Disclaimer: I don't own it, sadly enough, and that sucks because well...it sucks.
This is an answer to a prompt on Norsekink and a cannon!AU:
"Scourge; 1. a whip or lash, especially for the infliction of punishment and torture. 2. a person or thing that applies or administers punishment or severe criticism. 3. a cause or affliction or calamity (disease and famine are scourges of humanity)
Loki is the Scourge of Odin and the most powerful sorcerer in the Nine Realms. When someone truly angers him, Odin sends Loki to met out punishment. The position has given Loki great power, but he hates it. It isn't the magic he dreamed of performing for Asgard when he started learning spells. Odin also commanded him to secrecy (a misguided attempt to prevent Loki being feared by the Asgardians).
Loki can create plagues that wipe out entire populations, famines that starve entire planets, extinctions or overpopulations (locusts ect) that devastate entire ecosystems, and calamity's that change the very shape of the land (wars and natural disasters). Odin keeps the Nine Realms in check with the threat of these.
When Loki called himself a "monster" he really meant it - the revelation of his Jotun heritage enough to finally push him to say what he's thought of himself and the horrible things he's committed across the Nine Realms in Odin's name. It's also why he tried to destroy Jotunheim, along with destroying a part of himself he hated he was acting out a punishment he truly thought would please Odin.
When Odin has need of his services, he goes to Midgard to give Loki orders - in front of the Avengers. Thor is horrified to learn Loki is the Scourge all in the Nine Realms live in terror of.
He can't control the way he falls, the way he lands, or the way the Void tears holes into his skin as it digs for his magic, sucking it out of him. There is no mercy to be had and Loki can do naught but burn.
The pain burns through him like a fire would a dry plain of grass. It boils his blood and already damaged skin, sending small fires down the length of his body. His bones are cracked and fractured. His armour is useless. The leather torn, the gold ornaments dented and dulled. Nothing can protect him.
The touches of the Void are soft and gentle despite the bonfires they leave in their wake. Its fingers trail across his skin, calling for the magic trapped beneath his pores. An inferno burns, plowing through his bloodstream without any regard, without any remorse or guilt. It is curious.
Every breath is a struggle - he needs air.
The Void continues to prod him, the traces of whispers floating into his ears, but nothing registers. The Void is a sentient being and Loki can only scream as it strokes his magic, coaxing it through the veins in his body. The scent of ozone fills his nostrils, fills his lunges - he chokes and sputters.
The mage can only do so much as the Void pulls his magic from within. It feels nothing as its victim screams himself hoarse. Yet Loki still opens his mouth, but he has no voice. Not anymore. Did he ever have a voice? The Void remains relentless.
Knives begin to tear into his skin where there were feather-light touches before. They dig deep and twist, growing more adventurous with each drop of blood that beads off of him. Sharp, metallic edges carve valleys into his stomach, his arms - every inch of living flesh they can find. He feels them leave for a time, and he can only let the breath he hadn't known he was holding before they return.
Loki writhes away from its touch, the pain already becoming unbearable and stressing his limits. Reserves depleted and already on the last few drops of magic that still blessedly swirls around in his core, he cannot spare anything to heal his broken and damaged body. Any flesh that has been torn into with imaginary knives, any patches of black lifelessness cannot be healed or repaired. He simply has not the energy.
Loki doesn't like sleep. It tears him away from work, forcing his body to shut down and recuperate after a day-long marathon of research and experiments. He has too much to do, too much to finish and he can't set about completing his missions if he needs to drop dead every time his body decides when enough is enough.
Honestly, the restless nights spent nitpicking and cleaning are better than nights spent lost within his own mind with only his thoughts to keep him company. Loki thinks a lot and the gears of his mind never cease to turn.
His mind is a traitorous thing, but Loki has learned to keep his thoughts separate from his life. At least until his eyelids close and the world falls silent.
For now, all Loki has is his mind.
When his thoughts run out, when the gears in his mind stop turning, when the chemicals stop bubbling, there is nothing Loki can do to stop the memories.
Cold...
He is freezing. Loki curled in on himself, teeth chattering and limbs heavy with lead. Everything hurt. It is so cold. His breath caught in his throat and tremours ran through his body - he can't stop shaking. Suddenly he is a child, small and oh-so fearful of the world. Lost in the shadow of his big brother, his better brother, the golden brother.
The insufferable black turns midnight blue and Loki can hear the soft breaths of a creature. The inhales and the exhales. Shaky but strong.
Loki squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his teeth to brave the unsettling chill inside his bones. He can feel the knots inside his body undoing themselves, little locks unlatching and something slimy being lifted from his skin. He does not dare look.
Instead, he grasps at his mind, searching for an anchor of sorts to ground him in this never-ending abyss.
