The Origin of Fear

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Fera rose early the following day, stirred into consciousness by the unease of dark dreams. She had returned to her chambers after the surprisingly intimate meeting with Loki in his forest the night before, and had collapsed on her bed—which had been miraculously restored to her room before she got back. She sat up on the soft mattress, bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She thought of Loki, which brought about several waves of emotions running through her, but primarily, bewilderment. It was not that his actions were unwelcome, but rather unexpected, and Fera did not understand what it was that he sought.

What was he playing at? Was he serious? Did he not know who he dealt with? How could he? Fera hardly knew who she was anymore. After she had witnessed her family being murdered in front of her, she felt as if she had undergone some sort of metamorphosis. The woman she had been before she left Alfheim had been frightened of her abilities and of everything she feared she was. It had been paramount that she stifle who she was in order to keep the peace and preserve others’ ease. Now, however, it was different. After emerging from her self-inflicted isolation, Fera was no longer concerned for others’ desires or wishes, or their discomfort around the horrors that could come from looking her in the eyes. She didn’t care about the effect her abilities had on others. If any dared to challenge her, they would receive what they deserved. Just as Azur did. Fera did not regret the near-death experience she gave him. A very small part of her was alarmed that she did not mind the newfound unhindered attitude she had toward using her abilities, but that part of her was almost dead; she had changed, and she felt as if she could only stand by and watch herself become someone entirely new--someone who considered others’ comfort a distant priority only to be pursued after her own was achieved. She was different now, and what’s more, she was dangerous. 

Why, then, did Loki care for her and the terror she was rapidly becoming? 

The notion that Loki regarded her in the way he claimed was even more unbelievable than the idea that his sentiments were not unrequited. But she had long grown used to the fact that the sort of life she knew he would want for them--balls and galas and dresses and perhaps becoming royalty--was not the life for her. She was a weapon, a warrior that took down kingdoms and gave them to whoever was in charge. Whenever she had had pursuers in the past, she would merely look them in the eye and ask them if they could truly see a future with her. They usually ran away screaming. Loki was different, of course, due to the magic he had created to be able to look at her, but the sentiment was the same. If he was speaking truthfully--which, Fera had come to learn, was quite rare that he did so--he had no idea what he was getting into. And, she resigned, setting her mouth into a thin line, she couldn’t let him find out.

She threw the covers off of herself and hurriedly dressed herself in casual attire, suddenly overcome with the overwhelming desire to get out of the room. She didn’t care where she was going, as long as she was able to walk down the long, winding corridors as quickly as her thoughts were racing through her mind. Crossing the room to her door, Fera threw it open, only to be stopped by an unexpected face framed by black hair. 

“Sif,” she said, deflating a little. “What brings you here in the early morning hours?” 

“We had a meeting,” she replied. 

Fera stepped into the hallway, and Sif automatically turned her head so as not to meet her gaze. “We?” Fera repeated in a low voice.

“Aye,” Thor’s voice sounded from just beside her. She turned to see him pressed flat against the wall, looking back at her with determination rolling off of him in waves. 

“I don’t—” Fera began. She turned back to Sif, panic rising in her, but the Valkyrie threw a rucksack over her head, blinding her. “What are you doing?!” she shouted. She began to struggle, but to no avail; a pair of goliath, muscular arms wrapped around her, lifting her into the air as if she were no more cumbersome than an angry toddler.