Word Count: 1,914
Neither sun nor moon could plumb the depths of the dungeon. There were no windows. All that illuminated his sight were the torches, flickering softly just outside his door. The light snuck in through the cracks beneath and a small "window" built into the door (when left open). Not that it would have mattered really. Counting the hours, or for that matter, days, was meaningless. The metal cord woven through his lips and the magic-dampening manacles that clung to his wrists assured that. His magic was gone. His lies silenced. What good was a God of Mischief without the trickery? …But perhaps "good" was not the right word. What use was he? Loki stared blankly at the thick metal door, as though an answer would suddenly just appear, scratched upon its cool surface. He received nothing, of course. The metal stayed smooth and unmarred as ever, but he found marginal comfort in that; at least an unmoving door meant no… visitors.
Each day (though he had no degree of certainty if it was truly one passing of the sun) Loki played humble host to a selection of guests. Sometimes it was Thor. Sad to say… those were good days. The piteous man would practically fall over himself to get inside the darkened chamber. Time and again, he would ask his brother (a word Loki treated with as much love as he would a cup of poison) to return. Return to what, exactly? There was no going back to the way things were. Loki knew his place quite well under Odin's gaze. He was a tool, plain and simple. The fact that Thor had developed some sort of overly attached emotions for him was childish. It was akin to the love he held for that damnable hammer, Mjolnir. It was endearing, perhaps, to outsiders; in the retarded puppy sort of way. But ultimately, a tool would never return such affections; and when it dulled and became useless, it would be cast away. Loki could not, he would not maintain the façade of brotherhood. In the dingy cell, it was all the liberty he was allowed.
Other visitors were not quite as painless. Droning on about the virtues of brotherhood and blood were one thing – something he had learned to tune out long ago. Those that wished to test his Jotun resistance… that was quite another matter. It was surprising when the Warriors Three first came. He had thought, out of all the thick-headed Asgardians, that they would understand. Or at least try to. Surely they remembered. But it seemed their infernal loyalty to the Thunder God marred any understanding of the good he had tried to accomplish. They were there after all. Along with Sif… oh so sweet Sif. She seemed to, in particular, enjoy watching his skin melt away to reveal the harsh coldness underneath. Before his imprisonment, Loki had only revealed himself truly a handful of times. Now… he had lost count. Each time he saw those eyes peering down at him in unyielding fury, he swore to himself to not let her see it again. And each time, he failed. The thought alone caused his blood to boil.
Odin had been the worst though. He had only visited once – and not a single blow had landed upon Loki's back. He remembered it as if it were yesterday. Lips still bleeding – a product of his "trial" – Loki had barely just been thrown into his cell when Odin came to call. As expected, the one-eyed king radiated disappointment. Strange in a way, he had earnestly expected a more… fiery reaction. Then again, that was more Thor's temperament, wasn't it? Naturally, he stared up at his "father" with indignation and mockery. At that time, he was still able to maintain his princely airs. After all, it was only a matter of time until he escaped. No manacle could withhold him, even those crafted to mute his powers. Loki had felt that so strongly. Surely it must be so.
"Loki…" The way Odin's voice rumbled reminded him of an ancient surly dragon. "To ensure that your punishment is to be experienced to the fullest extent, I've asked a friend to craft something special, just for you." The king seemed to sag almost, like it pained him. Loki scoffed as best he could. A poor act to say the least, he didn't believe it for a moment. The old man could throw anything he liked at him; there would always be a way to slip free in the end. Loki could only remember the blade vaguely (later, he decided it was part of the dagger's power). It was seemingly innocuous. Hell, the trickster laughed (as best he could) as the weary Old King brandished it. Surely Odin did not think to kill him – that would ruin the entire purpose of the punishment. Poison perhaps? Let it come. He could weather it.
With a firm hand, Odin raised the blade and brought it down in an elegant arc. Abruptly, Loki stopped laughing. It did not pass through skin. Yet as it swung, he felt a rending sensation. It started as a burn. Whatever it was, that burning sensation continued until every last drop of his magic was stripped from his body – down to his bones. The air hummed with power, though his screams seemed to drown out the drone. After that, no words had passed between "Father and Son." Loki had been left to his tears and anger. The violation itself had been enough.
