Loki no longer dreams. Instead, when exhaustion overcomes him, he remembers…
…how he falls alongside Thor in the multifaceted stream of the Bifrost. It is an ungraceful tumble he can't correct before the gritty desert floor sweeps up to claim him. He's barely had time to get his bearings when Thor is dragging him to his feet. His brother is apoplectic, any ill will towards Loki burned away in his rage at their father. He lets his brother's fury flow over him, attention turned inward toward the aching absence at the heart of himself. He waits, unhearing, until Thor pauses for breath.
"Thor! We have larger problems at hand than the loss of Mjolnir. I cannot find it for you, not because I do not wish to, but because father has bound my magic." He grips his brother's shoulders with trembling hands.But, of course, Thor doesn't listen and continues to rage about his bloody hammer.
They're still arguing when the strange Midgardian chariot barrels from the swirling dust and sends them both flying.
Thor regains his feet first, and immediatelydemands answers from the group who spill from the vehicle.
"You," he booms, addressing the nearer of the two women. "What realm is this? Alfheim? Nornheim?" Loki sighs at his brother's lack of critical thinking. Oh come off it, Thor. Isn't it obvious where we are?
The woman backs away, raising her hands. From where he's sitting, he sees her shift the black block in her palm.
"Uh, New Mexico?" She quavers, holding the block up before her as Thor advances, towering over her.
"You dare threaten me, Thor, with so puny a weapon?" He scoffs, looking down at the tiny box scornfully.
He drops like a stone when she triggers the device.
Just great.
"My Lady," Loki begins, remaining seated in the dust and smiling unthreateningly up at the woman who silenced Thor so swiftly. She looks at the box in her hand, still trailing threads of metal and frowns slightly. A single use tool, he guesses; that should make this easier. His smile widens… and she punches him, full force, in the face. He sees stars and his vision greys, then…
…he opens his eyes and regards the kneeling mortals before him dispassionately.
"Is this not better?" He intones, as they struggle under the force of his sorcery pressing them to their rightful place. Something moves at the edge of his vision, and he looks up to the sky…
...and watches as another of the invaders explodes into a chrysanthemum of flame. There is no denying that those arrows he'd mocked earlier are more than effective, but they are still losing, and badly. He has no idea who else is still standing beyond himself, and presumably Clint based on the recent explosion. He's all out of options, down to the most basic of aims, kill or be killed. The tears make it hard to see as he swings Laevateinn toward the snarling husk of what was once his brother...
…and slams both hands down onto the map-covered table before him. Brunnhilde looks startled...
...and shakes her head in disbelief, raising her mug to summon more ale. Beside her, Thor glowers at him, not best pleased at his choice of tale this evening. He continues, "you must remember, this wasn't even my idea – Heimdall of all people was entirely to blame for this one." Beside his glaring brother, the King looks sceptical. "Really, I merely took his suggestion and embellished it a little. So there we were, in the court of Thrymr, surrounded by his host of warriors," he smiles at the recollection. "I was the bridesmaid. I looked fabulous. I'm not so sure about Thor." He leans in towards her, conspiratorial. "It was the beard. He wouldn't let me twine flowers into it. I thought it would finish his outfit off perfectly. He disagreed."
The King dissolves into giggles, and Loki sags backwards into the furs that drape his chair, hoping that they'll mistake it for an intentional pause to let the laughter abate. They're willing to let him leave his bed now, but Thor insists on being over-protective and will almost certainly have him whisked back to the New Hall if he has the slightest inkling that this tiny exertion is pushing him to his limits. He closes his eyes, and lets the hum of the meadhall wash over him, then...
…rolls luxuriantly in the comfort of his sleeping pool, the gentle warmth of the water easing the itching of his pebbled hide after a long day. He stretches out…
…held immobile by shackles that dig into his wrists and ankles, a minor pain that has long since been overwritten by the far more immediate agonies being scribed into his skin. He can no longer hold back the scream that The Other is coaxing from him with expert precision. He throws back his head and…
…laughs along with his fellow Avengers as Clint unwraps the gaudy plastic bow and foam darts. This tradition of foolish gifts is one he has embraced wholeheartedly. Across the table, Bruce pulls the next slip of paper from the mug; they're down to two, either himself or Scott. He stands to receive the strange, lumpy parcel Natasha offers to him (Red and gold wrapping, Stark? Really? How subtle.) and…
…her footsteps echo around the great hall as she strides to meet her brother at the steps before the throne.
"We must send aid to Midgard," she states with no preamble. This is too important to waste words on protocol and the niceties of court. Thor blinks, taken aback at her forthright tone.
