Fate
Chapter 1:
This felt like fate to him.
And he had had many dreams of fate.
Since the days of his greater youth; since only boyhood…
The days when it was proven to him his physical inferiority.
Weakness frowned upon and derided by the very foundation upon which Asgard was built, and so too all its inhabitants.
It was in his greater youth, Loki had first felt the heat of rejection and distain.
First sensed the shove backwards from the hands of those he'd for so longed wished friendship of.
They wanted nothing to do with a child so unfitting. A boy outmatched in sparring by even the realms great female warrior, to say nothing of the other boys and men.
A boy who found his only strengths in neglected and shunned practices of study and magic and matters of the mind.
Exercises intended for the fairer of beings among them.
And yet there too, Loki had failed, and brought embarrassment. For the shame of his slightly built frame, and delicate, sharp features.
No man should look as soft as he.
As fragile…
He had had many dreams of fate…
And in these dreams, always he appeared as he was. Called before the Norn's, standing to hear his path. To receive from them a destiny he never had any power in. Weaving for him in an unending tapestry his own suffering and eternal defeat. His place of nowhere, belonging to nothing.
The scorn of all, for no one could ever love the trickster king.
No one could ever love a God of chaos.
A silver-tongued beast from whose lips past the slyest of untruths, he could keep no friends.
And never know anything of victory…
This felt like fate to him…
He glanced down, eyes settling over the shined silver link of chain, connecting across and attaching his two, binding cuffs, digging deep and unrelenting into the thin skin of his knobby wrists.
Another chain hung down from that one, connecting to the manacles adorning his ankles, equally as tight and uncomfortable.
And across his thin and gaunt face, still ravaged and bruised by the actions of war, his war, the suffocating press of a finely detailed muzzle, to keep that silver tongue of his from weaving more lies, from attacks of manipulation and mental unraveling. And keeping still his lips from uttering words of sorcery.
Thor had brought him here.
To his bed chamber.
Unchanged, he had quickly observed, from when last he'd been in this place, more than a year earlier.
They'd left it undisturbed, and Loki had been caught in the thought of superstition.
Best leave the monsters things be, lest we draw him back from the clutches of Hela herself.
Loki hadn't looked at his brother…
His brother…
He hadn't looked at him, and he hadn't known why.
Thor had spoken some ridiculous, sentimental words to him, had pulled him against his broad chest, his giant, meat hook of a hand cradling the back of his head and whispering against his ear.
Loki had stood stark still, making no gesture to pull away, making no gesture to return the embrace.
He'd said nothing.
Nothing still as he'd felt Thor's arms pull tighter around him, or heard his breath shudder from his throat in some desperate and pathetic longing.
His eyes fixed to the floor as finally the older God had pulled away from him, lingering a moment, his hands on his little brother's shoulders, trying in vain to catch his gaze, to look at him.
But Loki had refused to lift his face.
To acknowledge Thor at all.
He didn't know why…
Until finally the thunder God had turned, and moved away.
Until he had vanished through the doubled doors of Loki's bed chamber, protected from without by two, well built guards, yielding to Thor's retreat. Loki knowing he would not be afforded the same.
He'd looked around, eyes flitting and absent over the contents of his room, not really seeing.
Not focused.
He hadn't expected to be brought here.
Maybe he didn't know what he'd expected, beyond some vague and brutal imagining of the punishment he doubtless deserved.
He'd imagined being walked into the thrown room. The place he'd once stood, side by side with those who'd he'd once allied himself with.
The place he'd once sat, however briefly, and ruled this kingdom from.
But that was a fools notion.
The liesmith deluding himself.
For no one had ever considered him their king.
No one had ever deferred to or followed his judgment.
He'd imagined his father.
His father…
Odin, perched high and looking down upon him, all the world's disappointment and pain and further still, disgust, etched into his old and ravaged face.
Hatred for the boy he'd once dared to call his son.
