DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Avengers.

Fear

I feel a long-forgotten emotion creeping up on me. It worms its way into my chest and buries itself in my heart. I look down at the pale, almost translucent skin stretching over one wrist and imagine the veins beneath turning black as the feeling spreads throughout my body. I shiver, and then curse myself. I do not want those gathered around me to know that this feeling has returned.

For the first time in a long time, I feel afraid.

I am sitting on the top floor of Stark's tower, surrounded by the group of fools known as the Avengers. I look from one to the other, trying to gauge my chances at survival. Stark is here, his battered metal suit having saved him from the clutches of deep space. The monster is here, looking only slightly less formidable in his human form. Barton is here, an arrow notched in his bow and aimed at my forehead. The woman is here, one hand on her partner and the other on her gun. The captain is here, still holding his ridiculous shield.

And, of course, my brother—no, not my brother, only Thor—is here, Mjolnir firmly in hand, a frown darkening his lined face. He does not meet my eyes.

I clear my throat. I must conceal my emotions. "I think I'd like that drink now," I croak. I dare not speak any louder, in case the fear creeps into my voice.

"I don't think I'd like to give it to you now," says Stark, his voice caustic. "Barton, would you like to do the honors?"

For a moment, I think that Barton is going to loose his arrow into my brain, and my heart tries to pound its way out of my chest. I am too weary to duplicate myself with sorcery, to think of something to say that will change his mind, to even duck out of the way.

My breath comes in gulps, but I try to steady myself. I must remain calm.

"No," Thor orders. "Stand down."

Slowly, Barton lowers his bow, and it takes all of my strength not to collapse with relief. I have seen what he can do with those arrows, and I would not want to be on the receiving end of one. I hazard a glance toward his face. His eyes, returned to their normal, dull blue, glare at me with a hatred that would turn any mortal's soul to ice.

I am no weak mortal, but I feel a chill all the same.

My growing fears are even harder to deal with than my physical discomfort. My entire body aches from the beating the monster gave me, but I can work through that. My mind, however, hearkens back to my adolescence on Asgard and the feelings of fear that accompanied it. Fear that Thor's overlarge ego would get him killed. Fear that my father loved him better. Fear that I was not who I thought I was.

And the greatest, most terrible of all fears: that when I fell into the abyss, I would never return.

The physical pain will pass, but I will never be able to forget these emotions.

"Now what do we do with him?" Barton asks.

"He has to answer for his actions," says the captain, letting the shield rest on the ground.

"As much as I'd love to see him dead," says the woman, "I don't think it's the best solution. S.H.I.E.L.D. will want a word with him."

They argue amongst themselves about what should become of me, as though I am not there before them.

"I am taking him back to Asgard," Thor says, his voice cutting above the others'. "I will not have him killed, and your mortal prisons cannot contain him for long. He will be duly punished when we return home."

Home. The very word is a mockery. I have no home.

"If we're not going to see justice exacted," says Stark, "can we at least go out for shawarma? Considering the fact that I carried a nuclear missile into outer space, saved the whole of Manhattan, and nearly died in the process, I don't think that's a lot to ask."

"That still doesn't solve our problem," says the monster, crossing his arms.

"Jarvis can watch him," Stark says. "We'll just leave him here."

I am still sitting in the crater that the monster made in the floor when he swung me about like a child's rag doll. This will not be a comfortable night.

Stark brings a sort of metal muff to lock my hands together and a heavy gag to put over my mouth. "High-powered restraining devices," he says. "These should make sure he stays here."

These devices are unnecessary, of course, for I haven't the strength to even attempt to leave. I do not say anything, though. My kingly power, my silver-tongued charisma, and my last shreds of hope have all deserted me, flying towards the broken skyline and never looking back. I will cling to my dignity as long as I can, for it seems to be the only thing I have left.

Thor fastens my hands behind my back with painful slowness. Never the brightest star in the galaxy, he has always had difficulty with mortal technology. He insists on doing it himself, though.

When he raises the gag to my face, he finally meets my gaze. I am certain that he sees the fear in my eyes. In his, all I see is pain.

"You were my brother," he whispers.

"No," I say. "I was only a mere shadow."

He is the first to look away. He attaches the gag, hooking the cold metal around my ears. The weight drags my head towards the floor.

"Okay, team," says Stark. "Let's go. I'm hungry." He turns to me as they head for the door, each glaring at me in turn. "Be a good boy."

I have sunk from the ruler of all humankind to a badly behaved dog in need of chastisement and a muzzle.

I am glad to see them go.

I settle into my concrete hole, ignoring the sharp edges that dig into my side and scratch through my clothes. But, tired though my bones are, I cannot sleep. My mind remains under siege.

Before my fortunes plummeted, the Chitauri leader told me, "If you fail, if the Tesseract is kept from us, there will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where we can't find you. You think you know pain? We will make you long for something as sweet as pain."

A shiver runs through my body as I think back on it.

But an idea springs into being in my mind.

The Chitauri will surely hunt me down when I am imprisoned in Asgard. My old family and my new enemies will meet.

And, with my guidance, they will destroy each other.

It will take long hours of careful planning, but with my hands stuck behind my back and my mouth unable to speak, I have nothing to do but think. I will have ample time to prepare myself for the trials ahead and plot my escape.

Fear is one of the best motivators.