Work Text:
30 September, 1944
Steven,
I received your name from an organization that seeks to ensure soldiers who are without family members at home can still be cheered by mail. This appealed to me, as the idea that a warrior might find himself at the gates of Valhalla without a proper sendoff rankles even my pragmatic sensibilities— the kind that find me here on Midgard in the first place.
I would not presume to interfere in war amongst mortals, yet well I know that even winning has a terrible price. Rest assured, I will bargain with the Valkyrie myself to ensure you are not forgotten should you be amongst those who pay it.
This may seem out of character for one such as myself, but I have always enjoyed writing. The smell of ink and parchment is the greatest spark for imagination, and while this “V-Mail” does not have the same attractive scent, the ability to fill a page with thoughts remains universally appealing.
I am sure to a soldier such as yourself, forced into a painful reality, my words must seem almost nonsensical, but then I would hardly expect anyone here to take my story seriously. In fact, that may be another reason I have decided to write this letter. I have not told a soul since I arrived on this realm who I really am or from whence I came, partly to keep myself hidden from those who might wish me ill, but also because I am painfully aware of the limits of mortal beliefs. I would be more likely to find myself incarcerated in some fashion than believed.
I am an outcast from the realm of Asgard. I was called a goddess, once, by people who lived on the continent where you now fight. It was fire, first, for which I was supposed to be responsible. A force for change, both good and bad. Then it was stories, the lies that were told to keep us from feeling the fear of the unknown. Of course, as many are apt to latch on to the negative interpretation, it was easier to brand me goddess of lies.
Mischief, though, I wear that moniker proudly. Following rules to the letter is no fun at all, and often is more trouble than it is worth. But getting around them, finding the flaws in the system? That I can work with. And that is what I did— I found a flaw. A hole. Unfortunately, the flaw was me.
I therefore removed myself from the equation, so that everyone in the golden realm can be happy, and I can be away from the constant scrutiny and the weight of expectation. I imagine that if one is part of an army as you are, the weight of your superiors’ orders and decisions surely take their toll. Such is how I felt every day under the rule of Odin and the shadow of Thor.
Perhaps you will read this letter and think a trick has been played on you. It would be very in character for me.
Perhaps you will think I am simply writing fantasies from one lonely soul to another. There is some truth to that.
Most likely it will be taken as delusion, but hopefully a welcome diversion from the constant battle you face. We will likely never meet, and I expect no reply. Still, it is nice to put this down in writing and allow myself to absorb the facts as I lay them out— That I am no better than a runaway child of 1,080 years, and my self-imposed exile is as likely to be lonely as it is to be disbelieved.
I wish you the best in your battles, and that you may return to find peace of your own.
With gratitude and affection,
Loki Odinsdottír
Steve read the letter a third time, still unsure what to make of it. Of course he had heard of this ‘Dear Soldier’ program before— he was hardly the only orphan on the front lines, whether there by choice or not. He just couldn’t understand why his name would be on that list. Surely there were more deserving recipients?
He found himself looking now at the envelope, half-expecting the return address to be in Norway. But it wasn’t. It was Brooklyn. An exotic name, an exotic story, and an address in Prospect Heights. He tried to convince himself they were just matching people geographically, and that’s how this mysterious woman got his name. The handwriting seemed feminine enough anyway, even if he had doubts that her name was actually Loki.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there in front of the fire, his mind far away, when he felt an elbow to his side and and looked up at Bucky’s ridiculous grin.
“So, who’s it from? Did Becca finally fess up to having a huge crush on you?”
Steve started. “Your sister has a crush on me?”
That got a laugh from Bucky, the kind he hadn’t heard in some time. “You’d have to ask her. I’m just wondering what kind of letter has you so wound up— Apart from my family, who else would be able to write to you directly? I know all the fan mail for Captain America ends up somewhere else.”
That was true. Steve rarely had mail call except the occasional well-wishes from Mrs. Barnes. The letters for Captain America were sent to London, where a staff dealt with most of them to ensure he was not distracted. They assured him he would be able to read and reply at his leisure after the war.
What a thought.
“No, it’s not that. I’m not sure she even knows who I am.” Steve wasn’t sure how to even begin to explain this.
“She, huh?” Before he could so much as nod in affirmation, Bucky had snatched the letter from Steve’s hands and started reading. Steve just sighed, knowing Bucky would have got it out of him one way or another anyhow. He watched his friend’s expression shift from one of amusement to confusion as he scanned the words that Steve still hadn’t made sense of.
