Fever

2

Even in sleep, there was no peace. Tortured by his dreams and drained by the fever, Loki's recovery came with agonizing slowness.

For days he slept in fits and starts, waking to take water, receive healing, and empty his bladder. The woman went out at sunrise and dusk--he presumed to look for food. Sometimes she came back with bits of cactus or roots and he watched her cook them, taste them, clearly testing to see if they were edible. Often she spit them out immediately, face contorting. She offered him what she seemed to deem safe but he had no appetite.

During the day she went deep into the tunnel and came back with fresh water. Once she returned with a bizarre, colorless fish, which she cooked over the fire, using a piece of his armor as a makeshift skillet.

He'd recovered enough strength by then to rasp, "No," when she brought him some of it, but she held it to his mouth and scowled insistently until he took a few bites. It was rather mushy, although it tasted alright. Chewing required enormous effort, but he was afraid if he failed that she would chew it for him, and that was more humiliation than he could bear.

When he finally swallowed, she smiled with genuine pleasure. It was the first time she'd done so, and he felt an unwilling tingle of gratification. That smile was... dazzling.

She was dazzling.

Well, she was interesting, at least. Fascinating, if he was honest. She wore a faded brown tunic and loose leggings that could easily have belonged to an Asgardian peasant, only they were in a style hundreds of years out of date. She never spoke, nor seemed to understand him when he did. Most of the time her face was inscrutable, utterly calm. But her eyes were expressive. Compassionate, intelligent. Completely empty of judgment.

She was a mystery. One that plagued him--if rather pleasantly.

On the third day, he was strong enough to speak in complete sentences. He asked her what her name was and she looked at his mouth, frowning as though the words made no sense to her. He tried half a dozen different languages, to no avail. All she ever did was give him that same little frown, brows drawn slightly together.

Nothing seemed to phase her. She tended to his needs with a combination of duty and genuine caring that left him feeling... what?

He had no words for it. But somewhere along the line, he began to feel a strange sense of loss when she left him. A shameful sort of anticipation of her return. A deeply disconcerting surge of pleasure each time she reappeared.

He told himself it was because he had no choice but to rely on her--that he missed her when she was gone simply because he needed her to survive.

But that didn't explain the warm, expanding sensation in his chest when she crawled under the coverings and snuggled up to him at night. It didn't explain the fact that he frequently fought to stay awake just so he could enjoy the sensation of her body against him.

You've gone too long without touch, that's all.

How long had it been since he'd had a lover? He couldn't even remember. Not since before his true parentage had been revealed to him. There had been someone, though, not long before that.

The memories came back in bits and peices. The body of a young warrior beneath him. Pale skin and long brown braids. A few casual couplings in the dead of night. What had his name been?

Well, it didn't really matter.

There was no shame in enjoying this contact, now. This woman. Her body. It was his only reprieve from the pain and the fever. And the nightmares.

She touched him rather frequently, much to his surprise. And not always out of duty.

During the night, he sometimes woke from fever dreams to find her touching his face, smoothing his hair. He'd turned away at first in shame, angry that she was there to witness his suffering: the silent tears he cried for Frigga, for himself. The guilt that plagued him.