1963-09-12 - Pain, Without Love
Summary: Amora invades the sanctity of Professor King's classroom to complain about love.
Related: Obligations and Duty
Theme Song: Three Days Grace - Pain
amora rogue 

Note: Louis isn't played by Louis, but Rogue. Yes, it's IC.

The first week of Columbia University classes in earnest find students of every stripe, largely white privileged male, sauntering through the lofty halls of the former King's College, home to the likes of Alexander Hamilton. That raconteur from the West Indies has absolutely nothing on the revolutionaries brimming with ideas under these hallowed halls, though most firebrands cut their teeth in the school of journalism. Archaeology, on the other hand, is serious business.

Unlike so many halls, the gender balance here is nearly equal, a slight edge to the newest crop of young ladies. Many come from Barnard College. Others have fought their way tooth and nail to peer around the door and sigh in fluttering abandon at Professor King, shivering to the respectable Cambridge accent contesting the matters of historical relevance.

Yes, they even bothered to listen to him read over the syllabus. As a topical seminar, the seats are filled by second and third year students. A few first years still settle in, agog at the future awaiting them. Respectable students at the front take notes, while others in the back hiss about office hours, marital status, and if he really did have an imaginary duel in the abandoned gymnasium. Did he?

The oration for them is conjured by a man talking across his stage, hands cuffed behind his back. "Our understanding of the past is molded by our perceptions of the present. Your task for the visit to Cloisters will be setting aside your views of the modern world, and see what someone from 13th century England or 14th century Italy saw." He inclines his head, looking upon the bank of eager eyes and rather engaged faces. "Heinrich Schliemann saw the city of Troy in ancient ashes and crumbling mud bricks on a dig. When that was identified to be a Byzantine town, he went elsewhere and said, 'No, these are Troy!'" Chuckles greet his proclamation, especially among the more read and classically aware students.

"Read chapter three for tomorrow, and review the first two questions. I expect animated discussions tomorrow." A nod dismisses them. "Go."


As the students filed out of the room, Amora sauntered out from the hallway. Her long golden locks, tied back and poofed upwards in a mixture of a teased style and ponytail. She wore her mortal guise, but even that drew the eyes of several male students. One hand was settled on her hip as she moved down the aisle of departing students, and she winked or wiggled her fingers at more than a few — causing several to trip up the stairs or crash into fellow students.

Her figure was cut in a black, tight fitting pencil skirt and a loosely draped line green linen shirt — the top several buttons undone to reveal her ample cleavage. Still, she drew closer to the 'Professor' without pause. Her high heels clicking and commanding attention with each step.

Her gaze swept over the magically hidden mortal, her brows shooting upwards as she inspected the spell work without so much as dipping into her own reserves of magic. Just a practiced glance.

"Not too terrible.." She murmured softly as she came to a stop before 'him'.


Only the Prince himself, or his adoptive mother, might weave so skillful an art as the one enveloping her. The precision deflects casual inquiry and stern inspection, which may well lead a seasoned, canny practitioner to wonder whether this is a spell to conceal or a spell to transform, and possibly neither augmentation at all. Mastery at its finest, surely.

He watches the chaos sown among his students, cool eyes opaque. On the desk are a number of papers, extra copies of the syllabus and a few random prints for those tardy students come lately to a class with a wait list triple others in the department, and enough to be the toast of the Dean. The professor gathers these with ease, nodding to one of the loitering young women near the front eager to conjure up a reason to stay. Their discussion is quiet and somewhat prompt, polite without encouraging.

"Office hours are tomorrow," he reminds her without force, tucking the stack of remaining details into an open messenger bag. Orderly and arranged, from a glance, it holds a world of proofs. Reminders. "Bring the book giving you trouble. We can discuss the passage in question then." Then, gently, the girl is dismissed to titter with her fellow sisters outside in the hall.

It's into that undisputed realm of home turf advantage that the Enchantress in her guise walks. He gives her a moment's consideration, still arranging for his imminent departure. "Good afternoon."


