Estranged, Chapter 1: New Rules

Author's note: It's not necessary to read "Surrender" to enjoy this story, if you were wondering. 

This story will further explore Loki's mental shifts and character development as he explores his thoughts and emotions while he is mortal. And we will be following Rowan's growth as well. :)  
You can also read this story on FanFiction.net
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It was nighttime in Midgard, the name Asgardians gave to Earth’s realm. Loki had been sent here by Odin as judgment for his crimes both against humans and against his family. And this exile promised to be long and complicated unless he found a workaround—Odin declared Loki would show sincere compassion before returning to Asgard.

Loki’s surroundings were not specifically familiar to him, but after a look around he surmised he was in the bad part of town that inevitably resulted after years of urban sprawl. He stood alone in the parking lot of an abandoned supermarket. Tall weeds and small bushes grew through cracks in the pavement, graffiti decorated the building’s boarded windows, and the establishment’s sign had long been taken down—just another urban ghost to be bulldozed eventually. Only one of the street lights overhead worked, buzzing and blinking intermittently. The lot was on a side street, and the only sounds of the night were crickets in the surrounding trees and the distant sounds of a freeway. As much as he despised interacting with humans, he began a slow walk towards civilization in the cool early evening breeze. He wasn’t going to accomplish much in the middle of nowhere.

He found himself dressed acceptably in a dark purple dress shirt, plain black slacks, and black coat and shoes. He admired the good pair of black leather gloves that covered his hands and gave them a slow stretch. Nothing too fancy, but a relief when he knew most humans cared little for how they presented themselves. Tonight, though, he didn’t want to be noticed. He only wanted to think. To think and plan.

His body ached with physical remembrance of his conflict with L’Shale, but mentally precise details evaded him. As he walked the reality of his mortality began to sink it. His eyes were not as sharp in the dim light of twilight as they should have been. His steps were not as quick, and neither were his thoughts. His faculties should still be above average compared to most humans, but a disadvantage was a disadvantage. He wondered which of his skills and abilities would be affected. Magic and sorcery were out of the question, but what of his other natural talents? His deception and wit? His intelligence, subterfuge, and strategy? He felt hollow as if his true self was eluding him, keeping its distance as he dreamed this mortal life.

His deepest thoughts and memories were in far greater disarray as if a whirlwind had accompanied his exile. He struggled to pull his thoughts together and move forward as he had done for his physical body, but it was a slow process. For blocks he could only observe his surroundings as he moved through toward sense and the city.

He passed several small houses, some inhabitable and others dilapidated. The street lights were dim and the sidewalks and roadways were riddled with cracks. Despondency hung thick in the air; this part of the city had been long ignored and avoided. Guard dogs occupied a few of the small, shoddy-fenced, debris-strewn yards, snarling or cowering as he passed. Occasionally an elderly man or woman glanced at him from a window momentarily.

Eventually events, ideas, reactions, and opinions came back into focus. But the dreamlike feeling and hollowness came to the forefront as he recalled memories. He clearly remembered the act that had caused Odin to send him here, but being divorced from the rage it should have produced allowed him to look at the bigger picture more easily rather than turn to anger over his judgment. He was always a big picture planner, even if most of his plans failed in the end. The thought stabbed him unexpectedly. Most of my plans have failed. His first reaction was to blame others, of course. Surely his ingenious plans were never ruined due to flaws in his own design. Or were they?

Memories washed over him in response. He thought of the tesseract, L’Shale, the destroyed Bifrost, and several other times in his life when he struggled for control and lost because of his own self-righteous arrogance—his “lack of conviction” as the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Coulson had put it to him. Objective reasoning began to guide his thoughts. I have let my obsession for control reign over me too long. If I wish to break this cycle and regain my bearings, I must switch focus. I must work from another angle. What other angle is there if you are not the antagonist? Who was he if not a catalyst for change? The other side of the coin was not of interest to him. Unbidden heroism was out of the question. It suited him poorly and was quite undesirable. But resolving not to play the villain doesn’t commit you to playing the hero. Could he stand idly by and watch events as a spectator rather than choose a side? Would it be possible to lay low while living as a mortal? Playing by the rules was a novel thought, but there was usually so little reward for following rules. Perhaps he could think of something to make this growing idea of experimentation worthwhile.

