds his otherness endearing, sometimes it’s unsettling as well. With her, Loki is warm and protective; his smiles wide and playful. But at the mention of others, be it the townspeople or even some of the more colorful travelers that have passed through, his regard turns cold and distant.
She’s grown to covet his attention and his doting affections. If she’s honest, she wants to keep him all for herself. But as of late, her feelings have grown tenacious and overwhelming. Forbidden thoughts linger in her mind and she holds them close, afraid that he’ll refuse to see she is no longer a lonely child in need of regular meals and guiding hand. How embarrassing would it be to find that she’s only imagined the want she swears she’s seen in his eyes?
Darcy stamps down the blush wanting to rise to her cheeks. Now is not the time for such notions, not when Loki is in danger and the town needs a miracle.
Summoning her determination, she tries again. “Mayor Rogers is proposing a mass grave because the undertaker cannot meet demands. People are dying. Children are dying.” Moving to his side, she places her hand over his, stopping the quill that he holds mid-stroke. “Will you truly do nothing?”
“Did you not come here to warn me that they intend to string me up from the nearest tree?” Loki asks, his tone taking on a hint of belligerence. “You see, it is a matter of pride. I see no reason to bestow assistance when they have nothing to offer in return.”
That Loki has never demanded she repay all he has done for her is a curious thing. He deals in tricky words and cunning bargains, only deigning to work his magic for those who are brave enough to seek out his dwelling. But those foolhardy souls are few and far between and the reasons they seek Loki are never for the wellbeing of others.
But this could be different… “You could be their hero. If you helped them, they would accept you. Revere you even,” she points out encouragingly.
“Tempting, but it is not their good graces in which I aspire to remain,” Loki counters with a sly smirk.
Good heavens, that smile. He must know what it does to her when he’s playfully crafty, as if she can’t see through his sneaky ways, and she suspects she’s right when his smile widens and the corners of his eyes begin to crinkle.
Well, she can play that game too. She did learn a thing or two from her mother, after all.
Lowering her lashes, Darcy tilts her head just so, her lips curving sweetly. “Then do it for me.”
She feels a slight amount of gratification when Loki sobers, his brow wrinkling as he debates his next move. Rising to his feet, he lifts her chin with his finger, searching her expression with a shrewd eye. “They have treated you horribly and still you champion their cause. They don't deserve this kindness from you,” he says gruffly.
“Please, Loki,” she whispers, “Name your price and I will pay it.”
He visibly flinches, his gaze shifting to a point over her shoulder. “There are many things I desire from you, my sweet, and not a single one that I would take as payment,” he admits, swallowing hard.
It’s moments like this that Darcy is reminded why she could never love anyone else the way she loves Loki. Though his words aren’t exactly a declaration of love, she can’t imagine he’s said them out of anything less. So she answers in kind, risking her pride and her heart, certain that he would carefully cherish both, regardless of his motivations.
Cupping his cheek, she sighs, “You can’t take what’s already yours, ridiculous man.”
Loki’s eyes snap to hers, green, enchanting and bottomless. “You play with fire. I will not take that promise lightly. If you think to jest, then I must warn you, do not tempt me so.”
“You really think I would joke about this?” she asks dryly. “You know me better. And you know I won’t take it back, even if you refuse to help the town.”
She might hate herself a little when thinking of the lives lost but she could never bring herself to hate Loki, not when he’s shown her more respect than most in the town ever had.
“And saving the lives of those cretins will please you?” When she nods, he leans forward to press a kiss to her brow. “Then I am at your command,” he vows solemnly.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Loki chuckles deviously. “With the amount of tonic needed, I require your help.”
Black Bayou, 1887
The thought occurred to her quite suddenly and, frankly, out of the blue. She was organizing Loki’s potion bottles for lack of anything better to do when she realized that she knew so very little about him. Oh she knew the easy things, such as his favorite foods and what he was most likely doing at any given time of day, but for all she felt as if she knew him, she didn't know anything important.
