Brightness. Cold. Pain. Exposure. Tangled in appendages. Weighed down. Need to escape. Fly!

Pressure. Gravity. Atmosphere. Why was it so cold?

Noises. Shapes. Temperatures. All separate senses. Why? What was wrong? Why could it not fly? Where were the stars?

Panic blossoming in its… torso. A chest. Limbs. Nerves. Muscles. Bone. Flesh!
Trapped in flesh! Nowhere to go!

No air! Searing fire in its chest, muscle spasms as it spewed up cold liquid. Desperate to fill its lungs, gagging to clear its airways.

Sweet life-giving air. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeating until it no longer felt the panic of suffocation.

It held its limbs together as tightly as possible, quivering all over.

Breathing hard and fast. Fear, so much fear. A tight sensation in the torso, a thudding noise in the chest. Limbs shaking in distress.

Too much, too much!

Was it dying? It had to be dying. Nothing but the act of dying could feel this abhorrent.

Touch. Warm, on its… what was it? Shoulder. Skin over bone. Dermis touching dermis. What was it?

Open the eyes. Two ocular lenses which moved together, not independently. Could only focus in one direction at a time. Focus. Focus on the shapes.

A familiar shape. A face. It was a face. How did it know a face? It remembered faces – had known them once. Had a face before. Had one now? How was this possible?

What had happened?

The spirit had floated for an indefinable amount of time in nothingness, barely aware in its weakened state. It had not even the strength to wail in terror as it was abruptly caught and washed away in a tide of light-filled energy. The mind-jewel had gently pushed what little remained of the spirit into the electrified stream, bestowing part of its own vast power onto the spirit before it was carried away by the current.

The thinking stone was clever. Too clever. It had wanted the spirit to be ejected from the orb. Had it known what it was doing? Why would it commit such an unthinkable act?

The spirit did not want this. It did not want to be trapped in a fleshy, slowly rotting vessel. It wanted its freedom. It wanted to go back to before. It wanted to return to the stars and forget it had ever met the Jotun-Asgardian.

The shade-no-more had shut its eyes again, hiding in the comfort of the darkness, refusing to acknowledge what was happening. But no matter how adamantly it rejected its new reality, its fleshiness was already aching from the hard surfaces, and its outer skin layer was cold and wet.

"Look at me."

Communication via sound. Words. Instantly understood, and powerfully commanding. Its eyes immediately flew open, focusing on the face again.

For the first time, the spirit-no-longer became truly aware of the physical world around it. On the figure crouched over its prone form.

Dark fibrous material on its… head. Hair. Eyes of a pale, faded blue. A mouth for communication and the intake of energy, both in solid, liquid, and gaseous form. A bodily-structured frame, clad in coverings. Limbs. Underneath, skin and flesh and bones.

It was the Jotun-Asgardian. Pale, sweaty, hollowed eyes. Sick. Twisted. Skin of a different hue – pale whitish-brown rather than blue. But it was unmistakably the being it had saved from the oblivion of the void. It was obvious once it looked into his eyes – the same soul was visible there, though the area around his eyes were dark and haunted.

"You have nothing to fear," he spoke gently. Again, it perceived the words. It did not know how to communicate in turn, but it understood his intent, and it focused its ocular lenses… eyes… on his face.

Its shivering limbs were beginning to lessen in their trembling, and it was pulling back from the brink of hysteria. But only just.

The Jotun-Asgardian formed his mouth-parts into an upward shape, showing his teeth. The unknown gesture made it wary, but he did not appear hostile. Instead, he waved an appendage – a hand – and materialized a grey fibroid covering. He attempted to drape the material over its form and it recoiled in terror.

The Jotun-Asgardian hesitated, his mouth shape fading into a neutral state.

"I mean you no harm."

It looked into his eyes and knew something had fundamentally changed since the spirit had shared itself with the Asgardian. It was… something in his eyes. It remembered collapsing the portal – the army of hive-mind creatures eagerly awaiting their turn through the space-tear. It remembered dividing its own consciousness in order to destroy the breach, knowing its own existence would come to an abrupt and violent end.

How had it survived? And how was the spirit now confined to a physical form?

This time, it did not recoil when the Jotun-Asgardian moved closer and succeeded in draping the spirit-in-flesh within the soft folds of the material. It did not object when he wrapped it in the fabric and lifted it from the floor. It was stressed by the very sudden physical contact, but did not attempt to flee. It would not have known how to control its clumsy limbs to do so.

