Molten-gold eyes stared into Loki's, dripping shimmering trails down the dark elf's soot-encrusted face as he stood up from his throne. Above them, a false sky was dimly lit by stars of fire and hot steel: the ever burning forges of Svartalfaheimr.

What a cheerful place you've brought me to, dude, said Darcy in her and Loki's head. We should stop by the gift store on the way out.

Idiot. The dark elves make the finest jewelry, armor and weapons in all the realms, spat Loki back, even as the dark elf greeted her with a kiss on her hand. "Dvalin, I am honored to speak with you."

"And I am pleased to speak with such a beautiful form," replied Dvalin in a voice that sizzled like hot iron in water, as Loki bowed. "I suppose this means you are up to no good, Loki. It better not mean trouble for me."

"I assure you, you can trust that I shan't bring any harm to you or your people," smiled Loki, wincing at Darcy's mental snort. Really? Shan't? You're breaking out that word?

"I know better than to trust you on anything," snarled Dvalin, eyes crackling suddenly with cinders. The specks of light made his jagged crown shimmer, and Darcy realized that it wasn't made of coal or rock like the rest of the place. It was mined glass, bursting out from black rock in sharp spikes. The fire in Dvalin's eyes died back to the dull glow of liquid metal as he calmed down, "I must admit, though, that I am curious as to why you have come to me."

What kind of glass is that, in Dualeen's crown? Darcy asked curiously, lost in its dark sheen. Loki found herself smiling at Darcy's strained pronunciation of Dvalin's name.

The green spires at the edges are moldavite, and the taller spikes are obsidian, replied Loki, and Darcy was surprised to find no disdain in Loki's tone.

"I suppose you want weapons?" asked Dvalin.

"And the hands to hold them," nodded Loki with a smile, "merely to scare some mortals. No death need be involved."

What are you doing? asked Darcy, inner voice prickling with the onset of an outrage. Loki ignored her as Dvalin lead them up onto a large platform from which enormous chains reached upward to the forges. With a jangle and a screech, the chains began to pull the platform towards the faraway ceiling.

"Scare mortals, mm?" Dvalin repeated Loki's words in his own seared voice, "Look at these forges. Look at these walls and this ceiling, Odinson."

Loki looked with disinterest, green eyes glossing over the vast ceiling, held up by a thousand stone columns. "Yes?"

"We make everything here, with our own hands. We make our clothes, we make our walls, we make our tools. The moment a Svartalfar becomes an adult is the moment he or she makes something useful." He led them down the forges, where blackened hands pounded hammers into hot iron, and sooty tongs poured liquid sunlight into crucibles to be cooled into dull gray swords and axes.

Loki nodded, wincing as she felt Darcy trying to burst through, her question burning in their mind. "I fail to see what you are trying to tell me, Dvalin."

"Our wisdom is that of the craftsmen, Loki. And we have a saying, down here," Dvalin said as he picked up a still-red dagger from an anvil, coal fingers not even sizzling against the heat. "'You make your enemies.' As much as one's hands can make tools, they can make the weapons used to destroy us."

Loki smiled, and Darcy paused. Dvalin's words were wasted, of course. The way Loki lied constantly, reveled in doing the exact opposite of what he was told, only to resent being called out – it was clear to Darcy that Loki knew he was making his own enemies. The way a child might choose a toy to be the evil one, and one to fight it, so did Loki set himself up for battles. Of wits and of cunning, of ability as much as of strength.

"Merely words of caution from one who has made many fortresses and lived only in one, forged many swords but only swung one once," said Dvalin wearily. "But what you do with your time is not for me to dictate. There is a price for my swords, and a price for my men. What do you offer?"

"You know full well the riches of Asgard," replied Loki breezily. "I would offer you your pick of them."

"Riches of Asgard," scoffed Dvalin, "half of them made here! I have no need of gold or diamond. My throne is heavy with both. My crown, do you see it? It is made of glass. The rarest things here are those that last the least, like the flame of a kiss and the spark of a smile. I seek the warmth that a glowing hot blade cannot offer."

"Well, I would gladly appoint you a companion, an Asgardian maiden who would warm your bed for as long as you remain useful t – "

"I want this girl," said Dvalin, reaching out to touch Loki's cheek. "The one whose body you have taken. A mortal, no? From Midgard. She is . . . unique."

Darcy felt a mad chill run up her spine, panic immediately bubbling up into her head. Suddenly the forges seemed too hot, the elves too menacing and twisted, with their gold-dripping eyes. The dust and the blackness became oppressive, and she could only imagine herself running through the mine tunnels, endlessly lost in caves and fleeing from dark things with fiery eyes.

Loki . . . please don't let him take me, gasped Darcy in their mind, even though she knew it was useless to ask anything of him. Her own sudden panic made Loki lose her own breath, and she grit her teeth.

