WARNINGS: Non-graphic depictions of torture and violence

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Chapter Two

Crimson Glory: The Color of Sorrows and Hopes

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When Loki dived face-first into the surprisingly soft ground, agony ripped through his whole being like lightning (and he couldn't help but laugh at that). He couldn't stifle the moan of pain that escaped his throat. The movement pulled at the stitches on his mouth, the bleeding of the piercings begin anew; not that the bleeding ever stopped anyway. He breathed heavily through his nose, chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath. He laid there for a while, wanting to take advantage of the time to rest.

The smell of fresh snow hit him like a dizzying balm. He lifted his head from the ground, noticing for the first time that the white ice was surrounding him. It must have cushioned his fall. With his glamor gone and the disgusting Jotunn flesh showing, he barely felt the cold emanating from his surroundings. He dropped his head back down, uncaring of the pain it caused. Loathe as he was to admit it, the coldness of the snow felt good against his cerulean skin. It was comforting even.

He had done it. Judging by the lack of clawed hands dragging him back, he was quite sure he managed to escape his clutches. He gave a hysterical laugh at that, the effect muffled by his forcefully closed mouth. He, Loki of Nowhere, had escaped. He laughed again, the soundlessness of it becoming more manic. Eventually, he realized that he couldn't stop. His movements were initiating sharp pains throughout his body, wounds being jarred agonizingly. It was especially painful since the stiches in his mouth were pulling at his lips. But he couldn't stop laughing. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, freezing into teardrop-shaped ices as they dropped to the ground. Had he finally gone mad? Thor and the Allfather would probably argue that he had been mad all along. He had escaped! It didn't matter if he was mad. What mattered was that Loki was finally out of his grasp.

He will find you, a voice at the back of his head whispered harshly. The thought sobered Loki up almost immediately. His laughter stopped abruptly, leaving him surprisingly breathless. He will find you. It is only a matter of time. The trickster shuddered, heart racing as fear poisoned his veins. And the agony you're feeling will be a mere prickling compared to what is to come.

No, Loki shook his head. I will be stronger. His resolve was shaky but the mere thought dissolved some of the fear he was feeling.He will find Loki but the trickster will not go down without a fight. He had overcome many powerful nemeses before. He was not about let him win that easily. He was caught off-guard before. Next time, Loki would be prepared. I will be invincible.

Soft footfalls broke through the thick fog of Loki's musings. He froze, thoughts of him still swirling in his mind. His flight-or-fight mode was on and, feeble and defenseless as he was, he chose the former. He lifted his head, enough for him to see the surroundings. Tall structures made of bricks, metals and wood loomed over him. Light from an unknown source streamed in bright yellow colors, almost blinding Loki. The architecture of them was unfamiliar to Loki and could not for the life of him remember where he had transported himself to. The footfalls were getting nearer. Obsidian orbs darted around, looking for a place to hide.

There, a space between the structures where the light didn't reach. It was only a few feet away and the shadows will hide him. Without wasting time, Loki crawled towards the space. His breathing picked up once more, the snow and dirt getting in his raw wounds. He bit his tongue to prevent any sound from escaping. His progress was slow but eventually, he managed to reach the shadows.

By the Norns, it smelled. Loki wrinkled his nose in disgust. He ignored it in favor of hiding deeper into the shadows. He made himself as small as possible, the fear in his mind overshadowing any pain he was feeling.

The footfalls continued, passing by the alleyway without any incident. Loki almost sighed in relief. But he assumed too soon. One step sounded different, a metallic sound resounding. The footsteps halted and Loki closed his eyes. If he wasn't mistaken, part of his withering armor was just stepped on. Without really thinking, he put a fist to the ground in frustration. He knocked over some paraphernalia and created some obscenely loud noises.

The footfalls became silent, almost cautious. Loki huddled in himself, shutting his eyes. He prayed to the Norns for the first time in a long while that he would not be found. He had nothing to fight with. Such a pathetic sight I must be making.

"Hello?" the baritone voice echoed.

Midgard, Loki realized with a start. He was in Midgard. Although he could not distinguish the languages of the realms with each other, he recognized the inflection and tone of their voices. And after all, it had only been a few months since he last heard the Midgardian speak. The Norns have damned him yet again. Out of the nine realms, he was transported on this troublesome piece of rock. He was transported to a place where another prison awaited him. He didn't think he would be recognized in this form but he would not underestimate the humans—the mistake of the wrong assumption had cost him too much. He curled in on himself some more and couldn't swallow down a pitiful whimper when the movement caused his broken ribs to shift painfully. A dizzying trance overcame him, vision blurring.

"Hello?" the mortal said again, drawing closer.

The events that happened next were a little vague to Loki. He remembered trying to persuade the mortal to leave him the Hel alone. He recalled shoving something with all the strength he had left. He recalled the feel of fingers under his chin and dark blue eyes looking at him with no small amount of concern. Loki recalled the mortal saying that he wanted to help (Loki ignored the feeling of relief that came with the assurance that at least, this mortal did not want to harm him). Loki nearly laughed. The god didn't want help, especially from some immature and greedy civilizationlike Midgard. But the mortal was too stubborn for his own good, really. The annoyance was lucky Loki had not the strength to use his ice powers. If the trickster had, the pitiful mortal would be a mess of frostbite right now with all the touching he was doing.