It did, however, feel warmth and comfort, nestled in the cloth and being held in the Jotun-Asgardian's limbs. Arms. It was a sensation which was pleasant and felt naturally desirable. These fleshy bodies enjoyed closeness. Bonding. Social imprinting.

The sensation it experienced now was one which was reminiscent of being enveloped by a paternal or maternal being. Did it have parents once? Had it been cared for and held like this before?

It did not know. And at the moment, it did not care. It had been removed from the harshness of the hard environment. And for the moment, it was no longer cold.

---

Loki had grinned in triumph as his gaze fixated on the prone woman – a grin that slowly faded as she began to violently tremble and vomit up a surprising amount of liquid, the clear contents spilling out onto the gritty concrete floor.

Once this fit had passed, she opted to remain in a shivering heap on the floor, her arms hugging her chest as her legs were curled up tightly against her body. Her face was obscured by her drenched inky hair, but he imagined her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

The displays of obvious distress coming from the alien being disquieted him. Loki's elation and bravado at completing the vital task set before him was somewhat dampened by an unease in his chest. Something akin to… remorse? Surely not. What did he have to regret?

Loki gently placed his palm on her clammy shoulder, and he paused at the heat coming from her skin. It was much too warm, but he deduced this was a side-effect of the Tesseract and the sceptre creating a fully-formed body for the former-spirit.

If that was, indeed, what the two powerful artifacts had done. The god was still not entirely sure how the process had worked. He had been filled with such certainty that this was the way to free the celestial phantom that he had not questioned it – which was quite out of character for him. But if he had learned anything from time spent with his allies, it was not to question and doubt the veracity of the Tesseract or the sceptre. They were infallible in their perfection.

Loki's actions were rewarded when the spirit-woman slowly, hesitatingly moved her head to look up at him. Her unfocused, almond-shaped eyes held an expression he was not prepared for – an expression as naked as her body, plainly conveying fear and pain.

No, not pain. Agony.

The woman closed her eyes and hid her face again, as if she could not bear the sight of the world.

"Look at me," the god commanded, his voice firm but not cruel. The otherworldly being opened her eyes immediately, finally pulling her focus clearly onto his face.

Her irises were a deep purple, almost black, and seemed to stare right through him – but not in a way that was aloof and inattentive. These eyes seemed to pierce straight into his core. It was… disturbing.

Loki easily swept aside his absurd observations. There was no reason to have compunctions for what he had done. He had freed the spirit – now a female human – sparing it from remaining trapped in the orb for all of eternity.

He had saved its life. Her life. She owed him her fealty. And if the power she had shown as a bodiless entity was transferred to this form, well… She could prove to be a useful tool if the Other and his Lord decided to renege on their promises to the Asgardian.

Still. He could do a little something to make the pain in her eyes lessen.

"You have nothing to fear," Loki spoke softly, employing the silken tone which could give his most vile enemies pause.

His charms appeared to be effective as her shuddering slowly abated. Her large eyes were held onto his face, no indication in her pale face as to whether she understood or not. The All-Tongue allowed his words to be perceived by all beings that possessed a base language, but did spirits communicate in such a fashion?

Loki conjured a soft, grey blanket, and moved to wrap it around her shoulders, suddenly reminded of the fact that she was, indeed, entirely naked. The woman flinched hard, her eyes wide in anticipation of… what? Did she think he would strike her down? After all the effort it had taken to forge a physical body for her?

Think, Loki chided himself. She was just birthed into the world, fully-formed, without any warning or preparation. She is frightened and disorientated – everything will appear alarming and unfamiliar.

Loki attempted to furnish his most disarming smile and silkily told her, "I mean you no harm."

She continued to stare at him, her eyes locked onto his like a lifeline, which was perplexing to the god. Most beings, especially mortals, found Loki's gaze too intense to meet for long. But she made eye contact with at least as much intensity as he did, seemingly having no inhibitions against staring unblinkingly into his face.

When he attempted to wrap the blanket around her damp shoulders a second time, she did not shrink away. That was progress, at least.

Loki pulled the woman into his arms and supported her weight as easily as if she were made of spider's silk, though his broken rib panged with irritating resolve at his movements.

She did not resist – only curled in on herself – her head cradled against the tarnished golden spaulder covering his right shoulder.

As Loki looked down at the wondrous being he had just created, carrying her past the gawking mortals as he gracefully exited the makeshift laboratory, he noticed a single tear trailing down the corner of one tightly shut eyelid.

Loki would have felt pity, if he was still capable of such things.

