Nell's alarm woke her at 6:45 a.m. She yawned, stretched, and checked the calendar.

"Wednesday," she murmured. Wednesday meant Mrs. Halvorsen in the morning and Mr. Berg in the afternoon.

Mrs. Halvorsen was a sweet old woman with cataracts who continually confused Nell with her daughter, and Mr. Berg always insisted he didn't need her, despite being confined to a wheelchair. She sighed.

"I'll wear the dark sweater today," she said to herself. "Mr. Berg likes the dark one."

It had been three years for her, living in Tønsberg near the Norwegian coast. She had fallen into a rather regular habit, working as a caretaker for aging residents living far from the city itself. They were all spread out in cottages and houses along the coastlines and cliffsides, requiring her to travel between them. It was monotonous, sure, but she figured monotony was safe.

She stepped over Mrs. Halvorsen's threshold, removing her thick scarf. "God morgen, fru Halvorsen."

"Sigyn!" Mrs. Halvorsen hobbled in from the living room as Nell deposited her purse and puffy coat on a chair in the kitchen.

Nell gave her a melancholy smile. She'd seen pictures of Mrs. Halvorsen's late daughter, and she supposed there was a sort of resemblance: similar light hair, similar small nose. Nell had a wider face though, eyes less blue. She didn't bother correcting her; it would just upset the older woman. "Vil du ha egg til frokost?" Would you like eggs for breakfast?

It'd taken a long while to be proficient enough in Norwegian to pass the citizenship tests and qualify for this job, but even now she ached for English. Her tongue folded over the words like trying to curl around marbles.

She cooked Mrs. Halvorsen's breakfast, straightened up, and then it was time for Mr. Berg.

"God ettermiddag," she greeted him with a smile.

He grunted in response, seated in front of a small, fat TV set. She made him lunch, did a load of laundry, and received another grunt of acknowledgement when she left.

Thursdays were Mr. Lund and Mr. Eriksen, Fridays were Mr. and Mrs. Holm. Everything was as normal...until Monday.

Someone new had been added to her rotation, though the company who organized her schedule wouldn't give her much information other than his name. Mr. Borson lived in a little three-room cabin on one of the smaller, jutting peninsulas near Teigsberget, situated at the edge of the water and the base of a peak.

Nell glanced up from the small sheet of paper on which she'd printed her instructions as his location forced her to park a ways off and walk the remaining distance. It was a good thing he'd be her only trip on Mondays, she thought. He was so much farther from everyone else.

She knocked twice on the door, her boots squishing through the muddied, sandy ground.

"Mr. Borson?" she called. "Jeg heter Eleanor." My name is Eleanor. She waited a beat. "Caring Hands sendte meg." Caring Hands sent me.

The door opened to reveal a weathered-looking older man with long white hair and, strangely enough, an eyepatch. Not the weirdest thing I've seen, Nell dismissed. Mr. Lund had an actual wooden leg.

"Your accent needs work," said Mr. Borson. He stepped back to let her in as her brow furrowed. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable with your first language?"

She couldn't help the rush of relief at the more familiar words. He spoke English surprisingly well, and she welcomed it. "Thank you."

His home was sparsely furnished, just the basics, and there were no family photos or personal items anywhere. Even grouchy Mr. Berg had photos of his grandson dotting the walls.

"So," he said, his voice distinctly British, "Caring Hands sent you."

"That's right." She hesitated before taking off her coat.

"And what would they have you do?"

"Cleaning, cooking, errands," Nell said. "Medical care, if it's necessary."

She glanced around. There wasn't much to clean, since he didn't seem to have much. It was clear that he was capable and mobile, so no medical care. She wondered why Caring Hands had even sent her if there wasn't going to be anything to do, but then she saw the state of his fridge.

"Bread…" She blinked and opened all the cabinets. "Peanut butter? Is this all you have?"

Mr. Borson didn't answer, but she didn't really need an answer. There was no way she was going to let the man eat nothing but peanut butter sandwiches—

"There's a grocer in Asgardstrand," she said, shrugging her coat back over her shoulders. "I'll be right back. Do you have a preference on protein? Meat or fish?"

Mr. Borson said nothing and she wondered if this would be another Mr. Berg situation. "I'm partial to pork," he said finally, and she pocketed that as a victory.

"I'll make pork loin then," she said. "I think the butcher should have that."