A straight face upon the Enchantress of Asgard is hard to find on a normal day, much less now when she witnesses the seriousness with which she spies the double. So a laugh escapes her, and she muffles it behind a hand, which even after she lowers the manicured hand away — remains a white toothed grin. "Ah, spot on. Except that, my dear, dear /professor/, you should be much happier to see me. After all, I made quite a stir among the students over the course of the summer. That one boy, goodness, I forget his name. He walked into a door."

Amora helped herself to a copy of the syllabus, flicking it over this way and that as she skimmed over some choice parts, and read it out loud under her breath. A cackle followed, and an amused arch of her brow. "Well, that's just rubbish." She remarked, more or less to herself as she hummed under her breath.


"I save terror for the third week," he answers her, the dry sliver of a smile for punctuation. "It lulls them into a sense of complacency when they believe me to be mildly eccentric." As the British are, somewhat posh and decidedly apart from the pop culture swirling around them when ensconced in their ivory tower. His eyes narrow and brighten, then he flips the book bag over to secure the leather tongue through the solid brass buckle.

He smirks, considering his thoughts. "Do let them enjoy their ignorance a little longer. I thought you preferred it." An idle gesture passes to the fellow rubbing the bridge of his nose and staring down the slope of the steps, as if he can't believe his fortune. The poor sod stumbles backwards over a chair and lands in a heap, his friends doing little better.

The strap slung over his shoulder gives a solid weight, and he puts his hand onto the desk, idly leaning into the polished wooden top. "You came with a reason. I've five minutes to spare before my next appointment. Fifteen, if it's truly good."

Good is, of course, an open definition.


Another round of laughter followed the smirking and mannerisms, and she slipped the folded paper down her shirt front — catching several young, male eyes, in the process. She smirked, delight and amusement following the stumbling steps of each student as they fumbled at the door. "Oh, I approve whole heartedly, nicely done. Bravo."

Then she was moving to sashay along side, not quite touching, it was obvious though that she was going against long held instincts in such a movement. Her fingers twitching with a need to reach out and grab, to slink along side. But she managed, and instead folded her arms beneath her chest and waited for him to start forward.

"Well, depends on your point of view. For me? Utterly terrible and maddeningly horrendous would strike my vocabulary." She muttered, her nose wrinkling up as her amusement sank and floundered.


The classroom may be slower to clear than strictly necessary but when it's evident professor and student engage in private conversation, those hopefuls seeking his attention — or hers — no longer attempt in their way to craft a diversion worthy of comment. They leave the pair in relative silence, though privacy is a matter of opinion at Columbia. Someone is always around, always listening.

Louis, such as he is, shrugs mildly. "Mustn't let Father have all the fun." His fingers adjust the fall of the book bag, and then he circles around the edge of the desk irrespective of whether Amora presses herself close and risks… Death? Pain? Perhaps nothing at all in this shielded and diversely attired, tall body that commands the world in every careless stride?

She needs to move fast to keep up.

"That bad." A survey of many hyperbolic words reaches what amounts to a bland pabulum after a feast. "What horrors could possibly move so nuanced and experienced a mind as yours?" It comes almost deadpan, conversational and terribly English.


A huff of air and Amora raised her hand, an invisible barrier erected around them, muffling the sounds of the classroom and halls beyond to a dull whisper. Their own words unintelligible to any that lingered in ear shot. All ears within and without besides the two, expertly muffled. Amora kept up easily, her strides long and sure as she continued side by side.

"Crystal and I had a chat." She started, pausing to gauge 'his' reaction.

"She desires to go as Thor's soon to be /betrothed/." She growled, "Apparently that is his reasoning that he plans to tell his father for returning." Her hands curled into fists and she scowled.

"Nothing I said convinced her otherwise, the blasted bint." Her lips peeled back into a silent snarl, and it was quite clear a rant was oncoming.