"Am I not your foremost advisor, Thor?" She is so angry at their father's dismissal of her concerns that her grip on her glamour wavers briefly, a shimmer of blue rippling across her skin. Thor pales at this visible evidence of her distress, and places a soothing hand on her arm.
"Loki, Sister. Calm yourself." His eyes dart around the chamber, and his anxiety on her behalf forces her to take pause and gather her wits. She contemplates the vast painted ceiling above them and...
…squints into the bright sunshine of a perfect midsummer's day. Far off, the snowcapped peaks of mountains glitter, but here the meadow is a carpet of the vibrant blossoms that thrive in Jotunheim's brief summers.
He stands, in full ceremonial garb, resisting the urge to fiddle with the carved bone ornaments his mother has braided into his hair. They're heavy and click unpleasantly close to his ear when he turns too quickly. It's irritating, but it does help him maintain the composure that's expected during affairs of state such as this. He takes some small comfort that his counterpart from Asgard, Thor, looks as bored and ill at ease as he feels. In truth, their discomfort is probably relatively small compared to the small figure swathed in lace and silk directly before him. He can see from her posture that Princess Sylvie is finding this even more of a trial than the two Crown Princes. He has always respected the Asgardians' mother, Queen Frigga, ever since the day he stepped from the Bifrost to begin his time as a foster-son of the court, but today that respect is edged with outright awe. She's somehow managed to get Sylvie into a gown rather than her typical formal choice of shieldmaiden armour. Not that he can see much of her or the gown; the jewelled veil swamps her completely. Flanked by Thor and their cousin Fandral (he has no idea of the actual degree of kinship involved; Asgardian family ties are baffling and he's long since given up trying to reason them out against their far more sane and straightforward Jotun equivalents, so cousin does well enough) she stands a mere arms-span from him. Fuming, he can tell.
Behind him he can hear the flap and strain of the canvas pavilion and further off, the drone of his father and the AllFather exchanging the formal greetings and oaths that make up this ridiculous antiquated rite. They've just reached the oh-so-solemn recitation of the virtues of his soon to be betrothed; the grace and purity of the Princess of Asgard are apparently unsurpassed.
They're actually going to make it through this interminable nonsense without it going completely awry. There can't be that much more to say that needs to be witnessed by the representatives of the Nine Realms gathered for the ceremony. And then bloody, bloody Fandral winks at his brothers where they stand as his escort to his right.
He bites the inside of his cheek and prays to the Norns that Helblindi can keep a straight face. He's hopeless at it at the best of times. If he doesn't, Thor will crack, and once the big blond oaf starts laughing there's no way he'll be able to resist joining in. He can feel the blush starting to work its way across his cheeks, and briefly envies Sylvie her veil. He knows what that wink and the barely suppressed sniggering are about, and he's going to kill Helblindi for breaking his promise of silence. Is it treason to make the Crown Prince laugh at his own betrothal ceremony? If so, he's fully entitled to murder the sneaky little sod.
The faint scuffling and outraged squeak are almost quiet enough to be drowned out by the sail-like sounds from the pavilion. He offers thanks to whatever power of the universe that saw fit to give him at least one brother with some glimmer of sense. At a guess Bylastyr has found a way to refocus Helblindi - hopefully a painful one.
A fanfare marks the end of the speeches. Time for them to play their part in this ludicrous production. He steps forward, reaches out to grasp the hem of the veil and…
…helps Stark to his feet in the midst of battle. Around them Chitauri warriors screech their frustration as they try to breach the crackling barrier of green that surrounds their prey. He can't resist the urge to taunt their futile efforts...
…he curses Heimdall through the flickering wall of colour as the Bifrost rips him away from the crumbling deck of the ship. The last thing he sees is Thor, hanging helpless from the Titan's grasp. The Hulk roars with the same impotent fury he feels himself, but it's all for naught, it's too late to do anything but hope that Heimdall had some destination in mind when he swept them up like ragdolls. Then they're falling, the beam cut off fractionally too soon. He has just enough time to register blue sky, white clouds, a city rushing relentlessly closer, before they crash through roofceilingfloor, stairs. Sprawled in the detritus of their fall Bruce groans and pushes weakly at his shoulder; the Hulk may have bourne the brunt of their fall with no ill-effect, but apparently as Banner he can't muster enough strength to roll Loki's dead weight from where he's sprawled face down across his legs.
"Who the Hell are you?" The voice is sharp, unimpressed at their arrival. He groans and flops onto his back to stare up at…
…Sif, as she smiles down at him. His breath catches at the sight, and he thanks the Norns that they're finally alone. He moves to sit up, and winces as his shoulder protests. He reaches out with his good arm and...
