Quick note before we begin, this is NOT the last chapter. I know I said it would be, but I got carried away with the story, and the NEXT chapter will most likely be the last. Enjoy.


Tony's head spins, black dots swimming in his vision, bursting in his brain—behind his eyes. There is a hunched figure in his line of sight—on the floor of the upside-down limo—and in the reflection of the glass and the lights, the figure has city-light-glare wings. Am I dead? The earth shakes.

How did I get on the ceiling? Tony reels from the impact—dazed, disoriented. He can taste blood in his mouth—chokes on it, his lip busted and swollen, dripping down his chin. The sounds around him are too sharp—to strong and loud, coming from every direction. Screams—the metallic shriek of the door being wrenched free—glass shattering. His body aches and he is sure that his healing collarbone has been injured further. He struggles to move—to get up—to fight his way through the haze and the pain. Loki. Tony struggles to his knees, fumbles around in the mess for his briefcase that contains his armor.

"Thor—get him out—" Tony croaks. He wipes a hand over his face and it comes away red. Focus, Tony. The case—the suit—he has to find the armor. "Get Loki out." But Thor is already gone. Tony belly-crawls across the ground, somehow finding his briefcase in the wreckage, and makes his way laboriously to Loki's body. He's not unconscious—but he's not exactly moving or trying to escape either.

"C'mon—we gotta get out of here," Tony rests his hand on Loki's back, urging him to go in front of him—finds the door, wrenches it open. Tony falls on his stomach, clambering out of the wrecked limo door behind the God of Mischief just as it goes spinning and rolling across the road. He watches as Thor's hammer clashes with Skurge's ax, creating a blinding flash—surreal.

Loki is on his feet in an instant, standing slightly in front of Tony, as Tony franticly opens the case and allows the suit to mold to his body. Tony swears that Loki's stance is almost protective as he shields him while he suits-up—but that could be his addled brain conjuring sentimental tripe. The helmet covers his face, and Tony is not Tony anymore—he is Iron Man, and people are in danger.

"Stark—" Thor shouts, still struggling against the Executioner's blade. "The civilians—you must keep them clear of the battle—" By this point, police and an ambulance have arrived due to the crash—Tony only hopes they have sense enough not to get involved, and to keep people away from the scene.

"Right. Got it." Tony blasts off to the side of the street, prepared to order pedestrians out of the way and to fight off any attacks that might come their way, when the green energy strikes. Amora looks different in her suit of pale green and her crown, her long blonde hair unbidden and whipping across her face—like a goddess. She stands in a wide stance—ready for battle. Tony flinches as his screen flickers and dies, the power dying with it, and before he plummets helplessly to the ground, Skurge catches him in a death grip. "Woah—hold up there, Big Guy—I don't usually get this physical on the first date—" He can sense the attack before it happens, and he braces himself as the giant Asgardian grabs him and plows him like a rag doll into the pavement. Tony reels from the blow, remaining relatively unharmed, but unable to move. Being thrown around by Asgardians is becoming a pattern.

"My quarrel is not with you, Thor Odinson. I do not wish to harm you." Amora's voice, firm and cold—and Tony, helplessly stuck in his suit, can only watch as Thor confronts the sorceress.

"Enchantress—stop this madness at once. Why have you come to Midgard?" Thor raises Mjolnir threateningly, but does not attack the woman just yet.

Amora feigns surprise. "Do you not know, Thunderer? I have been sent here on a quest given to me by the All-father himself, to retrieve the escaped prisoner." She nods to Loki, who is somehow untouched by her sorcery and glaring at her.

Thor growls under his breath, taking an aggressive step forward. Amora holds up her hands as if in surrender, but there is energy pulsating around her fingers, ready to strike. "I would speak to the All-father myself. It was not one of Loki's schemes that brought about his escape—I freed him, and I will thus carry the blame. Your quarrel is indeed with me if you threaten my brother and the safety of this realm."

