A/N: I'd actually had most of this planned up to this point, so it's been going okay, but no guarantees! Anyway, Imera has been in my dreams, throwing pebbles at my head and telling me to "Hurry up and heal me already!"

So without further ado, Imera's healing.

Last time: She felt herself being pulled apart and fading away, piece by aching piece. It was always an odd feeling, traveling in such a manner. She was still walking, yet she wasn't. She had no substance and could see Loki's rooms before she feel her body reforming. Once her physicality returned, she fell forward, having been mid stride. Loki caught her yet again. This had occurred far too regularly today and Imera felt her image was soon to become one of a swooning maiden. That would not be acceptable.

Loki's rooms were light and airy, though they held a certain stuffiness that led her to believe the windows and shutters had been opened only minutes before. She could see through a door to her left that Loki had left his bed unmade.

As if he had read her mind the sheets tucked themselves in. The covers snaking up from pools on the floor to spread themselves on the bed, not a wrinkle in sight. Such innocent magic seemed frivolous compared to the blast that had landed her here.

She felt herself being pulled toward a chaise long, coming to the sudden understand that her hand had not yet been released from Loki's grip. Her mind was slowing, but something nagged. Shouldn't she pull away? Well, she was going to sit, whether guided by him or not and she didn't trust her legs not to try their own ideas. He helped her down to the seat, fingers trailing over her shoulder blades as he stepped back. She winced slightly as he caught on cloth, tugging on an oozing graze. He flinched at the sound, head ducking further.

She watching him travel about the room, sometimes walking, often disappearing mid-step, only to be heard chuntering in another room or materialising a few meters across. He heaved a table in front of her in one smooth movement. A minute later a large bronze bowl was placed on the table and soon a surplus of bottles and jars joined it. She closed her eyes, listening to the bustle of the Prince and drifting between sleeping and waking.

A voice beside her made her jump, her eyes snapping open.

"I know you prefer to heal with magic, but healing is not where my strengths lies, so I have gathered some potions and salves as well." Loki had sat next to her, half turned so he faced her. Loki's voice was lower now, more private and soothing.

He glanced at the table, Imera following suit. The bowl was now full of gently steaming water that had a slightly herbal smell, with a hint of a crisp, fruity aroma that she couldn't place. At the side, a muslin cloth, a smaller bowl of cold water and an empty bowl. For cleaning herself up, and to wring the water into, she supposed. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen herself in a looking glass yet. Thank Odin for small mercies.

Imera shuffled her shoes off, the bindings knotted together still. Her toes wriggled, feet flexed, ankles clacking ominously. Arms stretched ahead, digits clicking and her right shoulder clunking forward. Her shirt pulled at the drying scratches on her back, a nasty stinging making her pause.

Bracing herself, palms down on the seat beneath her, she sat up. Some other joint, deep in her hip, fell into place, the sound echoing harshly around the room making both occupants of the seat cringe. She damped the muslin, wringing out the excess and bringing it to cover her face. She took a deep breath, warm humid air filling her lungs. Apple, she noted somewhere in her subconscious. The fruity smell was fresh apple. Pressing circles slowly into her dirt-encrusted face, she felt a little better instantly.

She cleaned the cloth, dipping it into the hot water again. She moved to place it on her shoulder and neck, hoping to wet her shirt enough to remove it without too much pain. Loki stopped her hand, taking the cloth and pushing her gently round to lean on the side of the chaise long. Imera turned, lifting one leg and tucking it underneath herself, her foot in the bend of her knee. Resting her arms on the side and her head on her crossed arms, she was unsure of what to expect. She felt the padding beneath her shift, as if he had recoiled (he had, in fact; the shirt was ripped in places and blood seeped through in places) before it dipped again as he moved closer.

A hand on her shoulder steadied him, a trickle of lukewarm water giving her a seconds warning. She tensed unperceivably, breathing in through her nose swiftly as the hot cloth seared and then soothed her bleeding back. The pale prince worked steadily, only slowing when he reached her lower ribs that he was sure would be cracked. He paused only for a moment before placing his palm flat on the naked skin of her neck and focused a push of magic, joining the two together.

This type of magic needed both of them to work with each other, to form a bond. He would link her nervous system with his and so feel what she felt. She could, in turn, feel what he felt, if the magic was to flow that way.

The first dribble of magic rolled back up his fingers, after the preliminary defensive push of Imera's magic. He could never get used to this. It was like putting on a second skin, rough and spiked, heavy and tight and altogether wrong. Imera's body was not only female, but half Light Elf, half Asgardian. Her bones were lighter, her muscles more supple than he was used to.

He could feel old injuries, though he didn't know the stories behind them. The very way he held himself changed. He fitted a muscle memory that demanded a stiffer posture, despite the extra weight he felt about his chest. He looked down, knowing that there would be no change but, as always, surprised to see his own flat chest. Then the burning pain stretched across his back.

