Hello there, dear readers! Welcome to my crazy project that has occupied my writing life for about eight months. As the summary indicates, this is a novel-length story set in the Avengers universe. It also takes place in the Thor 'verse, but I didn't mark it as crossover fic because the whole Marvel world is basically one giant crossover anyway. :-) This takes place post-Avengers, but, considering I wrote most of it before Thor 2 even had trailers out, it takes nothing from Thor 2 into account. This is my personal, created story of Loki's punishment and retribution. That being said, I don't own anything in this story but for the story itself.

I plan to update on a weekly basis, and I hope you enjoy this ride with me! Special thank you to my beta readers and to my sister, who has had to listen to too much about this story for far too long. Now, without further ado or rambling:

Desperado

Thor hadn't seen the Avengers in what felt like eons. He had been rather busy dealing with the aftermath of the Chitauri battle – both on earth and on Asgard. Tony and the rest had taken on the duty of resurrecting and repairing New York City, but the hefty burden of intergalactic peace fell squarely upon Thor's shoulders.

Things had simmered down enough for the time being, but Thor could still feel the metaphysical eyes of all Nine Realms on him constantly, as though any flaw on his part would predispose the universe to complete and utter destruction. He hadn't slept soundly in weeks, his mind whirring away, carried off by voices and memories and things that may not have been memories but remained pungent nonetheless. He didn't truly know the difference between conjured fear and apprehension and honest memory any longer.

Sometimes, as he lay awake at night, the only face before his eyes was that of his fallen little brother. The image would sometimes be stolen from a time before the downward spiral, as Thor preferred to think of it; other times, though, his brother would sneer at him mockingly as he brandished his scepter, all signs of a childhood between them entirely lost.

This night, Thor saw the latter.

He rose from his bed wearily, rubbing his spent eyes with the heels of his hands. He liked to think he wasn't trying to rub out the image itself, but he couldn't lie to himself so fluently; that had always been Loki's department.

In his ears rang the remembered sound of his brother being hauled off to the dungeon to await his trial that would bring penance for his actions on earth and Asgard alike. He cringed at the memory not because there were screams, but because there was silence. Absolute silence.

Loki's hardened face as he approached his reparation had chilled Thor to the bone. He had heard his brother cry out many times in their youth, but seeing his stoic resolve – was it resolve? – made his blood thin in his veins. There was nothing more sickening than Loki's proud stature, set jaw, and strong step, because Thor knew that it would only take a longer and harsher punishment to break him of that.

Tomorrow, his fate would be decided by the court. Once the first sun rose over the horizon, Loki would be brought to face his retribution; the Warriors Three, Sif, and he, Thor, would be attending as potential witnesses, should they be called upon. It pained him to think that he may have to testify against his own little brother, but a small part of him nagged that Loki had more than earned a few harsh words from his mouth.

Thor groaned as he paced the room once, twice, before finally getting up the courage to open the heavy wooden door. As he poked his head out, the halls of the Asgardian palace yawned open to him, inviting him for a stroll; he was all too happy to oblige.

He walked a long while without ever being entirely certain as to his direction, not that he cared much at all. He eventually found himself outside in the warm night air, a gentle breeze toying with his long blonde hair. A smile normally would have skipped up onto his face, but not this night. And not for many nights prior.

"Thor," whispered a voice behind him. He spun in surprise, and Fandral raised his eyebrows. "Are you well?" he asked kindly.

"In truth, no," Thor answered, turning back to the empty night stretched out beneath him. He would never have been so honest with anyone less than one of his closest friends.

Fandral approached Thor calmly, resting his forearms on the balcony's railing casually. "Is Loki still troubling you?" he asked.

Thor sighed. "Of course." He paused, taking a breath. "I saw him again tonight. Just as he was the last time we saw him above ground and in person."

"He was quite resolute, was he not?"

"He appeared that way, yes," Thor replied, not looking at Fandral. "But then, who truly knows what was raging within his mind?"

For a moment, Fandral was quiet. When his friend didn't respond immediately, Thor brushed the story away as though it were trivial. "Forgive me, friend. I do not wish to bore you with my woes."