Well, if the irritating mortal wasn't leaving, then Loki would go on ahead. He struggled to stand, knees almost giving out at his weight. Finally, he managed to get to his feet (barely), his right ankle protesting at the strain. Using the wall for support, he started staggering away from the light and deeper into the shadows.

The mortal, being the very definition of annoying and stubbornness, ran after him. He put a hand on Loki's shoulder and the trickster nearly went to his knees at the increased weight. Pitiful Loki, truly pitiful. He ignored the voice in his head and determinedly continued his walk, if you could call the nearly faltering steps that.

Loki felt a warm palm against his back. And really, how dare this mortal? Loki was preparing to lash out and push the mortal back when the most surreal thing happened.

"Swefe nu." The words were followed the feel of warm energy entering his system.

Loki froze, feeling the swirling mass of foreign seiðr working in his body. It was undeniably magic—Loki recognized a magical signature when he saw one. His own weak and bound magic fought against it, struggling to destroy it. Loki knew it was futile. It was only his inborn immunity against weak enchantments that prevented the immediate effect of the spell. He would have been more worried of what the spell entailed had his mind not been preoccupied with thoughts of the mortal with magic. Curiosity had overwhelmed everything else.

Loki turned around, meeting the surprised gaze of the mortal. Loki caught the fading of the golden glow from his eyes. He grabbed the mortal by the shoulders, eyes assessing him. How can a mortal like you have magic? In the meager lighting provided, Loki can see nothing different about this mortal. Dark hair, possibly pale complexion, blue eyes—features not unlike Loki's Aesir form.

As far as Loki knew, the only time mortals had extensive magic was more than a thousand years in the past. As the years passed by, any magic they could have passed on to their descendants would be diluted. Loki was quite sure no descendant of theirs could have performed a spell that easily, no matter how insignificant it was.

However, before Loki could think more to it, he felt darkness creeping in on his vision. His magic failed him and the spell was taking effect. He felt all his limbs relax, the pain he had been ignoring seemingly far away. Unconsciousness took him in a warm embrace moments after.

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Merlin was planning to call the ambulance through his landline. He really was. However, when he had carefully laid down the man on his bed and turned on the lights, Merlin didn't think he was going to make it. In the bright light, Merlin was able to get a clearer look. He let out a sharp exhale at what he saw, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat.

Lacerations marked the entirety of its skin, healing ones overlapped by fresh bleeding ones. The skin that was unmarked by the deep cuts was gifted with dark purpling inflammation. Merlin could tell they were supposed to be bruises on the blue skin. One of its ankles was bent at an unnatural angle, already starting to swell. The right shoulder was severely dislocated. Merlin could see something unnatural in his chest, bones under it shifting sickeningly. At least three of the ribs were threatening to pierce through the skin. The doctor could also tell that there was already a fatal internal bleeding happening with his stomach bloating rapidly.

Calling the ambulance would be useless. He would already be dead by the time the ambulance pulls up. Merlin needed to do something quick.

Merlin removed his overcoat, revealing a dark-blue dress shirt. He grabbed the plastic chair from his desk and placed it beside the bed. He sat on it, rubbing his hands in preparation for what he was about to do. Just as he was about to lay his hands on the other man's almost still chest, a voice at the back of his head piped up.

Who made you god? What right do you have to change a man's fate? The thoughts had always pestered him ever since he decided to be a doctor. Merlin knew himself that it wasn't such a good idea, especially since he had the ability to cure diseases no modern medicine can. But Merlin couldn't possibly save everyone. And there lied the problem. Who was he to choose who lived or who died?

This is no time for moral contemplations, Merlin told himself. He had promised to save anyone he can—anyone whose time on Earth wasn't up, anyone who still hadn't live to their full potential.

Settling his second thoughts, Merlin's resolve strengthened. He put his entwined hands on top of the other man's chest.

"Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!"His eyes blazed gold, his magic immediately coming to life.

His fingertips warmed, sparks of energy crackling in the air. Merlin closed his eyes in concentration, directing his magic towards the worst of the injuries. He could feel the flesh stitching themselves close. Blood was pumping viciously on broken veins and arteries and Merlin struggled to heal the frayed nerves.

When some jade energy zapped him, Merlin abruptly pulled out.

"Wha—?" Merlin stared at his hands then at the figure at his bed. It didn't hurt—not really—but it surprised him.

Cautiously, Merlin tried again. He laid his hand on the man's chest again. He directed his magic at the internal bleeding, letting the energy do its work. When he felt another foreign energy helped in the healing, Merlin tried not to pull back again. What is that? When Merlin managed to control the bleeding, he moved on to the ribs. The energy followed him, weakly moving the bones to its proper positions. Merlin frowned but decided to ignore it (whatever it was) until the healing was done. It was doing no harm anyway.

When the ribs had been set and healed to their proper places, Merlin let his magic spread around to heal the worst of the bruises. Everything was going well when . . .