"Never mind that that means I will not have free access to the palace. I will not be able to scry for Loki past the palace wards — if he is there. And I shall not be able to move about and see where he is nor the spells in place to keep him there — if he is being held against his will. I can do /nothing/! Her inclusion shoves me out! How am I to fill my debt? She thinks she can smooth over thousands of years of pride? The men of the royal family are more determined than the threads of the Norns. She thinks that she can solve everything! That Outsider! She knows /nothing/! She'll get Thor exiled on grounds of treason and then Asgard shall have no heirs and well then —" She broke off, casting green eyes back toward 'Louis King'.

"You understand — don't you? You must. Because this means you can no longer by my hand-maiden. And /you/ will not have free access either."


Louis King, his doppelganger or the conceived conceit of an Asgardian prince, weathers Amora's moods as any ship captain must. Run with the wind, batten down the hatches, and make no sudden corrections to course.

"Brother's intended," he repeats in a low, thoughtful manner. "As a diplomatic move goes, not the worst he could have thought up." The unspoken question if Thor thought of it himself at all is left hanging in the air, moved on as he takes the stairs two at a time. Whatever shenanigans might birth a tempest in a green tea cup, he takes no chances. At the door he pushes through the stream of students bound for class, nodding absently to those who give the professor the time of day. With Amora here, it's much easier to watch them swoon or stare in black hatred.

Not his problem.

They will cut through a short, broad corridor and reach double doors opening onto a green sward thin as a rapier, flanked by the street on one side and the classrooms on the other. The great green of Columbia is directly to their northwest.

"What role were you given to play?" Norns must be laughing soul-deep, now, hearing the pantomime before them. He strokes his chin briefly. "Not something left to languish beside Bifrost. No doubt you can still visit Mother, and ask after me?"


ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 14


Much like steam, without an outlet it was likely to burst a pipe or even explode the foundation of a house, such was Amora's anger and jealous rage. "She is a no named Princess from a kingdom with /nothing/ to add to Asgard. Thor is too good for her! She plans to go to the Asgardian court dressed in rags! They mean to explain my presence as a 'kindness'! As if I would have introduced them and convinced Thor to such a foolhardy, thoughtless, and utterly gross bride! it is far more unlikely for me to do so than it is to imagine that I wrapped him in an ensorcelled spell! And he said he does not /trust/ me! Me! I have sworn to stay by his side whether or not he holds a crown. Exile or not!" She was trembling in her righteous rage and jealousy. Truly, green was her color.

"As if that means that the terms of my exile will be resolved! The All-father was quite clear. I was to seduce him and return him to Asgard. ME! Not some-some —" She broke off into a high pitched noise of utter frustration.

"Even if my exile is lifted it means I have /no/ reason to remain around the palace. None at all. I am a lady, aye, but to visit the Queen? Uninvited? It will never happen. Not while Loki is possibly in who knows where, and Thor is betrothed!"


He retains that unflappable bearing, mildly amused and distantly contemplative. His footsteps carry him through the milling students between classes and those hurrying to make the next course before the doors shut and they show up late for role call. Scads of them blister the grounds, lounging about on every flat surface like indolent, overfed cats.

"They can't hold you accountable for his bullheadedness," the professor is quick to point out, after the storm seems to have passed enough to permit a response that isn't akin to shouting into the wind. He hooks his hand into his pocket, and adopts a rather direct, even stride. It makes him seem purposeful even when moving at a relatively slow amble. It also tends to deflect wandering interest, reinforcing his air of considering weightier matters than whatever cares a 21-year-old plebeian could possibly bother him with.

His cool gaze surveys her in all her wrath, learning it from another perspective, all the while intimating none of this is new or unexpected under the Midgard sun. "How has he accounted for all of this, then? Your inability to make inquiries, Father's possible refusal. Surely you've brought these to his attention." Poor Thor, please forgive her, but the soul knows what it knows, and sings in a key borrowed.


