This is the last chapter, so I'd like to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited or followed this story; it really does mean a lot.

Hope you enjoy.

Chapter Five

Rise from the Ashes of Ruin

She woke abruptly, shivering and gasping for air that wouldn't come.

For a moment, she was paralysed, her fear holding her in place like an iron hand, pressing down on her chest until her vision swam, her mouth gaping open uselessly, trying desperately to draw air into her lungs; and then she coughed, retching and choking as her back arched forwards, opening her airways and allowing her to breathe.

Relief hit her like a fist; she flopped backwards, her breathing worrying even to her own ears, ragged and shuddering and entirely too loud.

She tried to calm herself, ignoring her pulse thundering in her ears, the dizziness that swept over her as she turned slightly, her skin icy cold.

Control was everything; that was what she knew. Gain control, gain perspective, gain knowledge.

So she did.

Her head ached; she had clearly been sedated at some point.

Her hands were bandaged, the material rough against her sore, scalded skin.

Her hair was tied back; she had been sick. It wasn't too hard for her to imagine why.

Her throat was sore, clogged with smoke and tears and a name.

Her sheets were tangled around her, trapping her from the waist down.

Her eyelashes were sticky, clinging to her skin with every blink; she had been crying in her sleep, for the first time in a long time, and she didn't have to think too hard about why.

She wanted to forget the nightmare that was her reality.

This prompted her to open her eyes, taking stock of her surroundings as she searched for water and kept her thoughts away from…that.

She realised she was back home, locked in one of SHIELD's less intimidating cells; small but not claustrophobic, secure but with a window in one wall.

She sat up slowly, the room spinning slightly around her as she reached forward, having spotted a bottle of water on a rickety bedside table.

"You've been out for three days."

She jumped, knocking the water onto the floor as she snatched her hand back, her eyes wide and panicked as she stared at her visitor.

"I didn't see you," she whispered, the notion terrifying her.

Clint nodded curtly, his jaw set as he stood slowly from his spot beside the door, having been hidden in the shadows at the corner of the room, and started towards her, pausing only to pick up the water.

She licked her dry lips, watching him breathlessly, taking in the steel in his eyes, his tousled hair, the slump to his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she said, and she wasn't sure whether she was apologising for what she'd done or what she'd put him through.

"No you're not," he said simply, but for the first time he smiled at her.

She moved her legs, allowing him to sit opposite her, her eyes never leaving his face.

"What?" he asked self-consciously, lifting his free hand to his cheek.

She shook her head, taking the water bottle from him.

"Sip it slowly; you've already been sick twice," he warned, his hand coming to rest on her knee.

She did as he said, her eyes flickering between him and his hands.

"You actually killed him," he said softly, and there was no judgement in his eyes, but she could see the admiration, the gratitude, even a hint of envy, and it made her tremble with a rage she didn't quite understand.

She nodded, unsure of whether she could trust her voice.

"Why?"

She shrugged, putting the lid back on her water and dropping it onto the bed beside her, doing whatever it took to distract herself.

"You know," he started casually, but she could sense the curious, questioning undercurrent in his tone, the persuasion in his familiar gaze, "Thor said Loki stopped talking, and that's when he went completely bat-shit crazy."

He was being gentle with her, she realised with a jolt. He was trying to protect her, shield her from the horror in her mind; she could almost sense the concern building within him.

But she knew soon he would lose that tenuous connection to her current state, would ask her freely about it, and she didn't know what she would say.

They had always been honest about their kills, going into detail in almost clinical voices, as though it had happened to someone else.

Now she just wanted him to be quiet, to let her think and relax, to forget all about it.

But that she would never do.

I've got red in my ledger.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted, her voice hoarse from lack of use and what she assumed was smoke inhalation.

"Thor's pretty devastated. Fury said you did it right in front of him."

She closed her eyes against the onslaught of images, but that only made them clearer, stronger, more painful.

"Thor said it was his own fault. Told he had an idea that Loki had some sort of…crush on you," he said, disbelief clear in his voice, though she could hear the beginnings of amusement.
She fought the urge to hit him, which was rather simple given the guilt and sorrow that arose in her chest, smothering her with its intensity.

"Tell him I'm sorry," she rasped, the words like shards of glass in her throat, tears burning behind her closed lids. "Tell him it wasn't his fault. Tell him I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt him. I swear I didn't. I'm so sorry, it wasn't his fault."

"If he let you in there knowing Loki was being a creep-" Clint started hotly.

"It wasn't his fault," she snarled, her voice low and broken, and for the first time she felt strong again, fuelled by rage and hatred for the man she loved, her eyes flying open to meet his startled gaze squarely, blazing and brilliant and deadly. "It was mine, it was all mine. I didn't mean for-I wasn't going to-"

"Cremate him before he was even dead?"

"I did what I had to," she said sharply, and any joy she had felt at seeing him, whatever comfort he had brought disappeared abruptly, leaving her cold and lonely.

"They think you might be suffering from PTSD, something like that, after everything that happened with Loki before, and with me," he said gently, warily, staring at her as though trying to gauge her response, to see if she was really still there.

