Above my head, they're circling, the vultures want what's left of me

I sacrificed it all and I will fight

Until the world goes cold

This battle's burned all that I've known

Until the world goes cold

Nothing will keep me from this throne, I'll fight

Until the world goes cold

Dawn's golden light corrupted the stain of black in the night sky, peeking its crown over the hill of Lyfjaberg and casting a spotlight on the great palace of Odin. Not to be outdone by the very sun that gave it visibility, the palace shone brilliantly in response, daring anyone who saw it to wonder if it was brighter and greater than the sun itself.

Asgardians poured through the entryways to the vast hall, roaring with anticipation and riotous conversations. Smiles etched on all faces, but none of joy-only of sinister delight and malice. Their eyes thirsted for blood – what they saw as justice in their eyes. They stretched the full width of the hall, filling every space; some honored enough to sit in the balcony hovering above Odin's gilded throne, Hliðskjálf.

One would imagine that the gathering was to celebrate a victory, or to honor a warrior. However, if one listened to the words flying through the humid air, they would hear nothing of the sort.

They waited for a prisoner.

An overwhelming burst of sunlight fell upon Loki as he was brought up from his cell. His skin had grown tight and dull from lack of sun, as well as proper food and drink.

His raven hair tumbled to his shoulders, tired and lifeless. His eyes were hooded, protecting him from the harsh light that his senses would need to re-adjust to. Even so, a look in his eyes would show the cloudy ring of his emerald irises.

It was difficult to understand the expression on his face. The metal restriction muzzled over his mouth nearly encompassed his entire jaw, reaching back to the nape of his neck where it locked into place.

For the first time in weeks, he felt the heat of the sun grace him. He paused for a moment to close his eyes and bask in it before he was shoved along and instructed to keep walking. Loki had grown accustomed to being a ghost, being lost in his isolation. The sun had brought him back to life, only for a moment.

His extensive chains clanked together noisily, catching the ears of the closest Æsir. What started as a dull roar of curses transformed; cruel laughter grew to an explosion of voices, and screams that made the ground vibrate below his shackled feet. Loki paid no attention to them, and only looked forward with his chin held high, his lips pressed together in a thin frown. He held the same posture as he had during his previous strolls down the aisle of the great hall: shoulders back and chest out, with steady emerald eyes focusing on his target. He walked with slow, calculated steps, trying to delay his punishment as long as he could.

Rotten food and garbage were thrown at him, splashing against his armor. Some were thrown with more force than others, and a few grazed his face, assaulting his nostrils with the foul smell of decay. It was a competition to them-who could hit the prisoner the hardest, and who could humiliate him best?

He was a rock thrown in the sea. He thought he could float but in the end he had only caused violent waves that swallowed him. Every step he took plunged him deeper and deeper, he could feel the eyes weighing down on him, and he felt like he was drowning.

No one would see. He had trained himself well enough to show no weakness. Deep within him, he craved for death to carry him down to Hel. However, his mind was too focused on ensuring his façade was bulletproof that Loki had not realized that he reached the steps to the stage.

He felt no shame, his mind held no regret for what he had done, just as those who jeered at him held no regret for the years of ridicule and doubt they had demonstrated towards him. The found his preference of magic over brawn as a weakness, and his mischief over dignity as a flaw. They doubted his power, even after he had surpassed his teachers and proven himself wiser and more knowledgeable than his oaf of a brother.

He dragged his feet up the tired wooden steps, his head lowered just enough that he still held his stature and pride but did not have to meet another eye. He did not wish to make eye contact with the All-Father. He still stood proud, but he felt the quiver of fear in his legs and hoped that no one had seen it.

The highest nobles and warriors were much quieter than the other Æsir as they stood arrogantly; they were too sophisticated for such volumes. The women whispered to their neighbors behind bejeweled hands, while the men glared at Loki through narrowed eyes. Loki only looked away from his path when a certain color caught his eye.

Red. A hue of red he had only seen on one woman; the color of her fire and the blood she had spilled, the color of her anger and her past, the color that burned through her iris when she met his eyes.