---

"What is she, exactly?" Barton asked, looking through the window to the small room which they had made as an impromptu cell for the spirit-woman. It was secluded and empty, save for a small metal table pushed against the wall, accompanied by two flimsy, plastic chairs. The assassin had told the god the room had probably been used as an office, and that it locked from the inside.

The god had immediately magicked the lock so that it now functioned from the outside.

The black-haired former-spirit lay on her side on a thin but plush sleeping pad the demigod had conjured – her back facing the rest of the room, covering as much as her body as possible with the blanket.

She was no longer naked, as Loki had fabricated a simple grey dress and black boots for her to wear after he had gently placed her on the bed. He had not bothered to dress her without sorcery – as he presumed that would be a deeply traumatizing experience for her – and instead materialized the garments directly onto her body.

Already, he could feel the weariness from conjuring so many raw materials – not to mention his initial attack of the SHIELD compound, ensnaring three mind-slaves, escaping from the surprisingly tenacious Director Fury, and now the humiliation of hiding like a scurrying creature in the underground.

The woman had looked down at her new robes, but did not react as one would think to articles of clothing suddenly appearing on one's body. She had simply gazed up at the raven-haired deity, staring at him as if she expected him to say or do… something.

Without so much as a word of gratitude, the woman had then turned from him and curled into that same fetal position, shivering as she pulled the blanket around her.

Loki had given her another glance before leaving her in solitude, deciding it would be wise to let her recover before attempting to communicate with her. He was not especially pressed for time at the moment, and it would also give him the opportunity to devise a plan which would give him the greatest advantage of now being in possession of such a unique creature.

Loki believed she recognized him, from what little they had glimpsed of each other before her entrapment. He hoped that was the case. She would be easier to manipulate if she felt a familiarity with the god. He had no indication if the sceptre would be able to enslave her, and he did not want to make the attempt. Not yet.

Unlike Barton, Dr. Selvig, and the other mortals, he actually wanted the celestial spirit to follow him of her own volition. Perhaps as an assessment to prove he did not need the sceptre to rule – that he could attract the loyalty of true allies who would not change allegiances as soon as it was convenient and profitable.

Loki gave an involuntary shudder as he remembered how his current associate was a robed creature with a bleeding mouth and too many thumbs. The… trials he had endured at the hands of Thanos' Vizier were preferable to what would have awaited him if he had returned to the Golden City.

And it had not been too unpleasant, if he did not contemplate the past few months too deeply. If he focused instead on the multitudes of worlds he had been shown by the Tesseract. On the vision of ruling billions of mortals, holding the world that Thor loved so much in his grasp.

Yes, it was better to contemplate his inevitable dominion of Earth rather than the way his mind tried to scurry away from the confused and muddied image he held of Thanos in his head.

Whenever Loki tried to focus his thoughts on the lord of the Chitauri, tried to remember if he had actually met the Other's superior, the effort slipped away from him like water through a sieve.

It was wiser to advance his plans of invasion and return the Tesseract to Thanos as expeditiously as possible. He had made the best choices with what was available to him, and given the current situation, he thought he was faring well.

The god had been preoccupied with these thoughts, standing outside of the spirit's new quarters and staring at her covered form just as the mortal assassin had approached him, inquiring as to the nature of the woman and somehow sounding simultaneously interested and bored.

Loki dragged his eyes away from the spirit-woman, fixating his pale gaze on the most deadly and efficient of his mind-slaves.

"She is… was… some type of celestial spirit. Thanos found it to be an annoyance." Loki nodded his head at the woman through the window. "The Other trapped the spirit in the orb, after it had taken the shape of some kind of fiery creature. Dragon-like. I then released it, and here it is."

"That doesn't look like a dragon to me," Barton said, his bared arms crossed and his expression thoroughly unimpressed.

Loki had to remind himself that stabbing his minion in the eye would probably be a detriment to his archery skills.

"Obviously. I did not choose what form it would take." Loki crossed his arms, unintentionally mimicking the assassin. He forced his arms to unfold and hang by his side, his irritation causing him to misplace the words he was about to speak. Lately, his mind was often like this, easily distracted and surprisingly forgetful. Not at all like his usual self.

"It's probably better this way. Summoning a giant dragon-thingy in the middle of an underground subway system would be…"

"Unwise?" Loki finished, flashing one of his own draconian grins. "Possibly. But it was certainly worthy of effort. And she may yet have some latent abilities in that physical form which will prove advantageous."

Loki certainly hoped so. He had no use for a trembling, mute woman who did nothing but stare at him as if she expected something more.

