My first instinct is to struggle against my bonds but I resist this appealing urge as I take in the rest of my surroundings. The whipping post is positioned in the center of the public square and it seems as if all Asgard has showed up to witness the humiliation of the Silvertongue. Aesir from every social class have gathered here today, I briefly wonder if this is because Odin has decreed it to be so or if it is because I am truly so hated that every soul in this realm would enjoy to see me suffer. I realize it is the latter as I make eye contact with many of the lower class I pass by on my way to punishment. The peasants have swarmed like bugs around the post, encompassing it completely. A small path is made by the guards that hold my leash so that I may be dragged through the crowd with being harmed. However, this doesn't stop their whispered comments about my blood from meeting my ears nor their spit from hitting my boots. How dare they treat the rightful ruler of Asgard this way! I think as white hot rage builds inside my chest and reveals itself on my face. I snarl at every peon, plebe and serf I pass.
All too soon I am at the center of the square, facing the whipping post. It is much more daunting up close. The metal is dark and jagged. Rust has begun to work its way up from the base and seems to have been allowed to spread freely. Heavy chains where my wrists will soon be locked rest on either side of the column. The stench of pungent blood stings at my nose and I can see deep red stains on the post and splatters of red on the ground surrounding it. I want to tremble, I want to be afraid, but I am too proud to show Asgard that they have succeeded in their attempt to defeat me, so I arch my back and square my shoulders and wait to be mutilated.
I am so tense that when Odin's voice booms from above me I can't help but jump. I have failed to notice that all the noble class and royalty have made themselves comfortable on the balconies and rooftops of the buildings surrounding the public square. Sif, Volstagg, Fandral, Hogun and many other reputable warriors have claimed an audience with the Allfather on the highest balcony of the tallest building. To Odin's left stands Thor, Mjolnir in hand, and to his right should stand the Queen of the Nine Realms. But Frigga is not there. For a moment I feel abandoned, mother's steady gaze had always calmed me in times like these and her presence during this…event would have been appreciated, but as I work through these feelings I realize I ought to be glad she is absent. If the very sound of my voice is enough to bring tears to her eyes as they did in the Throne room then I have no doubt that witnessing my Jotun blood shredded from my body would kill her. And no matter how much I might claim otherwise, I do not want her dead. My gaze turns to Thor. You should be with mother I want to shout to him. It is cruel to leave her in such a melancholy mood, and I would have preferred him not to bear witness to my degradation.
Do I want you dead? I ask Thor in my mind. I have attempted to take your life more than once in recent years, but I cannot lie to myself by saying that I put all my effort into doing so. You are simple and vain and I am still angry with you for not accompanying me into the throne room to face your father, but I must reluctantly admit that much of my anger towards you was displaced for one reason or another. My mental collapse when first I was told of my parentage made me panic which clouded my judgment severely, and the Chitauri's…persuasions made my memory foggy, made me hate my once-brother. I do still hate you Thor. I hate how Odin favored you, I hate the ease with which you battle, I hate how everything in your perfect little world is so black and white. But I do not want you dead, because even through all the wrongdoings you have committed against me throughout our lives, they have been committed innocently. It is like blaming a child for hoarding his toys even though he has not learned to share. A smile pulls apart my thin lips, even though I try to hid it, at my imaginary monologue to my brother because I know I will never have the – I don't know, patience? Courage? – to say these things to his face. In a brave moment, I meet his blue eyes with my green ones and all I see is a sea of coldness. And perhaps he would never care to listen to me now regardless. Good for him, it is about time he saw the God of mischief and lies in his true form.
"I hope this punishment will teach you a lesson of humbleness, Loki Laufeyson" I hear Odin speak as he finishes what I suppose has been a long speech he'd orated as I daydreamed a conversation with my imaginary brother.
No longer than two seconds after the Allfather has ceased speaking I feel a harsh kick to the back of my left leg and I fall to my knees with a soft thud. My heavy chains are quickly removed but I find no relief in this. Already, sounds of approval waft up from the crowd. The guards remove my coat first, then my wrist guards and continue to pull at my clothing until I am bare chested and all that remains of my attire is my trousers and boots. My bent legs are situated on either side of the post and my arms are stretched around it and then bound to the shackles high above my head. A fine tremble begins in my shoulders and spreads to all my limbs causing my shackles to jingle. Odin and his bootlickers are seated to my right and I crane my neck to give the Allfather a cold, but steady, unwavering glare. I am not afraid of you or your punishment.
I hear footsteps approaching from behind but I do not need to turn my steely gaze from Odin to know who it is. I have been to a couple of public whippings in my life, they are rare since this punishment is only reserved for traitors, both have been gruesome blood baths, but the Flogger is the clearest part of my memories of these events. He is a large man, tall and muscular. If Thor was without his hammer, the Flogger might stand a chance at defeating him. His strength with a whip was known to split skin to the bone. He is clad in black leather from head to toe, even his face is covered in the dark material. Only his eyes were spared from the dark fabric, and they were an icy, lifeless gray. The footsteps stop and I know the Flogger has taken his position and that any moment now I would hear the crack of the whip and feel the sting against my exposed flesh. Calm. Stay calm. I try to tell myself but my shaking limbs refuse to acknowledge this command. I focus on Odin, making sure to hone the loathing in my eyes. A deafening silence falls over the crowd as the anticipation escalates. Beads of sweat form on my forehead and the jingling of my shackles loudens. The heat beats down on my naked back causing it to prickle.