…conjures a host of duplicates as his double summons a flaming blade to his hand. He's not entirely certain if this battle is inside his head or not, but either way he intends to defend himself. He readies his own blade, then…
…pulls the dagger back from Thor's chest, and screams in horror as the lectures on what to do with such an injury flood into his mind a moment too late.
"Father! Heimdall, get Father! Help!" He begs to the sky, hands scrabbling to press on the wound and stop the flow of blood. So much blood, as his brother gasps and pales on the grass in their mother's garden.
"It was supposed to be a joke," he sobs as gentle hands pull him away from his brother's body and he is enveloped in his mother's embrace. "I was a snake because he likes snakes and I wanted to make him jump and then I tried to cut his cloak away and he moved and I didn't mean it and now I've killed him." The world shivers and trembles through a film of tears as he watches his father lift Thor in his arms and run towards the Healer's Halls. He buries his face in his mother's gown and…
…yawns as he sits back from where he had slumped onto the scrolls piled into a messy drift on the desk. He's certain that somewhere in there is a reference to the Aether he remembers stumbling across, but there's not enough time to find it. He reaches down to retrieve a fallen scroll from the floor and…
…hops on one foot as he tries to pull on his boot while negotiating the stairs. Sometimes (constantly, constantly, oh this hurts) he really, really, misses having access to his magic. As he struggles in vain with uncooperative footwear and avoiding a descent that's any less graceful than it already is, The Ancient One pauses in her swift climb towards the roof-garden as she draws level with him.
"You are in a hurry. Going somewhere, Mr Odinson?"
"I looked through the Orb." The Ancient One purses her lips, and he continues quickly, "From a distance! From a distance! I didn't get close enough to do anything." And he's off again, hobbling as he fights with the laces. "I saw the invaders. That sceptre. I think I can be of help there." He wins the battle with his boot and takes off at a run. He can feel the Ancient One watching with a faint smile as he skids around the bottom post of the banister and pelts across the entrance hall, shouting for Wong. "Do you think you can make a portal to Stark's penthouse? I know you were reading that trashy magazine article the other day."
He leaps through the window in space Wong has cast for him, taking care to keep as far as possible from the glowing runes that frame it. Even so, it snaps closed uncomfortably close to his back as he stumbles to a halt in Stark's formerly glossy, high-end pad. He's pretty sure he's just had an impromptu haircut. He resists the urge to reach up and check the end of his braid, and instead extends his hands out to his sides, showing empty palms to the startled tableau before him. Sleight of hand could have him armed in an eye-blink, but they don't need to know that yet.
Whatever was taking place here before he materialised in a shower of golden sparks has been thoroughly disrupted by his arrival. The commander of the invaders is standing with the tip of the sceptre he carries pressed against Stark's chest.
"Son of Odin." The alien, Ebony Maw, his mind supplies, unbidden, turns, Stark apparently forgotten now a new puzzle has presented itself.
"Wait, there's another one?" Stark seems surprised, fiddling nervously with a gaudy bracelet. "You don't look much like him." He looks him up and down, taking in his Midgardian clothes and wire-rimmed glasses. "What are you? The God of Academics?"
"Enough of this." Ebony Maw waves a hand carelessly, locking Stark in place. "God or no, you will do my Master's bidding." The glowing sceptre touches lightly against his chest, the brilliant gem flaring brighter as the gaunt alien forces more and more power through it in a futile attempt to enforce his will. The would-be conqueror's eyes widen in confusion as the power of the sceptre pours forth ever faster, control of the flow slipping from his grasp.
And Loki reaches for the gaping wound where his magic should be.
The void where his magic was ripped away is akin to the crater of a missing tooth, raw and ever present. When he avoids probing it he's nothing more than a magical dead zone. Spells fail around him, items fail to spark to life in his hands, he passes unseen by all magical forms of sight. But when he tries to draw upon what was taken from him, he has discovered a new form of power.
He imagines the emptiness at his heart as a greedy maw, drinking down the bright fires of magic. Oily tendrils spreading across his skin and outward, reaching and draining everything they touch. Once he reaches for it, it is sheer force of will that prevents him from allowing it to consume and destroy, bleeding every magical source around him dry just to feel the flow of magic inward into that bottomless chasm. The only way he can ever know the touch of magic again. But now he can unleash the void, use it as a weapon as potent as any spell.
His smile is predatory as he relaxes his control over the ravenous hunger, feels the tide rush through him as he grasps the haft of the sceptre and senses the flow shift from a push to a relentless pull. He is aware of the sceptre's controlling strands withdrawing from the minds of Maw's forces as he consumes more and more of the power, and he struggles to slow the pull, to lessen the shock to their minds as they're released. The recoil from so many spells failing and joining the relentless wave is almost enough to shake his control, but he retains it by the smallest margin. There's a brief moment of equilibrium where he observes Maw desperately attempting to release his hold on the sceptre, and then he's drawing beyond the limit of what his adversary can handle, burning him from the inside out. The heady wash of magic through him is everything, he never wants it to end.