"You still call him brother after what he has done to Asgard—to Midgard? He is a traitor to your people, and he would betray you in a heartbeat." Enchantress laughs lightly. "Surrender Loki and none of your precious mortals will be harmed."

"Do you think it wise to challenge my strength in battle?" Thor chuckles smugly. "You will have to best me in combat to get to Loki. He has paid for his crimes and is under my protection."

"Paid for his crimes?" Amora shakes her head, true pity clear on her face. "Loki does not deserve a brother as forgiving as you."

"I grow weary of this useless banter, Enchantress. Back down or I will fight you."

"Thor, your brother betrays you even now, after you saved him selflessly from his just punishment. He bargained for his freedom with the life of your mortal woman, vowing to reveal her location to me to be destroyed at the will of the All-father."

Thor freezes—grips Mjolnir tight, glances between Amora and Loki, unsure. He snarls, turning to his brother. "Loki, does she speak truth?"

Tony's stomach drops. He struggles to move, to get to his feet, but the green energy holds him in place and keeps his technology dead. Thor looks ready to kill. "Thor—Thor, don't—"

Suddenly, Thor is entangled by tendrils of green magic, Mjolnir fallen and encased in a dome of pure energy. Thor struggles against the wisps of energy that pull him to his knees on the ground him and keep him immobile, face reddening with the effort. With a cry of rage and frustration, Thor is held by the magic, forcing him onto his back on the pavement.

Amora holds up his hands, tense with concentration as her conjured sorcery pins the mighty God of Thunder to the ground. "Enough of this. I willtake Loki to Asgard."

Loki stares on as the scene unfolds, unimpressed. The exposed skin on his face and arms are injured from the crash, a gash on his forehead bleeding freely. "We have made good allies in the past, Dear Amora, surely we can come to an agreement." He's playing her…he's acting.

With a flourish of her hands, the Snaptun stone appears in Amora's grasp, clutched against her chest. "Why would I ever trust you after you tricked me? The stone is powerless."

"You did have fair warning, Amora. I am called the God of Lies, am I not?" Loki smirks. "If the stone is so base and valueless, I would have it back." Loki replies. Tony recalls their conversation in the hotel room.

A curious expression takes hold of the Enchatntress' face. "Tis not quite useless, for it does have special qualities. I took the stone to Karnilla, and to the Norns, to learn of its sorcery. I learned many things on my journey."

Loki's lips tug at a snarl. "I care not for vague and cryptic mumblings. If there is a point to this petty wordplay, do get to it quickly."

"The stone showed me much—not with its power, but with the knowledge of its maker. It was carved by a mortal nearly a century before the event depicted took place. The Norns knew of your punishment, and of your future chained under the viper. You will spend an eternity in chains, and you and the monsters you birth will bring Ragnarok upon us all." She pauses, allowing the words—spoken softly, gently—to sink in. "It is fated to happen. You cannot escape—for even if you defeat me today, you will reach your destiny another way."

"Enough." Loki roars, poised to strike. Amora tenses as if afraid, though it is clear she knows that Loki possesses no sorcery. "You will let me go free."

"I would not take any deal you offered me, Sly One."

"I am not offering you a trade any longer. I am offering you a choice—let me flee, or I will kill your beloved Thor."

Enchantress raises her eyebrows, though her eyes flash with fear. "You would not do such a thing, Liesmith." She drops the stone and rushes forward in a burst of energy and grabs the god by the throat, hoisting him into the air. "You would not dare. You are without your powers, Loki—and you will surrender and come with me to meet your fate."

"You dare tempt me? You dare to issue me such a challenge, knowing that I will not hesitate?" Loki leans into Amora's grasp on his throat, eyes burning, teeth bared in a snarl. "You are pathetic—ruled by your infantile, ambitionless, and utterly pointless need for affection. By my troth, you will regret provoking me, wench."

Tony strains against Skurge's imprisoning arms. Amora's long blonde hair whips around her face in the evening breeze, her grip tightening around Loki's throat, making him gasp. "You are bluffing, Trickster. You are a liar. Even with all your wrath, you would not kill the Thunderer—not with your debt to him unfulfilled, after he delivered you from your eternal torment."