---

The former-spirit abandoned the physical world for a time. Fascinating images and sounds flashed across its mind. Of flying through stars and wormholes. Of flitting around gas giants and chasing other energy beings through nebulas and star clusters. Of playfully teasing around the edges of a ravenous black hole, testing how close they could dance before sliding down into nothingness and reappearing in another point of space and time.

The spirit opened its… eyes? Why did it have eyes?

The reality of its predicament came crashing down onto its psyche, brutal and merciless as it remembered all that had transpired. It was still trapped in a vulnerable, fleshy vessel.
It had only been dreaming.

Once the Jotun-Asgardian had left it alone in isolation, the spirit had gradually stopped shivering in distress, instead becoming almost lethargic as it felt a deep depression settle onto its soul.

Every fiber of its being yearned for release, to return to its former state of incorporeality. It desired to stop breathing, stop its heart from beating, and find the peace and joy that had once been its entire existence.

But it was not to be. No matter how greatly it wanted to curl in on itself and vanish, it was impossible for physical bodies to do so. Instead, it simply lay on the soft surface the Jotun-Asgardian had materialized using an unknown form of energy manipulation. This action would have ordinarily filled the spirit with intense curiosity, but it had merely stared at him silently, helplessly. Nonverbally pleading with him to end its unbearable existence.

When he had merely stared back at the spirit, it had curled onto its side and stared at the vertical surface near its head, its insides hollow and its thoughts twisted in anguish. It must have fallen into a state of unconscious rest soon after.

Now that it was alert, its mind threatened to spiral into a deep depression once again. The spirit attempted to distract its mind by exposing itself in small increments to its environment.

Observing and scrutinizing the details of the off-white, blank surface helped hold back the growing sense of despair that threatened to consume its thoughts.

The walls of its confinement were hard and slightly moist. The blanket was pleasurably soft and warm. Its skin was even softer and warmer, and lined with delicate hairs. It was pliable and malleable, and if it pushed or pulled too hard, the sensations turned unpleasant.

It used its delicate and flexible hands to explore its physical form. Smooth, grey material covered most of the body – save for its upper arms which were laid bare. The Jotun-Asgardian had chosen to cover its form using the same methodology he had employed to create the object on which it lay, obscuring its pale, smooth skin from exposure to the damp air.

The spirit examined the tiny, delicate appendages on the ends of its limbs. Fingers and toes, the latter hidden by a stiff, black material which covered its feet.

The spirit's new body did not have a tail, or wings, or fur. No scales or spikes or fangs or hooves. It was completely vulnerable and helpless.

What manner of pathetic creature was this?

Not a Jotun or an Asgardian. Its new form was weak and brittle, and those beings were powerful and impressive. It did not fully understand the body it now possessed, but it was neither capable nor able to protect itself with any sort of natural weapon or defense system.

If it was forced to endure the burdens of having a physical form, it could have at least been functional and practical. Not this delicate vessel of clay flesh and glass bones.

The spirit lay in quiet frustration, first on its left side, then rolling onto its back, then curling onto its right side, observing as much of the room as it was able with its pathetically limited vision which seemed to solely rely on a narrow band of visible light, blind to the other electromagnetic frequencies that filled the universe with their beautiful wavelengths.

The partition to the room opened without warning, startling the spirit as it lifted its head to examine the figure which stepped inside. It was a non-Asgardian, dressed in black, tight-fitting coverings – not the Jotun-Asgardian, but one of the beings present for its… birth?

Resurrection? Regeneration? Torment? Each concept felt equally applicable.

It locked eyes with him and was alarmed to see the influence of the mind-jewel staring back. Bright azure eyes swirled with an unnatural brightness, uncontrolled by the owner of the body, the energy signature of the massive mind emanating from his gaze.

How was the mind-jewel able to influence the world outside of its housing? Was the Jotun-Asgardian responsible? He was, after all, now the wielder of the golden apparatus.

The non-Asgardian set a metallic tray down onto a nearby flat surface against the wall.

Something was coming from the tray. A sensation which was miserably weak – partially alluring and partially repulsive. The non-Asgardian then approached and wrapped his thicker, more muscular hands under the connection between its arms and shoulders. It did not want to be touched, and it made this known with a warning hiss from between its pitifully dull teeth.

A sound of amusement came from the two-legged creature. Laughter. But the spirit did not understand what was so amusing, and it struggled weakly against his grip. Surprisingly, it was able to remain upright with ease as it was pulled to its feet, holding its balance when the non-Asgardian loosened his grip and guided it forward.