When she returned with armfuls of grocery bags, intending to full stock his fridge, she found him staring out the window at the water. She set to work preparing pork loin with potatoes and carrots, making a mental list—what else can I make him so that he has enough meals until I come back next week—and while she cooked, Mr. Borson put out place settings for two.

"I don't have to stay," she said hurriedly, "if you don't want company—"

"Nonsense," Mr. Borson said. "You're doing all the work. I don't mind company."

Nell wanted desperately to break the silence as they ate. He had given her a kind smile as he took his first bite of the meat, but nothing since then. She cut a potato with the side of her fork.

"So, Eleanor," said the man across the table. His good eye met her gaze. He seemed kind, patient, but there was something weathered about his face. He looked so tired. "Why are you here?"

She almost choked on a piece of potato. "I was just trying to be nice—and I already cook for Mrs. Halvorsen, it's no trouble—"

"Not that, child. Why are you here? It's clear Norway isn't your place of origin."

She stared at her plate. "I just...this was the safest place I could think of."

Mr. Borson raised an eyebrow. "And what do you need to be safe from?"

Nell felt her cheeks burn and muttered, "You're going to think I'm silly and superstitious."

The older man gave her a doubting look and gestured for her to go on, chewing slowly. She sighed.

"My family has a...history. The girls of my family, at least. We tend to attract misfortune in one way or another. My mom married into the family, so she's been alright, but my sister and I…" Nell shifted uncomfortably in her seat when she mentioned her sister. "Anyway, I used to live in New York City, and when the Avengers set up shop...it's better not to tempt fate, don't you think?"

She gave a wry smile and noted how his spine stiffened at her mention of the American city. It was clear he'd heard what happened in New York. Something like pain flashed across his features. She pretended she hadn't seen; it wasn't her place to pry.

"How does your family feel?" he asked instead, deflecting slightly. "About you living all the way out here?"

Nell nibbled on her bottom lip. "I haven't talked to them much since New York."

He observed her, scrutinized her with a firm gaze. "Family is very important, Eleanor," he said quietly. He speared a carrot with his fork. "Thank you for the meal."

When she returned next, a book tucked under her arm, he chuckled.

"What?" she asked.

"Some light reading?" He gestured at the book.

She frowned, glancing at the spine: Count of Monte Cristo, by Alexandre Dumas. "It's a bit thick, I suppose." She placed it on the table, suddenly self-conscious. Her copy was particularly beat-up, and now she felt oddly...embarrassed about it.

"My son is a little like you. One of them, at any rate." A blink of sadness flooded his face and then vanished.

"You have sons," Nell said, relieved that he was talking about himself now. "How many?"

"Two."

"And only one of them likes books?"

"My sons have...dramatically different tastes."

Nell nodded sagely. "I understand that completely, my sister and I—" Nell clamped her mouth shut, catching her cheek between her teeth, and felt the sting as she broke skin.

Mr. Borson didn't pry, didn't even seem to acknowledge her slip, and she was grateful for that.

"What would you like for dinner tonight, Mr. Borson?" she asked.

She chopped onions while a pot simmered on the stove for a soup. He sat at the table, flipping the pages of her book.

"Do you enjoy this story? It seems to be quite...dense." He turned the page again.

She chuckled. "It's one of my favorites."

He lifted the worn novel. "Yes, it appears it's been well-read. What is it about?"

"A man named Dantes is falsely arrested and imprisoned without trial in an inescapable island prison." She dropped the onions into the pot and moved on to cutting carrots and celery. "He figures out who was behind his imprisonment, manages to escape the prison, and disguises himself as the powerful and wealthy Count of Monte Cristo in order to get his revenge."

He didn't respond, and she stayed quiet in her embarrassment, returning to her knife. I wonder if his son would appreciate the book.

"Have you ever thought, Eleanor, that you were not running from danger or from bad luck, but were in fact running from the opportunity to live? Running from your fate, as it were."

Nell paused, knife hovering mid-air above the cutting board. "I wouldn't be living," she responded in a clipped tone. She thought about her sister. "I would be dead, or broke, or...I don't view constant anxiety as a way of life I should aspire to. I don't accept that as my fate."

"You could be meant for greater things, but you'll never know if you keep rejecting the possibility."

Nell slammed the knife onto the counter, trying and failing to keep her tone from getting defensive, to check her rising anger. "And what do you know of greater things, old man?" she ground out through clenched teeth.

The older man said nothing, guilt nagging at her, and when her breathing calmed, she resumed chopping with a mumbled apology.

"Tell me more about your sons."

