continuity note: I wrote this before Thor 2 came out, and it continues from the premise that Thor and Loki's conversation in prison happened for a reason other than Frigga's death/Thor's request for help escaping Asgard; and that Loki never escaped after that. I didn't upload it before now because I wasn't at all happy with it, especially the ending. I'm still not very happy with it, but, whatever...
He knows the way it is meant to go, of course. Not the first execution he has witnessed. The courtyard is wide, tall, surrounded on every side by columns and steeply sloped roof. In the center, the walk, and there a stone. An axe. Heavy, unadorned, it seems ugly and crude compared to the affluence around it—old stones with intricate carvings, metal walls that reflect the burning sun, hot to the touch. It is old, and Asgard venerates its history. Worn and used, blackened runes in the handle and forged into the gleaming edge.
Not the first execution. Not the last. He had considered not coming. Gone off right before he was summoned, into the hills, far enough that they would go on without him before going after him. Had considered it through the night as he drank barrel after barrel of mead, until everything blurred and escape was impossible. Trying to forget.
And there was no wind. So still, so quiet. Like any sound might rip the air apart, tearing it, already stretched too tightly over the world. But then, like the murmur of the sea, roiling, the cheers started, and off in the distance he saw him—head held high, shackles on his hands and around his neck. And then he loses his breath.
He's leaning against the balustrade, he knows, fists clenching deeply, and he can hardly hear the loud, ugly sounds of the cheers, because his head is underwater and—
It's not his first execution. He knows the way it's meant to go, and he had prepared himself for it, coiling himself like a wire, harsh and unyielding round and round until his hands were no longer shaking and his mind was calm.
He had looked up, the sweat under his palms easily passed off as the heat, stifling and still, ready to see the face of his brother, betrayer, murderer, mad. And
And it is still Loki's face but they have taken from him even the last dignity of his heritage.
Of course you can't kill a prince like a common criminal. Of course you can't. Of course it is only the monsters that get paraded before the eyes of the judging unknowing populace. Of course.
Still walking like he had not a care in the world, mouth stretched in a smile that showed his teeth, no longer prince no longer see how I am better than you even in my downfall, now he is terror. Maliciousness. See what I have done, see how I curse you and
The pale blue of his skin darkened around his jaw, his eyes, his hand stiff his stride not unsteady to the eye but slower than he was wont. And
Dried crusted blood around his mouth and he remembered, all at once, that cruel joke of theirs better sew up that mouth of yours before it gets you into trouble and
He had pulled it out, bitten off the threads himself. They would not have given him a knife.
See? He said without words, See? How you were right to fear me all along?
It is different, seeing him like this. Perhaps easier for them, because he hears the cheering become wild, vicious, ugly—but he is shaking; from fear or shock or revulsion or hatred, and he suddenly remembers the last time he had seen Loki, in the cell. He had not—he had told him he was not his brother. That he held no further hope for him.
Those would be the last words that passed between them.
Walking along the path, slowly, and then pushed down, head against the stone; the jeering becomes louder, someone throws a pebble and then a rock and then everyone is reaching to the ground and the guards converge around him, beating them off, restoring order, while Loki kneels before the stone, his neck pressed down by the thick hand of the executioner, awkward in his manacles.
Without really deciding, he is calling for Mjolnir, and she flies to him, he can feel her coming closer and closer as the axe is raised, shining in the sun. She will not come in time.
And he runs out, into the barren yard, focusing not on the guards but only the sharp, sharp point falling downward in its slow arc. They are fighting him off, but the executioner does not move. Does not sway.
And he can hear something now. Someone is screaming, like a mad, wild thing, and it is not Loki. Someone is screaming and cursing and it is not Loki, because Loki is kneeling against the stone wet with his blood as the axe comes down one more time and the suddenly overcast sky tears itself apart with a bolt of lightning, striking the executioner down, dead before he has fallen, and now they are panicking, running, screaming in terror but he pays them no heed because he is touching Loki's shoulder saying, "No, no, please, I'm sorry" over and over again.
He hardly notices the guards taking hold of him, eyes fixed to the sight before him as though if he looks he will find it is all an illusion, Loki will appear from the shadows, laughing, striking them down and making his escape.
And his hammer rushes through the air into his waiting hand, electricity crackling, palpable, through the air, lightning about to strike, and then they see sense and run—every last one of them.
It is all clear now. He stands above the stone and the body and thinks with a mind more storm than man that it would have come to this eventually. What this was, he doesn't know.
He bends down, brushes a finger through Loki's hair and hears something like a sob break its way through his throat.
The clouds pour themselves out, the storm suddenly breaking, sending torrents of rain to the ground below, stirring the dust and stones into mud. He sinks to his knees, Loki's body cradled against him, and he doesn't know what he will do. It is only fitting, he thinks at last, as he lets himself enter the storm complete and entire as he never has before. Only fitting.
For what is Loki without Thor
Or Thor without Loki?
He has nothing left to lose.
.
.
.