Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
Chapter 25: Sticks And Stones
Up and down Loki stalked the halls, wandering about past guards and servants and up stairs until he didn't know which way was north, from which direction he'd initially come. He dwelt upon the fact that Odin had said nothing for the whole of the supposed judgment, save those few infuriating words, then recalling the guard and casting a hand to the cuffs that had bound him. They had been removed with a swiftness that Loki had believed impossible for any but himself. And he knew not why.
He should have been cast out, stripped of his craft and sentenced to endure upon the cold wastes of Jotunheim; burn in the fires of Muspelheim. Something, anything, that he and the rest of Asgard would look upon as horrendous punishment, the sort fitting for a traitor and a murderer. But the fire in that weary eye had not been what any of them had expected. It had been nothing more than smoke, an obvious lack of conviction. Perhaps the banishment of his real son had been enough to make the Allfather soft.
It angered him, not only that they would dare lie, but play at being family, pretend that he was anything but the monster stolen swiftly from the lingering hand of death. Would they not acknowledge him as a threat, then it would have been best for Odin to have left him there in the dark, allowed a supposedly innocent child to die in cold blood.
His hand curled, and Loki found himself hidden in the soft red fabric of a wide curtain, Thor's chambers. Of course, in his anger, he would gravitate to the territory of the one who had shamed him, consistently humiliated him. Whatever plan Thor's slow mind had concocted, Loki would have no part of it. He needed no protector, and intended to prove it.
The doors opened slowly as his brother returned, Jane absent from his arm as he settled into a chair, presumably in some spell of deep thought. As Loki stepped from behind the curtain, Thor stood, wide-eyed and solemn-looking, as though he had anticipated some sort of antagonistic behavior.
Needless to say, he was correct.
"Why would you do that?!" Loki demanded, and took easily to shoving his brother like a child. Thor stepped back and said nothing. "I told you not to! I've told you a thousand times that I don't need your help, and still you insist! Why are you always so bent on humiliating me?!"
Sure as Loki himself was the devil, Thor was a coward and would not answer him; would not grant him even the slightest bit of respite while he was trapped in Asgard with these tumultuous thoughts of his. Loki shook him again, and Thor's mouth pressed itself into a thin line. Again the God of Thunder was shoved, this time toppling over backwards as his cape caught beneath the heel of his boot, sending the both of them to the floor with the chair that Thor had quickly grabbed as means of support. The wood struck with a loud clatter, an evident split appearing in the dark finish of the arm, gaping as though, at any given moment, it would begin to bleed.
Even angry as he was, it was a bit of a shock as Loki imagined that the split should have been peering through Thor's golden hair.
Thor pushed back, sent him skidding across the floor and to the wall, charging across the room in time to catch him, hold him fast by the collar.
"Would you rather that Father send you to die?! Do you not understand the chaos you have wrought; the lives you have destroyed?!" The elder prince's face seemed to soften then, his sky blue eyes appearing deep as the sea as he let go. His hands moved to Loki's shoulders. "Do not ask me to endure the sight of my brother's death sentence."
What could he say to that? What possible bite could he put into words that would rid Thor of this useless sentimentality? He knew now, like the rest of them, what Loki was, what he had done, what he was willing to do. And still they coddled him, behaving as though he were nothing more than a lost little boy, struggling to find his way through the halls in the dead of night. As if he did not know right from wrong; as if he did not know the damage wrought. As if he would have a sudden change of heart, embrace them all for holding to the lie that their family had always been; forgive them for keeping him in the shadows all this time. Thor was exempt from all that, for he had been just as blind. But for their parents to expect such a pardon... Thus far, it was unthinkable.
Thor could not lie. He was talented as Odin in his glory days in the ways of war, hunting, tracking, the proper use of armor and weaponry. But Thor, pure and foolish as he was, had no talent as a liesmith. The God of Thunder was better suited to butchery and insolence.
So perhaps he had meant the words spoken. Perhaps he didn't want to stand by and endure as Loki was sent away, more likely than not, to face death. But it would change nothing. He didn't need help, he didn't need saving. And he sure as hell didn't need a protector.
