A/N: I watched Thor yesterday and this happened. Couple of notes about it - first the fact that at the end of TDW Loki!Odin quotes Thor from the end of the first movie, despite it being after his exile. Kinda bugged me. This is my headcanon. Second, Loki's question of 'did you mourn?' always felt like he (thought he) knew the answer. Third, how little resistance he puts up to being taken back to Asgard at the end of Avengers. All three of these things have pretty much come together to create this, fic, set pre-Avengers. Just. Long winded note over, I hope you enjoy this!
Life's Great Lie
by Flaignhan
No matter how hard he tries, he cannot tear himself away. It feels as though his entire body is immersed in stone, holding him fast, forcing him to watch as they celebrate, raising their goblets, laughing and joking and smiling. He tries to close his eyes, but he cannot. He isn't even permitted to blink, nor can he move his hand to rub his eyes when they start to sting.
"I am so sorry for your loss, my Queen," Sif says, and it is plain she is just adhering to social standards. She doesn't give a damn, none of them do. All she's concerned about is the fact that Thor no longer dotes on her, but on the mortal instead. It is obvious in the way her eyes follow him to the edge of the balcony as he goes to join his father. His father. Not theirs. Odin is Thor's, and Thor's alone.
"How is he?" Frigga asks, her eyes on her true son.
"He misses the mortal," Sif replies delicately, and Frigga lets out a soft sigh.
"And his brother? Does he mourn for his brother?"
Sif looks down at her hands, considering her words before replying. "He cares more for the mortal than he ever cared for Loki. She takes up most of his thoughts."
Frigga clasps her hands in front of her and looks out across the balcony.
"After everything Loki did, I think Thor is glad that it's all over now," Sif adds carefully, glancing across to Frigga, then back down at her hands. "It was…unfortunate, but perhaps it was for the best."
Frigga smiles softly then turns to Sif, placing a hand on her arm. "You are very wise for one so young," she tells her, her expression full of a warmth that Loki recognises only too well. He had always assumed such an expression had been reserved for him, and sometimes Thor, but it seems that now Frigga doles it out to whomever is nearest.
Without warning, he is moving, his legs taking stiff, awkward steps as though controlled by a puppeteer. He draws nearer to the edge of the balcony, and his ears slowly attune to the words being exchanged between Thor and Odin.
"There will never be a wiser king than you. Or a better father."
He feels sick. The two of them, standing together, looking out across the kingdom. This was how it was always supposed to be. He never belonged in Asgard, and certainly never belonged in the palace. How he had missed it, all those years, how he had not realised, he cannot explain. He's a fool, and, like the damn fool that he is, has only learned of his stupidity too late. Far too late.
"I know now I have much to learn," Thor continues. His newfound sense of humility sickens Loki. How can one so idiotic, so blood thirsty, and so childish turn around in the space of a couple of days on Midgard and suddenly present themselves as a deserving heir? After all these years of considered and careful contributions at Odin's councils, after giving up all his spare time to devote himself to the magical arts so he could become as useful as Thor, if not more so, he is cast out like an old toy, no longer of any use to its owners.
"I hope that one day you can be proud of me."
Odin turns, his lips curving into a rare smile, and grasps Thor firmly by the shoulder. "I am proud of you."
Loki swallows the lump in his throat, his jaw aching from how hard he is grinding his teeth. How long he has chased approval, how long he has yearned to hear those words, only for him to hear them now, uttered to Thor, no thought spared for him, or his supposed death, at all.
"Enough," he chokes, the word catching in his throat. "Enough."
He slams into the ground, his armour clattering against the stone. His limbs shake uncontrollably, his fingers curling against the damp floor as he closes his eyes and tries to regulate his breathing.
"They do not mourn you," he says in a low growl. "They are happier without you."
Loki cannot argue, he has seen the evidence himself. His eyes are damp with tears, but he attributes that to his enforced paralysis, and not because he cares that they haven't spared him a moment's thought. They aren't his real family, and so he does not need to trouble himself with them anymore. But all the same, his mother…his mother.
"It is time for you to grow, Laufeyson," he adds. "Time for you to claim what is yours."
