The bowstring brushed gently across her cheek, two fingers lightly touching the corner of her mouth as she slowly exhaled. Three days waiting for the perfect moment, too stubborn or too prideful to turn her attention to easier quarry. There could be no sudden movements – no mistakes this time to alert her prey to her presence. She could smell the glue on the arrow's fletching, the subtle scent and the cool morning air both working to calm her excited nerves. Inhale. Her clear grey eyes fixed on the unknowing stag grazing at the edge of the clearing, half obscured by the pale mist drifting eerily through the pines. He was beautiful. Magnificent. His broad antlers spanned nearly two feet in each direction, coming to six perfect points on each side of his head. It would be a shame to bring him down – a tragedy, really. Yet the cold chill on the air, the freezing snap that heralded the abrupt end of the warm months and long days, reminded her of the necessity. Winter was coming, and game had been scarce this season. She would need the stag to survive.
Exhale. The string slipped smoothly past her gloved fingertips, the arrow racing forward. A practiced eye followed its path with ease, watching with a hunter's gleeful triumph as the iron point imbedded itself in the creature's eye. The beast didn't even have time for one last squeal of surprise before it toppled to the ground and lied still in the tall grass.
The hunter proudly emerged from the trees to inspect her kill. The honey colored pelt had already grown thick in preparation for the winter, and the animal clearly hadn't seen want of food. He had to weigh at least as much as she did, probably more. No doubt he would be difficult to carry back through the woods, but he was most assuredly the prize of the season. The promise of the tools she could make from him and the knowledge that his meat would last her the winter if she rationed correctly made it worth the effort. Carefully, she drew her knife to begin the messy task of cleaning the beast, thinking that perhaps he might be easier to carry in pieces.
Without warning, the earth rumbled and shifted beneath her feet, causing her knife to fall to the ground with a heavy thud. Her gaze nervously darted up to the trees swaying above her, hoping the branches were strong enough to ride out the quake. It wouldn't be the first time this year that she'd had to dodge falling foliage. As the tremor slowly subsided, she frowned thoughtfully. These earthquakes were getting increasingly frequent. She could remember a time not so long ago when she'd never experienced the earth moving so violently beneath her feet. Now it was nearly commonplace.
She was struck by the sudden stillness of her surroundings, the small hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention as she automatically knocked another arrow to her bowstring. She strained her ears to listen, the sense of unease steadily growing. It didn't take long for her to realize the area was completely devoid of wildlife. Usually the animals screamed and fled in terror after the quakes. Here, there was only silence. Complete silence. She shifted on her heels, crouching down as she surveyed the area around the clearing. No birds. No squirrels. Not even a fly or a mosquito. Only her and the dead stag. A chill of dread raced up her spine as she wondered why the stag had been drawn here to begin with.
She began to curse herself for her stupidity. Why hadn't she been paying closer attention to her surroundings? The thrill of the hunt- that deadly, stalking focus that kept her so oblivious to everything but her prey. She prayed to whoever was listening that she might have the opportunity to remedy such an amateur mistake.
Suddenly, a scream split the air. The voice was pure agony, despair, hopelessness, fury... The tip of her arrow fell to the grass as a single, unnoticed tear of sympathy rolled down her dirt-streaked cheek. She looked to the stag, noting that she'd only just begun to make the incision. It would likely bleed everywhere, but it could still be carried in one piece. Determinedly, she took her handkerchief from her pocket and stuffed it into the knife wound. Grabbing the deer by the legs, she hoisted it over her shoulders with a grunt of effort, stumbling a little under its weight. Short as she was, the image might have been comical if it weren't for the glint of steel in those grey eyes.
Ѡ
The venom drip fell again, searing his flesh away with terrifying ease and drawing another scream from his ragged throat, the sound lower this time than the last. His voice didn't have much strength left. And, he thought he might possibly be losing consciousness again. Not that it mattered, really. Not that anything mattered. His whole world was this dank cave, every moment revolving around the next drop of that terrible and endless torture hanging from the ceiling. Of all the tortures invented by the gods, he wondered what could possibly surpass this fate. Each drop of the cursed liquid slipping steadily from the glistening fangs of the creature above him came only after his body had healed itself of its wounds – only after his nerves had been repaired enough to fully feel the scorching acid falling through his body. The ground was soaked through with his blood, as were the rags that still clothed him.
He sneered to himself. What a state for a king. What a state even for an animal – chained an immobile on the ground, waiting for the next wave of excruciating pain that was all but guaranteed to come. He'd been born to rule – born to be worshiped. And now he was sunk deep below the shit of insect and vermin alike. How had it come to this?