Further visitors… he cared little for. They could not turn him like Sif or the Warriors. They only cared to see him on the ground, bleeding out sluggishly – only to be revived mere hours later. Even with his magic sealed, it seemed Odin had some kindness (though Loki hesitated to call it so). Oh, kindness not reserved for the Jotun prince. But for his people – what good was a criminal who died too quickly? No. They would see him suffer. They would have him beg. In a way, Loki was almost glad for the wire banding his lips together. Almost. Even if he had the desire to, such disgraceful words would never drop from his mouth. Instead, he would allow each blow to simmer. Every injury he sustained sunk into his skin, joining the pot of rage quivering within his stomach. They would feel his wrath… someday.
Oh yes, he did have plans to escape.
The dungeon room, he had already discerned, was warded. An extra precaution against those that would distort reality. But that did not stop… fragments (if you will) of magical energy from wafting inside. It was little, barely enough to make his skin prickle. Yet it would have to do. He snatched up each tiny silver like a starving dog. A bit shameful, yes. Except what was more humiliation on top of his current situation? Nothing. They would all receive their just desserts in the end.
The soft tell-tale sounds of footsteps echoed down the hall, breaking off his concentration. "Morning" already? Experimentally, the God tried to shift his body. After his most recent visitor, Sif, had taken her leave, Loki had pulled himself to the far end of the room. Settling against the wall, Loki had stayed stationary, giving his body time to mend. From the feel of it, his body was not yet prepared. Perhaps they were growing impatient. Whoever it was, they did not pound heavily on the stone floors like Thor. Such as it were, his stomach dropped at that revelation. Was he actually disappointed? As the window squealed open, the God braced himself. He was blinded at first. The torch light always seemed much brighter. Squinting, he attempted to make out the face just beyond the door.
Once more, his stomach churned. It did not seem possible. Surely it was a trick. Even Odin, vengeful as he was, would not allow for this. The torch light flickered across the outsider's face. A wide grin spread across his features, though there was no warmth in his eyes. Only resentment. Stark.
"Morning, Reindeer Games." Loki would have hissed if it were possible. The Man of Iron continued, acutely ignoring the less than friendly reception. "I know this is sort of unannounced, so if you're a bit tied up at the moment I'll leave. Just say the word."
Silence. Until the Iron Man laughed.
Oh, he thought he was so funny. So clever. A different sort of fury burned inside Loki, one specially reserved for this man. It was all his fault. Everything. Now he was here to get in a few kicks? The God would not stand for it.
"No? Well, that's splendid then. You know I've been here a while. Wasn't able to see you though – evidently you've been booked solid. But when has that ever stopped me?" His voice was light and breezy. They could have just as well been discussing the weather.
'Ah. So he was down there without his loving handlers knowledge.' Tony raised a hand, running it through his dark hair. Bare handed? No armor? Loki had little time to ponder it. "Man, you sure are quiet. By now you would've thrown me out of a window, what's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"
Childish. Utterly childish. Hardly a subtle way of angering Loki. He felt insulted that the Iron Man couldn't come up with anything more… clever. It was insulting. Before he realized it, the God growled. It seemed this was what Stark was waiting for. His eyes lighted with unrestrained glee. "Ah~ so you can make noise… That's a shame. I'd of thought Sif would have ripped out your vocal chords by now. But hey, maybe that's later on the menu. I hear she's getting pretty tired of just hearing the usual yelps and whimpers." Tony seemed to be leaning against the door now, propping his head up lazily. "Said you sounded like a kicked puppy."
Loki wasn't quite certain what it was. The jeering was nothing new, he had heard plenty of it before. Yet, somewhere, in the depths of his chest, he felt something snap. Jumping up, the God of Chaos let out a muffled snarl. The dungeon temperature suddenly dropped, air crackling with energy. This… this human. This mortal. He dared to look down on him? The miserable worm had no idea. It was so satisfying to see Tony jump back, just outside his line of sight, surprise and fear etched across his face. With a loud crunch, the door suddenly blew off its hinges. The hunk of metal lodged itself into the opposing stone wall, a thick cloud of dust and rubble exploding into the air. In the midst of it all, Loki darted forward. He scrabbled over the rubble, green eyes scanning the area. The ragged clothes and malnourished form gave him the appearance of a rabid animal. Wisely, the Iron man had opted to retreat. Loki felt a surge of pride when he saw the human's pale face. Who was the whimpering pup now?
He launched himself after the man, intent on not letting his quarry go. Faintly, Loki was aware that they might catch him. In fact, the chances were quite good. Already he could feel the metal around his wrists thrumming – perhaps an alarm of some kind. But he would be damned if he let Stark get away. The man who had ruined everything would pay. Or Loki would die trying.