His ribs seemed to fold in, his breathing becoming restricted and awkward. A panic-soaked breath was scraped in by his lungs before he had a chance to rein it in. Nerves he didn't know existed, in places he normally ignored, screamed protests; in his neck, his shoulders, everywhere. His felt as if his body strained constantly to hold his head up.

And what agony echoed through his head! He believed it would not throb so much if all of Asgard engaged and fell the entire race of wintry Jotuns in his skull. His stomach pulsed, shocks of nausea slowly gaining ground in a battle to breach his puckered mouth.

It took all his will not to pull his hand away as if burned, to sever the connection, run like a child and throw up. He hadn't needed to do this in a while. Normally this sort of magic was used on wounded animal, unconscious people or young children. He had only chosen to invoke this magic because of his deep kinship with Imera. Also, he thought (not unkindly) she looked like she had been dragged behind a pair of horses.

He hauled another sharp breath into his body, expecting a tugging on his aching ribs. None came, of course. The pain was in rooted in Imera's body, not his. Only her movements would worsen it. She knew this, staying statue still, except to relax a little as she lost her feeling to Loki.

His body tried still to rebel. This sort of pain was different to getting injured yourself. A pain without reason or cause, no warning. The body did not take kindly to it. It couldn't heal, couldn't help in any way, instead residing in a begrudged parallel with the pain. He exhaled heavily through his nose, eyes closed.

He'd have to be careful about how he removed his hand. Done wrong and she could lose all feeling permanently, or have it all exploding through her weakened frame at once. He was sure she could withstand it, but unconvinced as to whether he could stomach watching it.

He held tight to her magic, allowing the swap to reverse slowly. Imera's brow twitched slightly and the tension that had fully left her body returned, limb by limb. The pain washed from his body to his, leaving him feeling fresher but exhausted. As his muscles truly became his own, he fell back into himself, losing control for a millisecond, nearly tipping off the chaise long. He regained his composure, closing his eyes, taking a minute or two to really feel his body.

Imera stretched a little, limbs flooding with feeling; every sensation stronger now she knew what is was to be deprived of it. The velvet crushed under her head and hands was both smooth and stiff. The room The stone floor was uneven, divided equally into well-worn and craggy patches, cold and soothing on the heated sole of her foot.

The wet shirt had cooled, clinging to her every curve. A couple of ribs arched out of material unevenly stemming from her spine, a hint of which was peeking through holes in the shirt. The cold sank, deep, deep, deeper, pulling at her core, an unwanted, too tight embrace of her bones. It felt good on her wounds at first, but soon she was fighting shivers. To hold her body was easy, but her jaw was not so subservient and her teeth rattled and clattered, loud in the quiet room and louder in her head.

Loki was pulled from his thoughts by the sound, head jerking up. He shook himself, and placing one warm hand on her shoulder, extended the other toward a huge fireplace that could easily house a four poster bed. A flare of light came hand in hand with a wave of heat that had Imera shivering afresh.

The warmth sank into her skin, as the heat had the room, slowly, burning. A good burn. Her eyes felt dry, her eyelids swollen. She had no idea that they had closed, she just allowed herself to listen to Loki.

"I'm not going to heal your head, because that's very delicate and while I'm happy to mess with the minds of others in jest, I'll not claim any skill In tidying a mind. Your back would do well with salves, some healing stone ground in, a charm to speed the effects…"

He paused, and when he spoke again he was less clinical, his usual jesting tone a comfort. "I can heal your ribs in a blink. One gets countless opportunities to heal ribs when growing up with Thor."

A sliver of bitterness undercut that statement, making Imera open her eyes, but his next statement was that Imera wasn't sure if she hadn't just imagined it all.

"Your neck needs merely a massage and I've been assured by many a maiden that I have magic hands, so…" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Imera pulled the heavy feather cushion out from in front of her stomach and threw it, hitting him squared in the face with a rewarding thump, a quiet clash of his shining teeth and a muffled "Oomph!"

"You absolute pig! I know full well you've not slept with more than 3 'maidens'! In this form anyway, I thought not to count frolics in the copse with horses of unknown strength and size, even if little-" here Loki (who had started to flush a slight pink high on his cheekbone) forced a cough, cleared his throat and looked at her pointedly. "…big Slepnir was the outcome. You've laid with that half giantess several times, thus Hela, Fenrir and Jormungard, Sigyn once, maybe twice before she got involved with that awful business with the dwarves and moved to Svartalfheim. Who else? Oh yes, Lindder, Valkyrie of the North. My word you know how to pick them, don't you? My point being, all your conquests are log distant memories and I would love you to stop boasting and hurry up, lest I drift into an unending sleep and don't rise until Ragnarok!"

Silence fell.