A sharp pain entered his head, along with a sizzle of something dark and coy. It tainted his magic, twisting some of the golden strands until it turned to black and withered away. Merlin flinched away in unadulterated horror, calling his magic back to himself. He pulled his hands back to his own chest, breathing picking up because of what transpired.

It was some kind of magical shackle, attacking any magical energy that came near. It had been a long time since Merlin encountered one; he had forgotten to be wary of any.

"But why?" Why would this mutant have one on him? How? And where was it? Merlin frowned in contemplation. It signified that there was another magic user out there like Merlin. And while the notion would have made him glad (he had been entertaining the idea that he was the only one left with real magic), it seemed this one had no compunction casting dangerous and harmful enchantments. And really, why cast it on a—

Oh. Oh.

Epiphany hit Merlin like a ton of bricks. Why hadn't he recognize that green energy sooner? Magic. By the gods, another magic user! He stared at blue-skinned body on the bed with awe. To think . . . right in front of him . . . Maybe that's why the other man was giving him such scrutinizing looks earlier; he must have recognized the spell Merlin performed. A magic user! . . . One who was going to bleed to death if Merlin didn't stop gawking.

The notion jumpstarted him. His eyes went at still body on the bed, hands hovering inches above to look for the source of the dark magic he gleaned. No sooner had he sent out his magic that the threads stitching the other man's mouth emitted a dark red light. Merlin pursed his lips, hands becoming fists in anger. Of all the inhumane things! Not only were the stitches preventing the other man from speaking,—from eating and drinking even—they were also binding his magic.

The warlock took deep breaths, hoping to mollify his fury. Being angry right now won't solve anything. Merlin promptly stood up and rummaged one of the oak cabinets in the room. He whipped out a first-aid kit, bigger than any normal household ones. He was a doctor after all.

From what Merlin knew about magical entrapments, they can't be removed by magic or any other supernatural means. They can't be removed by the enchanted either. However, Merlin found out that physical means usually did the trick. Merlin hoped that this binding was one of those.

Merlin paused, wondering if he should inject some kind of anesthetic first. Then, he shook his head. Instead, he muttered a numbing spell. He didn't want to introduce anything to the other man's body. Some mutants react differently to modern medicine and Merlin didn't want to risk it. Merlin quickly put on some disposable gloves and fished out a small pair of metallic scissors from the kit. He leaned in, putting one hand on the side of the man's head to keep it steady.

Just as Merlin had one stitch between the blades of the scissors, black eyes surrounded by red decided to flash open.

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When Loki opened his eyes, he experienced a terrible moment of fright. He was back on that abandoned piece of rock in space where only suffering awaits (whips made to rip skin, knives made to cause more pain than damage). He felt the dread he had been experiencing for the past few months whenever he opened his eyes; his awakening signaled more agony to come.

The buzz of fright lasted for but a moment. A flood of memories—of his thankful escape—seized his mind. His eyes darted throughout his surroundings and he immediately realized what the mortal was about to do. He panicked, trying to get away. His body did not seem eager to follow him. He felt sluggish and numb, like he was under cold water. He lifted his hand with no small amount of difficulty. He grabbed the mortal's wrist. The mortal startled at his action, wide blue eyes turning to meet his gaze. Loki tried to use his ice powers on him—to teach the mortal not to mess with anyone who didn't want help. But, judging by the lack of frostbite on the pale skin, Loki was unsuccessful.

"It's okay. It's okay." Another pale hand peeled off Loki's hold. Weak as he was right now, Loki's grasp relinquished quickly. "It's gonna be alright."

Loki could feel the blade between the stitches, threatening to cut something unbreakable. Didn't the mortal think if it could easily be broken like that, Loki would have been free a long time ago? Any endeavor to remove it would just cause Loki immeasurable pain. Loki attempted to raise his hand again. Stop, you imbecile, do not, you cannot, fool—

He heard the thread snap.

Loki froze, unable to believe what he heard. He heard another snapping sound, accompanied with feeling of his lips parting. With no time at all, all the threads are cut off. Loki could feel his magic swirling and sputtering under his skin, achieving the long-awaited freedom but as feeble as the day Loki discovered its existence. How? How could this mortal . . . Loki struggled to wrap his mind around it. This mortal had just broken Allfather's spell. Just like that . . .

"Swefe nu." That damned spell again.

Loki felt his eyes closing even before he knew it, thoughts falling away like stars in the sky. The last thing he saw before slumber again claimed him was blazing gold—bright as the apples of Iðunn.

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Merlin dropped the tweezers on the bloodied tissue by the nightstand, along with several golden strings. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, careful to keep the bloody gloves out of his face.

He had managed to remove the threads fairly quick. His magic revolted whenever his skin came near the filaments. Merlin didn't know why he didn't recognize the dark magic earlier. But it seemed Merlin had broken the spell by cutting them. They're just ordinary threads now. Still, Merlin would burn them as soon as he can.

With that, Merlin proceeded with the healing. The jade energy appeared stronger now, focusing on healing the small cuts. The corners of his lips curved upwards. The warlock worked his magic towards other severe injuries.