After several blocks the bad part of town ended at a bridge of modern construction that spanned a decently-sized inlet. The bridge was small by comparison next to two other bridges he could see. This bridge could only admit a single lane of traffic while the other two seemed to cater to heavier traffic patterns. He crossed the old bridge below more flickering streetlights toward the city.

A few blocks past the far side of the bridge revealed the bustling downtown of a small city. This city, while busy as every city is, had a laid back feel to it. He noticed pedestrians laughing with one another on more than one occasion, and the streets were not so packed that one could become completely lost in a crowd. The oldest architecture he saw—huge, Gothic churches that could be seen from almost any corner in the city—could not have been more than a couple hundred years old, and the shallow avarice of capitalism painted every storefront he passed. I must be in America.

Wanting a vantage point safe from interruptions, he picked a tall building at random and entered the lobby. It was empty except for a security guard preoccupied with his mobile phone and a cup of coffee. The guard looked up, and Loki gave the man a slight nod. His meaningful stride toward the elevator marked him as someone who had reason to enter a building at 7pm when all the businesses upstairs were most likely closed. The majority of simple interactions were easily mastered with confident mannerisms. His skills and their importance were coming back to him, but he felt rusty. Had his encounter with L’Shale rattled him so badly?

He took the elevator to the top floor. He then took the stairwell at the end of the hallway to the roof of the building. The view from the 20-story roof confirmed his suspicion that city was not very large, perhaps a few square miles. It was located on a peninsula that jutted into the ocean. He walked the small roof for a time before seating himself on a ledge that allowed him to view the ocean, black as it was in the light-polluted dark, several blocks away beyond a park. He could smell salt on the chilly autumn breeze. It wasn’t much to look at, but it satisfied his need for peace and quiet.

What will I do with myself while I am here? If I intend to play by the rules to go unnoticed, what could I do among humans that would not bore me to death? Who will I need to interact with? Acting as an acceptable member of human society either means securing money or securing...trust. He had not shared his trust with another soul for a very long time. It had grown easier to manipulate others and imply trust, but at some point he always violated any trust given to him. It was necessary when yourself always came first.

Rules were there to be broken, weren’t they? But keeping the rules intact  was indeed the challenge he was choosing to accept. He wanted to test his limits, but dominating humans with his cunning and manipulation was old hat. He was already a large step out of his comfort zone by being a mortal. What difference does a blindfold make when you already have an arm tied behind your back? Playing as a human, no matter the humility involved, was the only way to make humanity interesting now. At the very least he might be able to gather useful information if the experience was a bust.

As he pondered on his possible plans his feelings and emotions began to check back in with him. Hatred for his father’s judgment, yet shame for his betrayal against his family. The love he held for his family was a prickly thorn bush—the closer he tried to hold them, the more it hurt his cold heart. The contradiction was a central part of himself that he tried to ignore, but acknowledge at the same time. Since his time in the void it had been so much easier to hate his family, to push them away as a casualty lost to him. But he could not deny the love he held for them, bittersweet as it was. Chiefly the respect he held for his father, the adoration and longing for recognition that he kept locked away deep in the dungeons of his lonely castle, the mental sanctuary he had built for himself. Part of him had hoped L’Shale would burn the feelings from him. It would have made his life easier to operate without attachment to others. Attachment was a weakness. Yet another part of him was relieved to discover his feelings had not been touched. The love he felt for his family spanned a longer part of his life than his time spent recently as a selfish, spiteful son out to conquer the universe and make it obey him. Had he really been so reckless lately? Again the hollow, dreamlike feeling swept over him, and his thoughts drifted back to his present situation.

I still need a reason to drive my ambition...give me focus...a reward to entice me... Returning home and reclaiming his status was the ultimate goal, but he needed a promise of more instant gratification. As if the universe had heard his thoughts, the door to the stairwell creaked open behind him.

Loki was not yet ready to entertain company and would have prefered a little more time to mull over his plans. He pushed away the urge to “lure” the newcomer over the ledge—he reminded himself he would need to hold to more acceptable means to eliminate the intruder’s presence. Well then, time to follow some rules.

