A/N: Thank-yous to everyone who's read, Fav'd and Followed, and to reviewers Guest, darkshadowarchfiend, T.N., THORKISUPPORT, Guest, Evil Concubine, ClintBarton-Loki'sButtWarmer (!) and Fate Vione (sadly I'm not very good at description. I envy people who can write good similes and things, as my writing tends to be kind of simplistic).
A blinding blue light carried Thor and Mjölnir back to Manhattan. Not since he had been stripped of his immortality had he been so incapacitated – the toxin pumping through his blood left him stupefied, barely aware if he was upright or prone. The only semi-coherent thought he could construct was that he had to find his friends and tell them of Loki's escape…the threat of Loki's return…
Perhaps time passed in a blur of meaningless images and snatches of sound, because suddenly Banner was looking him in the eye, speaking. Thor couldn't understand the words, and was dimly aware of his armour being opened up to expose his injuries. With difficulty he moved his mouth, his voice wavering between too loud and barely audible to his own ears as he forced out the word:
'Poison.'
Something was stabbed into the big vein in the crook of his elbow, and an overwhelming pain flooded him, as if something alive and clawing were being ripped out of him but was resisting every inch of the way. Thor's body arched in an agonised curve, black taking over as his eyes rolled back. Banner's face withdrew from his frayed line of sight and was replaced by Captain Rogers', who held him down firmly by the shoulders. Further convulsions let him know that his legs were being pinned down too.
He felt a little better afterwards.
They tried to speak to him, his friends. They looked nervous, afraid even, as if they had thought him indestructible. He wasn't sure if he responded to them or not. In olden days it would've shamed him to have friends see him in such a state, but now he was merely glad in his knowledge of their support.
When full consciousness eventually returned, he found himself alone in the peace and quiet of Stark Tower's medical bay, Mjölnir close by as if they hadn't dared separate him from it. His body and mind both felt sluggish and drained, as if he had only just begun to recover from a long and debilitating illness. He was disorientated to find it was night-time. Wincing, Thor sat up, but then thought better of it and eased himself back down. What point was there in preemptive action? The God of Mischief would show his hand soon enough, and until then there was no telling what he had in store.
Lucidity only served to worsen his state of mind rather than allieve it. A cold resignation had settled on Odinson: the acceptance that the Loki he had known and loved – the timid little brother who was content to be led along, the playful mischief-maker who had got him out of trouble as often as getting him into it – was long dead and gone, replaced by a madman who wore his face, beyond all reason, help or love.
There was no point clinging onto empty hope and childhood recollections; all he could do now was grieve for the brother whose goodness had been stripped away by delusions and insecurities, and despise the monster that that brother had now become. The knowledge wrung his heart close to breaking, but there was no other way. He had accepted that now. I will put an end to this madness. I will bring Loki to justice. And if I must destroy him, I will.
'I'm sorry, brother,' he said aloud to the dark ceiling, as if the green-eyed child of a thousand years ago would hear him and forgive his failure, 'I'm sorry I let you come to this. I'll lay you to rest.'
Thor's dull gaze wandered aimlessly around the unlit room, and settled on an indistinct shape in the corner – another piece of strange Midgardian furniture, perhaps. It took him a minute to realise what he was staring at: a huddled figure. Mjölnir flew immediately to his hand as he started up in bed.
'Who are you?' he demanded loudly. The shadow straightened up slowly, almost painfully. It was Loki – No – the figure flickered erratically in and out of existence like a bad Midgardian television, a shimmer of golden light passing over it each time, illuminating in the darkness. The only thing that stayed the God of Thunder's hand was the knowledge that it would be pointless to attack an intangible illusion. 'Loki,' Thor spat, 'Why do you come here?'
The projection of Loki made no move, hostile or otherwise. Its hands hung empty by its sides and his head was lowered. From what he could see of it, its face held none of its usual smirk or even its all-too-familiar wide-eyed innocence. In the flashes of gold, what Thor had taken to be black leathers seemed more to be bloodied cloth.
'Thor.' Loki's reply was so quiet it was almost inaudible – punctuated by shallow, ragged breathing, and muffled somehow, as if his mouth were sore and bleeding. 'I've come to…to…I've come…' But either he didn't know what he had come to do, or he lacked the energy to finish the sentence. By now, Thor had risen from the bed. He still felt slightly unsteady on his feet, but anger and newfound hatred lent him strength. He moved closer, but Loki drew away as if in fear and said, 'Don't touch it! If you touch it, it'll disappear…I haven't the energy left to make another…'
Thor lowered Mjölnir and turned his back.
'I know not what game you're attempting to play, but I have no patience for it.'
' – They…turned on me…' The figure wavered again; for a moment Thor thought it was gone altogether, before it reappeared. He had no idea how much strength of magic it must've taken to project this image across worlds. '…The Chitauri…'
'Save your breath, Loki. I can no longer stomach the sound nor sight of you. Leave me.'
'Wait – You asked me if I had forgotten our childhood. I haven't,' the replica said desperately, 'I loved you then…Even when I envied and resented you, I loved you. You were always there for me. I remember that…Brother – '
'Did you not hear me?' Thor raised his voice. 'Leave!'
He waited for more, but silence followed the word and he turned. Loki was gone. Thor stood there, almost expecting some other event or trickery to follow suit, but none did.
Loki surfaced from his stupor, dim eyes fluttering; he closed them again, willing himself back to sleep. Just a little longer. A little longer before – But then the pain was back, breaking white-hot through the thin veil of magic he had managed to briefly wrap his mind in. Unable to remain disconnected, he rocked back into his body, choking on his own scream as tranquility dissipated.
Stop. Make it stop. Alien hands rained blows upon him and lovingly traced fiery lines of white-hot agony up, down and across his flesh until it seemed every inch of him was in flames, and surely he must die soon...Stop...Clenching his teeth in a struggle to stifle his cries, Loki squeezed his eyes tightly shut, willing himself to die, but still despite himself he clung stubbornly onto life.
The pain had not ceased since it had begun. Sometimes it ebbed a little, enough to keep him conscious, but it was always there, unrelenting and constant, leaving no room for everything else. It wouldn't stop. It would never stop, so that he could barely breathe for crying out, let alone form a word of threat or plea; his throat torn, his racked muscles exhausted as he convulsed uncontrollably against metal bonds which refused to burst no matter how much he fought. Brother, anybody, help me.