A pause followed the mellowed words, the slow step that each took through the halls. Still her angry tirade did not pierce through to others. A good thing indeed, for she would surely rouse the male populous to blows otherwise. At the comment of pointing out the obvious to Thor, Amora scowled, and threw her hands up and out with a roll of her shoulders.

"I would have better luck screaming at the clouds! He does not heed me. He will not heed me. He does not /trust/ me apparently. But he trusts this woman that he has known for less than a few weeks at best. To bring her into Asgard, into a politically tenuous situation!" She snarled, her fingers curling, claw like, into fists again.

"Yet he scorned me when I suggested Doctor Strange, or even you. He howled out how foolish it was for me to bring in an Outsider, yet he goes and does this!?" She exhaled through her nose with a gusty breath. Her eyes narrowed at some point in the distance.

"Oh, and they expect you to play her handmaiden — or to not come at all. Because clearly, she would have a pet human, but I-I who came to Midgard more often in the past than the Princes had—of course I would never!" She rolled her eyes, and huffed again. Simmering.

"I shall tell the All-father. Mayhap I can salvage my work enough that I won't be executed for stepping into Asgard. Though I doubt it." She bit out each word between her teeth, shoulders hunched forward.


All will be taken in stride, quite literally. Their path carries them away from Columbia towards the heart of the city, where once the British Army used the grounds to minister to redcoats, and patriots stormed the walls to rip apart the royalist dean. On storied ground, these mild streets with charming names be speaking peace are littered in blood and bones, cannon shot and crumbled imperial visions. Filthy lucre drives so many who seek the neoclassical halls; not desires for lofty intellectual rigors, but delusions of grandeur.

Professor disguising handmaid, and beauty disguising immortal make their way at a leisurely fashion, just two incongruous souls thrown together. "Ah, the great shipwreck of life." An expansive gesture sweeps before them. "Behold in all its folly. Ambition, squalor, desire. Hideous and beautiful."

Plainly enjoying himself, he gives that faint, tight smile. Eyes burn with mischief. "Suppose you tell Father the truth. His favoured son contrives to marry an outsider. You did not seduce him. Then? All four of us molder away in a dungeon for a millennium? He banishes us all back here?" He pauses, giving her time to respond or wind up, depending on how one looks at it.

"We may have all discounted the obvious, Father's testing his heirs. Or he'll throw us all over for another son." The sharp sickle edge threads those words, making them razor fine. "Or Brother's got another waiting in the wings."


Amora growled in the back of her throat, lips pursing together into a fine line. "I frankly don't think Thor nor Loki would /care/ if they were both banished back to Midgard, it might be what they want. Who can say? Considering Loki spent the last century plus here, he seems well acclimated. And yes, of course I considered it a test! The All-father does so love those. Which is why I thought, why not tell him the truth of all this? Then at least I can claim my loyalty to the good of the realm." She made a disgusted sound, and rolled her eyes.

"Don't get me wrong, I love my home, I want to return to it. But I want to make Thor regret his decision to cast me aside — again! What is so wrong with me? Am I not the most beautiful? The strongest in the womanly arts of magic and skill? I have done /nothing/ but support him since he arrived here! But do I get a 'thank you, Amora'? Or so much as a nod of acknowledgement for the hardships I've faced to continue to be at his side?"

"Never mind the fact that he is acting like a fool! If he is so displeased with his father's reign and how things are done, then he could actually work to take up the crown and take up his duty and /change/ it! He claims love for Midgard, but is he willingly to become King and aid it in an official sense? No, of course not. Because Thor wants to be the heroic warrior. That's all he wants. If Loki were here, it'd be different. At least then /someone/ would listen to me. Not just cast aside my words because they think I'm not /trustworthy/." She said the last word as if it were a curse.

"I want him to feel as frustrated as me. As hurt as he makes me." She muttered under her breath darkly.