Barely tilting his head, he peered to his right and saw the most unexpected guests seated on the benches along with the other nobles. His precious Avengers, all donned in traditional Asgardian clothing, watched in complete silence as he neared them.

Clint and Natasha sat beside each other, their faces both cold and unmoving. Natasha locked eyes with Loki, leveling his own stare, and reducing its strength until Loki was forced to glance towards Barton.

Barton met Loki's eyes for a moment before he switched his attention to the stage across from him. The hate in his heart could not mask the ever-prominent fear he held for Loki-his power-after what the god had done to his mind. Clint wished to see his abuser take punishment, to receive even half of the pain and torture he had given to those undeserving of such hurt.

Right of them was Bruce and Tony, who both looked uncomfortable. Bruce's eyes held sympathy, something Loki did not assume he would see from anyone again, much less from the man who had turned beast and thrown the Æsir around like a toy.

Loki caught the older man swallow hard, and he looked almost pained to see the raven-haired villain. Perhaps Tony's post-traumatic-stress had begun to flare up in his mind. His friends were worried that he wouldn't make it to Asgard without having a panic attack.

Steve could barely lift his head to watch Loki and only met his eyes for a moment before closing them and dropping his head.

Loki was tempted to ask "Here for the show?", but his muzzle prevented any sound.

Where was his brother?

As Loki sauntered closer, he saw the honored fool standing near his mother, across from the Midgardians. Hate burned beneath his chest at the sight of his brother. Thor had finally gotten what Loki knew he had always wanted. He was the most beloved prince, though he had always been, but now it was made clear. Now there was a ceremony to prove just how horrible and unworthy of life he was.

The prisoner clenched his fists and allowed his eyes to travel to his mother. He could only gaze at her for a moment before he forced himself to turn away. He could see the pain etched in her delicate features and the way her eyes studied him, searching for the son she loved.

The All-Father sat upright and watched, unblinking, as the man he once called his own was brought before him. He had complete control now, something he never could quite catch in his dealings with the boy. The events over the past year had aged him greatly. His eyes were weighed down with exhaustion and his frown was cemented with dissatisfaction, but his strong hand had no less intensity when it came to ruling the Nine Realms or his prodigal son.

Four guards spread out behind the condemned prince, gathering more of the heavy chains connected to Loki's manacles in their grasp, stretching them taut. Two different guards came forward and started the difficult process of separating the elaborate restraints, taking no precautions to ensure less damage. Soon, they had been released so his hands could spread apart. Two chains for each restraint, the guards pulled once more, making Loki's arms pull back painfully as the iron bit through his thin skin.

The same guards began to take apart the armor and leather that protected his upper-half. With each piece removed, he felt smaller and smaller, as if every honor and accomplishment was being stripped from him and thrown away. They stripped his layers away until all that was left to cover him were his leather pants.

Once all of his garments had been thrown to the side, the guards violently shoved his shoulders, forcing him to his knees.

In less than two years, Loki had gone from prince, to king, to criminal.

Sweat ran down the trickster's body as the sweltering heat bore down on him. Heat had never been kind to Loki's skin; but after learning of his true parentage, he understood why. Odin's helm shone in the light, his stone eyes burned through Loki's with a harshness that even the sun could not compete with. The king's physical appearance had noticeably changed since he awoke from the Odin-sleep.

"Loki Odinson," Odin began, sending his voice across the crowd and silencing all conversation. The word Odinson stung Loki's ears, hearing the reluctance in Odin's voice as he spoke it. "You are being charged for your crimes against the Nine Realms, treason, attempted tyranny, and manslaughter." The final charge sent a wave of discomfort through the Jotunn's body. "Your sentence of eternity in your cell shall continue. For these crimes, you shall be punished by the whip-a lash for each soul you have destroyed in your rage."

The leather tongue of the whip was brought out, ready to strike.

Aurora had overslept, and no one had the decency to wake her. Her efforts to find rest the previous night proved fruitless; she had slept maybe four hours, and they were filled with nightmares, rotating her body as she tossed and turned.

Running a hand through her messy brunette hair, she tied it back carelessly and slipped on the closest dress to her reach before flying down the stairs of her mother's house and through the stone arch. She raced down her mother's hill; no matter how fast she ran, her shadow always seemed to go faster and farther than her body.