"If I'm supposed to be crazy why am I locked in a cell rather than a ward?"

"For your own protection," he said, but he had always been a good liar.

She lapsed into silence again, lost in her own thoughts.

Was this how Loki felt, after learning that everything he had ever been told was a lie? Did he expect every word spoken to him to be false?

Clint was hers and she was his, yet he lied to her face, his eyes innocent and full of love yet deceit must lie within them somewhere, hidden behind concern and friendship.

She shuddered at the thought, at the idea that Clint wouldn't tell her the truth; they had promised long ago to only speak honestly to one another.

They were spies, secrets and lies were their lives, the only thing they knew.

But to each other they were more than that, they were everything good and honest about the world.

Before she could begin to work herself into a state, Clint pulled her back.

"Nat?" he whispered, his voice full of hope and worry.

"I need some time alone," she said flatly, too confused with him so close to her, his hand burning through the thin material of the sheet like a branding iron.

And she knew she was hurting him, knew he was confused and concerned, terrified that she was losing her mind, losing the life she had struggled so hard to build at SHIELD, but she couldn't find it in herself to care, feeling only the vast hollow space inside her chest.

She felt the bed shift, heard his defeated sigh as he made his way across the cell, the scrape and slam of the door, and finally the turn of a lock.

She opened her eyes, relief coursing through her as she lay down, straightening her legs and tangling the sheets around her even more.

Was she on trial, was that why she was here? Surely she would have been kept on Asgard if that were so.

She wondered if she'd lost her job, or just her sanity in their eyes.

The minutes crawled by yet the hours flew as she stayed motionless, her eyes fixed on the dull, grey wall opposite until finally she was in complete darkness, too tired to turn on a light.

She didn't mind.

In the dark she was nothing.

"I must say," a voice drawled from the shadows, "that was by far one of the best performances I have seen in my eternally long life."

She shot up, the nausea washing over her like a wave, but she forced it away, squinting through the gloom of the cell until she could see his outline against the wall.

"Are you there? Is this real?"

Loki stepped forward, the faint light from her window highlighting him.

His hair was sleek and short, cut to jaw-length, and taking away the bedraggled look he had before; his face was fuller, his eyes no longer shadowed and bulging, his skin clear and smooth yet still breathtakingly pale; his armour glinted in the dim light, reminded her of the dagger she had thrust into his heart.

"You did it," she said. "It worked."

"Indeed it did," he agreed, moving to kneel before her, his eyes searching her face for something, she didn't know what. "I told you it would. It was, after all, your plan."

"I know but…"

She trailed off lamely, her gaze growing listless, falling to the floor. More to distract herself than anything else, she turned on a small lamp sitting on the bedside table.

In the light he was even more glorious, as regal as any prince.

"I should be offended by your lack of faith in me," he said softly, his voice amused, gently teasing her. "But I'll forgive you this one time."

"I don't deserve forgiveness," she mumbled, her head beginning to ache.

She raised a hand to her temple, pressing against the pounding pain she could feel building there.

"What you did…I can never show you my full gratitude. You gave me freedom; you should not feel guilty for that."

"And I gave your brother grief, your father anguish. I broke your mother's heart."

At the final admission, Loki bowed his head, swallowing hard.

"I regret the pain I have brought to her, but that is not your fault. It is not your burden to bear."

"I bear it willingly," she said sharply, and some strength returned to her, enough to make her raise her head and meet his eyes as he glanced up in surprise.

"Then you deserve forgiveness," he said simply, but his eyes bore an intensity that tied her stomach in a knot.

"Your magic returned to you," she said hurriedly, desperate not to dwell on that which would only hurt her in the end.

Thankfully, he accepted her subject change, smiling impishly.

"The bindings Thor placed on me were limited to the gag and cuffs. Once they were removed the spells no longer held; I didn't see fit to inform my brother of this. Once I reached Asgard Odin's spells only held inside my prison. He was so arrogant as to presume I would never escape. Once I stepped out-once you helped me out-my magic returned to me immediately."

"And what you did-"

"Astral projection. A particular talent of mine, and not too energy consuming. I presume you knew about it through Thor?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The real trouble was making it last, making it appear real enough to fool whoever saw it. That's why you had to take the knife, had to at least wound me, to make it all the more believable."

"You told me to destroy it, so you could stop the spell," she said in realisation.

He nodded. "A pile of ash is easy enough to conjure, a solid corpse is not. Hopefully they will never question why my…body burnt so quickly. Although, I hope they believe it was the torch's fire."

"Why the torch's?"

"Their fires possess magical qualities to ensure they burn for eternity. Perhaps they will accept that as an adequate method to kill and destroy an immortal."

She wanted to touch him, to see if he was solid now, to feel the pulse running beneath his silken skin, not scorched or scarred, but pure and unblemished.

But she held back, for her own sake.

"The blood-how did you make it so realistic? I could feel it-could see it everywhere."

He frowned, his mouth tight.

"There was no tangible blood. It was all-"

"No," she said firmly, her hands curling into fists, pressing her nails into her skin. "No, I could feel it."