Loki's tongue edged out without his knowledge, wetting his lips and dragging them tightly into his mouth, leaving a thin line. He slowly released his bloodless lips, a flow of blood reddening them suddenly. He'd taken a step back some time during Imera's onslaught and his head tilted forward, listening, his face unreadable. Halfway between kicked puppy and enraged beast, he managed to look neither irate nor injured, but very worrying still.

Imera wasn't sure what Loki was thinking. She hadn't meant to be so dismissive and blunt, thinking so selfishly. She opened her mouth to drown him in apologies but he spoke first.

"You little word-weaver! Your very tongue wounds me, most grievously! I have taught you well!"

Imera let out a puff of relief through her nose, glad that he wasn't angry at her.

He moved to stand over the table, hand scanning half a foot above the pots and flasks before plucking a pale yellow salve with minute flecks of blue healing stone stirred in. He turned to face her and stopped.

"Ah. You will have to remove you shirt. I-"

"Bet you say that to all the women of Asgard, silver-tongue"

"And because of it they kneel at my feet."

"Crying; 'Mercy, mercy, oh that I had not been wooed by such a rogue!'"

"If I didn't know you better I would say you were jealous that you haven't had my affections."

"Lucky for you that you know me better, Any man who would say such a thing is sure looking for some spark between the two, some affection. As I am in possession of no such affection (so say you) thus I can return, with passion in my heart, no such affection."

She glanced at him, checking they were still just having friendly banter. His eyes had that childish glitter and she knew her words had not harmed him. Ha! My words wound the God of Lies? What a thought!

"Now enough. I'm wearing wrappings underneath my shirt, albeit minimal wrappings. It gets too hot and uncomfortable under armour, and keeps slipping if I have full wrapping. I'm happy to remove my shirt, if you lock the door and help me out a little."

Loki flicked a hand in the direction of the door and a series of clicks told her the door was locked. He walked to the chaise long, half kneeling and half standing. He put a hand on her lower back, looking serious suddenly.

"I think it better to heal your ribs before removing your shirt. It'll save you some discomfort at least."

A creaking, like old wood, sounded beneath Imera's shirt. The skin around her eyes tightened, cutting off tears in their tracks. She dare not breathe. Like the bone-deep cold of a winter's day, a fire was screaming in her core and she wanted to yell. More than a stream, a flood of consciousness filled her head; stop, stop, wait, no, must hold out, must hold on a little longer, never again, why, oh why of all the things she could suffer why this and-

It was over.

She slumped. The breath left her slowly, hissing.

"Better?"

"I hate you."

"Hmm. Well you may hate me more before this is over, friend."

Together they peeled her shirt off. It was still quite damp, thankfully, and so didn't catch any scrapes. Imera sat in her wrappings, slightly abashed. Neither of the pair attempted eye contact, Loki turning away to rattle the salves in embarrassment.

When he turned back he was surprised to Imera looking at him. Their eye sights fell against each other and became tangled. Neither looked away, utterly unsure, holding their breath.

Until they snorted in unison, laughing freely at the awkward atmosphere they had created from nothing.

Imera supervised the choices of salve, constantly berating Loki for his input and nudging him when he didn't allow the balm to warm a little before applying it to her back. Soon every cut was washed and treated. Imera realised that she had a dilemma. She couldn't put her shirt on with the salve unless her back was covered.

Easily solved, she summoned bandages and bewitched them to bind around her, while Loki tidied. However her shirt was in no state to be worn.

"I'm stealing this shirt, Loki!"

"What shirt?! Stealing from royalty is very much frowned upon, I believe."

"Oh, well thank goodness it's only frowned upon! I'm going to my rooms, for some rest, if you don't mind. Thank you Loki."

"You are quite welcome, lovely Ime-ahh. She's gone."

Loki sighed, sending the remaining bottles to their places with a wave of his hand while pinching the bridge of his nose. He walked back to the chaise long and sat, staring into the fire that crackled still.

His mind wondered quickly, as it often did. He thought of Thor's coronation in a few days. Thor was not ready, by any stretch of the imagination. Loki doubted he ever would be.

That is not to say that Loki thought he could take his place. To rule Asgard would mean to do just that. To stick to the rules. Loki knew the rules and laws better than perhaps Odin himself, but it was not in his nature to abide by them. The reason he knew the rules so well was so he could flout them just the right amount to be trusted still.

He had several ideas to change the outcome of Thor's day. The All-father would not listen to him, it would seem he was jealous or had an ulterior motive. He would have to call on people known to defy Odin and succeed.

His mind was made. He stood, armour shimmering into existence as he walked toward the fire, disappearing in a wisp of icy blue smoke only inches in front of it.

The empty room was silent a few seconds before a faint whispering stole in, a red note unfurled in the air, reading;

Thank you for healing me Loki, (though the damage was your fault).
I'd love to spar tomorrow, but I would also enjoy working in the gardens with you.
Meet by the lake at 2?
Imera

The note, unread, burned in phantom flames. A red butterfly immerged from the fading flames, searching for its intended.

In the empty room, the butterfly withered and died.