They were sitting outside, facing the water. She'd come in the afternoon this time; Mr. Berg had passed away the day before and something about that extra free time made Nell sad and restless.

"What is there to tell?" Mr. Borson's eye was unfocused as he looked out past the horizon.

"What are they like? You said one of them likes books, so they can't be too terrible," she joked. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. "They don't come to see you. Did you have a falling out?"

"Of sorts," said Mr. Borson. "With the one who likes books, as a matter of fact."

"Is he like you?" She tried to imagine Mr. Borson a much younger man, as she thought his son might appear, only slender and maybe glasses—she couldn't quite get there.

"No," he said, frowning. The answer was immediate and tinged with bitterness. "He's a troublemaker. Always has been. Not like—" He sighed and the bitterness fled. "Not like his brother."

"And him? Your non-bookish son?"

"Righteous," Mr. Borson tutted. "A bit bullheaded. They're both quite stubborn actually."

"I can't imagine where that comes from," Nell teased lightly. "Old man."

He smiled at her, her dig nothing more than a casual joke now.

"What was the fight about?"

Mr. Borson hesitated, and Nell believed she had pressed too far. Then he sighed and said quietly, "Several fights, in fact. He found out his mother and I were not his real parents, and that began it all."

"Adopted," Nell muttered, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "That must be hard."

"There is a family business. He wants it when I pass, his brother does not. I left it to my other son, the righteous one, instead."

"The one who doesn't want it?"

"Yet," Mr. Borson added. "He will, when he has grown more."

"I don't see the problem, why not give it to the son who wants it?" Nell frowned. It didn't make any sense, of course that would create a fight.

"You wouldn't understand," he snapped, and Nell was taken aback when she realized she had angered him.

"I'm trying to," she said quietly. "You love your sons, don't you? Wouldn't you want them both happy? If one doesn't want the family business and the other does, shouldn't…" She swallowed, the similarities clogging her throat with emotion and she tried not to think of her sister. "Shouldn't the solution be easy?" A horrible thought snuck into her brain and escaped out of her mouth before she could stop it, even as she recognized how insensitive it was: "Or does it matter that one of them isn't really your son?"

For a dangerous moment he said nothing in response, and she wondered if this time she had angered him permanently, forced a wedge in their strange companionship. He was staring at the water beyond his home. For Nell, the silence was unbearable.

"Careful, Eleanor," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "You are too naive."

Nell stared at him, feeling sheepish like a scolded child, and quietly apologized. Mr. Borson said nothing else, and she left not long after.

Nell worried over it all week, but when she came back next he seemed to be in better spirits. He spoke more about his sons, his late wife, and seemed to choke up a bit when he spoke of her loss. Nell found herself paying close attention when he mentioned his younger son, the one who wanted the family business. He sounded clever, charming, driven. She found herself trying to picture him often. The elder son sounded brawny, maybe a little dull, but well-meaning. Smaller ambitions, she thought. He was easier to imagine: fit, handsome, probably had the same blue eyes as Mr. Borson. Probably had a lot of girlfriends in high school. Nell scoffed. He would've been the type her sister liked.

"Your younger son," Nell said, while they sat again outside with the greying sky overhead, "what's his name?"

Mr. Borson stopped. He had been mid-story about how, once, he'd caught the younger playing a prank on the elder using a snake. Something shifted in his expression and Nell attempted to backtrack, wondering why a simple question about a name could get the old man so stiff.

"What have you brought today?" He glanced at the small coffee table situated between their chairs, where her latest book sat.

He was changing the subject and she, incredibly uncomfortable with the tension between them, grabbed at the opportunity to move past it.

"Don Quixote," she said.

"And what's this one about?"

"Why don't I get us something to eat, this will take a while," she said with a shaky smile.

She went inside to make lunch, deciding that despite his almost formal demeanor he was not above eating a turkey sandwich, when there was a flash on the horizon, kissing the hilltop just beyond Mr. Borson's house. Nell frowned. Lightning? It was a strange color—

She shook her head. Nope. Not getting involved with that, whatever it was.

"Would you prefer your sandwich without cheese, Mr. Borson?" Nell poked her head outside again, shocked to see his chair was now unoccupied. What? "Mr. Borson?"

Her eyes spotted him already a good distance away, heading up the slope of the hill toward the light. There was nothing in that direction but a rising cliff, its height lifting away from the one on which his house already sat. She started after him and then hesitated, every instinct of hers screaming at her not to follow.

