After the standoff in the small shop Frigga had hurried outside just as Loki had reappeared alone and taunted the two men. She had been lost in the confusion and left behind as Heimdall and the Man of Iron ran (or flew) towards the big tower she had been welcomed in.
The crowd of people had been quickly dispersed by what she assumed were this world’s guards. The men in blue cam up to her, hands raised holding some sort of grey oddly shaped piece of metal pointed at her. Seeing her being just as confused and distressed as the previous onlookers, they had taken her in.
She had asked to be taken to the tall tower but they had refused calling it a “danger zone”. They would not listen to reason and not even a few minutes later some men dressed in suits similar to Loki’s had requested her accompanying them. Something felt off and she felt the lie as they promised to take her to the tower.
Summoning her magic and with great effort she had slipped into the shadows and melted away from them. Unfortunately all she could muster was barely a few blocks.
As they stared searching for her she ran as fast as she could trying to take the most direct path to the building her son was in.
She had to change paths and dodge the would-be captors pursuit many times, all the while new signs of abuse showing in the tower’s upper levels whenever she could chance a glance at it.
Eventually reaching the Stark tower she almost stumbled into more men in dark suits and was forced to further drain her magic by making herself unseen while she weaved her way between those great metal steeds… cars and trying not to bump into the plethora of Midgardians.
Shifting through the walls also weakened her, but she would not allow obstacles.
The mechanical traveling room took her as far up as it deemed safe, the rest Frigga would foot by herself.
Exhausted and slightly panting, the Queen reached into the disaster of a room which was left after the battle. Leaning on the ashen remains of a wall she dreaded the worst. She was too late. The only thing she caught was a fading glimpse of Odin’s golden magic and Thor’s word.
“Where…” her voice was shallow and strained.
Odin hardly heard Thor’s voice, or anyone else’s—everything around him seemed muted, faded from his sight except the battered body pressed close to his chest. With a hesitant hand and an unreadable expression his face, he wiped away the bloodied tear streaks from the eyes of his boy—his boy, for in his arms, though broken and bruised, Odin could not help but see the babe he had rescued from the cold winds of Jotunheim so many years ago as he poured warmth over his flesh. The protective spell never wavered, though Odin knew this one could only be a temporary relief from the damage Loki had suffered.
He looked down at his feet where Sif knelt, and forced his throat to utter a single command, simple and urgent, but masking a well of something deeper he would not allow to be released.
“Lead,” he ordered.
Loki’s apartment was unlocked—he still had not had the mechanism repaired, so the door opened to the lightest touch of Sif’s hand. The small parlor beyond the room was dark and bare, save for the couch, coffee table and shelf with a small, precious collection of books. The kitchen opening off to the right was likewise dark and lonely looking. The door to the bedroom was straight ahead—and Loki’s bedchamber was as sober and empty as the rest of the flat. His narrow bed was neatly made, and the dark curtains were drawn over the window, though it did little enough to block out the sounds and lights of the city beyond.
Exhausted though she was, Sif did not hesitate to follow the order of her King. She had drawn herself to her feet with another bow of acquiescence and strode toward the door, sheathing her sword, wiping sweat and dirt and blood from her forehead.
Loki’s darkened flat was grim and desolate to her eyes, so very very far from the shining and lush warmth of home, so dark where Asgard glowed. She moved straight to the bedroom, holding the door open for the Allfather and his charge, pulling the sheets back on the narrow and unwelcoming bed.
Though the journey back to Loki’s apartment was a quiet, sober one, Heimdall could feel the emotions coming off of the Asgardians. So much pain each of them had gone through to this point, physical, psychological and emotional. But he knew they could overcome it, even Loki. They needed it to turn out alright.
Once everyone filed into the apartment, Heimdall closed the front door lightly, noticing that the damage he inflicted upon still had not been fixed. Any other time, he would have found it amusing. But not now.
[I’mma just slip in here … ]
Summer might not have even noticed Macrowafter if she hadn’t been feeling ill-at-ease all day. As usual, this manifested in a total inability to sit still, and she’d been pacing in and out of the flat for the last hour. Then Macrowafter showed up, gravely parading down the staircase, and she coaxed him into her arms as a feeble distraction from whatever was buzzing in the back of her senses.
Marching up the stairs bearing a feebly protesting Cat, she rapped sharply at Loki’s door.