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Rowan was working late tonight. Again. She'd promised herself that she would quit covering for anyone who wouldn't return the favor, but she didn't want to upset any of her coworkers. She didn't want to cause any conflicts at the small sales office; drama was much more stressful than a little lost time to herself. She cursed herself for being such a pushover, but she didn't want to look for another job. The benefits here were good even if the work was a little stressful. She hadn't asked for a raise in three years because of the recession, though. Rowan Fields had no room to grow, but felt too comfortable to rock the boat. “Bookkeeping shouldn’t be so stressful” seemed to be her mantra for the past year or so.

Before she left the back office to close down the store, she noticed the cake in the break room she’d brought in this morning. She’d made it herself for one of the ladies up front—it was her birthday today—but it had hardly been touched by anyone. She wondered why she still tried. The office morale was pitifully non-existent, and that did bother her. “I’ll just throw it out later. Like anyone will notice,” she sighed as she turned the office lights off and locked the door. The thought of keeping the cake for herself only deepened her ever-growing sense of loneliness. The feeling had steadily settled in on her since she moved out of her parent’s home after college over six years ago.

Rowan justified the soul-draining day job for the past five years because she had to pay the bills. What she really wanted to do was work for herself, but it would be a long time before her self-published short stories and cookbooks could eliminate the need for a full-time job. Financial independence would take time to build given the meager earnings her works currently made. As it was now her sales could buy her a meal once or twice a month—not a significant source of income at all.

The reason behind her late shift was to guard the cash office while the showroom stayed open later than usual for appointments. She wasn't usually needed unless a salesperson happened to take payment for an order—usually the after hours appointments were just to select materials or pick out samples to take home—but the boss always wanted someone else there just in case. She was glad she wasn't a sales person. There was no way she could work directly with people for hours over something as inconsequential as interior decorating.

One of the small consolations of working in this building was the roof. The office was located in one of the taller buildings downtown, so the roof overlooked the whole downtown area. The city gave off too much light to stargaze on her late nights, but it was a quiet place to think or write undisturbed. She headed to the roof after work a few times per week, late shift or not. And that’s where she headed tonight before going home.

Most of the other offices in the building were closed by this time of the evening. If their lights were on it was usually for the janitors and service crew. No one else visited the roof that she knew of. It was her private sanctuary far away from ledgers, frivolous customers, and office politics. Up there she wasn’t a bookkeeper, pointless problem solver, or restless soul. She was just Rowan.

She climbed the last set of stairs to the roof and pulled her jacket tightly around her before opening the door to the breezy rooftop.

When she came out onto the roof tonight, though, she was not alone. A sullen looking man sat at the edge of the roof feet from her usual overlook. She could see part of his face, but he seemed to be focused on the cityscape, lost in his thoughts. His appearance was plain as far as she could tell in the dim evening light coming from the rest of the city. His straight black hair touched his shoulders, and he wore a black coat and slacks—possibly tailored, but she couldn’t tell for sure.

Oh, no. I hope he's not a jumper. She paused, frozen at the thought. Cautiously she crossed the rooftop to approach him quietly, but then realized she should announce her presence. She didn't want to frighten him and be the trigger of a tragic accident. She opened her mouth to speak, but the man spoke first.

"I am aware of your presence. Go away." The man sounded as sullen as he looked, but he didn't sound like a man contemplating suicide. Irritation touched his words, but he tried to hide it beneath nonchalance. His voice possessed a proud tone and cadence that would have been enchanting in a more normal situation. It held a quality worthy of Shakespeare and fairy tales, not a sound usually heard in the middle of a modern city. A classically trained actor might speak with such a voice... But he is no actor. The thought came to her so quickly that she had no time to question the judgment.

She hated small talk. She felt fake and wasteful each time a random encounter with someone started with a chat about the weather. Nothing pleased her more than to answer truthfully when she was asked the culturally ubiquitous "How are you doing?" It was a break in the social norm to do so, but she always felt better when the questioner was able to answer truthfully as well. She aimed at making the few conversations she got into meaningful ones. But contrary to her values, a situation like this was best handled carefully.