"Natasha-"

"I told you to never say my name," she snapped harshly.

He nodded once, his gaze still on her face.

"Where did you go?" she asked a moment later, the short silence unbearable.

"Here. I've been here, hidden and cloaked from Heimdall since you returned. I would have visited sooner but your Hawk is a persistent guardian. He is as watchful as the bird he is named for; he didn't leave you once."

Her mouth twisted with guilt.

"Apparently I am disturbed. I've been compromised. They were half right," she said quietly.

"I can free you," he said, a promise and an offer rolled into one. "I can take you with me."
She shook her head, eyes closed.

"If I go someone will always be looking for me, even if I say it's my own choice. I got you out so you could be free. I didn't release you just to become your chain and ball."

She opened her eyes, taking note of everything about him, committing every little detail to memory, as surely as he had done when she had visited him.

He just looks…sad, she had told Thor, and she wondered how she looked now.

And now we have come full circle, with Thor once again in mourning and Loki once again surviving.

"This was a game neither of us could ever win," he said suddenly, pulling her from her ruminations.

"We haven't lost yet. This is just a stalemate. One day it will be broken," she said softly.

He leant forward, resting his forehead against her blanketed leg and reaching out for her hands, sighing when she held on just as tightly as him.

How different one touch could be. Clint's hand had almost thrown her into an abyss of rage and discomfort, yet Loki's-Loki, the deranged mass murderer with severe abandonment issues and a superiority complex-calmed her instantly, bringing her back to herself.

"I love you, Natasha Romanoff," he said quietly, his voice steady and honest.

"And I love you, Loki. More than I should."

He chuckled, raising his head slightly and brushing his lips over her knuckles.

"It would seem that we are both children."

"Then this can be our Neverland," she said in a hushed voice, knowing he wouldn't understand but wanting him to know all the same.

His mouth twisted into a poor imitation of a smile.

"Say it," she said softly, before she had fully thought it through.

But he had already said it once and the world didn't end.

"Natasha," he whispered, his voice making the name sound musical, beautiful, caressing it with love and admiration. "Natasha, I will always watch over you."

"No, you should…visit new worlds, meet new races. Just not races who give you an army."

He glanced up, meeting her gaze and the intensity was the same as always, so strong she wondered how she had ever lived without it, how she would cope when his bright, beautiful eyes were gone.

"Every flame casts a shadow," he murmured. "And I shall be yours."

She freed her hands, resting one on his hair as she leant forward, bowing her head and placing a light kiss on his forehead.

The other she placed over his lips, silencing his silver tongue.

He was a beguiler, a bewitcher of the weak-minded, adept at dealing in half-truths and manipulations.

But to her he would only ever speak the truth, and that was far more dangerous than any lie he could create.

He would look into her eyes, see her deepest desire, the darkest wish she would have to forever hide from the world, and recite it back to her, for it was his wish too.

He would speak words that would bury themselves deep within her mind and lay dormant for only moments before attacking her doubt, twisting her resolve until she knew she would run away with him and never look back.

And so she held his lips closed, her hand trembling against his skin, his breath cool and light on her fingertips as she slowly sealed away the side of her he had brought forward, locking this Natasha away deep inside her mind and reverting back to her usual self, like a woman discarding a fancy coat for a well-worn dressing gown once she returned home.

He shifted against her hand, leaning closer, their noses bumping against one another as she met him halfway, their lips meeting for the final time.

She broke away first, leaning her forehead against his, their tears intermingled on the other's cheek.

"Loki," she whispered, not wanting to say goodbye, not wanting to make it so final, savouring the scent of him, the silkiness of his hair beneath her fingertips, the cool touch of his hand in hers.

"Do svidaniya, Natasha." Till the next meeting.

And then he was gone, but she was smiling, the tears stopping as quickly as they had started as she laughed out loud, the sound surprising her.

Of course he would say it formally, her native tongue confusing to most, even a god.

But he was right, she realised with delight; they would meet again.

And maybe then it would be better timing, maybe her guilt will have eased, though she doubted her love for Clint would ever lessen.

It hurt her to hurt him, and so she would never tell him, would allow everyone to believe she had been compromised, that she had suffered some sort of break.

She would apologise to Thor, do everything she could to try to help him, even if she knew in her heart that he would never forgive her, never trust her again, but it was the price she had paid for Loki's freedom, and she would never regret that.

Once she was deemed well enough she would force Fury to allow her to return to SHIELD, tell Clint she loved him and mean it, regain the elements of her life before Loki.

But internally she would blaze until her dying day, the flames an icy blue as she rose from them, as majestic as a Phoenix rising from the ashes, just as Loki had done.

She would always love Clint, but somewhere deep inside her, maybe somewhere she would never visit again until he returned, she would love Loki too.

"Poka, Loki," she murmured, for he was her friend at least, her love at most.

He was everything she was and more, and she would never let herself forget that, would hold that knowledge in her heart until her dying day.

He was ice and she was fire, but that didn't really matter, not anymore; they were the same yet different, she knew that now.

The most important thing of all was that he was right, had been right from the very beginning:

He was hers and she was his.

Always.