The Seventh Stone

Chapter Eighteen

Everything seems to go back to normal in the days that follow the celebration. Save for Loki's proposal lingering in my mind: to live in Asgard, 'for the time being.' I'd begun thinking about it almost immediately—as soon as brain activity resumed normally, and I got a bit of much-needed sleep.

The days have otherwise gone by much as they did before, and Loki hasn't pressed me once for answers—which I appreciate. It's given me the time to consider things carefully: in what capacity would I devote some uncertain amount of time, to live somewhere as far and unfamiliar as Asgard? What further implications would it have on my life in Midgard? And arguably the most important question—what would I do with the stone?

These are the things I've thought about—even now, leaning against one of the wooden stands as Loki bargains with the shopkeeper, over the chain of a small necklace I'd passingly remarked was beautiful. I don't even really want to know where he obtained the money to pay for it, so instead, I simply choose to let my mind stray a bit from the scene.

"Well done," I hear Loki say friendlily to the young shopkeeper, before pivoting toward me with a long, golden chain and green pendant resting between his fingers.

I drop my gaze down from the treetops—toward him.  "Hm? Oh-" I reach out to take the delicate necklace from him, tilting my head with a smile. "Thank you."

The chain is just long enough to get around my head without unhooking it, and it rests lightly against my chest.

"Looks even better on the lady," the shopkeeper grins with satisfaction.

I nod graciously. "That's very kind—thank you."

"I don't think it's the necklace that looks lovely," Loki grins. 

I step toward him, rising up onto the balls of my feet briefly to peck him on the cheek before continuing our stroll down the path. He turns with me, but we both halt sharply at the sound of desperate, pattering footsteps behind us—and the sound of someone calling my name.

Half the marketplace turns with us, and stares at the sight of Yerul appearing from around the corner. "Lara—Loki," he says breathlessly, sliding to a stop in front of us. "It's Olen—he's.... They brought him in to the hospital."

My eyes widen. "Hospital!?" I exclaim. "What happened?"

Yerul shakes his head. "We don't know—he's not conscious, there's... There's something wrong with him."

Loki and I exchange glances.

"Okay," I nod. "Let's go."

***

Yerul wasn't lying.

Wherever Olen's been, and whatever he's been up to, something really got under his skin—literally. In fact, the longer we stay in this room, along with the King and Queen, the harder it is to look at him. So I do it in bursts—looking toward the bed, and away from it.

Tears stream down Valaryn's cheeks as she peers down at him.

"I don't understand—what is this?" she looks back at Weylan, who turns and wraps his arms around her—still peering worriedly down at his son.

My eyes trail back toward Olen—toward the sight of his dazed eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, and blackened veins bulging from his skin.

They'd patched up the wounds before we got here, but we'd been told upon our arrival that he'd been cut to ribbons as well...

I swallow hard, and inhale sharply. "Maybe..." I mumble, pausing to reconsider my thoughts. Seconds too late, as every pair of eyes in the room turns toward me sharply—like they'd been waiting for me to say something. "Maybe I can find out what happened to him."