"I haven't seen you up here before. Do you work in this building? I work on the 16th floor at Coastal Shore Interiors," she made it to within several paces of him, but paused when he turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his eyes.

Even in the dim light she felt the full effect of his piercing gaze; his blue eyes held a look full of countless emotions. Hatred, disdain, depression, confusion, need. It was overwhelming, and her breath caught in her throat. "I'm here to think, not prattle on with a sorry excuse for a life form." He turned his attention back to the cityscape in a less angry, but far from relaxed state. “I suggest you leave,” he added firmly as he rested his gloved hands on his knees.

Knowing she could not be the source of his ire, she contemplated how to proceed. How in the world do I respond to that? Certainly I can't take that personally. She shifted her stance to look more open. Her arms had been crossed to her chest holding a notebook that contained her writing, but she let her arms drop to her sides. She asked calmly, "What's wrong? I'd be happy to just listen if that's what you need." She continued to walk towards the ledge slowly. This time he did not reply, and he made no move. His attention remained on the city below them.

She wasn’t sure why she felt the urge to stay rather than leave as he suggested, but it had to do with his voice. He was telling her to go, but he needed someone to talk to. She heard it in his voice and had seen it in his eyes. She was no therapist, of course, but she thought herself proficient at helping others. She had a way of understanding all angles of a situation and helping others to make decisions. It was a skill she loved using, and regretted that her day job couldn’t make use of it. No one asks a bookkeeper for meaningful help.

Rowan took a seat with her legs underneath her a few feet away from him on the ledge. She set her notebook down behind her and turned to face him. "I can help if you talk with me," she spoke softly, but her tone was firm.

He looked her over quickly, measuring and weighing her worthiness to be spoken to as an equal. After a brief flash of regret he sighed impatiently, "You couldn't comprehend me much less help me." Too prideful to ask for help. And he thinks I am worthless. Wonderful.

"Well, if that's the case then I'm going to work on my writing. If you want to talk, I'll be here for a while." She retrieved her notebook and opened it to a lengthy story she'd been editing for far too long, but couldn't bring herself to finalize. Her perfectionist streak caused many hesitations in her creative works. She figured he would either come around and speak with her or leave. She did not feel intimidated by him. She was quite interested in finding the cause behind the torrent of emotions in his eyes, though. I feel drawn to help him. I just hope he's not dangerous.

The two of them sat in silence for close to an hour, more than long enough for Rowan to lose herself in the complexities of character interactions and the nuances of word choice. Unbeknownst to Rowan the stranger had been watching her rather than the city. She'd been focused so intensely that she'd forgotten the man’s presence until she heard him make a noise. The disruption pulled her back to the present situation, and she stared at him for a moment. Did he just laugh? At what? Me?

"The faces you’ve made this past hour have been very amusing. What are you working on so intently?" He was no longer angry, only inquisitive, but an underlying tone in his voice demanded that she answer him without question as if he had some authority over her. She certainly felt the need to answer him. His glare could put a rock at ill-ease.

"I'm working on a story—a book I want to publish," she replied in a more relaxed tone than his, though his comment about her making faces as she worked had reddened her cheeks a little. He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Would you like to know what it's about?"

He considered a moment, the slightest twinge of interest appeared and vanished in an instant. His reply was rushed and cold—a doorslam, "No, I do not care to know. Whatever you miserable people waste your time on matters not." The condescending tone was back, and he waved dismissively at her as if there was no hope for the human race. Why is he afraid to talk to me yet he sat here for over an hour? What is this guy wrestling with?

"Look," Rowan snapped her notebook shut in irritation, "If you don't give a rip about humanity, that's your prerogative, but you could be a little nicer since I made an effort to reach out and help you. Some people would gladly watch you jump off this building; they might even give you a push and cheer for you on your way down." As soon as the words left her mouth she knew she’d been too harsh, and she winced at the thought of what she’d said. I'm letting his attitude get to me. Patience, Ro. Patience.

The man chuckled bitterly and smiled to himself. He adjusted the way he was sitting to cross his legs underneath him to mirror how she sat, and he rested his head against several fingers of his right hand, "Oh, you would cheer my fall with them if you knew the truth of things..." he mused quietly to himself and pushed the hand at his temple through his hair. A pained look crossed his face as unknown turmoil rolled within him, but the emotion quickly vanished from his face. He's lost. This man is lost and has no idea what to do.