Those pale eyes, the cool ice of a northern sea, regard her. The frame of the face has not the harrowing beauty of Asgard in its definition, and even if it did, what is it to her essence made to kindle desire in men and women's hearts? His are the aristocratic mold of features set to British contours, and for a moment a fine line braces his broad forehead as he finally surrenders to pensive thought… Or boredom. With the professor, is it ever really clear?

"Brother is unready to rule. Father has his throne. If Thor wanted a turn, he would have said as much." That keen smile is not warm in any sense, and the Kelvin of his assessing stare is somewhere in the ten degree range. A pause brings him to a column plastered in advertisements for every sort of performance and several things so arcane, it would take a bohemian to know what they are.

He slants a look to her. "How do you know I'm not?" Long fingers scrape at the corner of a poster nailed up with a mix of gummy goo and a tack. "They see what they want to see. They hear what they want to hear. Not what's actually there."


A laugh escaped her, and she shook her head slowly. "Because I know, after centuries I know." She smirked, her anger fading to a some what more pensive state. She seems to deflate, her eyes cast at a far away point. Her lips turning downwards and her brows furrow as she released a heavy sigh.

"Maybe I should curse him with an inability to savor a woman's touch again? That would work for the frustration. Not sure about how to make him hurt as I have though." She muttered, but it was clear that her own heart was not in such a practice. It was the musings of an aching loneliness. Of a desperate, and utterly lonely heart. A plea for attention nailed to a near immortal soul.

"Asgard is in danger, should Thor do something reckless and foolish to attempt to convince the All-father to do as he desires." She repeated herself, her chin angled low in thought. "Which would ensure Thor would remain — or return regardless. Which could put him clear out of the line of succession. But that would require.." She paced a step, turned and walked backwards a pace in thought.

"I do not know what to do. I feel so stranded.. cast aside." Her features darkened, "I should've turned that Princess into stone, or maybe a tree. Or locked her soul in a crystal. Teleported her to another realm or something.."


A chuckle rises at the back of his throat, low and cultured. "As you like." A wave of his hand dispels the poster, tearing it away from the pole. Behind, further layers of summer gigs and concerts already forgotten by high participants add their splotches of colour.

Louis, such as he is, crosses his arms over the breadth of his chest. His palm pins his jacket sleeve to his bicep, the definition revealed underneath through a layer of cotton and another of light wool. "Harm what is his, he is likely to take it on you threefold. Do you expect him to forget?"

She remains pinned under the frosty blades of his gaze, a butterfly dissected with barely a blink. The force of that intensity might well see straight through her. "Take pleasure elsewhere than the Princes of Asgard, Amora." His voice gives that soft, clipped timbre stressing certain vowels. "Find comfort and joy in other arms. This, too, shall pass. You will not win by forcing his hand."

He, any and all. It is ambiguous for a reason. His thin nostrils flare slightly in a low, long release of breath. "Father has his reasons for everything, even this. Remaining loyal to Asgard by betraying its heirs?" There comes a smile that could sever a throat with a strand of spider silk. "You are cannier than this. Hear the wisdom of your own words and wait."


A sharp exhale from her nose follows his words, a huff and a grumble as she threw up a hand in irritation. "Fine, well, he deserves to be cursed at least to not enjoy bedding another woman. Any woman. That's the most basic of curses most women in Asgard know anyways." She muttered, "It'll fade in a few months and he can be frustrated at not finding release." She growled, and crossed her arms again.

"Times like this I /wish/ Loki was around, you're doing a good job, but you haven't insulted me near enough." She started to pace again, muttering to herself, again rousing herself to her temper.

"I shall never win at all in this realm when it comes to his love. I have tried to be nice. I have tried to be subtle. I have tried to be obvious! I won't win regardless of what I do, because he won't have me. Ever. I'm not a fool. But what else am I to do with these centuries? There's naught else out there for me to fill it in."


Licking his lips slightly in thought, Louis utters a faint laugh. His pale blue eyes crackle with hidden mirth, even as his mouth holds to a tight, sly smile. "I don't know why you are telling me this. Though as you asked so kindly." He taps his fingers lightly against his forearms, still well in possession of himself while the blonde bombshell is the equivalent of a bouncing missile, restless in her uncaged way.