But he was just a harmless elderly man, and with those far-off stares he had so often she was starting to worry that his mind was going. She couldn't live with herself if he lost his way somehow, or God forbid fell down the cliff—

Nell sighed heavily and jogged after him. I'm going to regret this.

"Mr. Borson!" she called, losing sight of him up the hill. She climbed after him, already wheezing with exertion. She had to stop for a few minutes halfway up just to catch her breath. "Okay, I get it, I won't call you an old man anymore. I am clearly in worse shape than you—"

She stopped at the top, able to see out over the horizon. Near the cliff's edge, he sat with two much younger men, and Nell breathed her relief, though her curiosity nagged about the light and the identity of the two companions. Maybe these were the infamous sons. They had their backs to her and she hesitated to approach—I should introduce myself, at least to the younger, he and I would probably get along—when Mr. Borson began to glow. Glow. Nell rubbed her eyes hard, sending sparks flashing beneath her eyelids, and when she opened them again the man had dissolved into little particles of golden light.

"You could be meant for greater things than making dinners for an old man, Eleanor." His voice sounded so close, like he was right there, but he wasn't right there, he wasn't anywhere—

"Nope," she said aloud, and the two men at the cliff's edge turned to look at her in astonishment. She didn't even notice, waving her hands like swatting a bug, as if she could swat away his voice. "Nope, no, I am going home—I knew not to follow that stupid light—"

"Who are you?" At the smooth accent, Nell froze and let her eyes truly take in Mr. Borson's sons.

One was much slimmer than the other, though both oozed a sort of power and strength that was instantly intimidating. Nell swallowed her words with an audible gulp. The slimmer one wore an all-black, fitted suit, his hair jet black to match and slicked away from a severe, handsome face. The other, muscular and large, wore more casual clothes, and pieces of his long blond hair hung loose, his jaw rugged. The recognition dawned slowly.

"Thor," she pointed to the blond, "and Loki," and then pointed to the dark-haired one. As if she could forget either of them, after New York—

"Yes, we know who we are, girl," said Loki, voice thick with sarcasm and agitation to mask any other emotion.

The younger son...The one I always asked about, the one I thought I'd like…

Oh my god...

"Odin Borson," she murmured to herself. "Odin. Borson." She smacked her forehead hard with a groan. "Oh, I'm such an idiot, why didn't I pay more attention to Norse mythology, he was that Odin—" She groaned again. "Oh, God, I called a literal god an old man, on several occasions—"

"I will ask one more time," Loki growled, all shreds of patience gone. "Who are you?"

"How did you know my father?" Thor tacked on, the grief plainer on his face than on his brother's.

"This is not happening, I'm leaving, I didn't see anything. Odin who?"

"I am not amused, mortal—"

Nell was attempting to back up when the woman appeared from a cloud of black and green smoke—that wasn't there before—and the brothers ushered her behind them.

"Loki," Thor said in a clipped tone.

"Yes, yes." Loki waved his hand over her as they closed ranks to block her from the woman's sight and he hissed, "Not a sound, or the illusion will break."

She didn't ask what illusion, though she could guess something to hide her. They called the woman Hela, and it became clear she was Asgardian like them. Nell was barely paying attention, even when they transformed from normal clothes to Asgard armor. Why couldn't Loki just teleport her back down the hillside or something—

With a burst of lightning that made the hair on her arms stand up, Hela destroyed Thor's hammer, and that caught Nell's attention again. Destroyed Thor's hammer. Fuck, Nell just wanted to go home and pretend none of this ever happened—

"Bring us back!" Loki's panicked voice called to the sky.

"No!" Thor roared, but it was too late.

With the cliff at her back there was nowhere to go, and a beam of light engulfed her and the brothers. She was sucked upwards, her stomach flipping, and screamed—Loki's eyes shot to her, as did Hela's. Had Loki forgotten she was there?

"Mortal," said Hela, and Nell squirmed away from her, blood rushing in her ears. "I wonder if your kind would survive a fall from the Bifrost." She grabbed onto Nell's arm, her nails digging in.

"Don't—"

Hela threw her like a ragdoll. She went careening through the iridescent wall of light and into darkness.

A/N: This is my first attempt at a Loki fanfiction! If you're here from my Star Wars story, Caged Bird, welcome! I've been nervous about submitting this for a while because I've been lucky that my Star Wars fiction has been so well-received, felt like there was a lot of pressure for this one to be good as well. I also didn't want Nell to feel too much like Ana so it'll be a process making sure that she's written properly!

Thank you in advance for any follows/favorites and reviews!