"What truth?" Rowan was honestly interested. She was so close to getting him to talk. She wasn’t about to quit now.

He turned his gaze upward into the empty black sky, and he continued to think aloud quietly to himself, "It does no good to dwell on fancies. The past is past and cannot be changed.” His quiet thoughts were not for her ears even though she could hear him. He returned from his inward reflection and eyed her sharply, speculatively, “You'd think me mad," he chuckled.

"Try me. Or...” she hesitated, nervous that she would make a fool of herself, but she pressed on still confident that she was supposed to be in this situation. “Or I can read you myself if you don’t want to share." Reading others excited her to no end, but she tried not to pry unless she asked first. Not everyone appreciated her ability to “read” others. Who wants to be told that the secrets they keep hidden are in plain sight to her?

“Read me?” He smiled slyly, his composure completely regained in an instant. “Oh, I would hear what you can read of me.” The stranger turned himself to meet her eyes more easily and folded his hands slowly. His gaze was expectant even though he held an otherwise straight face. “Do share.”

Rowan had never met anyone like him before, but she could pick up on him well enough. She’d always had a knack for reading others—she wasn’t sure what it was, intuition she assumed—that allowed her to sense feelings, moods, and minute changes in body language. She was a barometer of behavior when she tuned in to it. Most of the time she ignored it, though. It was useful in knowing when to avoid the boss because he’s having a bad day, but what good was it to recognize that the woman in front of you at the store was cheating on her husband?

“I’ve been picking up your subtle cues this whole time, but now that I stop and put them together, I have a fair idea of what’s going on with you. You talk with an air of entitlement, but your frustrated manner suggests it’s been stripped from you. But you aren’t some fired CEO or a rich kid tossed out on his ear. Your speech is so anachronistic—you’re old money or...royalty?” She waited a moment for his response, worried that her assumptions might be incorrect.

His eyes did not waver from hers. “Continue,” he bade her firmly.

“You’ve been cut out; you’re stranded. At first I thought you were a jumper. People with the look you have in your eyes don’t sit on rooftops to think happy thoughts and make positive life choices. But you aren’t at the end of your rope, either. You might be lost, but you’re much too confident and collected to be suicidal. You’re planning, searching for what to do next.” Again she waited for his response, but this time he made her wait a long moment. She was anxious for his approval, to know that she had read the signs properly. Her hands began to shake, but she steadied them by gripping her notebook tighter.

“Not at all incorrect,” he approved idly as he broke his stare and searched her face over, “if a bit general. How do you know I am not something more...dangerous?” He flashed her an enticing smile. “A criminal? Perhaps a murderer pondering my next victim?” He looked her up and down with a more discerning gaze in an attempt to unsettle her—a predator and its prey.

“You’re no murderer,” she answered instinctively. “At least, you aren’t right now.” Her conscious mind cringed at her casualness, but again, she trusted her instincts. I am supposed to be here. I can feel it, and I will go with it.

“How would you know?” He replied with increasing interest. “A psychopath has no connections to humanity. Men are simply puzzle pieces to be played and knocked over,” he looked over the edge and smiled, “or pushed over. How could you know what I am capable of simply by observing my solitude on a rooftop?”

Rowan paused for a moment to consider what she might be walking into. Maybe he really is crazy...but he doesn’t seem dangerous. He’s all talk. He’s only playing with me. Has to be a defense mechanism. She stammered, not able to put her feelings into words so quickly. She expressed herself so much easier when she could write instead. “I...just know. I can’t explain it. Honestly.” Against all sense she asked in a serious voice the first question that came into her mind, "...Who are you?"

***********

Loki’s mind raced with excitement. The possibilities that lay with this girl... Surely this should be my reward. To watch her roller coaster of emotions: irritation turned to fear and confusion, then perhaps I will secure her adoration. Or perhaps— He stopped the thought before it continued any further. His plans were to play nice for a while. And if he intended to fully appreciate his experiment, then it was best to begin immediately. His heart sank like a cat being scolded for playing with a mouse. When someone asks who you are, you aren’t supposed to don an elaborate fake identity no matter how amusing or beneficial it would be. You tell them the truth. This should be interesting in itself, though. Certainly the truth will be too much for her, and she will leave me be.