Loki laughs with the little breath he has left in his lungs—his fingers tangling in Amora's hair, tugging mercilessly until she flinches, but she still does falter in her crushing hold on him. "Thor means nothing to me. Spilling his blood will bring me no guilt—no sorrow or remorse—only vengeance."

Pressing her lips to his cheek, Enchantress smiles, whispering sweetly, "Prove it."

"Unhand me and I shall." After a moment of silence, of hesitation and unblinking stares—confliction and struggled readings of motives and minds—Loki is free. He stumbles, barely able to stand or collect himself as the Enchantress releases him from her chokehold. He hunches over, chuckling through shaky gasps—his dark hair falling over his face, hiding his features. "I shall need a weapon." Tony is watching with helpless, shocked awe, unable to move, to do anything. There is a clatter of harsh metal against cement as Amora reluctantly conjures a silver dagger at his feet.

"Loki—stop." Tony shouts.

Loki winces. He presses his fingers to his temples—trying to silence the roars, to ease the throbbing ache. He stands straighter. Thor—who struggles most determinedly against Amora's magical binding—is darkened by Loki's elongated shadow as he walks forward, engulfed and swallowed by it as the figure looms over him. Loki gazes down, expression blank, at Thor's powerless form. They lock eyes—Loki looks away. He flexes his hand around the hilt of the gleaming knife—twirls it in his fingers.

"Brother—"

Loki kneels on the pavement—his knees giving way and buckling beneath him, and barely catches himself from falling to his belly on the ground. He can feel Stark's eyes on him—watching, waiting—Amora watching with bated breath—Thor watching. The Thunder God's blue eyes are surprisingly and uncharacteristically dull, as if resigned to his fate—to the fact that his existence rests with his brother. Loki inhales raggedly—nearly collapsing from his exhaustion. Thor's silence is unnerving. "Not going to plead for mercy—or try to convince me to spare you?" Loki asks, but his tone lacks any triumph or morbid satisfaction.

"If this—if this is what you need—"

Loki feels his lips tug at a smirk. Rage fills him—turning black the edges of his mind, his composure lost. "Why do you look at me like that?" He demands with a shout, "Why do you not look upon me with disgust and hatred like everyone else?" He turns away briefly, hands trembling.

"I knew you were misleading me, Loki." Amora taunts with smug satisfaction—though there is true doubt and fear in her eyes—fear that her precious Thor will be lost to her if her challenge is accepted. "Now, come with me and let us end this. You cannot run from your fate forever."

Loki closes his eyes. He growls with rage and, gripping the weapon tightly, poises the blade over the Thunderer's heart. With his other hand, Loki roughly holds Thor's jaw. Loki lets out a noise from his lips—something stuck between a sick parody of a giggle and a kind of panicked intake of breath, lowering himself so that his face is mere inches from Thor's. "We always knew it would end like this," He purrs, false tenderness leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His eyes flick to Amora—making sure she is watching. Perhaps she will stop him—perhaps not.

Thor meets Loki's gaze. "Loki—you must think—"

"I tried to bargain my way out of this—out of Amora's petty scheme—I offered to tell her where your lovely wanton mortal is hidden—" His face is a sick parody of a smile, "I would have."

Thor's face is a blank mask. Not the reaction he expected—wanted,needed. Can he tell that Loki is stalling? No—no, not stalling. Savoring. Not stalling. "I want you to plead for your life—I want—I want you—" He sputters, blade point pressing lightly against the fabric of Thor's shirt. He searches for loathing—for the anger that Thor had been so very good at conjuring on a whim in their youth. He searches for disgust. He finds only sorrow and affection in Thor's eyes.

Damn him.


Thor knew he should have come sooner—centuries sooner. He is made physically ill by the sight before him—his face wet with immeasurable sorrow—at the twisted, broken, hopelessly damaged and emaciated form. This prison—this twisted, dank and rotting place, tucked between the branches of Yggrasil—is surely cursed and the most foul place in all the realms. The air is thick and humid, stagnant—dead; he can feel the screams, the cries, hanging in it, suspended for centuries—unheard. "Loki—"

"Who is Loki?"