Curious, and apropos of nothing, she asked, “Where are you from?”
Loki’s head jerked up, startled. “Excuse me?”
“I only just realized that I’ve never asked you before,” she shrugged, abandoning the odd assortment of bottles and turned to face him.
“You mean the place of my birth?” he asked cautiously. At her nod, he sighed, setting aside the tools he held as the contraption of gears and springs and cogs he was assembling was momentarily forgotten. “Somewhere far, far from here.”
“You must tell me more than that. What country was it? What city?” She entreated with a laugh. “You have the most peculiar accent and I’ve never heard another quite like it.”
“Darcy, I’m not certain-" he paused and seemed to internally debate his response. She grinned in triumph when he finally admitted, "I fear I was not born on Earth. I am also loath to confess that I am not human."
She waited for surprise to assault her but there was only rampant curiosity. She supposed she'd always known he was something other. Something more.
"Does that frighten you?" Loki asked worriedly.
"No. But if you're not from Earth then where is your world? And how did you come to be here?"
Uncertain what to make of her curiosity, he proceeded with obvious caution. "I am of Asgard, a realm connected to yours by waypoints throughout the galaxy. As to how I came to be here," Loki lifted his hands in a helpless gesture as his expression darkened, "I am a refugee of a dead planet."
"I'm sorry," she said reflexively, the echo of sadness in his tone tugging her heartstrings. She suspected she knew the answer to her next question but she was compelled to ask all the same. "Are you alone here on Earth?"
"It would seem so. I've been stranded in this realm for nearly three centuries and I've yet to find another of my kind."
At the mention of centuries her eyes widened. "Goodness! How old are you?"
Loki flinched, his gaze skittering away. "Asgardians are long lived in comparison to you mortals. Our lifespans can be as long as seven thousand years. I have been alive for a millennia, more or less."
"Oh," was all she could manage to say. Then another thought struck her and her surprise thawed to sympathy once more. "You've been alone all this time?"
"My mother and father perished on Asgard. I know others escaped on the Bifrost. They had to have. I can not believe I am the only Asgardian left."
"And that is why you study your magic. You're trying to find a way to leave?"
As it left her lips, the question settled heavy in her heart. He'd long since become precious to her. What would she do once he was gone?
"I work to try and locate others like myself. The problem is the Earth's magic is inherent to the planet and not its inhabitants. To harness it properly has been a grand undertaking. I've been all over Earth learning all that I can."
She couldn't expect him to stay. No, that would be selfish to ask. And though he catered to her whims and tolerated her with far more patience than he displayed with other humans- which she now suspected was out of sheer loneliness- she could not expect him to allow her to follow along.
But it wouldn't hurt to know when, right? That way she could be prepared to say goodbye and it wouldn't steal him away in the night like the alcohol did her mama.
She struggled to keep the fear and petulance from her voice as she asked, "You’re not leaving anytime soon, right?”
She had a sinking feeling she sounded exactly as pathetic as she was dreading when Loki's anxious expression morphed into a soft smile. “Fret not, Darcy. I’ve no intention of leaving in the near future. Earth’s magic is abundant in this area. I’ve enough research to keep me busy for some time yet.”
“Oh. Good. I was only curious,” she amended, a mortified flush warming her cheeks.
“I must say, you are handling this remarkably well,” he mused, a touch of worry creasing his brow.
“I did assume because of all the magic that you were more than human,” she said with a shrug.
"Do tell," he prompted with a smirk, "What did you think I was, if not “human”?"
"A witch for certain. The townspeople tell all manner of frightening stories about you. I also wondered if you were a ghost but that didn’t make sense because you could touch me and so then I thought you might be a vampire."
"A vampire?" Lok laughed, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "I've been called many an unsavory name by humans but vampire is a first."
"I didn't know what to think," she blushed hotly. "There are stories, you know. About creatures that have mystical powers. Supposedly they're reclusive and are pale of skin and handsome of face."
