Freedom Is Just Another Word

Chapter 1:

It is perhaps half of an hour past the start of his and Tony's tour through the palace, after formal meetings and introductions between themselves and Thor's parent's, Queen Frigga and the ruler of Asgard, All-Father Odin himself (in which Tony had been his usual, impressively charming self, and Steve had felt the awful return of the shyness and uncertainty of his past), when Steve's attention is pulled from Thor's surprisingly gripping and articulate narration to a commotion outside.

They are walking past a row of thick, marble columns, the luxury of which matches and awes in much the same way the rest of the architecture Steve has seen of this place does, seated upon a balustrade of identical stone, opening out into what looks like a plain, dirt floor courtyard. The suns of this realm (and Steve finds himself still struggling to grasp the concept of their being more than one. Only Asgard has four.), is pouring through the columns, creating shafts of bright, almost blinding light, punctuating the otherwise shaded hallway they find themselves in every, few feet. Outside, it washes the courtyard in a blanket of it, no area visibly shielded from the engulfing rays.

It is summer here, Thor says.

And it is hot.

Even Steve finds himself sweating uncomfortably. Though Tony seems more or less unaffected, shielded by the suit and its internal cooling system as he is. Thor, being what he is, a god of sorts, Steve supposes he has to acknowledge at this point, and having grown up here over the course of more than a thousand years, is similarly untroubled by the heat.

But it is none of these things which draws Steve's attention now, but rather the sound of air being displaced.

Rather, air being cut.

He recognizes it, from his days with the Howling Commandos, from his infiltration of HYDRA prisoner camps, and the constant background noise of torture.

He knows it's a whip before the inevitable crack of leather against flesh even reaches his ears, and then there it is, and Steve finds himself stopping, leaning between the balustrades columns and peering out into the courtyard with something like apprehension coiling in his chest.

It doesn't take long for him to see what he's looking for in the wide open and otherwise empty expanse of the yard.

Maybe a hundred yards from where he, Tony and Thor stand, very near the center, is a wooden stake, thick around and several feet tall, stuck into the ground. And tied to that stake, by wrists bound by a stained, white cloth of some sort, on his knees and slumped forward against the wood, onto his bare shoulder, is a man, utterly naked, being whipped viciously by another man, stood some feet behind, dressed in the same, golden armor Steve's seen the other palace guards sporting.

It is, Steve thinks, nothing short of horrific. And he doesn't even think about it before he's launching himself over the balustrade and dropping down into the courtyard, running towards the scene.

Somewhere behind him, he hears Tony give a shout, and then Thor's protest to wait as the sound of Tony's repulsors fill the air, following the captain into the courtyard.

As he nears the two men, Steve thinks to himself how shocked he is, and then wonders at it, for as advanced as Thor's culture and world seems, in many respects, they seem too to still practice and rely upon literally ancient methods and ways of life. Things from hundreds, even thousands of years ago in human history.

To see a man, bound helpless and exposed, being flogged relentlessly upon the back, strangely fits with the image of Asgard.

It makes the act no less repulsive to Steve.

"What the hell is going on here?" He asks as he finally reaches the men.

Tony is only a second or two behind, and Steve hears him touch down directly at his side, his own voice presenting the same question, in a more colorful word choice, though there is no humor there. Only the same, horrified disgust Steve himself feels.

"Yeah, what the fuck is this shit?" Tony wants to know.

The man holding the whip has stopped, turning and staring at the two of them as though he cannot understand a word either of them has just said.

And then there is the sound of Thor behind them, landing and striding with quick, almost urgent steps at their backs.

"My friends," he begins, and there's something strange in his voice. Something beyond upset. "come away with me now please. We should not be here."

Steve ignores him, even as Tony turns to address the thunder god, the captain's eyes moving from the guard to the bound man.

He hasn't moved from his slumped position, and his face is turned away from them, so Steve can see nothing of whether he's even heard them or not.

He's been whipped so badly, Steve finds himself doubting whether the man is even aware of their presence.

With keen eyes, the captain cannot help but notice the rest of the man's state, and what discomfort he felt before, what fears and implications his instincts conjured, are only compounded tenfold.

The man is sickeningly thin, as though he has literally been starved. Every rib, every contour of his skeleton, every individual vertebra of his spine, stands out in clear, stark definition against sallow, colorless and paper fine skin. Arms and legs are like sticks, trembling visibly in a failing effort to keep him upright, whatever muscle and fat might once have bolstered them now melted away to nothing.