Thor starts. Had Loki even spoken? That voice—so strange, so foreign—so dry and cracked from disuse—weak. How could he have spoken with his face disfigured so? Thor falls to his knees. "Loki is—" he pauses. What a question that was—so complicated, rife with pain, when it should be so childishly simple. "He is my brother."

The dead, weak voice chuckles—a sick gurgling sound—hitching and choking as another drop of gleaming venom falls, sizzling and burning through a slowly healing patch of new, pale skin.


"Loki Odinson—" The All-father's voice rings through the sacred halls of The Thing—echoing, powerful and absolute, off of the gold-gilded walls, the high ceilings. Loki hisses at the name—at the mocking insult, the association to Odin and his false, bitter usage of the name. "You have hereby been sentenced for your crimes against Asgard, Jotunheim, Midgard, and all other realms marred and poisoned by your thirst for blood, to be chained under the Serpent between the branches of Yggdrasil, until Ragnarok."

Odin's ravens—Huginn and Muninn—squawk and caw with mimicked laugher and amusement. Their cries mix and swirl with the sounds of hushed gasps, whispers, curses and snickers from the court. They are vultures—all of them.

"Father—"

Loki feels a growl rise in his throat at Thor's interjection of protest. Not even in his moment of judgment can the righteous and noble Thor allow him the rare attention and gaze of the All-father—something that he had once so foolishly and desperately sought. The poor, deluded and weak Prince of Asgard—a pathetic seeker of praise. How he would cherish such attention now—have hidden it away, cradled it.

"Silence, Thor. My judgment stands." The All-father's staff clangs against the floor—as firm, commanding and cruel as his tone—sending a shockwave of chills through Loki's body. "I will give you one small kindness, my son. Should anyone take pity on you offer himself to catch the drops of scorching poison in a bowl, may he step forward and venture into that cursed realm with you."

The quiet is tangible—thick in the air, catching in Loki's lungs—so very telling. He relishes in it—feeding his hate. It blossoms in his chest—unfurling and wrapping around his mind, shutting out the fear.

When Frigga steps forward, her eyes red and gleaming, Loki sneers. Odin shakes his head. "I beg of you, my husband—he is our son—my baby boy—" Frigga cries, tears spilling over. Odin quiets her with a raise of his hand.

The silence remains.

Loki laughs—bubbling over with hysteria—cruel laugher that steals the breath from him and makes his chest ache. Were he not held roughly by the guards, his amusement would force him to double over and gasp for air. He doesn't know why his vision blurs—not when he has won—has proven himself correct. It leaves him hollow. Frigga buries her face in Thor's chest, her sobs uncontrollable. People turn away in disgust of the remorseless monster—muttering hateful swears and insults under their breath at the fallen Prince.

"So be it."


He has brought this on himself—Thor tries to reason, to convince himself of Odin's just and rightful judgment. He tries desperately to find the logic, the reason—but finds none. He finds only wrong and hurt—this man who is not even coherent enough to know his own name. The burning coals of anger cool into pity and forgiveness.

He thinks now that he should have pleaded further with the All-father—should have groveled and begged for him to give Loki a lighter sentence. But the All-father had claimed that he knew what he was doing—that the sentence pained him, but it was necessary—it was fated. Thor had asked Odin to reconsider—to make him see that there was a horrible madness in Loki—that punishing him in such a way would only make it worse. He had wished that Loki would have fought—would have defended himself and his actions. But Loki had said nothing in court. He had not spoken much at all after the muzzle had been removed from his face—silver tongue freed. He had screamed—shouted curses and insults—raged. And then the rage had subsided into laugher. And after that—after he was too weak—to out of breath to go on—Loki had remained silent. Part of him had wanted Loki to escape.