The answer, naturally, was simple, if still baffling. A ragtag group of freaks and a design flaw. The scepter should never have been able to penetrate the energy barrier around the Tesseract. The physics didn't add up. And Midgard, as far as he'd ever been able to tell, was ruled by physics. Then again, there were always exceptions to every rule. He of all people should know that. After all, he was the god of -
Another drop, another scream. Or perhaps it came out as more of a low moan rather than the blood curdling shriek he'd had in mind. He could hardly tell the difference anymore. He longed for the sweet oblivion of sleep – of death. But the Allfather had taken even that hope beyond his reach. The only solace he found was in those brief periods of unconsciousness brought on by the pain. And the thirst. Dear god, the thirst.
Rage was all that propelled his thoughts. Rage and a bit of sardonic self pity, but he knew better than to try and dwell on the latter. There was no doubt in his mind as to why he was there – no doubt in his mind as to whose fault it was. The need for vengeance was nearly all-consuming, but he knew he could not slip these chains so easily. Nor could he avoid -
- that. He could feel his eyeball melt away and begin to immediately regrow it self, the sensation of regeneration not particularly more comfortable than the initial injury. It itched like hell, and he was completely beyond being able to scratch it. The searing droplet found its way out the back of his skull and onto the blood-soaked earth. Thankfully, the venom didn't continue to burn him from the ground. An eternity of just this was more than enough.
He could tell he was close to unconsciousness yet again. His thoughts always drifted further away from the pain and towards some degree of lucidity as he passed out. He supposed it was rather pathetic that he made more sense when he was asleep than awake. Not that anyone, other than perhaps Heimdall, was listening anyway.
As always, his sleeping mind turned to memories for sustenance. Well, one memory in particular – the only one that really mattered in his current condition.
Thor stood beside him. The arrogant, stupid fool had taken him back to Asgard for trial, probably hoping that the Allfather would still feel some love for the child he'd stolen. Loki seriously dobted he was going to get any sympathy, or even a glimmer of understanding, from the man who'd scorned him all his life and shown favor to the elder son. Well, the only son, really. At least now he knew his dark hair wasn't the result of unfaithfulness on Mothe – Frigga's part. He supposed that being "adopted" and scorned might be slightly better than being a bastard and scorned. Slight difference, but every bit counts. It was easier to hate people you didn't have any real biological ties to. Not that he needed any help with the hating part.
The Allfather's face was a stony mask of indifference as his sons knelt before him. Loki kept his eyes firmly on the glittering golden floor. He wouldn't give the old man the pleasure of seeing the humiliation in his eyes. Thor, as always, was trying to say something. Loki was surprised the oaf could manage to get anything intelligible past that thick tongue of his. Something about apologizing on Loki's behalf and how the Allfather should show mercy to the prodigal son, in his wisdom. Typical of Thor to use Midgardian references at an Asgardian trial. He wondered if Odin actually understood what Feathers was attempting to lie about. He doubted it would make much of a difference. He was only partly sorry anyway.
Well, maybe more than partly. There was a fair bit that he'd never intended on happening, and a fair bit he'd wished he'd thought through just a little bit better. He wondered what would have gone differently if he hadn't let go of that terrible golden staff the day Thor destroyed the Bifrost.
Probably a lot of grovelling. And a lot of time shoveling horse shit in the stables.
It didn't really matter. He was likely to be dead in a few minutes anyway. He wanted to be dead. Free at last of the many he'd been a slave to these long years. Thanos. The Other. Odin...
The Allfather's spear met the floor with a familiar and resounding BOOM. His bones vibrated uncomfortably with the sound and he thought he might've fallen over if it weren't for the guards standing at attention on either side of him. Time for the sentencing.
Loki's ears perked up in anticipation at Odin's quiet, level voice. His hate-filled green eyes darted up at last to meet the king's single blue orb. He searched to find any trace of love or affection in that level gaze, but thought he saw only pity. Just pity for the outcast he'd stolen from a frozen planet and raised for a purpose that no longer mattered. Never a son. Only a stolen relic that had outlived his usefulness.
Odin had traded his eye in exchange for knowledge, after all – not empathy. No, he had Frigga for that shortcoming.