She only realized her mistake when Loki's laughter died down to a chuckle, his grin becoming something altogether too smug.
"You think me handsome," he purred insufferably.
Mortified, she squawked indignantly, "What? No. Of course not. I meant the legends, not you. You're only slightly more tolerable than the back end of a donkey."
She could only glare in infinite embarrassment as Loki's laughter started all over again.
When he finally managed to draw a breath, the wide, joyful smile he leveled her way had her ire draining away and her heart rolling over in her chest. But then he opened his mouth.
"Don't be cross, my sweet. You were only speaking the truth. That is hardly my fault."
"Ugh!" She cried as she threw her hands up and turned her attention back to the potion bottles. For all her exasperation, part of her was relieved. The shadows of their conversation no longer lingered in his eyes and she could ignore the snickers coming from Loki's tinkering table as long as it meant he wasn't hurting and alone.
By the time the tonic is fit for human consumption, Darcy is as green around the gills as the tonic itself. She dutifully stirs the grass colored liquid, mildly incensed that Loki had the nerve to make her drink the stuff. Now that she knows what it contains... Best not to dwell on it.
"I think it's ready," she says, her nose wrinkled against the offensive smell.
Loki comes up behind her, peering over her shoulder. “Perfect. Now for the finishing touch.”
He moves to stand beside the old washtub-turned-cauldron and positions his hands palms down over the bubbling liquid (strange because the tub is not heated and they aren’t exactly cooking the horrid mixture) and begins murmuring in the language of his kind. Green seidr, only a few shades darker than the vile tonic, spills from his hands and pours into the mixture.
Abruptly the murmuring stops and Loki calls back his seidr, turning to her with a cocky grin. “There. It is done.”
“Now we must get it to those in need,” she states, feeling satisfied that she’s done something to help.
“We? No, my sweet, you will remain here. I shall go.”
Not much caring for the be-a-good-little-human nonsense implied in his tone, Darcy places her hands on her hips and glares. “No. I’m going as well.”
“This endeavor could prove dangerous. I would rather you stay here and remain safe,” he replies tightly.
“I live there, Loki. You, however, will stick out terribly. If I am with you, perhaps we can pull this off without too many questions,” she says, eyeing his white shirt and dark trousers critically.
“I believe you’ve said they think me a witch...” Green sedir shimmers over Loki from the top of his head to the tip of his boots and in his place is a withered old woman, hunched over as she grips a cane with spindly, knobby fingers. Wild and tangled gray hair falls into her dark, beady eyes as she gives Darcy a gap toothed grin. “Will this do, my sweet?”
Even the voice sounds wheezened and decrepit and Darcy grimaces. “Yes, nicely.”
“That’s good, dear,” Loki says, with just the right touch of placating condescension coming from an elder to someone much younger. Out of thin air the “witch” produces a sheet of parchment and hands it to Darcy with a shaky hand. “Since you possess more stubbornness than sense and insist on accompanying a harmless old woman like myself, be a doll and draw that sigil on the floor.”
“You want me to draw this?” Darcy asks, eyeing the intricate design with a suspicious frown.
“It’s me back, dear. I can’t reach that far down. Why I might topple over and never get back up,” Loki-witch smiles innocently.
“You’re going to make me do all the work aren’t you?” Darcy deadpans.
Loki-witch cackles at her reaction, clearly having too much fun with the illusion.
Rolling her eyes and simultaneously fighting back a smile, Darcy roots around Loki’s desk until she finds a chunk of white chalk. Sinking down onto her knees, she begins copying the angular pattern from the parchment onto the stone floor. Loki-witch taps his cane impatiently.
“Should have done it yourself,” Darcy sing-songs with a smirk, intent on matching the intersecting lines of the design. She places the final touches and then sits back, wiping the chalk dust of her hands. “What do we do next?”
“Take the parchment and keep it with you. We will have use for it later,” Loki replies, motioning for Darcy to approach as she folds the paper and slips it into her apron pocket. “Now come stand with me atop the sigil.”