“Well,” Bucky said finally, “I don’t think there are any asylums in Prospect Heights. You gonna write back?”
“What could I even say to that? Thanks for the letter, hopefully I don’t end up in Valhalla?”
“Seems to me you have two options. Treat her letter seriously, or reply with a story of your own. If it’s true she doesn’t know who you really are, anything we’ve been doing would sound like a pretty fantastic tale, wouldn't it?”
Steve considered this.
“Besides, maybe then she’d write back. Something to break up the monotony around here. Gonna share this with the team?”
Steve hesitated. “I dunno, seems awfully personal…”
But Bucky was already up, letter in hand. “Hey Dum Dum, get a load of this!”
October 25th, 1944
Dear Loki,
I was surprised by your letter. I never expected I would receive any mail out here, so it definitely made my day.
I’m not sure what I could tell you about myself that you couldn’t see in a newsreel, so instead I’ll tell you about the first mission I went on here in Europe.
My best friend’s unit was ambushed, and he was among a group being held prisoner behind enemy lines. The commanding officers were preparing to consider them KIA; it would be too dangerous to send a rescue mission in their minds.
I was not ready to accept the possibility that Bucky was dead.
I managed to convince a friend to fly me over the border, and I dropped near the prison camp.
I had to go in alone at first, but found the prisoners were ready to follow when I got them out of their cells. Still, I couldn’t find Bucky.
I kept searching, and found him in a lab, repeating his name. He hadn’t seen me since I joined the army, so he was shocked at my appearance. But I got him out of there, and we managed to escape before the building exploded.
Perhaps it’s not a story out of mythology but I think anything more would be caught by the censors. They must think reality is too hard for the folks back home to handle, but something tells me you know more than most. I don’t really understand what makes me think that, only that the sincerity in your letter tells me you must be one hell of a dame. I hope you do not mind that I shared it with some of my fellow soldiers— we all need something to think about that isn’t the war sometimes.
I hope this letter finds you well and I sincerely thank you again for your sentiments.
Best,
Steve Rogers
11 November, 1944
Dear Steven,
I am as surprised to receive your response as I am certain you were at my initial letter. Perhaps all the more for the sincerity in it.
I assumed it would have been dismissed out of hand as the ramblings of an unstable woman, and so I appreciate your willingness to play along, even if you do not accept it as truth.
After all, I am goddess of lies, I expect nothing else.
I am not sure I know what a ‘newsreel’ is, and I do not see how that would help me to learn more about you specifically. If it is related to the news I hear shouted on the streets of the city, all I learn are statistics and names of battles, not of warriors.
I fear for each soul who becomes simply a casualty. In that I can understand your concern for your Bucky, and why you would go to such lengths for a blood brother. There was a time I would have done the same in battles for my brother and friends, although perhaps those days were longer ago than I would dare admit.
It is both brave and honourable of you to risk such a mission, and to free even more of your comrades from the clutches of the enemy surely would mark you a true hero; the kind for whom a feast would last days in Asgard’s halls.
I suppose I can understand the use of censorship when sharing details of war— one never knows where an enemy has eyes, and missions remain sensitive long after they end.
I hear many things about the need for rationing both here in New York and where you are. I cannot imagine you had the banquet you deserved for your actions. Know this: should you ever find yourself at the gates of Valhalla, a feast shall await you on the other side.
And if you return from this war unscathed, you may find one in Brooklyn.
Thank you for taking me seriously, even if you do not believe me.
Sincerely,
Loki
P.S. You need not reply again, but my love of stories knows no bounds.
December 1st, 1944
Dear Loki,
You’ve never seen a newsreel? Don’t you go to the pictures? If you’re a lover of stories, that is certainly a good place for fantastic ones. I suggest finding a nice cinema, and see what’s playing. I remember some of the films I saw before coming over here. If they have any screenings, I think you might like Casablanca. Of course, maybe you might be interested in something entirely different in genre, but whatever you do see, they’ll play a newsreel beforehand to keep you up to date on the war.
It occurs to me that you wouldn’t know what I look like from just my name, and I don’t know if my actual name would appear on a newsreel anyway. Still, there have been cameras around, so anything is possible.