He's vaguely aware of his brother's arrival, feeling the familiar crackling touch of Mjolnir's power as it crosses the threshold of his event horizon and is stripped away, a tiny eddy in the stream. Lightning snaps between the hammer and his outstretched hand, burning the air to ozone as he draws from both the hammer and the sceptre; he has never felt so alive.
"Hey, cool it Professor."His awareness is jolted to the infinite smallness of the mundane by a hand pressing on his extended arm. Servos whine as Stark presses down, trying to break the link he has formed with Thor. Thor looks dumbstruck, held unmoving on the polished tile as his strength is sapped inexorably by the Void. Horror gives him the strength to slam the link closed; without Stark's intervention he would have burned his own brother to ash. He's abruptly aware that he is surrounded by Stark's compatriots. He has no idea when they arrived. No idea how long has passed since he leapt from Wong's portal.
Outside, he hears the disoriented shrieks of the invaders as they attempt to retreat. In the penthouse, no-one speaks or moves. He wonders how much of the battle was visible, or if all they saw before Thor's arrival was an anti-climactic tug of war over a glorified stick. He lets out a sob he can't decide is from laughter or despair. He's still holding the sceptre, and dusted with ash. He holds it uncomfortably out to one side in the hope that someone will relieve him of it, but no-one seems particularly keen to take responsibility for it, so he's left holding it as far away as he can when Thor envelops him in an overwhelming hug. Its weight is unwieldy now he is himself again, the metal cold against his palm. He tries to shift it, one-handed, to a more stable grip, but...
...Gungnir is awkward in his hands. He takes a deep breath to settle his nerves, and…
…blinks as the glaring spotlights of the arena momentarily blind him when the steel doors roll aside.
"Just so we're clear, I blame you for this entirely, Lackey." Valkyrie mutters from his left.
"Because selling us into slavery had no bearing on our current predicament at all, did it, my dear Scrapper 142?" He's buggered if he's going to let her drop all this on him alone. He brushes his hand self consciously through what's left of his hair. "So, this Champion of the Grandmaster's," he begins.
The crowd's roar drowns out any response she gives him. It doesn't matter anyway, as another roar fills the stadium.
"Oh shit." This is about to go even further off the rails than it already has.He drops the blades from their wrist sheaths into his hands then...
...holds the wickedly sharp edge against Sif's throat. The traitor doesn't have the energy to struggle any longer and lies there passively as he traces the tip across unbroken skin. It takes so little pressure to slice through her flesh, and the patterns the flow of blood creates are almost beautiful. Her eyes still burn with such hate that he is loath to finish this and let her go. It would be a waste of such glorious defiance. He considers for one final time whether to heal his handiwork and decides that yes, she deserves a little longer. After all, she may yet come to see the error of her ways, just as he had. He waves a hand the length of her body, healing the lacework he has created to a new network of silver lines intersecting those already there. The insolence in her gaze dims a little at this, defeated and another step closer to breaking. He wonders if he should speak to his mentor, his progress isn't as fast as he would like. But the Other will just remind him that he needs more patience. After all, it took him, master of his art, far longer than this to bring about his own epiphany. He turns from her, wiping...
... dust from his hands onto his trouserlegs.
"You're making progress, Miss Maximoff." He's determined not to let her get disheartened. He picks up the fragments of the vase. This time, he estimates that only a quarter of the target has been pulverised. Much better than the last one; compared to a total implosion, partial crushing was definite progress. "Fine control can be very hard to master." He waves a hand and conjures the mess away, replacing it with a new object from somewhere in Stark's quarters.
They both regard the figurine on the table dubiously.
"Ah," Wanda doesn't seem to know how to continue whatever it was she was going to say. Loki nods.
"Yeah." There's not really anything else to say. "Put it back, or explode it. Either's good."
He watches as she concentrates, face scrunched up with the effort of focusing, and...
...shoots what he hopes is a charming lop-sided grin up at the enraged Scrapper. She rolls her eyes and pulls him up onto his knees with the chains she has him wrapped in.
"I think we're going to get on famously," he eyes the tattoo revealed by her dislodged armour speculatively, "Valkyrie." She glares at him in disgust and throws him back to the deckplates of her ship. He hits the floor...
…and wakes in the Citadel Outside Time, the glow of the timelines drifting in waves over him. Out there, all these things are true.