Mother's touch comes to mind. He remembers her soft fingers running through the tangles in his hair, smoothing out the charcoal strands gently with infinite care. How her chest rose and fell behind him as he sat in her lap, back turned towards her, eyes closed and body instinctively lingering into her protecting embrace. In the light of Asgard's sun, he would catch the silver scissors in her hands glinting menacingly, yet in Mother's hand, the image was gentle.
When she cut the first lock off, he would barely feel it leaving the rest of his hair. Mother's hands were always steady as she trimmed away the dead ends, her movements slow and confident, never faltering as the 'snips'of the scissors rang in the relative stillness of her and Odin's chambers. She would always comb his hair thoroughly afterwards, so much in fact that his hair become silken and impossibly fine.
Then her lips would press against the top of his head and she would inhale the scents of the oils she lathered into his hair to slick it back.
Her arms would wrap around him and if he asked, "Do you love me?" her answer would always be the same, "Of course."
He recalls the warmth of her hands, chasing away the alien blue.
But they are but memories and even Frigga has abandoned him.
Why didn't they tell him? Didn't they trust him? Hadn't he proved himself capable when he wiped out all those innocents with the magic that swirled inside him?!
Wasn't he worthy? Wasn't he?
The sharp curves of his nails dig through the fabric of his armour, pressing into his skin to the point of pain, but of course, it's not enough. Their shrieks rush past him in the wind and he can't drown them out. They whistle through his ears, coldly hissing like a snake hanging above him, waiting to strike, waiting to kill.
He cannot scream.
There is still so much hate inside him. So much loathe for himself. The only thing that remains constant is the cotton in his throat that he thinks might be guilt.
He could have done it. He could have proved himself to be worthy, could have saved them all.
If only they had let him.
It is a lie.
He's a monster.
Brought up to believe he could be something great, something more than just the monster under the bed. Given a position of power, the opportunity to serve Odin Allfather as his personal Scourge and trained to cast spells to cause plagues, famines, and other sources of calamity that would no doubt, leave people dead and scared for their lives. Loki had made a name for himself. No - Odin made a name for Loki.
Monster.
A father who preferred the better son, who pushed his younger son to take upon a mantle slathered with evil just because he is different, because he used magic, a woman's art. A mother who stood by and let everything run its course regardless of the pain it caused him. A brother who never noticed. A people who never understood nor tried to understand.
He is not only a stolen relic, he is the beast that was locked up to protect those around him and only released when they saw fit. He is the wounded animal that was pushed into a corner until all he could do was act out in panic, slaughtering those who stood in his way while the strings on his arms and legs were pulled and steered towards the true target.
But now, there is no Odin. There is no Thor. No Frigga. No Asgard.
Loki can make up his own purpose.
He is free.
There is nothing to fear.
"Do you trust me?"
"Of course."
It is a lie. It is a lie. It is a lie. It is a lie.
There is no way out. There is no end. There is Nothing. He cannot run, cannot escape the monster that looks at him as he falls further and further.
Sometimes Loki thinks about what might have been. He closes his eyes and breathes.
'What if...I had nothing to fear...'
"What is this?"
"It seems to be an Asgardian."
The first speaker looks at the heap of too-pale limbs and worn leather, an eyebrow arched with incredulity and interest. The figure is fast asleep, perhaps destined to never wake again.
"This is no Asgardian."
He can sense the ice flowing within the beings veins, the cold lumps of frozen blood and water that came with only one race in the Nine Realms.
"It is not?"
"No," his voice rumbles deeply as he shifted positions on his throne. He reaches out with a thick digit, stroking the small, helpless creature his servant set before him. "This is a child of ice - Jotunn."
His servant bows low, "Forgive me for my mistake, my lord."
"Have you any idea who this is?" he asks, waving off his servants apologies.
"I am afraid that I have none."
The master is silent for a time, contemplating the being that had fallen right into his hands. Though he knows little of the Eternal Realm, he knows enough to figure out the identity of the stranger - not that it's a surprise, the being's name is known even in the reclusive Realm of the Chitauri. It surprises him, however, to find out that the mischievous child of fire is not a child of fire at all.
"No matter, he will prove useful to us."
"How so, my lord?"
"He will take us directly to their heart," he smiles maliciously, a plan already forming in his mind. He strokes the black tendrils of hair and chuckles softly to himself. There is a power he can sense inside the young one, the power of chaos and destruction flows strong within him. No, that isn't right. The master takes a deep breath.
The little one is chaos. The very embodiment of it. Just like his Mistress.
"He is the perfect candidate for our experiment."
Short. Forgive me. For the wait too. School sucks. Life sucks.
But hey, a chapter!
When I started writing this, it was back in March (or somewhere around there) and then I went on a ridiculously long haitus and ta-da, I'm back, except on here. Hahahahaha, that was before the Avengers came out. So, this isn't exactly where I wanted to goooooo at first, but it will end up where I want it to, so it should be okay.
And this will remain Gen...doesn't mean there won't be subtle hints at a few pairings...
Happy reading!