And his final judgment. His punishment for the child who dared in turn to bring shame to the name of the All-Father and his shining city.
And the royal court, all of Odin's many advisors and men of council, there as well to pass judgment on him, openly this time, and not in glares askance and hushed whispers behind his back, as it had been before.
And Frigga… his mother, unable to raise her eyes to him, and for that alone, he would have felt his only, true regret.
But none of that had as yet happened.
He turned, glancing towards his bed, small and the sheets rumpled. The only thing changed. And somehow he knew Thor has slept there.
He made his way towards it, having to stutter his steps to keep from falling, the clink of the chains as they moved with him and touched.
The sound of his defeat.
His eyes closed as he sank against the mattress, onto his knees, letting himself crumple onto his side.
And he thought then he would like to sleep.
If he could sleep.
But rest is a companion lost to him now. He knows that.
He hasn't slept well in so many, many months.
And the chains and the cuffs and manacles and the muzzle are all so very, very uncomfortable, biting against his battered skin with unkind pressure.
He's sure if any of the restraints were any tighter, then surely they would draw his blood.
But he lets his eyes stay closed anyway, and after a long while, he can actually feel unconsciousness pulling at his minds corners, his weary form growing heavier with it, his thoughts dampening. And he allows himself to hope for those fleeting moments he may, for the time, find some sort of peace.
But it wouldn't be so.
His eyes shot open as if the action were automatic, simply waiting for the command as he heard the chamber door push open, loud and heavy on its hinges, and in an instant, the sleep was gone from his blood, and he is wide awake.
He turned, struggling to right himself, his gaze falling over the two guards who had entered, and the two others, new, that stood just back from them.
Sitting up straighter, and he thought…
"Ah, so now they come."
He didn't move further as the front two continued towards him, the others remaining by the door.
Made no gesture of protest as they took rough hold of his thin arms and yanked him up from the bed.
Behind the muzzle, he smirked, his upturned lips quickly dying then into a frown.
There was a time it might have been considered treason, to lay hands so unkindly upon a prince of Asgard.
The frown deepened as he thought, "No…"
Because that wasn't true either.
Memories clung to his mind with unforgiving clarity.
The taunts of other children, younger and older than he alike.
And all the many times… so many times…
Unkind hands were laid upon him. The weak, younger son. The silver-tongued freakish ghoul. Dark haired and paled skinned. The one who seemed so strangely at odds with the shining, beautiful first prince, glowing and golden. The favored prince. More handsome and strong, and skilled in the ways a man of Asgard should be.
Loki had never been a prince here.
Because he never remembered any of them laying a hand upon Thor the way they had him.
None of them had dared.
He was pushed forward, hard, and it was no surprise to anyone when the lank of chain between his feet yanked at his balance and pulled him down, crashing him to his knees.
His hands shot out reflexively, catching himself just before his forehead could make contact with the hard marble of the floor.
He expected laughter, but there came none.
Only their hands on him again, pulling him back up and telling him…
"Move."
Another shove, not as forceful, and Loki stumbled, managing just barely to stay on his feet this time.
As they walked, the halls of the palace seemed empty, and it was only by virtue of the dim-lit torches lining the many, thick columns that Loki became aware of night having fallen, and he supposed then most of the places occupants must be sleeping or in some other way retired to their chambers.
Had he lost so thorough track of time?
Loki had used to pride himself on his awareness.
But lately… lately, it seemed everything now was slipping from his grasp.
It became quickly apparent, as they continued on, they were leading him from the palace, out into the courtyard, and Loki, for a moment, hesitated.
"Where are you taking me?" He thought to ask, but no voice came, blocked by the metal stretched across his mouth.
So instead he pulled back slightly against the hold of their hands, grasping tightly along his forearms, staring at them with questioning eyes.
And they understood.
"Your King has ordered your public display. You are to be chained in the town square and openly flogged."
Loki felt his jaw lock tight.
