As soon as that awful ragged quality of his breath went don’t Frigga collapsed in a nearby chair.
Hoping for Sif’s quick return with medical supplies so that she might actually be useful and not just another person taking air, she scooted a little closer and gingerly placed a hand on Loki’s less injured one.
The cat had made it’s way up to him and was near her elbow, so she attempted an almost unconscious pet over it’s fine dark fur.
Her eyes went to Odin as he spoke.
Odin calmed slightly once Thor was beside him. He watched as Freyja’s spell eased Loki’s ragged breathing, mending the torn lung within his chest. He eased off from the strenuous pulling of his energies, dimming the glow around his son, but not releasing it. The battle against Loki’s failing body was nearly over, but the war was not yet done.
“Thor,” Odin turned his eye to his other son, “I’m going to try to transfer the spell to you.” He caught the quizzical look in the thunderer’s eye and attempted to clarify. “Loki’s body is healing, but there is more damage done to him than that—I am sure you know.”
He held out a hand and grasped Thor by the shoulder, supporting himself slightly as he continued his explanation. “The properties of the Odin-Sleep help to unify the spiritual power of the Odin-Force within my body and anchor it into the physical plane,” he looked down at Loki. “I can only hope it might have some of the same effect when it is transferred. I cannot continue to serve as the conduit between the forces,” he flexed his hand, and the darkened veins appeared starkly in contrast with the pale skin, “but if I were to have Mjolnir connect the energies, it may give the spell more time, and ensure his spirit stays moored in this world.”
He hoped he could be understood. A severed soul was no mere wound, but a lasting fissure that would most likely not be solved with magic, no matter how ancient or powerful—but at least he could ensure the pieces stayed in place. As Odin felt the forces of his own spirit and the spirit of the royal line flow within him, mixing and swirling in his blood, he granted his heart a moment of empathy. “Loki is not the only one to have suffered a crowded self,” he murmured.
Freyja took a step back as Thor entered the room, her head giving a soft dip. Her hand landed on Frigga’s slim shoulder, squeezing softly. Her fingers were still warm from the use of magic, spreading into her queen’s skin and hoping she could provide some comfort; if only in the form of the easier breathing of their son. She stroked her fingers gently over the black cat as it crawled up Loki’s legs and curled itself between them, giving the gathered room a dismissive look.
She hoped for Sif’s quick return, but instead sat near the queen. Her nails made comforting path’s over her shoulders and back, looking up to Odin and Thor. The golden helm she had arrived wearing found itself discarded on top of Loki’s mostly empty dresser, her duties forgotten.
The cat paused near Loki’s shins, nosing the ragged leather before mincing around the still body to Frigga, rubbing his lithe little self against her arm.
Loki’s breathing hitched once or twice but he slept on in the faint golden glow.
The floor of Stark Tower was just as they’d left it, broken and half-demolished, rubble everywhere. And no Jane in sight. There was no time for this, Sif knew, and she would leave without the mortal woman if she could not find her quickly.
One more floor, then, for more bandages would surely be useful, and Jane’s presence might aid Thor in ways others could not. Sif veritably stabbed at the button to the elevator, as though pressing harder would make it return faster. It did not take long at all to go up one more floor.
“Jane?” she called again, voice echoing off the walls.
Rock-steady and ignoring everything around her, Summer kept broadcasting, love and comfort and hope, reaching for every mind in Loki’s flat. She couldn’t know how much she was helping, but she couldn’t not try, either.