Panic flooded her when she heard the thunderous commotion coming from behind the palace. Loki's punishment day. The public had been encouraged to take audience at Loki's first administration of punishment in the stadium that morning.

Her mother had cautioned her to stay behind and not aggravate herself, knowing her daughter all too well. Aurora had disappeared to Vanahiem during the years of Loki's absence, citing her reasoning as to become more practiced as a healer and see the realm where her mother was born. In reality, as her mother understood in silence, the woman had gone away to heal her heart and mind after the stress that she had endured in Loki's final days as King and his assumed death. Her return was shortly after Loki's, and as hard as she tried to dedicate herself to her work, she was still recovering in a practiced calm.

She understood what he had done. She heard every single devious and morbid detail of it. The atrocities he had thrust upon the innocent Midgardians, his brother, the Realm-he had single-handedly destroyed himself and every single thing he touched. Except for her; she had ensured that she would remain unscathed despite their close but now forgotten companionship.

The young woman could feel her heart beating in her ears as she inhaled sharp breaths of air. She aimed her path towards the stadium and willed herself to ignore the stabs of pain as each foot met the rough ground and propelled her forward. She had forgotten how flimsy and delicate her shoes were.

Watch him. The order rang fresh in her mind.

The roars and cheering from the stadium assaulted her ears and made her head throb. Her lungs burned so badly that she wondered if the air she so hungrily took in began to scorch the walls of her lungs and create fire.

When she mercifully reached the stadium, the eruption of sound that greeted her hit her like a brick wall, subduing her urgency if only for a moment. The crowd had never been so hostile before, never had they grown to such a volume that threatened hearing damage.

She expertly weaved through the flood of sweaty, drunken Æsir as fast as her feet could take her. They had overflown and engulfed the space, crowding tightly all the way to the entrance of the All-Father's seat overlooking the stage. Aurora managed to push past the crowd and slither her way towards the queen, un-detected, and through the nobles.

All of their gazes were focused on the figure that knelt before Odin.

When she caught sight of the presented man, she did not recognize him at first glance, but she understood that it was him. Sweat poured down the chained Asgardian's body, making him seem more morbid than he already appeared. His hair hung like a curtain around his face, shielding him from the cruel glares that were aimed at him. Every bone in his torso was distinguished in a disgustingly starved manner, jutting out under thin, almost transparently pale skin.

Her mind screamed at her, ordering her to hold back, don't show any emotion, don't even feel any, but her nasty habit of having a heart was stronger than the commands her mind gave. She tried to contain the flood of emotions that had been suppressed for so long, to keep her composure as she had been trained expertly to do. She felt sick, her mind and body wrestling with each other at the sight of the prisoner.

Studying her, Thor almost didn't trust that it was her. He couldn't quite place how much time had passed since they last saw each other, but it was enough for her to be barely recognizable to him. She was a few feet away, not enough to reach out and comfort the girl, but far enough for the prince to call to her without capturing the attention of the audience nearest to them. She couldn't help but smile wearily at the prince before bowing and slowly making her way next to him.

One of the guards had begun to unroll a long roll of parchment, naming the prisoner and his charges in more detail than the All-Father. Aurora closed her eyes, willing herself not to listen, though each sentence hit her harder as they were listed.

"Despite the circumstances, it brings me joy to find you again." Thor whispered lowly in her ear. Aurora nodded, unsure of an appropriate response. Now wasn't the time for polite conversation. "I must know where your absence from our feasts and celebrations took you."

As the guard rolled up the scroll, Aurora turned to her old friend. "I wished to skill myself in the art of healing. I sought to Vanaheim." She stated curtly.

The sound of a whip cracking brought Aurora's body around, staring in shock as the black leather of the whip licked Loki's pallid back. A thin ribbon of blood trickled down his back, and the crowd began to cheer louder than before.

Stop, stop, stop, she commanded herself. She locked her eyes shut, trying to recall the methods she had developed to calm and control herself. He is a terrorist and a menace to all Nine Realms. He deserves this punishment.

