We'll be alone together
In a world we call our own
We'll be alone together
In a place that doesn't feel like home
(VAST)
'...and then there was Stuttgart and you went all 'kneel, bitches!'. You could've thought of something wittier. Or not that pathetic, at least. What in hell gave you that idea?' Tony looked at the imprisoned god with both curiosity and amusement. Loki chuckled.
'I wanted to draw some... attention.'
'Well, you definitely had that!'
The Asgardian smiled absently.
'No, not your attention.'
The chilly wind brought smell of human blood. Nauseatingly sweet - not as it should be at all. The young prince had tasted human blood, of sheer curiosity, dipping two fingers in someone's wound and licking them quickly before anyone could notice. It had stung his tongue with metallic bitterness. But then, it was fresh blood, and now he stood among rotting corpses.
He noticed, not without a surprise, that he was shivering, even though his coat shielded him from the wind. He glanced quickly at his father, making sure Odin didn't notice that. He shouldn't even be here - and where was his brother, his brave, majestic brother, the one that even looked as if he was born to wear a crown? He needed to see Thor's reassuring, wide smile before his own fear would turn into unstoppable panic. But he caught only a glimpse of golden hair against red fabric; Thor stood by his father's side, copying his pose and his proud manner.
Loki gave a little gasp and turned his gaze to the people crowding round his father. These were the so-called mortals: trapped halfway between animals and Asgardians. They crawled in dry grass, cautiously, as if expecting a deathblow, a punishment for their foolish resistance. Some women clutched babies to their breasts to muffle their whimper. The older children - Loki's coevals, most likely - were trembling, unable to control their fear. Finally, they stopped and gathered into little groups, too frightened to come closer.
Odin didn't say a word. He only stood still, blood-stained spear in his hand, looking at the conquered species with mere interest. He didn't have to do anything to prove his superiority over the mortals. He was power embodied, an ageless, infinite force, so terrible that left his son ever breathless and awestruck. If he, Loki, couldn't stand his father's grandeur, how come these puny beings were still alive?
He glanced at them. Their hair was tangled and lustreless like fur; they also wore fur and rough linen, adorned with clumsily dyed patterns and heavy, coarse metal pins. They had thin limbs and were as short as Asgardian children - Loki himself was taller than most of their women, despite his own young age. Some of the mortals carried torches that gave a lot of smoke and very little light. Some of them spoke in a language that would have sounded familiar, if not for its crudeness and wheezy, almost eerie consonants. Everything they did seemed a parody of a culture; a horrible, unshapely imitation that bore enough resemblance to Asgard to be considered offensive. He was appalled by these creatures. They were too alike, as if in the early days of creation someone had decided to play a cruel joke on Asgard and inhabit this world with what he would see in a distorting mirror, they were too different, too savage, with their eyes burning with what he decided must have been some kind of hunger, they were... somehow strong in their weakness, even facing their defeat, they were...
Terrifying.
He gasped again, trying to calm down his heartbeat and pleading silently that his father would put an end to this. The sound of Odin's voice, deep and hollow as a storm's grumble, was almost relieving.
'I am Odin of Asgard, and you shall address me as the father of all being.' His words echoed, even though he put so little effort to them, barely parting his lips. 'I forged the world from Ymir's skull and lit the skies with sun and stars, and gave the breath of life to the very first of your kin.' The crowd moved, as if a shiver had ran through all of the mortals. 'I am the Creator. I am the God of the Dead. I am the Flaming Eye. I am the Wand-Wielder...'
The litany of titles seemed endless, but Loki didn't dare even feel bored. He was just as amazed as the creatures facing their god. His father stood still like a statue, proud and stern and so unmoved as only a true king could be. The red sunset carved deep lines in his face and lit flamelike flashes in his loose hair. Loki believed his father was indeed older than the world itself, and knew all its secrets. The thought that the same regal blood ran through his veins was thrilling; it was a promise of great wisdom and power. He could be like his father, someday - if only he could win over his cowardice and weakness... instead of hoping that his older brother would take him away from here and make the horrors of battle disappear.
'...I am the God of Battle. I am the Raven God. I am the Splendid Ruler.' His two ravens accompanied his words with their high-pitched cries. 'I am your king.' Loki held his breath back, and so did the mortals. The battlefield was silent. Even the grass stopped rustling in anticipation. 'Kneel to your king', said Odin. Some of the mortals started bending. 'Kneel!'
The word rang in Loki's ears as the creatures almost fell to the ground, among their slaughtered warriors, and bowed their heads until they touched the soil. Only then he realized he was on his knees, too.