"Well...if we are going to have an honest conversation, I will tell you the truth. I am Loki, god of deception and mischief,” he answered casually as if he were discussing shoe sizes. “Well, former god, I suppose. My father Odin has banished me from Asgard to live here in Midgard. I have been stripped of all my powers and must live here as a mortal. Odin says I may return to Asgard when I've learned to act with...compassion." The word seemed a distasteful concept to his vocabulary, and he uttered it grudgingly.

He peered down at the street below. Everything was so insignificant from 20 stories up. Street lights illuminated couples walking to dinner, groups of college kids caroused and bar hopped, and the faint melody of a jazz saxophone could be heard a few blocks away. The breeze had picked up, but the cold did not bother him.

The girl’s expression was skeptical, but by her voice she wanted to believe him, “Loki. The trickster of Norse mythology?”

“Indeed. We are one in the same.” Loki adjusted his gloves needlessly rather than meet her searching scrutiny of him.

She shook her head slightly in amazement, but continued to recap aloud thoughtfully, “And...you’ve been exiled. To live as a human. To learn compassion.” The girl nodded slowly, no doubt reconciling her observations with his story, "I see...my name is Rowan. Rowan Fields. I’m just a bookkeeper, but I love to write and cook in my free time. It's nice to meet you, Loki. Thank you for being honest with me." She gave him a small smile, but he only returned a skeptical look of his own.

"Do you not question my identity? Or do you think me mad after all?" That amount of frankness should have caused her to leave before I pushed her off this rooftop.

Rowan shrugged, "You declared your honesty. Why would you lie to a stranger sitting on a rooftop with you?" She paused and laughed when she realized her choice of words. "Although, if you are, or were, the god of deception I guess lying would fall under your purview. But...” She looked him over again with reluctant acceptance, “I know you aren’t lying to me about who you are." She looked at the notebook in her hands and turned it over as she continued. "I come up here to be myself, not someone else. Maybe you did the same."

This girl is either lonely, unbelievably gullible, crazy, or perhaps all three. I could have told her anything I wanted, but I chose honesty. I had better not regret this... But...she had been right. He couldn’t deny his reason for being on the roof. Loki surrendered a smile and sighed, "You're right. I did come up here to be myself. To figure myself out, actually. It has been an odd day." He felt something at his admission, a lightening feeling from within himself. He felt relief. It was as if she stood beside him to aid in shouldering a burden. It made him feel more vulnerable than he already was to trust someone with the truth, and the feeling was tenuous at best. The burden they shouldered threatened to crush them both now—he felt beholden to talk to her for a while longer. He thought he should have an urge to leave, to walk away from this situation before it became a bigger commitment, but somehow he knew he had made the right decision to be honest with her. He kept his guard ready to put into place just the same.

Rowan checked her phone for the time. "Hey, I love spending time up here, but the wind’s getting a bit too cold for me. Do you want to go somewhere warmer where we can talk? I'll buy you some dinner if you're hungry."

There was little need for Loki to weigh his meager options. "I suppose there's not much else I can do right now. Dinner would be much appreciated."

He understood her feeling of “just knowing”—he felt it, too. He had already acted so out of character, yet he felt correct in his decisions so far. This hollow, dreamlike feeling, though...he would know if he was being controlled, wouldn’t he?

Rowan smiled, “Great. We can go to a little place a few blocks from here. It shouldn’t be busy since everyone else will be out and about on a Friday night.”

He couldn’t help but be intrigued by her “reading”. Most humans had little skill of picking up on subtle hints much less ignoring them by choice. She was unlike any mortal he had encountered before, an anomaly in his equation. Her intuitive nature was not unlike the way he operated, yet she showed caring and patience where he only prized cold logic and self-preservation. This girl, Rowan Fields, was different indeed. Reward or not, she had very much piqued his interest. And he intended to follow her down this rabbit hole to see where it went. What a delightful tangent to study.

“Excellent. Let us go, then.”