Thor has never been gentle in any sense—but his touch is controlled, soft, and even hesitant as he smoothes Loki's hopelessly matted hair from his ruined face. He has to be gentle in this moment to gain any form of trust he can, for escape requires a brutality that Thor no longer feels himself capable of. "I do not wish to harm you, brother," Thor whispers. Loki leans into the physical contact, unsure, but desperate.

The slow building of venom at the tip of the unmoving viper's giant fang urges him to action. An empty bowl lies abandoned and unused by the rock—mocking. He steels himself, bracing. Still clutching Loki's unresponsive hand in his, Thor raises Mjolnir high above his head, and prepares to bring it down upon the enchanted chains that bind his little brother to the jagged rock on which he is splayed. Loki's wrists and ankles will surely be crushed—and Thor hopes that that will be the worse of the damage, for the blow could kill him—but one more moment of agony cannot mean much to this silent, ghost of a man who has endured centuries of constant, unbearable pain. "I am so sorry, brother."


Tony watches in muted horror as Loki leans down and presses his forehead to Thor's in a kind of intimacy—raising the glinting dagger high. "I am so sorry, brother." In an instant, he swings around and throws the weapon—a silver flash in the evening light—straight at Amora. Thor is released from the hold of the enchantment—instantly on his feet and calling to Mjolnir with his outstretched hand as Amora is forced to block the speeding dagger aimed at her heart. "Skurge—" Amora cries out as the Thunderer advances on her.

His power restored to his suit, Tony's repulsors flare and shudder as he struggles not to plummet to the pavement below. He lets out a shout of excitement as he soars into the night air, targets locking on the giant, ax-wielding Asgaridian and sending a volley of mini explosives straight for him. He is grinning like a madman, despite his injuries and that knot that has formed in his stomach from the scenes he has just witnessed—because, for whatever the reason—be it selfish or out mercy—Loki had chosen to spare Thor in that moment.

Skruge braces himself against the onslaught of rockets, most of them striking the thick metal armor of his chest plate, causing little damage and bouncing off like insects. Tony swears under his breath. Time to bring out the big guns. Before Tony can launch anymore weapons, Thor's hammer flies across and collides with Skurge, sending him roughly to the ground. "Nice one, Thor," Tony calls as he hovers in the air. He spots the stone on the ground and makes a dive for it. "Mine."

While Skurge is still reeling from the blow Thor advances on the unprotected Enchantress, Mjolnir raised high. "Surrender now, Amora," Thor warns, voice gruff and strained. Amora holds up her hands, as if giving up, and then vanishes. Thor narrows his eyes, startled.

"Come and fight me, Odinson." The words come from far away, echoing oddly off of the buildings. She stands atop one of the shops' roof, green energy billowing from her fingertips. Thor launches himself into the air with a frustrated growl, following after her.

The Executioner rises with an angry groan, ax swinging. Tony flies forward, aiming more missiles at the massive god. He turns to Loki, who in still kneeling on the ground. "Hot potato." He shouts, tossing the stone his way. Dazed, Loki manages to catch it.

Tony laughs, dodging a hit from Skurge. He can feel the burst of wind as the ax slices through the air, narrowly missing him. He blasts the mammoth with his repulsors, weaving and ducking to avoid more blows. Suddenly, Tony is thrown from the sky, sent plummeting to the pavement and into the side of a building—a powerful force pushing him backward. Stunned, Tony tries to get to his feet.

"Now that the mortal and the Thunderer are distracted—" Amora appears—her double still keeping Thor occupied. Loki jumps up and takes a defensive stance, jaw clenched. They trade blows, Loki blocking her swift attacks of concentrated energy and striking at her with his fists. They dance around each other—equally matched, even without Loki's sorcery. He blocks her attack with his forearm—she dodges a blow to the gut.

"There is no escape, Loki," Amora hisses, capturing both of Loki's wrists in a magic hold in her hands. Loki struggles against her grasp, eyes going wide as wisps of energy surround them. "You can either come willingly with me now to your fate, or be dragged, begging and pleading like a coward to Asgard's gates—if not by me, then by others. You have no other options, Trickster."