His body stiffen.
But it wasn't fear which he felt flood his veins.
Only contempt.
His father then would be dictating his punishment from afar.
Loki couldn't keep the notion of it being cowardice from entering his mind.
He knew to speak against the All-Father in such a way, here, would only lead to his further torment.
But cowardly it seemed.
The man who had claimed to so care for him, and love him, and desire only his protection with his lies…
He wouldn't now grace the once prince with his presence, nay, even his direct acknowledgement.
Apparently, Loki thought with bitter resentment, the All-Father's son didn't warrant enough importance for him to personally see to his own judgments upon him. Didn't garner the required respect or deservedness of in the least having his penance explained to him.
Odin would simply order his torture from his lofty distance, and deny Loki even the chance to conduct himself in dignity before the king and his court. To accept his punishment in silent stoicism.
He was to be robbed, even of this.
And Loki couldn't help then the too familiar and unwanted heat which spread through his insides, the burning of insignificance and inconsequentiality.
The pain of disconnect.
… Alone…
His eyes closed, trying to push the discomfort away, letting himself without struggle be pulled forward, outside the palace walls, the warm air of night touching upon his skin.
Somehow it felt cold…
And he found himself wondering at the decision to take him out now, when the streets of the city would be mostly abandoned.
A less cynical being than him might consider it a kindness, that he not be paraded before jeering and hate filled crowds, but the God of lies knew the purpose of it was practical and nothing more.
It would be easier, without the distraction and threat of a mob gathering, to string him up and prepare him, and leave him to the people's derision in the morning.
Loki felt nothing at this.
He wouldn't allow himself.
For he knew it was his humiliation they sought, and if these enchanted binds were to keep him from his magic, his only defense then was to give them nothing.
He would not react.
Loki had been flogged before.
As a child.
Those times when he and Thor had gotten themselves into trouble, and it had always been him, him, him who Odin had blamed. The mischief maker, the liesmith, the one you must not trust.
It was Loki they always suspected.
Loki then who was always punished.
Even those times…
Those times Thor had insisted it were his own folly, as so often it was, seeking adventure as he had, dragging his protesting, younger sibling along into it.
And Loki had been flogged.
And the thought of it now brought him no, real unease.
Only that…
Only that before, it had been within the walls of the palace, away from the gaze of the public.
A private matter. One only Odin and Frigga and Thor, and those guards charged with carrying out the task had ever known.
As was the punishment of any member of royalty.
It was the commoner criminals who were made public displays of, public examples, to dissuade any such deviant behavior from spreading.
And was that what he was now?
A commoner?
No… no…
He was less than that even, wasn't he?
An outcast.
Made an example of for a kind of insidious entertainment.
The thought of this instead, not the physical pain to come, caused an unpleasant drop down through his stomach.
But he wouldn't show it.
He wouldn't, he wouldn't, he wouldn't…
He wouldn't be weak.
And so he swallowed the sickness down, and continued forward.
It would take a long time more before they had reached the town square, Loki's chained feet making it impossible to move faster. And there, they brought him to a stone pillar, located in near the absolute center, familiar to Loki, for the times he'd come to gaze upon it, and wonder at the cruelty of such a device.
Other manacles hung from it, embedded in the stone deep, and bolted down by iron.
And the column was thick with the smell of blood, clinging in darkened shade to the rock, despite having been doused and scrubbed after each, fresh wave of it.
The stain of those who had been chained there could never be fully washed away.
Loki had used to frown, face lining in disgust as he would come out and gaze upon this thing. At the methods of torture implemented by what was meant to be a sophisticated people.
It had seemed barbaric to him, as it was when he would undergo the same. Though with him, and those occasions when Thor had been subjected the same, it was afterwards they would be free to go, and never had they been restrained against cold, unyielding stone.