His brother clung to him, broad hand at the back of Loki's head as though he'd pull him into his arms the way he'd done when Loki had been no taller than a step stool. He had fallen often, sometimes against the corners of stones in the courtyard, against the foot of a bed, or even face first onto the floor, splitting his lip or cutting himself in the process. And, every time, Thor had come running, yelling as his eyes looked far too large for his round face, pulling Loki against him as he had cried.
It was strange to think on that, as Loki had never been particularly nostalgic.
"I only ever wanted to protect you, Brother."
"Liar!" he snapped, and Thor promptly recoiled. "You led them, Thor, all of them! Encouraged them to play your little games because you knew, somewhere in your heart, that there was something wrong with me!"
As long as he could remember, they had followed Thor, willing to do as he did, do as he had told them. There had never been any explanation for that, only the knowledge that they had, and always would, mimic his brother and his bad behavior. When Thor had fought against him, even in practice, they would laugh when he fell, play their pranks and run away, always eager to leave him behind. They hadn't been pleased when he'd caught up, learned crafts that served well to frighten them in the night, sway their blades one way when they'd been meant to go the other. They had looked down on him, the trickster, no longer playing their games, but speaking words of malice behind his back.
It had been nothing short of torment. The furthest thing from protection when coming from a brother.
"But now," he laughed, the sound forced, "now that you've dragged me home, permitted all of them to see what I was always meant to become... They fear me. Your friends, your parents, your Asgard, all fear me. Never have I had such command until now. Never have they seen me as anything but a joke, your tag-along, your shadow. They were never mine, Brother..."
Not even his mother.
"Do you remember," Thor said, slow and steady, "what you said to me the night I first returned from Midgard?" He gave Loki a shake, as if to jog his memory. "That you never wanted the throne. That you only ever wanted to be..."
"Your equal?!" Loki shoved him away, hard. "Tell me, Thor. How long did it take for those words to reach you? Before I was cast into oblivion, or after? Before you found yourself a home upon Midgard, or when I sought you out?" His eyes moved to the doors, suddenly open as Frigga stood watching them. He wondered just how much she had seen and heard. Loki gestured with a hand as if dismissing his own questions. "It doesn't matter now. As I told you once, Odinson, I have grown, as have my desires. This is not about standing on equal ground." Loki grimaced. "I mean to grind you into dust."
She choked, hands clapped over her mouth and Thor flinched, coming at him again, hands balled into tight fists.
"Enough!" he bellowed, Loki's head caught under his arm. Perhaps a part of the bag of tricks he'd learned watching mortal wrestling. "You will not speak that way in front of our mother!"
Loki squirmed in his grasp, twisting around to catch Frigga's gaze with his own. He scowled, clawing at Thor's hand. "Your mother!" the trickster barked, and he knew that the words would cut her, further anger Thor. He just couldn't bring himself to care.
It burned him then, the fire in his blood, as Thor let him go, grabbing him by the sleeve to swing him, forearm quickly slamming Loki back into the wall like a steel vice against his chest. He coughed, ignoring Frigga as she crumpled steadily, almost in slow motion, to the floor. That throbbing pain coursed through him again, steady like the beating of the war drums, bitter taste running down the back of his throat.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance! You've had more than one!" And that undeniable urge to drive a dagger between his brother's ribs surfaced again.
Thor held him there for a time, each staring the other down as though trying to read between the heavily lined pages of a book. Loki made no move, did not laugh or smile or shoot off the snide remarks that flowed from mind to ice the tip of his tongue. He did not look away, pay any mind to the heat that came to his cheeks as Frigga dared to face him again. Staring straight ahead, he dared Thor to say something, to challenge his words. They both knew them to be true; both knew that, more than once, the gentle prince of Asgard had considered putting his brother to rest.
Loki fell forward as Thor pulled away, his knees hitting the floor hard, catching himself on his hands, heaving. Her footsteps came, touch cool as one arm circled around his back as his heart threatened to pound a hole through his chest.
"What of my friends?" he heard his brother say, and realized that Heimdall had come.