I hear the snap of the whip as it flies through the air and the noise of exasperation the Flogger utters as he concentrates all his strength into one shifting motion of his right arm. Agony dances across the tender muscles of my back and dissipates throughout my convulsing body. I arch reflexively and lean on the post for support, the coolness of the metal is a comfort against my chest. My vision blurs and I swear I can see stars. For a moment I think my ears are ringing but then I realize it is the sound of my own tortured scream that assaults my ears. Damn. So much for remaining strong and fearless. I take slow, deep breaths while attempting to still my shaking figure, I rest my moist forehead against the post. With a final long breath, I turn my gaze back to Odin, his callous gaze meeting my hate-filled ones. Give me your worst.
The Flogger allows the full force of the lash to settle through my already aching form, while I wait for the next blow I can feel hot, thick blood trickling down my back. I estimate the new wound spreads from my right scapula to my right hip. Every slight movement brings new waves of agony searing throughout my throbbing torso, even breathing is a painful challenge. I try to focus on something else, anything else, than the pain. I become aware of the crowd. Some are hooting, some are clapping. The sound of my screams and the sight of my blood has driven the masses mad with entertainment. I hear an occasional voice rise above the crowd, demanding the Flogger continue with the whipping. These people were once my peers, my friends. I hate them all. The cruel ignorance of Asgard is almost too much to bear. How I ever lived among these fools is a mystery to – suddenly I am screaming again. Lost in my thoughts I had not heard the clip of the whip before it struck me once again. This lash hurts more than the last. I imagine it is because I had not braced myself for it, and because this new lesion overlaps the former. Once again, my vision darkens as blistering pain travels through my tissue. The Flogger has only administered two lashes, ninety-eight more to go. It wasn't possible, I would not survive this. Odin had served me a death sentence and I didn't even know it. I panic now, not ready to die, not like this. My breaths become quick and shallow. I'm glad I was forced on my knees because I doubt I could have remained standing. I do not look at the Allfather, I do not have any will left to muster a hateful sneer, instead I rest my head against the post and close my eyes. I focus on steadying my breath, I will not let the last hours of my life be spent in crazed hysteria.
When the warnings sound of impeding agony reaches my ear, I am ready for it. The whip splits open my skin yet again, but this time I only allow a low hiss to escape my lips. You will not die a screaming wretch I tell myself you will not give Odin the satisfaction. I feel as if my teeth are in danger of chipping because I am clenching them so tightly. As I regain my sense of sight once more, I turn to the Allfather. I know that my eyes only convey my high level of wryness but this doesn't stop me. When I am met with the same distant blue eye a wave of disappointment washes over me. I do not know why, I do not know what I am hoping for, why I expect to see anything but detestation in those eyes. I can feel a fresh batch of loathing and hate rising within me, but it is quickly squashed with another lash of the whip; this time I cry out, unabashed. I can hear the splatter of my blood on the pavement and can feel it oozing down my back and down my trousers, staining them a deep burgundy.
The Flogger finds a steady rhythm, administering a lash about ninety seconds or so. As the day progresses, the sun's high position cooks my fair skin. The saltiness of my sweat brings a new kind of pain to my open wounds. As the whipping continues the pain worsen. Laceration over laceration decorates my pale hide but I'm sure the whiteness of my skin has been covered by smears of blood. There is no relief between the lashes, in the hotness of the day I can feel the gashes on my back begin fester. With each sting of the whip my vertebrae curves in agony and I throw my head back to let out an ear shattering wail. I convulse and writhe and whimper, long since giving up any attempt to appear unyielding. I loose count after twenty-eight flays or so, and I begin to howl. The pain has clouded my mind, and I know I will be dead long before the Flogger reaches his commanded number, there is no point in keeping track anyway. I barely register the wild cheers of the populace, or the sound of my own blubbering. Am I begging for mercy? I desperately hope not, but my mind is too clouded by the harsh flagellations of the Flogger that I haven't the energy to appear in control. I feel as if I have been chained to this column for a lifetime. Each lapse between lashes feels like hours to my tortured body. In my mind I am begging for mercy, for death, for anything to end the agony. Whatever will I have left is used to make certain I don't voice these pathetic thoughts.
Slowly, my vision blackens, and does not return, I do not know if I have truly been blinded by the calamity assaulting my back or if my eyes have simply closed and refuse to open. The noise of the rowdy crowd seems to be farther away, as does the sounds of my own distresses sobs. How many lashes have a received? Surely close to one hundred, surely….I barely acknowledge the Flogger or his rhythmic strikes. The pain seems somehow duller, and I realize I am close to death. Finally, the torment will cease. The numbness of death encases me in a warm embrace and I race into it like a child runs into his mother's arms. I heave out one final gasp of air before slumping over the whipping post, loosing awareness completely.