Upon his head is the blackest hair Steve has ever seen, so black as to seem almost blue in the saturating sunlight, only it has been shorn so short and close to the scalp, there is little point to it at all. Indeed, in patches, the man's head is bald, revealing the same, pale skin beneath as the rest of his body.

And beyond the torn apart, savaged skin of the man's bony back, beyond the wash of thick, red blood covering it and pooling slow to the dusty ground beneath, the man's body is a literal canvas of bruising.

Deep, ugly contusions marring every inch of his form, from his shoulders down to the calves of his legs. Large swaths of yellow, green, blue, black and red discoloration which speaks all too plainly of brutal beatings suffered. Healing bruises covered by fresh ones, the declaration of those beatings being a constant, regular routine.

Steve doesn't know who this man is. He doesn't know what he's done. But he knows damn well he doesn't deserve this.

Whatever this is.

Tony seems intent on finding out.

"No, seriously Thunderstruck, what the hell is this shit? For a supposedly advanced race of super gods or whatever the heck you guys are, this seems, I don't know, kind of middle ages to me."

Steve can hear the horror underneath Tony's glib delivery, and he knows his teammate is as upset as he is.

Thor's voice, when he answers, is strained, and, Steve thinks, bordering on almost hysterical. It is a bizarre tone, coming from the usual rock solid, booming timbre.

"Please my friends," he says. "come away from here and allow this man to continue his duty. We should… should not be here."

"Continue his duty?!" Tony exclaims, all levity leaving his tone, disgust and disbelief taking it's place. "You mean torturing a helpless man?"

Steve glances back to the god, and sees Thor's face lined in such naked dismay, he isn't sure what to think.

"Th… this man is a slave." Thor answers, and now his voice is plainly thin, reedy even, as though he may cry, and Steve finds himself only more confused.

"A slave?" Tony asks. "Right. Okay. So you guys do that, huh? Slavery? Why am I not surprised?"

"Please come away." Thor tries again, but Steve is turning back towards the bound man when he hears a rasped, choking cough escape him, and sees his entire frame shudder with it.

He is so obviously suffering, not just from the whipping, but from his forced position, wrists raised above where the rest of his body slumps, the strain on his frail limbs clear as they shake uncontrollably.

Suddenly, Steve is all too aware of the heat again, of the oppressive weight of the four suns above them, and it does not escape him then, the way the bound man's body is lathered in a thick layer of sweat, from head to toe, sluicing off him and useless.

"This man needs help." He says. "He needs water."

Automatically, his eyes fall to the guard's belt, and finds there a water skein. He doesn't hesitate to step forward and grab the thing from him, ignoring the large man's indignant yelp of protest, stepping out of reach before the guard can grab it back and uncorking the cap, bringing it to his nose to make sure it in fact holds water and not wine or mead.

Satisfied, he begins to step around, to the bound man's front.

"My friend, please do not…" he hears Thor begin, but again he ignores the god, continuing in his task. "Steve Rogers, do not…"

That's as far as Thor's words reach before the captain finds himself stopped in his tracks, and he stares, unsure at first if what he sees is reality.

Shock follows, sitting heavy in his gut, and thoughtlessly, he takes a step forward.

"Jesus…" he mutters. "Jesus…"

"What?" Absently, he hears Tony's voice. "What is it? Is he dead or something. Don't tell me he's dead."

"Loki?" Steve breathes, his voice hardly above a whisper, taking another step forward. Suddenly, his legs feel weak, as though his knees may give out any moment.

"Where!?" Tony nearly shouts, whirling, but Steve hardly notices. His eyes remain riveted, horrified to the figure slumped before him on his knees.

It's Loki. There can be no doubt. Steve would never forget that face.

Only, it's so much changed.

Beyond gaunt, Steve remembers the prominent, sharply defined cheekbones, but those cheeks are now sunken deeply in, the bone above them jutting and poking against too thin skin, razor like and awful.

And where Steve remembers fever bright eyes, burning with a frightening intelligence, they now sit within sunken, black rimmed sockets, set too far back in his face, and the formally nearly glowing green of his irises now dulled to something pale and almost translucent, lifeless and distant.

Thin lips are dried to cracked bleeding, gummy looking saliva caked within their corners, speaking again to dehydration and overheating.

Loki's face too is bruised as the rest of him, shallow cuts and broken blood vessels littering his visage with a terrible regularity. And down dirtied cheeks, the captain sees the dried tracks of tears, long since ceased, cut through the darker filth of accumulated grime.

He doesn't see him, Steve doesn't think, not with the way his eyes remain unfocused and absent, even when the captain drops down to his knees in front of him, directly within his line of sight. If Loki realizes his presence, or recognizes him at all, there is no indication.