"No!" spat Loki, her brow furrowing and her lips curling into a frown. "That is far too high a price for a band of ashen blacksmiths, Dvalin. It would do you well to know your place."

"Too high a price? You've said yourself that mortals are like ants on an anthill," seethed Dvalin, eyes spitting with fire and droplets of metal. "Surely you can part with this one!"

"She is not mine to give, and less for you to ask. I am done here," she snarled, turning with a flourish of her emerald cape. Crossing forges and smelters, she thundered onto the platform, sending it rattling down before Dvalin could reach them. "And perhaps you should be asking for an architect to fix your cracked walls and rusty hinges, Dvalin Lofarson."

In a second she was through the arch and gone from Svartalfaheimr, a cruel smile playing on her face, even as the soot that Dvalin had left on her cheek burned with the memory of the fear and panic Darcy had made her feel.

~o~

There was no steam this time, the water only as hot as human skin would allow. Loki had retreated, but Darcy was too shaky to do anything but sit at the bottom of the shower, scrubbing away at the black stain on her cheek. Trying not to cry. It wasn't as if Loki wouldn't take control as soon as she tried something. So she didn't.

He had saved her though. Without even thinking about it, he said no to that dark elf. She told herself it was only jealousy, possessiveness, or maybe even some ulterior motive that kept Loki from giving her away. That Loki's shouts were an act, and he did not care for her.

Her mind welcomed these thoughts, cultured them: it was easy to distrust Loki. But there was already a desire burrowing under that distrust, weakening its foundations. It became the dull ache of wanting something impossible.

"I know what you're doing, you know," she said, relishing the sensation of finally using her own voice. "I'm a Political Science major. I study these sort of things."

Silence. For a split second she could almost imagine that it had all been a bad dream, that the Loki in her head wasn't real, but then she saw the black on her fingertips.

"You want to turn this family against Thor, make them cast him out the same way he was kicked out of Asgard," she said as water dripped down her face, over her lips and off of her chin, "so that the only person he can turn to is you. I can understand that."

How could you possibly? Loki asked suddenly, a cold voice echoing in her mind.

"Because I'm selfish, too. I know you thought those memories you saw of me proved that I'm intelligent, but all they remind me of is how self-centered I was, and still am."

Please, scoffed Loki. Do not pretend to know anything about me.

"I've been sharing a body with you for a while now, Loki. I feel what you feel," she said. His name felt odd on her lips. "Wanna know something weird?"

He hesitated, surprised at his first instinct: to say yes. He told himself it was merely curiosity, that the fact that she had said his name out loud, with such sincerity, had no effect on him. It wasn't as if she could tell him anything he didn't know already.

Tell me, he replied.

"I don't hate you for it. I've seen the hungry depths of your selfishness, and I don't think any less of you. I know what it's like, to be constantly dissatisfied with everything, with everyone. It's the reason I got into the department that I'm in. I do want to change things, because I do think I know better than most."

He was silent. The idea that she somehow understood him the way few ever had was hard to accept. Yet already he could feel a smirk coming, a wry comment about how futile it was for her to want to change anything. For the first time, his instinct to belittle her disgusted him.

"I know you think I'm weak. You were brought up by the gods of the vikings, of course you would believe that the best way to change things is by force, whether it be your own or that of others."

I think you're weak because you haven't proven otherwise, Miss Lewis. All you've done is whine, he replied, as much as he wanted to stop himself.

She frowned, eyes turning hard. Exhaustion was replaced by irritation, and she sat up, reaching for the shower knob. "Do you really want proof?"

She turned the knob, hot water scalding her skin, turning it red almost instantly. She grit her teeth, bracing herself against the pain with the knowledge that he could feel it, too. She could feel him squirm, determined not to give in. He could fix it easily, of course. A little extension of his Asgardian self, and her skin would once again be invulnerable to the heat.

Stop this.

"You can stop it, too," she gasped, eyes shut tight.

With a sigh of relief and resignation, Loki exerted his will across her body, her skin returning to normal as the pain faded. She rubbed her arms, shivering at the change. Her eyes caught her fingers. The soot was gone, and when she went to the bathroom mirror, she saw that there was no soot on her face, either.

"You saved me, you know."

I put you in that situation in the first place, he replied bitterly.

"And you got me out of it quickly enough, without compromising your plans. I'd say that's pretty impressive," she said, nodding to herself as she wrapped a towel around her chest. "You could've easily let Mister Dualeen take me. Why didn't you?"

I enjoy owning you. Nothing else.

"The things that you own end up owning you, remember that," she answered, flopping down into bed.

Learn your place, Miss Lewis. I am a god, he responded firmly.

"And I'm a woman," she said, shrugging. "Have you ever really had a home?"

Asgard is my home, idiot.

"No, I mean. . . a home is a place you own, a place that you can do with as you please, and be yourself completely."

His answer was his silence.

She smiled, and he had no idea why.