"Loki Odinson," he began. Loki started at the title. If his mouth hadn't been covered he would have protested at the mockery. Odinson. What a joke. The man couldn't even call him by his true name in the face of his impending death. Laufeyson. It should have been Laufeyson. But no. He would never admit to having kept a frost giant's offspring in the midst of his most precious subjects. It would hardly have inspired them to loyalty. "You have betrayed and forsaken not only your family and your home but also countless innocents undeserving of your wrath. You have murdered, enslaved, and condemned to death and unimaginable suffering the citizens of the Nine realms you once solemnly swore to protect. You are unworthy of all that has been given to you. You are unworthy of the love and loyalty you have turned your back upon. My son is dead. This wretched, hateful creature before me is all that remains of him. You are hereby stripped of your power and your freedom. You will be bound beneath the surface of Midgard with chains wrought in the very fires you have set. I condemn you to pain and torment eternal and unimaginable. But know this – even that which you will soon face cannot compare to the grief and heartbreak you have dealt to others, including your own kin. What mercy can be found in that is all that will be given."
Water welled up in the old fool's eye. Pity. Only pity. Rage filled the trickster and he longed to call out to his "father" in his fury. But no. He wasn't allowed the dignity of protest. Why couldn't he have just killed him? Why this pretense of lessons to be taught or emotions clearly nonexistent?
Thor met his eyes only once, conveying silently the terror and agony the larger man felt for the creature he still called brother. Tears streamed down his face. Thor had always been so honest with his emotions. So painfully, stupidly, repulsively honest. Loki, with his sunken eyes and burning heart could have laughed as he was dragged away to face his fate.
He screamed, and his rage swept out into the Earth to make the mountains rumble once again. He felt sorry for any poor sod who happened to be taking a ski trip at the moment. He was sure he'd caused his fair share of avalanches in the past few months. Then again, maybe one of those infernal Avengers was in on one of those mountains. The sentiment of pity was immediately revoked as he imagined Stark or Fury being swept up in a wave of snow and rock. Or, even better, that monster of a man, Banner. The Hulk would likely walk away unscathed from such an event, but it was the thought that counted, as these mortals said. Speaking of Banner, he wondered if it itched this much when the green beast healed itself. He certainly hoped so.
He slowly became aware of another presence in the cave with him, and looked up just in time to see a figure framed by the waning sunlight before a drop hit him in the eye again. Not enough time to register much of anything else... He spent the next several drip-periods attempting to get a good look at it-him-her – whatever. Unfortunately, that happened to perfectly position his right eye under the drip – which was counterproductive to learning much of anything at all.
"Hello," he offered wearily after a few screams. Pleasantries.
There was no response, and Loki wondered what kind of sick Midgardian had the stomach to sit silently in the same room as a man who was repetitively physically destroyed and rebuilt every thirty seconds or so. Not that he was one to talk. But he was a god – he was allowed to have his quirks.
After a while of continued awkward silence, he fell unconscious again. This piss-ant little human could hardly do any additional damage to him, so he made the conscious decision to leave it to his own devices. He dreamed again, and when he awoke he knew immediately that something had changed. For one – and perhaps most importantly – he wasn't screaming. Tentatively, worrying that perhaps he was just a few moments early for the next wave of agony, he opened his eyes and blinked a few times in surprise.
"What is that?" A large, bone-like dish of some kind was suspended between him and the snake. Not magic, but blessedly effective nonetheless.
"Antler," came the short, clinical reply.
"So you're a woman," he observed, still somewhat hoarse. "I'd been wondering. Couldn't really get a good look earlier." Fishing for information. Maybe there was an escape route after all.
There was no response. Not particularly talkative. Okay then. "Why?" he asked simply, trying out a different approach.
"Got tired of the screaming. And your earthquakes scare off the game."
He felt his heart sink unexpectedly. Funny, he hadn't even realized it had risen. At least it wasn't blatant pity – just problem solving.
"You should get some real sleep while you can. The antler's shallow and won't hold it for long." She was somewhere in the shadows where he couldn't see her, and he found that irritating.
"You should have found something bigger." He couldn't quite stop the arrogant quip from sliding off his lips, though he knew antagonizing her was not the best way to get her to help him.
"I should have walked away," came the sharp retort. Fair point. More than fair, actually. She probably should have sat around to watch, posted it on the internet, invited her friends. And the rest of the world.
Being sure to sound properly chastened, he asked quietly, "So why didn't you?"
"I told you You're upsetting the wildlife." A pause. "Go to sleep Loki Odinson."
"Laufeyson," he corrected automatically.
No response. After a while, he took her advice and succumbed to his exhaustion, wondering how much she knew of who he was.