"Get over him, Amora. He does not want you." Had he a pint glass and they sat at a table, it would be lowered with a decisive thump. A teacup wouldn't be subjected to the same ignominy. "Not the way you wish he would. The way he can, you do not accept and so you make yourself unhappy." A glance given to each pedestrian wandering by on their own terms, off to slay their own dragons, returns back to her. He lifts his chin. "Why should Thor trust you when you talk of imprisoning his intended and cursing him to find pleasure by no woman? Do you intend to see him with a strapping youth, like your Hercules?"

A casual smirk follows up as though to leach out most of the sting of the words, but not all of it. He laughs, smoothly stepping away from the column and, in turn, her. "You are a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Your mastery of pleasures and charms have few parallels anywhere on Midgard. Why restrain yourself from going out and finding happiness of your own for a few years?"


Amora turned on her heels, and a laugh escaped her as she looked over the figure before her up and down. "Oh wow, see, this is how I know you're not you. Last time I mentioned Hercules there was a comment about how harry he was and beastly. Something to the effect of 'you could make a second one of him by all the hair he has.'" She laughed again, tossing her hair back over her shoulder.

Then her laughter faded and she pursed her lips. "Yes, well, Thor doesn't know these things. And it's not like I tried anything with his pet mortal either. And he wanted to make her Queen of Asgard too. Nor have I actually done anything yet. They say that letting your emotions out is healthy." She quirked a brow upwards and then fidgeted upon her toes, smoothing a hand over her hair and then curling the golden strands in fingers.

"We all want what we cannot have. Thor is resistant to my magical charms. I know what he feels.. he feels truly. I have told you, the real you, this before. As the Princes remain the two men that I /know/ are not enslaved by my magic nor my looks. Do you know how boring, how frustrating it is to have no honest idea if a man loves you because of you, or because of your body or your magic?" She pouted, her brows pinched as she spoke.

"And I cannot nor shall not find love or happiness here on Midgard. Only heartache. Any mortals that I grow to care for or love? They die in a blink. Too fast.."


He smirks again, waving his hand to dismiss the notion. "Cursing a man to want no touch of woman encourages him only to seek another man. Wit is wasted on the woman." The professor starts to walk again, leaving her as she is, curving back around towards the double doorway entrance that leads into Columbia's hallowed teaching halls.

Amora's mercurial behaviour seems to have left barely a scratch, but then therein lies the joy of a certain distance created by the vast gulf of magic separating him from the mind beneath, and is that mind even her own? He is she, she is he. Surely. "Then find a way to make your beloved live longer. You have all the seidr of Asgard at your fingertips. Brew or cook up something to prolong it."

The questions of love and fascination are met with a laugh. "Oh, my dear, welcome to life. Brutal, garish, bloody life where nothing is guaranteed. Do you love or is it infatuation? Does he want you or are you merely an asset or a tool? Can she be trusted? Nothing is certain, not even for you."

'Louis' gives a wicked grin, one that burns its way all the way to the marrow and the blood, an exact, precise replica of the flesh that is not his, but his all the same. "Embrace it. Go forth and rejoice in it, feast on it, and then come back and tell me how it goes. I, however, have a class to teach."


Amora made a face, but made no moves to follow him back inside. "If you were you, I would be pinning you to wall right now." She muttered, rolling her eyes and folding her arms over her chest again. She rolled her eyes briefly, "I don't want to make a mortal live longer. Then that means I'd be /stuck/ with them when they grew too big for their own heads. I've seen that happen before." She wrinkled her nose up at the thought.

"And you do that smirk wrong!" She called after, it was a lie, the smirk was too close to home and it made her chest ache. Amora grumbled and faded into a flicker of green light, leaving the path unoccupied as she disappeared into a mirage of nothingness.

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