It was grateful for that, as it was difficult enough suddenly having a physical body without having to learn how to focus one's eyes and walk on one's own legs.

At least it did not have to start from an infantile state.

The non-Asgardian then spoke, or at least it believed he did. Unlike the Jotun-Asgardian, his words made no sense – as if he were speaking a completely different language.

The creature – male it assumed, like the Jotun-Asgardian – set the spirit down onto a hard, molded object that seemed designed for sitting, releasing it while it stared at him warily. He proceeded to sit in a similar object across from the spirit and returned its stare with his arms folded across his chest.

The spirit simply stared back, wondering why he had come to disturb the spirit-made-flesh. The non-Asgardian waited for several seconds before making another noise between his lips, reaching forward and causing the spirit to flinch away from him.

He paused before continuing with his movement, picking up one of the metallic utensils on the tray. This tool had several metal tines and he speared it through a brown chunk of mystery substance. The non-Asgardian made a grand gesture, indicated he wanted it to watch, and then he placed it into his mouth part and began to chew.

Ah. The smelly things were sustenance.

He placed the utensil back in front of the spirit, and it carefully wrapped its fingers around the tool and mimicked his actions. The sensation from its own mouth-parts was strange. Disturbing. The… taste… was odd, and the texture made its throat begin to close as it triggered some kind of involuntary reflex.

Having no choice other than to suffocate, it spit the morsel onto the plate, sticking its tongue out as it tried to rid itself of the unpleasant sensation.

The non-Asgardian exclaimed something loudly in his strange language – which the spirit ignored. There were other items to try on the tray, and the brown food-stuffs were clearly not to its liking.

It experimented – cautiously – with a small mound of something fluffy and off-white. This was immediately met with a pleasurable sensation in its mouth. Savory and… salty. Highly pleasant and enjoyable.

The spirit was surprised to find it not only had a physical reaction to the taste, but an emotional one as well. It was entirely possible the chemical composition of the sustenance was able to somehow invoke sensations like pleasure and happiness, but this was entirely new to the now-bodied spirit.

The non-Asgardian began to speak, and it had a suspicion he was only doing so to hear his voice fill the void since the spirit certainly could not offer any sort of input.

It next tried the long, green objects. They also tasted pleasant, though not as delightful as the whitish food. It would suffice, and it was much more edible than the brown, chewy morsels.

When the non-Asgardian spoke again, and it ignored his nonsensical words, he tapped on the glass he had also brought with the tray. It contained a colorless liquid, most likely to quench thirst. It estimated the contents to be dihydrogen monoxide, one of the most abundant liquids in the known universe, and the one most necessary to sustain life.

The non-Asgardian took the glass and drank from it, showing the spirit how to do so. It did not know how to express to the being that, yes, it knew the liquid was for ingesting – it was not that unknowledgeable of physical forms.

The spirit took a sip of the liquid while watching the non-Asgardian who had a look of amusement on his face. A smirk, it thought. It seemed to gain a natural understanding of things when it observed them for longer and longer periods of time, which would prove extremely beneficial the longer it was in this body.

The dilemma resided in the fact it did not want to possess a body, though it could not deny the fact that consuming human food was very pleasurable – an experience which was unique to physical bodies and one which an ethereal being could not take part in.

The non-Asgardian spoke again:

"You don't understand a goddamned word I'm saying, do you?"

The spirit stopped chewing, looking up at the two-legged creature to stare at him, unblinking.
The smile slowly faded from his face.

"Oh, shit. Did you actually understand that?"

The spirit did, or at least, it understood most of the words and their intentions. Gibberish sounds were now becoming solidified concepts and phrases in its mind. Its ability to learn and acquire knowledge seemed to be accelerating with the more experience it gained and the more interactions it took part in. And it began to suspect that this was connected to the surge of power the mind-jewel had flooded into the miniscule spirit just before it had been shoved into the energy stream.

But why was it not enslaved like the poor soul that sat across from it? Surely its own mind, which dwarfed in comparison to the colossal artifact, could be just as easily bent and broken.
This seemed to be the only reasonable explanation for its ability to grasp onto the human's language so quickly after hearing only a small sample of words.

"If you understand what I'm saying, take a drink of water," he said, his expression vaguely curious.

The spirit relinquished the feasting utensil and picked up the glass (it had been correct in its assumption that the liquid was indeed dihydrogen monoxide), and drank – never breaking eye contact with the non-Asgardian.

His lips curled into a smile, one that was not altogether pleasant.

"Time for you and the boss to have a little chat."

Notes