"They are at war," the Gatekeeper replied, grim as usual. "They combat the giants of Jotunheim."
The golden prince turned on him then, marching back across the room with a few long strides, hand trembling at his side as though he'd very much like to slap Loki in the face.
"You let them in." It was not a question.
Loki snickered, suddenly ashamed to have his mother on his arm, leaning him back against the wall as he teetered on his feet. "Well, of course I let them in. How else would the Jotunns make their way to precious Earth? The Bifrost, perhaps?" He glanced to Heimdall, and the Gatekeeper appeared to leer back. "Or maybe, there are other ways..."
"Enough with your games, Brother!" Thor roared, but he made no move to usher Frigga away.
"Games? You think this is just a game, do you?" A laugh. "I already told you, Brother. I mean to grind you all into dust. Not just you, and not just Asgard. Your little Avengers will follow."
The God of Mischief had not expected him to react so violently, to have the nerve with which to strike him in the presence of their mother. But there it was, the echo of the impact ringing in his head, pale eyes wide as his teeth rattled, blood upon his tongue. Loki looked to Thor in distaste, Frigga's grip on his arm tightening as though she could hold him back, and the elder prince turned quickly on his heel, giving instruction to Heimdall to prepare the Bifrost while he went about to recruit his friends.
Loki's head smacked the wall as he leaned back, fixating his gaze on some unknown point opposite him in the room as Frigga said nothing, leaning against his shoulder.
So clearly she wanted to say something, ascertain as to whether or not Loki had meant those things he'd said. But she remained silent, fingers trailing through the ends of his hair, his mind made up.
He would apologize for nothing.
# - # - # - #
The street was cool, even beneath the fabric of his uniform, seeping through the holes as he lay still, stars buzzing around his head as he blinked. There was blood seeping from the gash in his head through the fine hairs of his eyebrow; he could feel it, warm against his skin. He'd tried shifting before, tried to lift the monster away, but his bones had only cracked further, perhaps broken, from the weight, and Steve was left to lie beneath the corpse of an eight-foot giant.
He breathed slowly, seeking to remain calm, remember that panic was the quickest way to death. He needed to think, take in his surroundings, understand what was going on and in which direction, to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention to himself.
From here, he could hear them, rockets launching and exploding, the Hulk's tremendous battle cries, and the assassins as they fired off round after round, causing the beasts to writhe in pain. The sound of screaming citizens had stopped, and Steve thanked the heavens. Surely, there would be civilian casualties, but the less people who died, the better. And not only for his conscience.
He was a soldier, a man having fought in what could perhaps be named as the world's most vicious war. He had become somebody, a man capable of saving life rather than standing by as it was so easily destroyed. And yet, he lay there in a crater in the street, steadily crushed by the unknown weight of a giant having come from a realm across the expanse of space. Though Steve could only smile to himself, wondering what his comrades in the war would have said were they to hear tell that he'd joined a team of otherworldly heroes to fight off an invasion from space. He imagined that they'd have laughed, called him crazy.
His eyes closed, and he thought of happier times, wondering if this was where he had been meant to die. Perhaps he'd been chosen to survive only the war of his time, to come here and lay down in death while the city around him burned. If so, it certainly wasn't fair. But the world didn't operate on a basis of what was and wasn't equal.
"Come on, Cap, wake up!"
Tony's voice rang through his head and Steve looked up, not even realizing that he'd dozed off in the midst of his reverie.
In an instant the giant was gone, thrown off to the side by the iron suit, and Steve made a mental note to remember that, as Tony had insisted on more than one occasion, that it was made of a titanium alloy. Whatever the hell that translated to in layman's terms. He was pulled to his feet then, suddenly light headed as Tony's arm wrapped around him, holding him up.
"What's happened?" he asked, suddenly feeling sleepy. "Where'd they all come from?"
They lifted off the ground then as Tony scoffed.
"Hell, Cap. If I knew, I'd just throw another damn rocket in there, and blow 'em all up." The air rushed past as they flew, and Steve's head lolled. "Don't worry about them. Just... shut up."
The Captain smiled, hoping that, when he came to again, there would still be a city to save.