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Loki's p.o.v.

I forget about trying to just put pressure on her wounds and hope for the best. No, I dig deep in my mind, searching for some sort of spell to put the blood back in her body, mend her tattered skin, anything! And I do remember something, faintly, but I'm not sure it will do any good - I am fairly certain that it was contained in an old Norse legend that Frigga once told me. But anything is worth a try - even if it defies my brother's order to not use my magic.

Holding my hands slightly over each of her wrists, I begin reciting.

"Vera það tognun í beinum,
vera það tognun í blóði,
vera það tognun í útlim:
bein á bein,
blóð í blóð
sinew að sinew
útlima til útlimum,
þannig að þeir eru festar saman."

For a terrifying, drawn out moment, nothing happens. I hold my hands steady though, and after what feels like an eternity, a soft golden glow begins emanating from my palms. I watch in silent fascination as the light touches on her [s/c] skin, nearly too bright for me to see. Once it ebbs and fades back into where it came from though, it's clear as day that she's mended. Deep scars are left, but she's no longer bleeding - though nothing can be done for the blood that she's lost already. Nothing that I can do, anyways. Throwing aside any anxieties about assumptions that will be made against me, I carefully pick her up, cradling the unconscious girl in my arms while I rush her to the infirmary.

~*~*~*~

Your p.o.v.

When you wake up, it's once again to the blindingly bright lights of the medical room. This time though, Thor is not present; only the young prince Loki, who sits fast asleep in a wooden chair beside your cot. You snort, amused, before your face settles into a neutral expression, remembering the events prior to when you passed out. You can't help but wonder how he even managed to keep you alive. You suppose he'll explain when he wakes up, but for now you think it best to let him sleep; you haven't even seen him take a nap since you've arrived in Asgard. So for around an hour you sit, mulling over what happened and what should happen now.

'Technically,' you think, 'I could just overdose on that table of medicine right now while he's sleeping and no one would be the wiser until it was too late.' But you don't quite feel an urge to do that stronger than the slightest of twinges, and a twinge is not enough reason to off yourself. It's slightly relieving when you hear Loki groan a little bit and you look over to see him slowly blinking his eyes.

He jumps awake when he sees you sitting up, though. You watch silently as he composes himself, smoothing his dirty and sleep rumpled clothes, before he walks to your side. Without a word, he gently lifts your arms, inspecting the insides of your wrists, and also checks your head.

"Your head is nearly better. If you wish, we could take the bandages off now, rather than later as the medics originally advised."

Cautiously, you answer, "That… would be okay, I guess." You don't really want to call him out for not mentioning the previous night, but what else are you supposed to do? It's an elephant in the room and can't be ignored forever… or as long as he chooses to keep you as his little experiment (or pet).

So as he slowly, meticulously unwraps your head, you inquire softly, "Loki, what happened last night? How did you… save me?" He sucks in a sharp breath and his hands stop working to pause, possibly for a moment of thought. He does finish though, turning to place the dirty bandages in a waste bin on the floor beside the table, and while his back is to you, he replies, "That is none of your concern, [y/n]."

"Excuse me?" You exclaim, incredulous. "None of my concern? This is all of my concern! This is my life we're talking about. Now, I will ask you one more time… how did you save me?"

He faces you again, eyes flashing with something you can't quite put your finger on - you just know that it does not belong on the face of this mischievous, supposedly carefree man. "I used a spell," he admits, voice cracking. "A spell that I was not supposed to use. I am going to be punished for this, [y/n]. My brother's patience with me has worn thin, and he may not understand the circumstance that led to this. I may be sentenced to death for sparing your life." You now know what his eyes hold deep within them, buried under his mischief and sadness and betrayal and loss - they hold fear, and it is steadily bubbling up as you watch, mouth agape, horrified for what you've brought upon him.