Loki brushes his arm against his tearstained cheeks before he rolls over in order to face Thanos. He has still not grown used to the wide, lantern jaw, lined with scars, nor the small, shrewd eyes, alight with malice. He knows that when he looks at Thanos, he may as well be looking into the face of death itself, only Thanos is far less merciful than that.
"Jotunheim?" Loki asks softly, his eyebrows drawing into a frown. He tucks his trembling hands under his legs and clamps them against the mucky floor. Thanos knows he is terrified, but nevertheless, he would like to cling to some of his pride, even now, even in this dingy cell.
"No," Thanos says, his mouth splitting into a grin. "Midgard."
"What claim have I to Midgard?"
"As much claim as the next man," Thanos replies. "But you will have an army, if you wish it."
Loki blinks and looks down into his lap, his face twisting in confusion. "But what would I want with Midgard?"
"What wouldn't you want with an entire realm at your disposal? The whole world to do with as you please, its humans to fulfil your every need. You could be king. You'd have a throne."
"But I don't want a throne," Loki says softly. "I never wanted a throne, I just wanted…" he trails off, trying to block out the memory of his mother, doting on Sif like the daughter she'd always wished she'd had. She has far more royal blood than he does; she's Asgardian for a start. She's not a monster, at least, not until she reaches the battlefield.
"You could show them all," Thanos continues, pacing slowly around the cell. He reaches out to the manacles on the wall and closes his hand around one of the cuffs. "Would you not like to be in charge for once? Would you not like to be free?"
Loki doesn't answer. If he admits his desire for freedom, Thanos will know he has him in the palm of his hand, that he can manipulate him with the threat of shackles and the promise of reward. If he confesses, it won't take long for Thanos to beat him into shape, to mould him into his pawn. He may be a fool, but he knows that this freedom, so casually paraded before him, is nothing of the sort. Freedom is not conditional, and yet Loki knows that there would be only too many conditions to his release from this dank, dark pit. In turn, he would be forcing the Midgardians to share in his misery. It would be like kicking children. Billions of them.
"You wouldn't like it?" Thanos asks, his voice taking on a silky tone of feigned concern. "You prefer to be captive?" He bangs one heavy fist against the stone wall of the cell, and a couple of spiders fall from the cracks in the ceiling, scuttling across the floor to the darkest corner. After a moment, the door is kicked open, and two burly guards enter. Without a word, they grab Loki by the underarms and haul him up, as easily as if he were a rag doll. Thanos lets out a low chuckle as they snap the manacles shut around his wrists, then release him, his shoulders jarring as his feet stop just a few inches from the ground.
"Remove the armour. He's not Asgardian after all, and he's certainly no prince."
Loki rests his head against his upper arm, unable to stop the tears of humiliation and resignation from trickling down his cheeks as the guards tear his coat from him, the seams coming apart as easily as though they were stitched with spider webs. Next come the shoulder guards, each cast aside with a careless clatter, and then the chest plate is prised from him, rivets shearing clean in half with one sharp tug. He hangs there limply, in his undershirt and trousers, his hair falling in his face.
"Remind him of his place," Thanos says, before he turns and leaves, the door closing with a heavy thud behind him.
Loki will not scream. He cannot stop the tears, but he will not give them his screams.
"He was never your brother. Not your true brother."
"I don't believe you," Thor says croakily. "He was - "
"Taken from Jotunheim when you were still too young to know what was going on. He does not share your blood."
"Jotunheim," Thor repeats in disbelief, sinking down onto the steps and grasping his head with his hands. "You mean he is…was one of them?"
"Son of Laufey," Odin confirms. "Heir to Jotunheim. Or he was."
The past tense is painful. Each use of the word was stabs at him even more viciously than the topic of his parentage. He tries to close his eyes, but he cannot. He tries to think of something else, of anything else, of the way the blossom flutters across the courtyard in spring, of the way the light catches on the fountains and the entire colour spectrum ripples across the water, but these memories only serve to make him even more homesick than ever. He tries to think of his new home, of his cell, with its thick walls and damp, grimy floor, but knowing he will be returning to that reality at any moment is just as painful. There is no escape for him. No escape from any of this.
"And when he learned of this, he sought vengeance against those who had left him to die?"
"Foolish boy," Odin snaps. "As though any of that matters after your mother and I took him in. We raised him alongside you as though he were one of our own."