"Thor, I miss him as well."

Fandral had caught Thor by surprise. "Nobody misses my brother," he said.

With a small smile, Fandral said, "I do. I worry about him. The entire city worries about him." Thor looked away, but Fandral pressed on. "Have you not seen the manner in which the commoners have mourned him? Flowers have lined the streets before and since the pair of you returned. The people still cry over him. The people still pray."

Thor stiffened at the thought of it. Not because it upset him, but because it touched him. He had not been outside of the palace since he and Loki had returned, save for the ever-constant peace meetings with delegates from other realms. He had no idea that the people cared at all.

Fandral placed a warm hand on Thor's shoulder. "Go to him," he said. "Pay him a visit. It may perhaps set your mind at ease."

Thor had not been planning to take Fandral's advice. He had simply smiled wearily at his friend before turning and walking away. He had been wandering the halls as before, still entirely lost in thought. But, his sleep-deprived brain must have taken a firm hold of the last thing he had heard, as he found himself standing inside the dungeon.

He had no recollection of the guards moving aside to allow him passage, yet here he stood. His breath fogged in the cool, dank air of the underground prison, and he could not bring himself to move for a very long moment. The halls reached out to the right and left before him, the edges of which were lined with cells – bars, chains, the works. In one of those cells was his little brother.

Instinct told him to go left, so he did, his feet heavy like stones. His very heartbeat seemed to echo in the dungeon, coupled with the dense clatter of chains from within the cells on either side of him. He had heard that, in other prisons in other realms, prisoners called out as visitors and guards passed them by, reaching skeletal hands through the bars in desperation, begging for mercy or death – anything but the stench and isolation of their own personal hellhole.

Nothing like that ever happened in Asgard.

Thor wondered briefly what the guards did to subdue prisoners to the point of complete and utter helplessness. He stopped his mind from wandering too far – before he could imagine how difficult Loki must have been.

Speak of the devil.

In a cell at the end of the hall, at least four cells' distance from any other prisoner of any sort, sat a figure Thor would have known even if he had suddenly fallen blind. His brother sat in the corner of his cell, back pressed against the stone, staring up toward the far wall intently. His expression was placid enough, mild indifference coupled with empirical interest, as though he had been asked to memorize the dimensions of whatever it was that held his attention.

Thor approached silently, though he knew that sneaking up on Loki was about as impossible as outwitting him – it could be done, but only by someone stealthier than most. As he drew nearer, he noticed something peculiar about the grid of metal closing off Loki's cell like a portcullis: it shimmered as if heat radiated off of it, filling in the square gaps with a sheen similar to that of a soap bubble.

Thor swallowed. He knew Loki was aware of his presence, but he still felt the need to make himself known. "Hello, brother," he whispered, though he felt that his voice boomed in the silence of the dungeon.

Loki did not acknowledge him in any way, his gaze remaining fixed to the upper corner of the cell, hands resting in his lap.

With a clear of the throat, Thor continued, "Are you well?"

Nothing. His face still bore the pride of a prince, but his royal clothing had taken quite a hit during his few days in prison. Those keen eyes still shone with the remnants of a flame, despite the rather grey pallor of his face and emaciated cheeks. In fact, the closer Thor looked, the gaunter his entire body appeared. And Loki said not a word.

"What are you looking at?" Thor tried. Once more couldn't hurt.

The seconds drug by, and, when Thor was fairly certain that Loki wouldn't speak to him, he gave a small sigh and turned to go. Just as he took the first step away from the cell, he stopped dead.

"The moon."

Thor looked back, not entirely sure that the thin voice belonged to his brother. "Loki?" he prompted, hoping for another word from the otherwise inert man in the cell.

"I am looking at the moon," Loki said. His voice sounded so weak and disused – very different from his characteristically confident tone that spun words into gold.

Thor followed his eyes up to the ceiling. There was nothing there. "Loki, I cannot see a thing."