Amora looks mildly confused when Loki bares his teeth in a wolfish grin, a small chuckle escaping his throat. "I always have other options." There is gasp as Loki's skin turns a deep royal blue from the fingers down, Amora releasing his wrists with an anguished cry and holding her blackened, frost-bitten hands to her chest.

Tony's rush of triumph is short-lived. Loki flees from Amora's side, only to turn to face Skurge, who lumbers to a standing position. With a yell, Skurge lunges forward towards the God of Mischief, who merely stands still, a smile on his face. It is a look of acceptance—of resignation.

"Skurge, no— we need him alive—" Amora's pained shouts go unheard by the Asgardian warrior.

"JARVIS, put all power into the repulsors. Now."

"Done, Sir."

The Executioner lifts his ax and swings it down at Loki with all of his might. Tony rockets through the air in a flash of red and blinding light that makes his armor tremble with the force of the thrusters. He bites his lip—breath caught in his throat—chanting, praying, a race against the falling ax. There is a blinding flash of light—a shriek of metal meeting concrete and ax meeting metal—a howl of rage and surprise. Skruge falls over onto his back on the ground, unconscious from the repulsor blast.

Tony allows himself to keel over. Clutching his damaged shoulder tightly, he expects an unpleasant impact with the pavement, only to find himself caught by strong arms and lowered to the ground. The armor around his shoulder is cracked and sparking from where the ax blade fell—leaving circuits and wires exposed. He allows his head to loll backwards, gazing up to see Loki looking down at him through his screen.

"No—Skurge—"

The sharp yell is a prelude to a blast of green energy that nearly engulfs Tony. He braces himself, expecting the worst—expecting more pain—and shuts his eyes against the sorcery. Nothing happens. When Tony opens his eyes, he no longer sees Amora—just Loki, standing in front of him, still in his Frost Giant form. He watches, confused and disoriented, as Loki's hands dart through the air and dissipate the green energy into nothing.

There is a sound like birds' wings fluttering, and then a muffled thud as Thor lands beside them. There is a brief silence, in which the three wounded men can hear the distant noises of the city—the sirens, the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier that circles above them—people, a mass of unintelligible murmurings.

"Enchantress—" Tony asks, "Is she gone? Did she Houdini herself out of here or something?"

Thor's rough voice answers, solemn. "She is gone. It is over."

Tony exhales sharply, letting out a shaky laugh. He sits up suddenly, eyes darting around for something, searching the ground. He sighs, shakes his head. "Did you have a warranty on that thing?" He jokes, though he is genuinely miffed that the stone—the object that has caused all of the mischief and mayhem—has been shattered into pieces by the blast of the repulsors.Shattered stone—shattered god. Now it really is a self-portrait.


Tony watches, hands folded, fingers locked and propping up his weary head. He blinks slowly, lids drooping hopelessly. He is exhausted, to put it lightly—but, good God, his tiredness is surely nothing compared to this broken man before him, whose shoulders slump under the pressure of his mind and the weight of his mistakes. It is a familiar image—too familiar—distressingly so.Stop projecting, Tony. But, try as he might, Tony cannot help but compare himself to this lone figure—if only to selfishly find a kind of sick comfort in finding that perhaps Tony is not as screwed up in the head as Loki is. But there was also hope in this juxtaposition—the hope that Loki can be saved.

Loki has mythology of his own with out being tied to Tony's story with a petty comparison. Loki has his own story—his own fall—his own tearjerker. This man—god—whatever—is Tantalus, the comfort and nourishment of life-giving water and sustenance forever deprived from him, out of his reach—Icarius with broken wings from flying too high—Tityos—Promethus—and worst of all, Loki. Loki is flesh and Loki is real—not like the figures of literature who met similar fates—because though he has committed horrible sins out of spite and ruthless ambition, his horror has been real—is real. Loki has suffered for his crimes—a punishment that seemed too brutal for anything outside of myth.