"And what of me?" Thor asks. "Am I…" He doesn't finish the sentence, but Loki knows what is playing on his mind. Certainly not his assumedly dead brother, but it is of course, himself. He has always been, and will always be, far more concerned for himself than anybody else. And now, given the news of Loki's parentage, his worst fear is that his own blood is not as pure as he has always believed.
"You are my son," Odin tells him, a cool edge to his tone. "My true son, carried by your mother for months until eventually you made your way screaming into the world."
"Thanks goodness," Thor replies, a smile of relief spreading across his face. "I don't what I'd have done if you'd told me I was one of them."
"As if you would ever have been a Frost Giant," Odin tells him, patting Thor heavily on the back. "Look at you."
Thor chuckles softly, and the two of them turn to depart, their cloaks fluttering behind them in the soft breeze.
"Why would you ever want to go back?"
The question brings Loki slamming back to his surroundings, each breath he heaves in causing his lungs to burn and his ribs to sear in agony. He can barely move, can barely utter a word, but knows that Thanos does not require an answer. He cannot believe that his body simply hasn't given in yet, that he can still function, albeit barely. He wishes he knew how to take on his Frost Giant form fully, without the encouraging shove of the casket. He doesn't know what difference it would make, if any, but if surviving this monster requires becoming a monster, then he will certainly give into it.
"There is something on Midgard that we require. The humans have it in their possession, and that is unacceptable. You will lead an army of Chitauri - "
"What's in it for me?" It takes all of his strength to croak out the words, and even more for him to push himself up, onto his elbows, so that he may look Thanos in his small, beady eyes.
"For you?" Thanos asks, his mouth widening in that blood curdling grin. "Your freedom. The realm. The people. And of course, your life."
Loki rolls his eyes, but his brief display of attitude doesn't last, for his arms give way, and he crashes face first into the ground, his jaw connecting harshly with the stone. The pain is nothing to him now, just a dull pang that offers up a sense of variation in his ongoing injuries. Before he can gingerly shift his hand to rub the muck from his chin, a heavy boot connects with his side, and he inhales sharply as his ribs object to the contact. Thanos rolls him over with one swift kick, then leans over Loki, staring down at him.
"We will break you," he murmurs. "And when we break you, the release will be sweeter than anything you have ever known. Once you accept that you are mine, to do with as I please, your life will be so much easier."
"Why don't you just use somebody else?" Loki groans, burying his teeth in his lower lip when Thanos rests his boot on top of his chest.
"Somebody else?" Thanos repeats with feigned thoughtfulness. "Why, who else would greater shame the Allfather? Your brother, perhaps, but he would never break. You on the other hand, you're nearly there, no matter what you might mutter to yourself in the dead of night."
A chill sweeps through Loki. He has roused himself from unconsciousness with his muttering before, and it has terrified him. He barely sleeps now, petrified at the idea that the last few shreds of sanity he possesses will be stripped away from him mid-slumber. If Thanos knows he mutters, then Thanos also knows how he sobs himself raw, every night, until his throat is dry, his eyes are itching and the sleeves of his shirt are wet through.
"You look cold," Thanos muses, finally lifting his boot from Loki's chest. "Perhaps we should warm things up in here. I don't know what you Frost Giants prefer, or are you still masquerading as an Asgardian?"
"Please," Loki mumbles, shaking his head minutely, "please."
"Please?" Thanos says. "All right."
His fists hits the door, and Loki screws up his face, rolling away from him and drawing his knees up to his chest, tucking himself into a small, tight ball, no matter how much pain shoots back and forth through his ribs. He hears the unloading of logs as the guards build a large wall around the inside of the cell, hears the unpleasant scrape of the metal chimney slide open. He has dreamed of the day when they forget that bit, of the day when he can succumb to the smoke, and his body is no longer his own to worry about.
There is a good deal more noise, and Loki's legs are kicked out of the way several times as the guards bring in armfuls of kindling, until, eventually, he can detect the soft crackle of the beginnings of a fire, and the guards file out of the room, slamming the door behind them. It doesn't take long for the flames to catch and spread, and soon the small cell is an inferno, the walls blazing orange and red, hot sparks spitting out and catching on the singed remains of his clothes - the only thing of Asgard he still has left, and they are covered in filth, drenched with sweat, and shredded from too many vicious beatings. When the poorly constructed wall begins to crumble, and the burning branches come tumbling towards him, he has no desire to move. Even when one comes into contact with his face, his skin sizzling at its touch, he briefly considers letting it stay there, in the hope that it will burn right through his skull and roast what's left of his brain. But no, he flails out an arm and pushes it away, the skin of his temple already tight and blistered.