Loki waved a manacled hand, the chains clinking, as if to brush off Thor's comment. The irons glistened unnaturally like the cell door. He knew little about magic, but Thor guessed that someone had cast a spell over the cell to restrain Loki from connecting with the supernatural energy that flowed eagerly through him.

Examining his brother's face for signs of madness, Thor leaned closer to the door. He saw nothing there that would indicate a loss of faculty on Loki's part, yet he could see no moon. As Thor watched him carefully, he realized that, should the ceiling be absent, Loki would in fact be staring right at the Asgardian moon. How he knew it was nighttime at all – much less the precise position of the moon – fell beyond Thor's line of reasoning, but Loki somehow understood.

"Oh," he said, leaning toward the bars. Loki's eyebrow twitched as if to say, You finally got it. Good for you.

As Loki didn't offer any more to the conversation, Thor turned to leave once more. This time, Loki didn't stop him. But Thor didn't want to leave. Not yet, at least. Despite the fact that Loki seemed to care very little about his presence, he couldn't leave the cell door.

"Loki," he said, and his brother tore his eyes from the "moon," instead fiddling absently with his chains, twisting the manacles around his wrists as if they didn't fit quite as well as he'd have liked. If Thor squinted, he could see rubs and cuts on Loki's wrists from the metal cuffs. "Have they been good to you?" Thor asked.

The younger man granted Thor a single glance, arching his eyebrow derisively. This is prison, Thor.

"I just meant that – "

He was quelled by a roll of the eyes.

Finally, he sighed. "Loki, you must cease this stubbornness if you wish your trial to be swift."

Loki's head just swiveled back to watching the ceiling, searching for the moon that he knew was out there somewhere, shining over all the world except for him. This conversation is over.

He didn't know what made him say it; he hadn't even felt the question in his mind at all, so, when he heard himself asking it, he was almost surprised. "Who else has spoken to you of the trial?" he asked, somehow knowing that he hadn't been the first.

A flash in those green eyes was the only indication of truth. A second of rage – annoyance that Thor dared to address him from the other side of that enchanted door – passed over his face, and then it was gone.

"Who was it?"

Loki steeled his eyes and clenched his teeth in complete unresponsiveness.

"Father?"

No reaction.

"Mother?"

No reaction.

"Who then?" Thor demanded, despite his knowledge that Loki would never say. Almost immediately after the words left his lips, one more name came to mind: the name of one who had indeed spoken to Loki in the prison before and had the nerve to talk about anything, no matter how taboo. "Sif?" he asked, both absolutely certain and absolutely tentative.

Loki blinked – a compulsory reaction which Thor took to mean that he had guessed correctly. Sure enough, his brother's jaw softened with the realization of his having been found out.

"What did she want?"

"Nothing," spat Loki venomously, barely allowing Thor to finish his query. Thor waited for a moment, letting Loki stew in the hopes that a more believable answer would tumble from his mouth. Thor was not so lucky.

Eventually, Loki scoffed and closed his eyes. "Why have you come?"

That was the question, was it not? "I could not sleep," Thor answered automatically.

Loki cocked his head, raising his eyebrows. Care to share the real reason?

"I –" Thor stammered, suddenly unable to form words. He never had had a problem speaking before. His thoughts usually cascaded from his brain to his lips easily and freely. But, as his current thoughts were far from concrete, he could not put them into words.

His silver-tongued brother who could not relate gave up on him, turning instead to stare at the wall opposite Thor, leaving the older brother little choice but to look at the back of Loki's head.

Before Thor understood what he was doing, he had retreated back down the hallway toward the dungeon door, as if he had been threatened. The stone walls seemed so close, squeezing him into a small, suffocating place. He passed the guards, who probably nodded courteously to him, but Thor didn't see for sure. The dungeon was sealed, Thor hurrying from the prison as quickly as he could, drinking in the fresh air and trying desperately not to think of his brother, chained up in a cell on the other side.

By the time Thor had crossed the entryway, he was too far away to hear Loki growl and yank on his chains furiously in a moment of raw anger – a combination of hatred and rage, as volatile as the sea during a storm.