WARNINGS: Brief description of suicide and injuries

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Chapter Three

Venetian Red: The Righteous Anger for Justice

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Darkness had fallen over the golden kingdom of Asgard.

The kingdom was literally gold in color. After all, gold was the most abundant element in Asgard, unlike in Midgard. Tall magnificent structures scattered all around the city, designs spiraling and defying gravity. In the center of the kingdom, the highest building stood in its glittering glory. Shaped like pipes from a pipe organ, this structure is the palace of the royals. The songs of the universe reverberated along its walls, whispering secrets to anyone who care enough to listen.

One Thor Odinson walked the quiet streets of Asgard, his strides strong and confident. He wore his full armor, the metals shifting and clinking softly as he walked. His bright red cape billowed in the wind like some kind of flag. By his side, instead of sword inside a scabbard, there clasped a large silver hammer. Runes were etched on the side of the hammer, its whole being humming softly with strong magic. Thor trod on ahead, mind whirling and shifting through a thousand different thoughts and worries.

Today, Thor would finally be able to go back to Midgard. The prospect both gladdened and worried him greatly. On one hand, he had longed to see his shield-brothers and Jane (especially her). On the other, he was anxious to give them the gravest news they could ever receive. His father, one of the two people who could see everything that was happening all over the branches of Yggdrasil, had assured him that Midgard was presently safe from all foreign invaders. Thor wasn't sure it would stay that way for long. He frowned at the thought.

It wasn't long before the God of Thunder reached the outskirts of the city. The heavy golden gates swung open with a great groan. On the other side, a long bridge expanded in the horizon, only to end with a great spherical dome of gleaming gold. Railings were absent on its sides and no pillars supported it. The only memorable feature of the bridge was its rainbow-colored surface, swirling with iridescent hues. The Bifrost, the rainbow-colored bridge, was the gateway to the seven other realms of Yggdrasil

Thor walked forward, every step causing the colors beneath the bridge to ripple like water. The god's steps were heavy and wide, covering several meters in a span of a second. Cracks disrupting the swirls of colors reminded Thor of the still ongoing repairs on Bifrost. Although the bridge is already fit for travel, Father had said that there were still adjustments to make. Thor was glad that his father allowed him passage to Midgard as it was.

Below the bridge was a bottomless ocean of the cosmos; the Void where all manner of sufferings were born. Thor remembered stories in his childhood; Mother would warn them against wandering off and falling into that dark deep abyss. Should one so carelessly fall into it, their chances of survival were less than slim.

But then again, Loki did always love to go against expectations. Thor let his mind wander to the events a few years ago. Thor had not understand Loki's motives back then and he still can't fathom them now. Why had the trickster been so intent on destroying Jotunheim? Why had Loki told him their father was dead? What had happened to his brother in the span of Thor's banishment and his return to Asgard? Loki was prankster but his tricks had never (permanently) hurt anyone before. What had changed his brother so much?

Back when he and Loki was hanging over the edge of a destroyed Bifrost, an uncharacteristic fright strangled him when he looked upon the nothingness of the Void. And he had seen Loki's expression that day as the trickster held one end of their father's spear. He had seen the fear, the confusion, and the hurt. Loki had looked so young, so like the little brother that Thor had vowed to protect. Loki had exchanged words with their father but Thor couldn't recall what was said over the panic that was gripping him. He heard his father's soft voice and saw a myriad of expressions go through his brother's face. Then, the trickster's face and eyes went frighteningly blank and cold—resigned. A sudden clarity hit Thor for he saw how Loki's eyes had flickered down to the abyss below. The thunder god started lifting the spear up, hoping that his brother was not thinking what Thor thought he was going to do.

We can fix this, Thor remembered thinking. Whatever this is, we can fix it, Loki. "Loki, no." he had said slowly with a warning lilt. His brother's face was unreadable and he shot a cool look at Thor.

And then, his fingers were no longer around the spear. Thor tried to reach for him, all the while knowing it was too late. Both he and his father watched Loki was swallowed by the Void.

It was only later that his mother would explain all that transpired. It was only later that Thor would learn that his brother was not his brother by blood; Loki was the firstborn of Laufey, their worst enemy. Thor's initial reaction was one of denial—of disgust because how could his brother be one of those barbaric monsters? His mother's slap echoed throughout the hallways. She explained that the Jotunn were not monsters; Mother had profusely apologized for the childhood stories that had caused Thor to think of them as such. After that, Thor had locked himself in his room to contemplate. It was only when his mother had knocked on his door to inform him of the celebrations that he went out. Thor still had not reached any conclusions about his brother. Then, he realized that he didn't have to. His brother was dead. Dead. He let go of the spear. He was dead.

Thor shook his head to get out of the memories. Had Loki known? Had Loki known he was going to survive the Void? Was falling into the Void part of his plan? When the news of his brother's antics in Midgard reached Asgard, Thor was torn between being glad and angry. Thor should have asked Loki these questions before the trickster was gagged but his anger had blinded him. His thoughts back then was that Loki was too far gone to redeem. Gone was the little brother that Thor would have done anything to protect. All that was left was this bitter malicious man that had the same unreadable expression Thor saw at the destroyed Bifrost. The man who now had escaped the Asgardian prison and was out there again to wreak havoc.