Eventually, he passes out from the heat, and when he wakes, the air is clear and cool, his face damp with tears.
They're eating in silence. Loki doesn't know why he's being shown this, why Thanos considers it significant, but he is being forced to watch the family, the true family, have dinner together. Mother. Father. Son. He tries to close his eyes, but he cannot. He is forced to see the extravagant amount of food weighing down the table; the wild boar, roasted to perfection, the bread, freshly baked, the vegetables, no doubt pulled from the ground mere hours ago. Thor picks at his food, pushing the contents of his plate around with the prongs of his fork, while Odin eats slowly and steadily, methodically carving up his meat into small, chewable pieces before transferring them to his mouth. Frigga, meanwhile, takes a small sip from her goblet, then glances around the room before she returns to her food.
He will never admit it aloud, but he longs to be at that dinner table. His seat is no longer there, only an empty space opposite Thor, and the fact that every inch of him has been so easily erased elicits a stab of pain to his gut that has nothing to do with the physical torture he has been subjected to. The silence is overbearing, and were it not for the quiet clinking of cutlery, Loki would think he had been struck deaf. He stares at his mother, mentally begging her to mention his name, to acknowledge the fact that, even if she thinks him dead now, he was once very much alive to her. There is nothing though, nothing to validate his existence in this miserable universe, nothing to suggest he ever meant a damn thing to her.
It is not until they have all finished their meals and departed with courteous farewells to their separate pastimes, that Thanos releases him from his watch. He slumps into the corner, his head falling against the wall, the rough stone scraping dried blood from his face. He doesn't even know where it's come from; there seems to be a a near constant flow of it these days. He's surprised he actually has any left, come to think of it. If only they could drain the last of it from him and leave him in peace.
"You don't know what day it is, do you?"
Loki tilts his chin up and narrows his eyes at Thanos. "I'm afraid I left my calendar in Asgard," he rasps in reply.
Thanos lets out a low chuckle and turns towards the door. "Many happy returns," he says, and as he leaves, the guards file in, supporting a large hose between them. Loki manoeuvres himself as best he can towards the wall, but then a heavy hand grabs him by the back of the neck and drags him to the centre of the room.
Somehow, no matter much water he tries to inhale, he never quite manages to drown. He clings to life, coughing and spluttering as the force of the blast batters his skin, inflaming old wounds and freshening up his bruises. The cold is far preferable to the heat of fire, but soon he is shivering and shaking, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as he forces himself not to scream. When at last they leave him, soaked to the bone, the cell floor flooded, he's unsure as to how many of the droplets on his face the hose can be held accountable for.
He lasts for another two weeks, but then he lands heavily in the underground lab, his joints screaming in pain from the force of his weight. The voices of the mortals are distant, echoing, and his mouth moves with words that he is vaguely aware of constructing. The first blast from his sceptre is more satisfying than it ought to be, setting alight a fire in his belly as he is now the one inflicting pain and misery on these pathetic creatures. When he is sprayed with bullets, he is almost disappointed that they don't even touch him, and after a short, but sweet skirmish, and with several of the mortals now in his possession, as well as the tesseract, he is able to stagger through the corridors and onto the back of one of their transporters.
As they speed along the tunnel, he relishes the feeling of fresh air in his lungs, the wind rippling through his hair, and wonders if this is what freedom is like. This is perhaps the closest he will ever come to it again, because he knows, deep down, underneath his confusion and his agony, that he has been broken, and no matter what he is promised, he will always, always be the marionette while Thanos, lightyears away, pulls on his strings with that evil grin spread across his face.
But then, he supposes, the humans are far more spontaneous, and far more creative than Thanos would ever deign to give them credit for. He allows his lips to curve into their first smile since he left Asgard. If he plays his cards right, if he makes enough of an impression and causes enough destruction, he can dare to hope that he might not get out of this alive.
The End