Profession

Repercussions

I knew that it would take about fifteen minutes for the sugar to take effect, and was grateful for Aunt Dagny's fondness for hard candies. The pups pressed against my back in literal support. "I'll be fine in a few minutes," I said. "Could you drop me at the New York embassy now?" I asked. If I had been in trouble before, it was bound to be a lot worse for toasting a chancellor. The smell of burned hair and wool hung heavily in the air.

"You ought to go to the infirmary, honey," Uncle Bucky said, patting my cheek. "You can't be sure that this is the only symptom."

"I can go to a hospital at home," I said stubbornly.

Grandma knelt by me. "Last time there were too many other factors to truly know how Hestia's vengeance affected you, Buttercup. Just let the healers here check you out, then you can go home. I'll take you there myself, if I have to."

"You can't shift that much mass around now that you're mortal again," I said flatly. "I'd rather go now while the getting is good than hang around, incurring more debt, and potentially be prevented from leaving. I assaulted an official, that's real trouble."

"I pledge myself that you will be able to leave freely, Lys," Loki said, turning from Volstagg, who was also sitting on the floor, his face and chest dripping water from melting ice.

"Please, Lys," Torunn said, ignoring the chancellor. "There's no question of debt; your rights as a guest have been abused. It is for us to make recompense, and you need medical attention."

The issue was taken out of my hands when I flopped over. Whoops. I guess the sugar wasn't enough after all. I was vaguely conscious of Loki's cold hands pulling me to my feet, then he picked me up and trotted down the Bifrost. I found myself in what must be the infirmary, and somebody sent to pull a healer away from the feast. Yay, that would make somebody thrilled. I was placed on a stone table under a bright warm light that dimmed as another person came into the room and activated a field filled with what looked like red microbeads.

"Nothing too serious," the man said abstractly. "Your arms are losing temperature rapidly, curious, dehydration, blood glucose is too low, your electrolyte balance is in tatters... hm."

"What?"

"Synthetic bones in your right leg, although you must know about that. And some brain damage, in the hippocampus, amygdala, and hypothalamus. It's not fresh, however. And the amygdala is larger than it should be. Cortisol is overproduced, looks chronic."

"I was exposed to a terror-inducing gas," I said. "It pretty much scrambled my brain, I understand. They fixed as much as they could, but they couldn't get all of it. I've had the problems with the cortisol for years."

"Dreadful," the man said, sounding scandalized. "A barbaric weapon."

"Yeah," I sighed. "They put me in a coma until they could understand how to fix it, mostly. Other victims are psychotic. As it is, my fear response is... difficult to control."

"I should be able to heal that," he offered, turning away momentarily and then faced me again. I felt the pinch of an IV needle sliding into my vein. "A hydrating glucose solution with electrolytes. After treatment, your strength will recover, but you will feel fatigue for some time. What precipitated your condition?"

"I've been blessed by a Midgard goddess," I said after a moment of figuring out how to explain the broad sweep of things. "This particular gift deals with home and hospitality. The rules of hospitality here have been broken. When it happens, severely enough, the fire of the goddess erupts from my hands." I thought for a second. "I didn't think it could happen here, I'm so far away from her influence."