Steve hears Tony's heavy metal steps coming around behind him, and a moment after, he hears his teammate curse, the same shock in himself evident there.

"Jesus Christ, is that…"

Steve swallows, and unconsciously, he reaches forward, unaware of his own trembling hands until he takes hold of their once enemy's face, gentle as he's able, and begins to bring the water skein to his lips.

He half expects Loki to resist, to wrench free, recalling the arrogant pride of him when he invaded Earth. And when was that? Christ, it must have been seven, eight years ago now. And Steve wonders suddenly, nauseatingly if Loki has been here, like this, for all that time.

But the god gives no resistance at all. Does nothing at all as Steve presses the nozzle of the skein to his split lips, tipping it upward slowly.

"Please do not… do not…" he hears Thor plead, and an abrupt, consuming anger takes hold the captain's insides, an emotion he never thought to feel against Thor.

"He needs water." He hears himself say coldly, but even as the words leave his mouth, the water slips useless against Loki's own, dribbling down his chin and pooling into the dirt below. Still, Loki continues to stare vacantly through him, seemingly unaware of anything at all.

"Come on." Steve says. "You have to drink. Come on."

There comes no response.

There is the sound of footsteps behind him then, Thor's heavy boots, and then an equally heavy hand upon the captain's shoulder.

"Please, Steve Rogers, stop. You are… you are only making this more difficult for him. Please." The thunder god pleads once more.

And Steve can't hold it in anymore, his own dismay at last catching up to his brain, and he lets Loki go, whirling on Thor and launching to his feet, in the same instant shrugging his teammates hand off of him.

"Making it worse!?" He nearly shouts, distantly shocked at his own rage. From his periphery he sees Tony staring back at him, for once silent. "How?! How can I possibly make this worse! Look… look what you've done to him! How is this any way to treat someone?! How is this any way to treat your own… your own brother!?"

In that moment, a look of such raw and naked hurt passes over Thor's face, and Steve instantly regrets his words, an apology coming, ready to spill from his tongue. But Thor cuts him off before it can be uttered.

"It is not my choice, Steve Rogers." He says, tone strangely flat. "Please, come away, and I will explain."

"You're not just gonna leave him here like this?" Tony at last speaks. "He looks half way dead…"

"And your kindness only worsens his suffering!" Thor finally snaps, his voice rising ominously. Both Steve and Tony fall silent at it, taken aback.

But as quickly as the anger came, it bleeds from the god, and his shoulders sag. Steve sees his eyes flash briefly to Loki, and what hurt he saw before turns to absolute distress, before his gaze flicks aside, and he goes on in a hushed voice.

"Please, I beg you my friends. Trust me when I tell you, you will only cause him greater hurt through your good intentions, for how your kindness will contrast with what he has grown accustomed to. By offering him false hope."

As if in response to Thor's terrible words, they hear a near soundless whine below, and turn, seeing Loki has slumped more fully against the stake, the strain on his bound wrists greater.

He's passed out, Steve realizes, and his heart thuds painfully in his chest.

"He needs to be returned to the slave barracks, my Lord." The guard suddenly speaks, bowing his head and pressing a fisted hand across his chest as he regards his Prince.

Thor is still staring down at his brother, and there is so much suffering in his own expression, so much impotent longing, and Steve understands all at once that it truly isn't the thunder god's choice. That something is keeping him from tearing Loki free from this, despite the more than obvious desire to do so.

Finally, Thor's eyes move away, his hands clenching to fists at his sides, as he gives a shallow nod.

Steve and Tony can only watch then, as the guard moves forward, having holstered the whip along his belt, and begins to undo the cloth binding Loki's wrists to the stake.

Loki drops like a stone once that support is gone, falling to the dusty ground in a broken and bloody heap, limp and unmoving, and unceremoniously, the guard hauls him up by the arms, swinging him up onto his shoulders like he weighs nothing at all, before turning and striding away across the courtyard, disappearing moments later beneath an archway, fading into black shadows beyond.

"Come away." Steve hears Thor say once more, and when he turns, he sees his friend already moving back the way they had come, his strides long and purposeful and angry.

He shares an uncertain glance with Tony, who looks back at him with the expressionless mask of his armor, before silently they agree to do as Thor says, following close on his heels.

The feeling of horror in Steve's gut is no less for it.

All he can see now is ruined form of Loki, and the blank nothing in his eyes.

All he can think is how he and his team sent Loki to this, and never once did any of them think to ask what had become of him.