Tony absently rubs the bandages on his shoulder. The ride back to Stark tower had been awkward, to say the least. Thor and Loki had not said a word to each other on the helicarrier, and so Tony had considered it up to him alone to provide the group with conversation. Natasha had been on the carrier, having watched most of the scenes unfold from the jet—it had been her who had rightly ordered the agents not to gun Loki down when he had been kneeling over Thor's body with the dagger—a good call on her part. He wanted to know why—why she had decided to give him a chance—not to shoot—but it was not a topic he could just bring up in front of the two complicated gods. Loki's cuts had been treated by medics, along with Tony's bloodied shoulder. It was lucky, really, that the cuts and scrapes had been the only damage sustained during their fight.

After they arrived at the tower, Thor had gone off to make a phone call to Jane, and Loki had stalked off on his own, silent. Tony had gone straight for the bar, only to be intercepted by a very angry and worried Pepper. Naturally, in the late hours of the night, when Tony had wandered into one of his workrooms, unable to sleep, he had found Loki waiting there for him.

"Tell me, Stark, do you believe in fate—in hap?" Loki's voice is hollow—low and silky. He turns to meet Stark's imploring gaze, and Tony, suddenly conscious of his own staring, glances away.

Tony scratches absently at his stubble, letting out a deep sigh. "You're asking the wrong person. I don't believe in much. Besides, what do you care what a mere mortal thinks anyway?" There is truth in his words. Tony does not believe in much—not in magic or a God who gives a damn, or in most people. Tony believes in science—the science that has saved his life more times than he can count.

"Perhaps I value your opinions and your counsel. What then, Stark? Would you oblige me?" Loki's lips tug at a small smile. "Do you believe that one can be destined—that one's fate cannot be avoided?"

Tony ponders this, eyes closing warily. "This is about what Amora said—about the stone." It is not a question—it is a statement. His stomach constricts.

Nodding slowly, Loki strides over to one of the large, transparent screens that line the wall of Tony's workroom, his back to him, hands clasped. "If what she claimed is true—of the Norns and the stone—of Ragnarok, and the birthing of beasts—"

"Then what?" Tony snaps, standing to his feet, "What? You're just going to throw yourself back into that hellhole? You're just going to lie down and submit because some toll-free telephone fortune-teller told you to?"

"What would you have me do, Stark?"

"Fight. Fight with everything you got. You can't go back to the Hurt Locker if you're here with me—with Thor."

Loki chuckles lightly, bitterly. "You mortals do not understand the ways of the All-father and the Norns. You may not swallow the idea of destiny—but you have been touched by fate yourself." Loki spins around and strides forward quickly, suddenly face-to-face with Tony. Tony jolts slightly as Loki's burning green eyes meet his own, and as Loki's icy fingers reach out to his chest.

Tony's heart races, "What are you—"

Loki ignores Tony's startled murmurings. His fingers feel pleasantly cool against Tony's chest, even through the thin fabric of his shirt. Loki's hand rests on the arc reactor—his face illuminated by the breathing glow of the device. His touch gossamer touch sends chills down his back. "You have been touched by fate, Stark, for you should have left this world when you received this wound, yet, here you are. You still have a part to play."

Tony's eyes flick down to Loki's hand, back up to his face. His expression is nearly blank—but pain lingers there, along with acceptance, resentment, and a kind of terrifying glee. Tony doesn't recoil, finding that he does not feel the need to, and they stand there for a moment, close. "Yeah, but I had a choice." Tony explains gruffly, "Sure, the shrapnel should have killed me—but what I did with my so-called second chance was up to me. I could have turned my back on everything that I had seen. I chose this—so don't give me that destiny bullshit. Everything you've done has been your choice. You have a choice now, too."

Loki narrows his eyes. "I never claimed that my choices were not my own. I am no willing puppet to the Fates—yet, every choice I have made thus far has led me down the path Yggdrasi has set for me—Asgard's thorn, and Asgard's end. The All-father knows this."

