The Purging of Asgard

Chapter 4

~*~3 weeks later~*~

            "Okay, when is the next issue? I'm dyin' here!" Green Arrow pleads with you, your comic has really taken off, with all of your regulars being apparent fans, and even lending their issues to friends. 
            "You know I only release one a week, just like any other comic book. Some comics are monthly, or bimonthly. Would you rather that?" You tease. 
            "Yeah, yeah," he mutters, giving up, "I guess I'll see you again Saturday, then."
            "Yup, or else you'll never know what happens to Valkyrie." You wink, torturing him.

            “Agh! Why would you do that? What is the point of a teaser like that? You’re killing me!” he’s muttering, melodramatically as Aquaman is pulling him away from the counter, apologizing half jokingly for his friend being such a bother.

Sometimes it was too much fun to pick on those kids. You could probably release your books daily, you have a few dozen backlogged already, but you wanted to test the waters first and make sure it was a good idea before diving in. Now you just didn't want to overwhelm people. It's probably better if they believe it takes a week or so to write, instead of the feverish hour and a half that leaves you drained and wondering if the whole thing is maybe making you a little crazy.
            Glancing around the store, you see little Thor with his mother semi-patiently urging him to hurry along as she repeatedly checks her watch; he’s trying out the Vertigo comics now, good for him. A few new customers loiter, they are gearing up to be regulars, though you haven't quite named them yet, but even now you’re sure Superman fits one of them. Captain Winter Falcon is in his usual spot, thumbing through the winter solider comics you know he's read several dozen times, and in the back corner, one third of the All-Mother, you heard one of the other girls call her Elizabeth not long ago, is chatting with the Flash. They are actually flirting shamelessly, which they have been doing for several weeks already, but now at least they aren’t separated by the shelves, or much personal space for that matter. You’re just about to go back to some menial work behind your front counter when you see them exchange phone numbers. You pause, unable to suppress the smile and she turns to leave, tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling shyly at him. Just a few steps from the door, her phone pings with a text alert, a message from the Flash that makes her turn and nod, smiling again as she runs to catch up with her friends.
            You give him a thumbs up and a wink when he looks at you, making him smile as a deep blush crawls across his face and up to the tip of his ears. That's you, comic store Yenta. It kind of feels like your little shop family is growing as the Justice League checks out, Flash talking about the upcoming date and all three of them begging one last time for your next book, and you are torn between a feeling of pride at seeing young love blossom, and a pang of loss at never experiencing this yourself, at least not yet. You never even knew your real family; the only memories you have are of the Foster care system, and those you seem to have blocked most of. It wasn't really worth remembering anyway, a dozen or so forgotten birthdays, a few really bad situations, sometimes feelings like a guest, always wondering when you would be moving on again. Never feeling like you were going to stay put for long. Never feeling like you were part of the family.
            Closing time, you close out the register, set your alarm and lock up, then set out on the two block walk to your little apartment. You hug your jacket tighter around you, but the chill you're feeling isn't from the air, for the first time in quite a while, you miss having someone to go home to, instead of the cold, dark shadows that follow you home. No roommates, no pets, not even a plant. You don't remember the last time you felt this lonely. But you just tuck your head and walk. It'll pass. It always does.
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.
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            Loki sits in a park, just a handful of blocks from a modest comic book store that seems to have gotten a bit more popular in the past few weeks. The sun is slowly setting, and he watches as the rays paint the buildings around him, orange, yellow, pink, though nothing compared to the colors of the sunsets at home, he almost lets himself relax before he is reminded that he's on a mission. His main trail had gone cold at least two weeks ago, nearly as soon as he had arrived. She may be able to hide for now, but he will find her, and she will pay dearly for this.
            "Mom!" A young boy, maybe ten years old sits with his mother at the other end of the bench, he's reading some sort of Midgardian picture book and pointing frantically at something apparently surprising that has just occurred. Stealing a casual glance, one of the pages catches Loki's attention. 

That couldn't be... But the balcony looks so familiar...

            “Hon, I think this is a little violent, don’t you?” she looks relatively shocked at the depictions of war in this particular issue: stacked bodies wrapped in linen, warriors losing limbs, sometimes their heads, blood spraying or pooling under fallen swordsmen,

            “No, it’s not that bad, really…” he pulls the book to him protectively,

            “But if this is going to disturb you, maybe we should find a different series for you.”

            “No, mom, please, this isn’t disturbing to me, my history book is way worse!” She looks skeptical for a moment,

            “The first nightmare you have, we are putting these away.”
            "What is this book?" He asks abruptly, the woman looks at him oddly, taking hold of her son's arm. "I simply want to know where I may acquire one." He says impatiently, the woman almost doesn't answer, but instead mutters some quick directions to him before taking her son's hand and leading him away. 
            "Ma, that was him!" The boy whispers to his mother, just out of Loki's earshot. He gestures frantically at a panel in the comic, a man cradling his dying wife,

            “You’re not pleading a very convincing case for this, young man.” She says, tugging him along.
            He didn't hear their exchange, and he didn't care, he hesitates for just a moment before starting to pick his way through the city to this book seller. By the time he finds the storefront it's obviously closed for the day. So close. He would return soon, it's already dark out. 
There was a single panel in that book, one particular, intimate picture that only one other person could possibly know about. The day he lost his wife, kneeling in the throne room, holding her bloodied, broken body, left alone to mourn his loss.
During The Purging, many were lost, some being targets, some merely from trying to survive a time of war. Families were torn apart, half a generation lost. He was separated from his love and their child at the same time; he had his only true family ripped from him. He would not hope. He would not believe. He would find this writer and make them tell him where they heard the story. 
The Purging of Asgard. 
His family history. 
He turns without looking, heading down the road to a nearby hotel to find a place to sleep for the night, but he instead runs right into a young woman, knocking her to the ground,
"Watch where you're going, punk." She spits out at him, rubbing her aching elbow as she pulls herself to her feet.
"Punk?" He says, astonished at the insolence. "I'll have you know, I'm--"
"Blocking my door, now move along." He pauses, her door. 
"This is your shop?"
"That's what I just said, and we're closed for the day, now git." She pulls a keychain from her pocket, making quick work of the front door, but before she could slip through the door, 
"Wait, I have a question about a picture book, that I was told I could find here." She hesitates, then turns and steps out into the light, keeping one hand on the door
"What did you want to know?" she says with an impatient sigh.
Those eyes, the set, the shape, the color, her inquiring brow, the set of her jawbone, she can't be,
"Sigyn..."