Loki's withering eyes flashed in their direction and landed on her. He looked directly into her icy blue eyes with the same gaze that Thor had worn just moments earlier, unable to place her for a split second, before recognizing who she was. Aurora, my shadow. His eyes then plead to her, though she could not console him now.

A lone tear escaped and streaked down her face, the only crack in her defense. She had taught herself to conceal her emotions, never allowing anyone to exploit a weakness. She had to look away; she could not stand by as blood wept from deep gashes on his body.

"Look away." Thor instructed. Though just as he himself couldn't tear his gaze from the sight of his brother being whipped, neither could Aurora. He placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her body to turn towards his on an angle, trying to block out what she could see. Thor wrapped his arm around her as he reached out for the trembling hand of his mother.

Aurora did not witness Loki's expression change at the sight of herself in Thor's arms. Agony from the whip reverted to fiery anger, his brother spawning jealousy. The hate in him did not bleed out, it was powerful enough to overtake his senses and dulled the hot pain of the whip for a second.

As the punishment went on, the Midgardians sat uncomfortably alongside each other in silence. It was the hardest to watch for Bruce and Steve, though anyone who saw Tony's face could tell that he had mixed feelings. Clint and Natasha barely fluttered an eye, knowing that Coulson must have suffered greater pain, and Tony tried to tell the same to himself, but it only comforted him less.

"I can't just sit here and watch this anymore." Steve shook his head. Forty-five lashes had been taken by Loki, the smell of blood growing stronger as it ran from his wounds and mixed with the sweat pouring down his back.

"Every time I close my eyes, I still see Coulson being put in the ground." Tony bit out, his dark, wet eyes focused on Loki. He was making himself watch, punishing himself for the feeling of remorse that crept up his throat and made it tighten and ache. "He deserves every single crack."

Weakly, Bruce lifted his head and spoke up. "I may not know anything about Asgardians," he tried to speak loud enough so that the roaring of the crowd didn't drown him out. "But he's losing a dangerous amount of blood, and they don't seem to be planning to quit anytime soon." The smell of blood began to stir up the contents of Bruce's stomach.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "That's the whole point." said Clint, his gravelly voice sounding sharper. Though Clint and Natasha had both taken Coulson's death badly, Natasha was better at hiding it. Clint was altered, only a few jokes here and there, his laughter a little thinner, his eyes colder.

Another lash sent the mad prince forward, arching his back. The muzzle stifled his groans and cries as what felt like fire burned the stretch of his back. He only had a minute left, just five more lashes, but that minute felt like an eternity. He had made it this far without losing consciousness or breaking, and he planned to make it to the healing chamber without being carried or dragged.

His vision began to grow black and blur, and he felt his body begin to shift and transform. The feeling of his skin changing was stronger than the feeling of that flesh being torn by the leather. He realized that he had grown so weak that even his most basic magic, the magic that concealed his true parentage, had begun to fade. Using the last ounce of strength he had, he exchanged his consciousness for his pride as he willed himself to stay Æsir and not allow the blue curse of his natural form to show itself to the world.

The Trickster God longed to break free from his chains and show the crowd what a real monster does. A fiery hot rage boiled in his body, and a roar threatened to erupt from his chest.

"I WAS A KING!"

The phrase scorched his lungs and tickled his teeth, but he could barely force air through his throat before it was whipped out of him. As he felt the strength from his body finally give, he realized he was never going to have that amount of power again.

The young woman smelled the thick aroma of metal and blood that electrified the air. The prisoner had finally broken, his head hung low between his limp, strung out arms. How was it that she, who had endured so much suffering and merciless insult from him so many years ago, could not bear to watch him be punished? How was it possible that the thousands who had gathered in this great hall had found so much hate and ill-wishes for a prince they had never even encountered? She wondered the same thing about the Midgardians, who seemed to be reacting the same way, despite their hatred for him was more recent and much more intense. After all, what he had done to them and their realm was what had led him to this occasion.

He had bled so much. Had he bled out all the violence and the viciousness in his veins, propelled by the hate and the hurt in his damaged heart? Had the whip finally torn through his façade? His armor of skin and bone, which protected him from the many opportunities he had been given to be loved and in turn be betrayed?

No, Aurora realized. He is still the same. He will never be able to change.