"I'm still not buying it, Harry Potter. You don't have to do anything. You're not going back to your prison—not if Thor and I have anything to say about it. Hell, if Fury's offer still stands, we could get S.H.I.E.L.D. to protect you."

"Why should I try to stop it? Why should I not allow the prophecies to be fulfilled? Asgard and every pathetic citizen in it have betrayed me—cast me out at the command of their lying, pious king. I will bring about the end of the gods. I will have my revenge—a monster of their own making."

Tony grimaces, disgusted by the words. "You haven't learned anything, have you? The only person you're hurting with your lies—your actions—is yourself."

"What do you know of my motives—of my actions?" Loki hisses, removing his hand from the technology in Stark's chest. "You know nothing."

"You say that a lot. Change the record." Tony sucks in a breath, steeling himself. He knows that he is headed straight for dangerous waters, but Tony Stark would not be Tony Stark if he didn't take risks. "I know that you had the chance to murder Thor today, and that you didn't take it. I know that you saved my life. I know that you didn't plan on making it out alive when you fought Mr. Ax-happy, lumberjack on steroids."

Loki's indifferent mask twists into a snarl of rage and he shoves Tony away roughly, pushing against his chest. Tony knows that he's struck several nerves—especially in bring up Thor. But it had to mean something—a change in Loki that had stayed his hand when faced with the option of committing the act—something that he had been striving for. Whether or not Loki had spared Thor for sentimental reasons or for selfish reasons remains to be seen—but somehow Tony knows that he will never get an honest answer. He strides back over to the wall of computer screens and starts to type.

Tony blinks, taken aback, and forgets about the serious argument for a moment. "How'd you learn how to work the computers?" He snorts to himself, crossing his arms and leaning against the table.

He can hear a sly smile in Loki's voice, though he cannot see his face. "I am merely observant." Okay, so Loki had learned his tricks from studying him. Tony, try as he might, finds this more endearing and amusing than creepy. He watches as a picture appears on the screen—a painting. Tony is instantly reminded of the museum—of the melting paintings, and of the shattered stone that sits on the table behind him.

"It is said on Asgard," Loki laments, his tone oddly tender, "That the Norns, Urd, Skuld, and Veran, decide the fates of the gods. These beings, said to be older than the All-father himself, have visions of the future."

"I love story time. That's—" Tony pauses, searching for a word. "So a bunch of wrinkly old ladies read palms and crystal balls for the gods? That's a bit of a stretch for me, Macbeth." Despite his dismissal of all things 'magic,' Tony is curious enough to walk the length of the room and squint up at the screen. His face pales.

"You see, Stark, this grotesque depiction, like the stone, was forged by a mortal long before my exile came to be—long before the truth of my heritage was revealed to me, before my torment, before my conquest of Midgard. My fate has been sealed by the Norns, and by the All-father, for centuries." When Loki starts to laugh quietly, Tony nearly jumps, startled by the harsh and unnatural contrast between the horrible image and the manic sound. There is a man, splayed upon a rock, naked and chained under a serpent, venom dripping. "What say you now, Stark?"

Tony does not ponder his words, because if he thinks about any of what Loki has said, he might say the wrong thing. "I say I need a drink. I say we should party it up—celebrate that Amora is no longer on our asses, and then take a well-deserved nap." He claps his hands together.

"I have seen things—visions, cryptic flashes—during my banishment from Asgard when I fell between worlds and voids and space. I saw Asgard burning, melting. I saw only destruction. I was glad to see it burn."

Tony turns to the computer, tossing the image of the gruesome painting into the virtual trash bin, as if it was that easy to rid them of the problem. His fingers dart over the screen, type on the keyboard of strange, scientific symbols—a language that only he and JARVIS really knows. "Look—I've been doing some research on that you Asgardians call magic, and I think I can figure out a way to unblock the energy and restore your powers to you." He unconsciously sticks out his tongue as he fiddles with the computer, focused. "With your mojo back—well, you'll have your mojo back."

"Only the All-father can restore what was ripped from me."

Tony gives him a look, smirking. "Yeah, but I'm Tony Stark."


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