“What about the tonic? I’m not strong enough to lift the tub.” The very idea of it spilling all over her is enough to make Darcy’s skin crawl.
“I will use my magic to transport it once we reach town,” he replies.
“Won’t you need a sigil for that as well?” Darcy asks curiously, allowing the distraction to take her mind off of her nerves.
“Not necessary. I can procure it with my seidr.”
Darcy looks down at their feet and the white of the sigil beneath, then back to the disturbing old woman. “Why do we need the sigil?”
“Have you retained anything I’ve explained about magic?” Loki-witch asks incredulously.
“Oh. Was I supposed to be paying attention when you were muttering out loud, rambling madly about this or that? And a good bit in your native tongue, I might add.” She counters snippily. “No, I am terribly sorry but I did not retain anything.”
“I do not ramble,” he grouses.
“Yes, you do.”
Instead of denying her claim, Loki-witch releases a pulse of seidr that flares around them in a burst of green. Darcy gasps, her stomach clenching in a sense of vertigo even though it doesn’t feel as if her feet have left the ground. When the magic clears they are in the town square, blessedly alone as the clock above the courthouse reads well after three in the morning.
“Be quick about it, Grandma.” Darcy hisses under her breath, “I’d rather not have to explain who you are and why we’re here.”
“You know as well as I they will not drink the tonic. We are wasting our time,” Loki-witch replies loftily. A swirl of green surrounds his wrinkly hand and with an elegant flick of his wrist, the wash tub appears, filled with bubbling green goop.
“That is their choice. I will sleep better knowing I led them to water and they didn’t drink rather than never having tried at all.”
“Your human logic confounds me,” Loki-witch admits ruefully, “I would have let them sort the pro-”
Abruptly he falls silent and suddenly Darcy finds herself thrust behind his back, the crone illusion melting away with a crackle of green along his form. Pressing close, she peeks over his shoulder, half afraid it’s the Night Watch. The moment she recognizes the scrawny young man frozen in place, she breathes a sigh of relief.
Attempting to step around Loki, she hesitates at the frighteningly sharp daggers he brandishes with a look in his jade eyes that is far too eager for comfort. “Goodness, I was not aware you possessed those. It’s fine. Weapons down, Loki. Steve means no harm, I promise.”
At her words Steve nods his head, wide eyed and still frozen stiff on the banquet.
“Of course he doesn’t, my sweet, or I shall acquaint him with his entrails.” Clearly showing off, Loki flips the daggers in his hands before they vanish.
“Darcy-” Steve squeaks, then clears his throat at the embarrassingly high pitch and taking a calming breath, tries again. “Darcy, I am certain there is a reasonable explanation for ‘eh.. for this,” he says lamely, waving his hand at Loki in an all encompassing gesture.
Twisting the ends of her shawl nervously, Darcy steps closer to Loki’s side, giving Steve a pleading look. “I know this seems strange but Loki is only trying to help.” Steve doesn't look any less discombobulated but he offers a small smile and Darcy runs with it. “I suppose I should introduce you. Steve, this is Loki of Asgard but you know him better as the Swamp Witch. Loki, this is Steve Rogers, the youngest son of Mayor Rogers.”
Steve pales but like the trooper he is, he holds out his trembling hand in greeting. “Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”
Loki eyes it disdainfully and Darcy elbows his side none too gently. Twisting his lips in an approximation of a smirk, he grasps Steve’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Likewise.”
For a moment uneasy silence ensues and Steve shifts awkwardly. Darcy takes note of his bedraggled state, taken aback by his unkempt hair, rumpled shirt and undone collar. When he clears his throat, working up the nerve to speak, she realizes that his blue eyes are not bloodshot from lack of sleep, but rather from tears.
Before Darcy can think better of it, she asks, “Steve, you’re upset. Has something happened?”