A pair of dark feet clad in warrior boots came in his vision. Thor halted his steps, coming out of his musings. He raised his head and the sight of the great dome greeted him. Heimdall, in his golden armor and similarly shining helmet, stood at the entrance instead of his normal station inside the dome. The guard of the bridge was perhaps expecting him. With Heimdall being one of the people that can see the whole of the universe, it wasn't a surprise.

Heimdall's amber eyes pierced through Thor, unblinking and all-knowing. Thor was always slightly unsettled whenever that gaze was upon him.

"Heimdall," Thor nodded in greeting.

"Thor Odinson." The dark-skinned god replied. "I have grave news."

Thor started, expression going dark at the statement. Thunder rumbled lowly in the distance. "Loki?"

"I have glimpsed upon him on Midgard." The guard said, voice tellingly monotonous. "But he is shrouded from my gaze again."

Thor closed his eyes briefly in frustration and exhaled gruffly. Thor had told himself that his brother was too far gone to be redeemed. Still, there had been a stubborn hope in him that wished Loki was done with his scheming ways. The fact that the trickster was in Midgard told Thor that redemption for Loki was a long time coming.

Then, the implications of Loki being in Midgard sunk in. His stomach sank. "Is—"

"Midgard is unharmed," Heimdall cut off, reading his train of thought. "For now."

Thor couldn't help but sighed in relief. Then, his expression turned somber. If Loki was already in Midgard, then whatever scheme he was planning now would soon be taking effect. "What do you think he plans, Heimdall?" Thor inquired, asking for counsel.

Heimdall was silent for a few moments. "I am uncertain. However . . ." a frown made its way to the god's face.

"However?" Thor prompted, leaning forward.

"When I glanced upon him, I saw that he wears his true flesh."

"His Jotnar form?" Thor asked, eyes wide. He had never seen his brother in his other form before. He didn't know what to feel about seeing it now.

"Aye. And he is injured. Perhaps gravely so." Thor can detect some kind inflection in his tone.

"Injured?" Thor's voice rose, the concern he didn't think he would feel again for Loki flooding his veins. "How? By whom?"

"I do not know, Odinson." Heimdall replied in a deep gravelly voice, halting the barrage of questions. "All I know is whatever he may be planning, it will take a while to execute. If he is as wounded as I think he is, his healing will take a long time, especially with his magic bound. Loki is no fool. He will not fight whilst his strength wavers."

Thor sighed, trying to ease all the emotions the news put him through. "I understand. Thank you, Heimdall." Thor made a gesture towards the dome. "I wish to go to Midgard. I must warn my shield-brothers."

"One more thing, Odinson." Thor raised his head to meet the gaze of the dark-skinned god, startled at the note of anxiousness present in his tone. Heimdall had rarely shown such emotion. "Be warned. Before Loki was cloaked again from my gaze, I have sensed something . . ." he frowned, lips pursing. " . . . unnatural."

Thor titled his head in askance. "What is it?"

"A strange pulse of power, one unlike I have encountered before. But I only felt for a moment. It may be nothing." Heimdall mused but concern was still present in his expression. "But you best be careful."

Thor just nodded. "I shall be. Thank you once more, Heimdall."

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Merlin let out a harried breath, exhausted beyond belief. He could the sky lightening from the slits of the window glades. His magic sputtered weakly, like sparks from a flint that was refusing to ignite. He sighed, withdrawing his hand from the sapphire-skinned man's chest.

His magic was spent. Merlin had thought he would be able to fully heal of all the wounds inflicted on the other man. But he had never tried the spell for injuries as extensive and fatal as this man's. He had only tried it on one fatal wound at a time, never on several. But Merlin was quite confident he managed to heal the most life-threatening ones; he noted a bleeding stomach, ribs almost piercing the lungs, a punctured spleen, a fracture in the skull and a dislocated hip. The warlock didn't know how the man was still alive with all those injuries. The man must have been in agony. Merlin could only hope that the man's metabolism and own magic (magic! To think, he would unexpectedly meet another magic-user after a millennia!) would do the rest.

Merlin grasped one of the man's wrist, measuring his pulse; it was beating a bit too quickly to be normal but it was no cause for concern. Merlin supposed then that the unusually low body temperature was normal for the man. He didn't seem to be suffering from hypothermia.

Then, the doctor frowned at the whorls of scars running throughout the man's flesh. It didn't seem recent and they didn't look like normal scars either. Merlin ventured a touch at a spiraling one that was taking up the whole of the other man's right arm. It felt like it was just a slight embossment upon the light blue skin, not grievous scars. Perhaps these too were normal for the man. After all, they looked more like tribunal tattoos than anything.

Merlin got to his feet, blinking away the black spots that appeared in his vision. A dull pulsing was starting at the back of his skull, threatening to become a full headache. It didn't help that his head had met a brick wall just over an hour ago. Now that he thought about it, he should have checked his head. Gingerly, he ran a hand over his scalp. After a few moments, his fingers found a huge lump and he nearly blacked out when he pressed on it too hard.