Loki remembered arguing against the All-father once, so very, very long ago, and so foolhardy an endeavor, he'd come to realize immediately afterwards. He'd made clear his disapproval of such practices, of whipping chained men against rocks, surrounded by the gathering throngs to be laughed and jeered at, their misery made an amusement.
"It reflects poorly among our kind." He'd said, voice low and calm. "Are we not meant to be above such practice? Are we not meant to lead by example those less advanced than we, and move the realms forward from the barbarity of war and cruelty?"
Odin had not been pleased.
The error on Loki's part, he recalled, had been addressing his grievances before a group of gathered advisors, challenging his father's rule and authority before the court and so, he supposed, undermining his power.
That had not been his intention.
He had come that day from this very place, from having witnessed the carrying out of the exact sentence which he himself was now to suffer.
He was the only member of the royal family who had ever dared to expose himself to it. And he remembered the hushed whispers of those he passed by, their words of accusation and mistrust, their eyes askance, glaring at him with both distain and fear, shifting away whenever he glanced back.
They'd thought he did it out of desire. Some depraved need to see the suffering of others. Because didn't that just go along with his very nature?
Loki, the mischievous.
Loki the liar.
Loki the destroyer.
But that hadn't been true.
It hadn't been.
There'd been a time…
There'd been a time when it had pained him so. When it had afflicted the dead thing now residing in his chest. The thing which had once been his heart. To see the cruelty of his own people. To realize it in his own father.
Loki had once been a gentle thing.
He's sure of it.
He can remember.
He'd once been so very, very gentle.
War… war…
Violence and war…
He'd shied away from them.
From combat and battle and glory, glory, glory…
Thor's glory…
He'd never understood any of it.
The need for blood…
He'd once been so gentle…
And Odin had punished him for this.
Hadn't they all?
With sneering expressions and hateful eyes.
Loki had watched the torture out of a need to understand.
But he never had. No matter how many times he saw it executed.
The reason for it only confusing further.
Until that day, and his confusion had at last overwhelmed him, and he'd protested to his father, and he'd been punished.
Loki thought maybe it had been that day when something inside him had begun to harden.
When he'd felt the whip coming down across his exposed back, tearing lines of red into his white, white skin. And his teeth had gritted, and he'd choked down his cries.
He thought maybe he'd felt something like betrayal that day…
He was brought back to the present when he felt the shackles round his wrists being tampered with, his eyes lifting, watching as one of the guards undid the cuff round his right wrist. And there was a release of pressure, a stinging relief along his bruising skin as the metal came away.
They wouldn't undo them completely, he knew, lest his magic be returned to him.
And he could kill them all so very easily if it were.
He stood motionless then as two of the other guards came near, the third holding to the chain, still pulling along his left wrist, and they began with invasive hands to undo the armor and leather incasing his upper half.
Loki stared ahead of himself absently, his eyes fixing over some indistinct spot beyond, feeling the layers as they were stripped from him.
Feeling his size decrease with each piece peeled away.
He was so thin underneath it all.
So small…
… A Jotun runt.
He frowned, barely noticing as they pulled his right arm free, leaving one half of him exposed before replacing the cuff, undoing the other and removing the rest of his upper garments, at last leaving his torso bare.
He only came back to their actions when he felt his feet kicked violently apart, and a heavy hand shoving down against his shoulder, forcing him to his knees.
And suddenly he was being jerked forward by the hands, slid against the ground and his arms pulled about the thick column. His face and chest pressed cruelly against the cold stone as they hooked the manacles embedded in the rock to his own, locking him in place, leaving no real room to maneuver. He was nearly flush against the pillar, pulled taught. And he knew, when the whip came down, there would be no yield in it for him. No way to slacken against the harsh, leather instrument.
He would bear the full brunt of it then.
But not tonight.
Not until the city was awash in the light of morning, and Asgard's citizens had poured into the streets once more.
Loki understood he would be left to their ridicule for all the hours until the noon hour struck.
And it was then he would be laid waste to.
It would be then his punishment truly began…