Steve’s expression falls and his voice wobbles as he says, “Bucky doesn’t have long. I was on my way to retrieve Father Sinclair to administer his last rights.”
“I’m sorry,” she manages to whisper, Steve’s obvious grief hurting her heart.
Beside her, Loki steps forward producing a vial of green tonic with a flourish. “It would seem that our timing is rather fortuitous for your friend. Take this and have him drink the contents. He will be cured of his current ills within the hour.”
Hesitantly Steve takes the vial, eyeing it dubiously. “What is this?”
“A cure,” replies Darcy, smiling encouragingly. “Loki has found a way to save everyone.”
“I... this…” Steve’s eyes dart between the vial and Loki, hope and fear visibly at war. “Am I to trust it will work as you say?”
“It appears you have little choice,” Loki says flippantly. “But do consider this; had I meant to harm the people of this town, I certainly would not risk my neck so boldly to go about it.” Smirking, he gives Steve a sarcastic nod. “If you will excuse us, our errand is done.”
Flashing Darcy a mischievous grin, Loki plucks the paper from her pocket and in a burst of green the town square melts away until they are once more standing atop the sigil she'd drawn on his floor.
When the initial vertigo passes, Darcy is overcome with a sense of relief. Turning to Loki, she throws her arms about his neck, squeezing tightly.
"We did it! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
Loki chuckles at her exuberance, returning her hug and tentatively pressing her closer. His breath is a warm whisper against her ear as he says, "Your gratitude is welcome but have a care, my sweet. I fear the lengths I would go to secure your happiness."
"That sounds a bit dramatic to me," she grins, leaning back to peer up at his handsome face. "My happiness is a simple thing really."
Eyes glittering intensely, his lips curl up to the left in a soft, lopsided grin. "Is that so?"
"Indeed," Darcy insists playfully, her stomach twisting pleasantly when his gaze drops to her lips, lingering a fraction too long to be innocent. "I've always been happiest when I'm with you."
She punctuates her statement by rising up on her tip-toes and engaging him in a fervent kiss. Loki responds in kind, his arms tightening around her waist, and her heart soars.
"Stay with me," he demands against her lips, stealing her very breath before she can think to reply by kissing her again. There is desperation in him, something Darcy understands only too well, when he says, "They will know of your affiliation with me and I fear for your wellbeing. I can not lose you, so please, please stay with me. You'll want for nothing, I promise you. In truth, we need not remain here; I can show you the world. And no matter how long it takes, when my research proves fruitful, I'll show you the universe."
"You’ll take me to the stars? That might be a wee much for my mortal constitution,” she warns teasingly, refusing to dwell for even a second on how short her future will be when compared to his own.
As if he can read her thoughts, a curious mix of wariness and elation fills Loki’s expression. “That could be remedied. You need not remain mortal, should you wish it.”
“Really?” She asks, completely wonderstruck at the possibility.
“Yes, really. But you’ve plenty of time to make that choice,” he replies, touching his brow to hers. “Stay. Please.”
Silly man. There was no other option worth contemplating.
“Yes.” She feels his smile against her lips and she has every intention of kissing it away but first, just to make sure he understands, “A thousand times, yes.”
Everyone in Marville knew the stories.
Some said the Swamp Witch lived in a house made of bones.
Mothers warned their little ones that the witch liked to eat children so to beware of strangers that promised them treats.
Seasoned trappers told of the danger of getting too close to her shack because such carelessness could get you lost in the bayou forever.
But the most common told story held a seed of truth. It was the tale of Darcy Lewis, a brave young girl who made a deal with the Swamp Witch to save the town. The witch’s black magic worked and Marville was cured of the fever that had claimed a score of lives. Sadly, the price was the young girl’s soul. It is said that the town’s most able bodied men scoured the swamp for her remains. They never found Darcy nor heads or tails of the Swamp Witch or her shack.
What they did find was the young woman’s shawl tacked with a dagger to the side of a cyprus stump and a note that read: “Don’t come looking again.”