"No concussion." He muttered under his breath. It would be alright if he let it heal on its own. Probably.

Now, for the manual work. He went downstairs into his sparse kitchen and grabbed a small pail from one of the cabinets. He climbed up again and filled the pail with water in the bathroom, making sure it was lukewarm. Carefully and slowly (because he had yet to cure his clumsy ways), he went inside the bedroom and placed down the pail of water on the nightstand beside the bed. He then rummaged his wardrobe for a clean towel.

Merlin sat down back again and got to work. He gently peeled off the leather that was once can be called as clothes. Some of the fabric stuck to the still gaping wounds like duct tape, dried blood gluing the skin together. Merlin carefully cut the cloth away, removing it as quickly as he can. He needed to work fast lest an infection settle in. The other man made distressed noises but did not wake otherwise.

After removing all the tattered fabrics, he gathered them under the bed to be burned later. The doctor grabbed the towel and soaked it with water. He started wiping down the sticky crimson all over the body, wincing when he pressed a bit too hard at the gaping lacerations. Wisps of green sometimes appeared over the wounds, its glow almost transparent.

After half an hour, he placed the bloody towel on the now crimson-stained pail of water. He blew out an exhausted breath and took a moment of rest. Exhaustion was catching up to him and he tried to stave it off.

Then, Merlin got a roll of bandages from the kit and started bandaging the unhealed cuts. It would have been faster with some assistance but as it was, it took him a few hours of ginger lifting and wrapping. In the end, the blue-skinned man resembled an Egyptian mummy, minus bandages around the head.

The piercing around his lips were bleeding anew and Merlin contemplated on how to go about it. He wished he could have healed those wounds but the residue of dark magic around them made Merlin's own magic recoil. Merlin opted to leave them without bandages for now. If my lips had been sewn shut, I wouldn't want anything to restrict them afterwards, was Merlin's line of thinking.

He sighed again in relief. Now, for the cleanup part. Merlin gathered the bloody sheets and pillowcases, replacing them with cleaner fresher ones from the drawer. He covered the mutant with a thick blue comforter. He placed the dirty sheets in the hamper. He might be able to remove the bloody stains if he tried. Then, he placed the equipment he used back in the kit and put the kit back in his cabinet. He disposed of the surgical gloves and the bloody filaments, along with the torn-up fabrics of clothing.

A jaw-breaking yawn caught Merlin and his eyes watered. It was the third night in the row he had pulled an all-nighter. He was totally knackered. The couch downstairs was sounding incredibly tempting.

But, shower first. It took him a moment to gather the energy to stand up and another moment for the sudden blackness in his vision to fade. Rubbing his eyes to further delay his inevitable tiredness, he headed for the loo.

He removed his clothing smeared with blood, tossing it wherever it wanted to land. He stepped in the shower and twisted the knobs until he found the right temperature. He sighed in relief once more as the warm water relaxed his tensed muscles. The water below pinked as the blood was washed away.

A flash of obsidian eyes, frightened and dismayed, popped in his head. When the blue-skinned man first awakened, those were the expressions in his eyes. Merlin had seen that look—had even worn it a few times himself. It was the look of a hunted prey, one who knew he was trapped and was bracing himself for more pain.

Anger was simmering beneath Merlin's skin. Discrimination against mutants had been prevalent since time immemorial but that does not make hate crimes against them any less disgusting. People fear what they don't understand. And Merlin can understand partially the reasons for their fear because mutants can do quite dangerous things. But what people couldn't comprehend was that not all mutants will hurt them. Most of all, Merlin didn't know what kind of sick bastard would sew someone's mouth shut. It was like one of the things Merlin saw in horror shows—one of the things Merlin didn't expect (or hope) to happen in reality.

Merlin sighed, this time, in helpless frustration. He let the water appease his anger. He washed up quickly, wanting to get to bed as soon as possible. He dried himself and dressed in a loose red shirt and a pair of striped pajamas.

He checked the bedroom one more time. The blue-skinned man was still soundly asleep, breathing labored but otherwise fine. There's a pinched look on his expression, brows furrowed even in sleep. Merlin guessed he was engulfed in a particularly nasty nightmare.

Merlin placed a palm on top of the man's forehead, wondering if he had the energy to do one last spell. He called on his magic and found it sputtering, the golden energy as tired as he was.

"Fordemman út ingehygd sylfum cwealmþréa . Álætan mameracóm éaðeu." He whispered. Immediately, his fingertips warmed with magic. Although he didn't really dabble in magic concerning the mind (too much could go wrong), he had a need of this particular spell. Back in the 1950's, he had needed to free himself from nightmare to get at least a few hours of sleep.

The effects were instantaneous, both on the mutant and on himself. The strained expression disappeared on the man and the muscles Merlin didn't know were tensed relaxed. Meanwhile, Merlin felt his body shudder. He suddenly felt unbearably empty and cold. The warlock shook his head. Then, he sighed, knowing he won't be able to use magic for a while. Well, at least the mutant won't be plagued by nightmares tonight. Merlin arranged the sheets, pulling it up further.

With that, he turned off the lights in the room and went downstairs.