This is a lonely time of year for a lot of soldiers, being so far from their families during the holidays. I don’t know if they celebrate anything like Christmas on Asgard, but since you’re in Brooklyn you’ve no doubt seen the decorations start to adorn the shops and streets. It seems like in this darkest time of year we need light the most. Unfortunately the time of year does little to slow the enemy, so we have to remain vigilant, even as we spend some short time away from the front. It’s still not New York, but there are worse places to be, I guess. At least Bucky and I are still above ground.
Mostly.
I think I’ll miss the smells of Christmas the most. The cookies my Ma made before she passed, the spiced cider and hot chocolate, even the crisp scent of fresh snow and pine— which should be easy enough to find over here, except stronger smells always seem to cover it.
When the New Year comes, our fight will become more desperate. They’re trying to speed things up, which will only make our missions increasingly dangerous. Still, I know I have to give my all for the country I love, so people like you can enjoy it.
Happy Holidays,
Steve
17 December, 1944
Dearest Steven,
I took your advice, and found a cinema. I watched a film called “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” I enjoyed the music, and the story was quite compelling. I am told it is based on a real person, and that he indeed was a patriot and cared about his country in a way that was not always fashionable, but always so very much himself.
It seemed that “Captain America” character in the newsreel beforehand must have taken some inspiration from George M. Cohan, because he was also wearing patriotic colours and fighting for what he believed to be right; or so they said. I do not know if there is any more truth to the newsreels than the films, but it still reminded me of your last letter; you seem to share their convictions. It is not a bad thing, and certainly the mark of a far better person than I.
It is the warriors who fight for glory, for personal convictions, for selfish reasons— those are the kind I loathe. They are not fit to walk through Valhalla’s gates, and yet the warrior culture revolves around tales of such men. Even as a man I would never stoop to such a base level, I find it distasteful. Your cautious optimism and determination is far more appealing.
I continue to be glad I was matched with you. Receiving letters here has made me far happier than I could have ever believed. I suppose I did not realize just how lonely running away made me.
And therefore, quite selfishly, I wish only for you to return in one piece. To remain unscathed while there are letters left to write, and things left to say. Our correspondence has been a warm light in the darkness of the approaching Solstice (much like the Yule of old; this is the holiday we celebrate at this time of year.) It is when the day is darkest that the light shines brightest, and perhaps by next year this will be merely a memory.
With love,
Loki
15 January, 1945
Dear Loki,
I can’t believe you managed to find enough cookies to send for the whole team— I swear I saw tears of joy on some of them.
As I expected, things have gotten busier here. I probably won’t be able to write back again for a while, but I still appreciate all you’ve done. I keep your letters with me as a reminder of why I’m doing this.
As the boys sat around the fire with your last letter, they seemed to be stuck on your comment implying you have been a man. But Loki is a shapeshifter, right? Seems to me that keeps with the theme we’ve had going.
As for the “Captain America” character you saw, well… Bucky told me I shouldn’t say anything about it, except to point out how handsome his right hand man is. I would instead say if you’re curious about how much it is based in reality, it might be worth learning his real name.
Even if I don’t get the chance to write, I still look forward to hearing from you, and I cannot thank you enough for how much easier you have made my days, even if we’ve never actually met.
Love,
Steve
10 February, 1945
My dear Steven,
It breaks my heart to realize that I only now know your identity because of your best friend’s passing. It was significant enough news here that even I could not miss the loss of “Bucky Barnes” in an important mission. Seeing then that he was the best friend of Captain America, one Steven Grant Rogers, well… I suppose I should have realized that sooner.
There is never the right thing to say to someone consumed with grief, especially when they are no doubt also consumed by guilt. I do not know you at all, really, so anything I could offer would be empty platitudes. I would not wish that; I only wish for you to keep fighting for the right reasons. Your Bucky will be waiting for you at the final warrior’s feast, celebrating your victories until Ragnarök calls you back.
I know our correspondence has been strange, and I will not be upset if it ceases given the circumstances. I do hope you realize that however strange it may seem, I speak only the truth in writing, and I hope that if nothing else my sincerest wishes follow my letters to you. I now will recognize your face as the only thing close to a friend I have made on this realm.
And to make things fair, I found a photography service in order to send you a photo of myself, so you will at least know to whom you have been corresponding all these months.
May the Norns bless your journey.
Loki
When Schmidt referred to the Tesseract as one of Odin’s treasures, he realized sadly that perhaps Loki was exactly who she had said she was. The irony that he was about to meet his death in a ship called the Valkyrie was also not lost on Steve. He only wondered if Loki would ever know that detail when she learned of his demise.