Chapter 6
He opened his eyes. His marred vision granted him the imperfect visuals of a sight seen through a glass covered in fog.
A blurry haze of peach came forward, closer, until he could focus and the contours became a bit clearer, but too cloudy still to make them out. He closed his abused eyes, forcing the tears to spill. He kept them close, feeling the familiar brush of her skin around his wrist. When he opened his eyes again, she was leaning over him. Her hair, parted in the middle, fell in a dark curtain of loose curls, brushing his exposed chest. Her smile strained the arch on her upper lip until it was no more. She lowered her head, her dark lashes fluttering over her flushed cheeks.
"Sleep," she said, and he obeyed.
Under no pretense of endurance he had fallen prey to a torture designed by one that walked amongst the sickness, the famine, the decay, and still craved its stench like one immune to a drug after countless highs.
He screamed until the internal passage of his throat tore and the metal of his own blood was all he tasted, until the shouting became his new silence. At last, the pause for which he pled and sobbed for - like no other creature ever did - came, and the illness that was "feeling" found a cure. He wished the poison had only cursed through every crack, finally burning every nerve to charcoal, but then a single drop of venom dripped down his face, sizzling as it opened wounds that were starting to heal.
She cried out an apology, spilling the contents down a hill of sharp rocks. Quickly, she held the helmet again under the spittle, her arms trembling with the effort. And he prayed for a quick death. The torture now was lingering, breaking his psyche with the tempo of heavy drops hitting against metal, of heavy drops hitting against liquid, until the level rose and she had to stop to pour out the poison gathered.
He had lost what brought little consolation: constancy. And there was something new to fear: hope.
They gave him light in the form of useless will, for it was paired with the feeble human strength.
She whispered "I can't" and "I'm sorry" a thousand times… and Thor. She cried for his golden brother, the God of Thunder, but was only granted her visit.
Darcy dropped the helmet when heavy fog crawled and curled across the ground, reaching his skin and caressing it with the stone cold touch of death. She looked down, to the black cloak that spread like the impending shadow of storm clouds, painting what was already dark with unnatural and living, moving blackness.
Even the screams were muted by the stillness of her presence, and the spittle suspended midair, over Loki's face, in a fine brush of bile and bright green.
The fog parted, and Darcy felt every hair of her body raise, making her skin crawl with an energy that shook and unsettled her. She was naked and exposed, defenseless.
The high pitch of her voice, as the shrieking laugh of a witch, broke the silence like the struck of lighting and the ruckus of thunder in a quiet night. "Aye, do call for Thor Odinson, mortal, for I desire an audience with the son of Asgard. Do summon him with your pathetic cries once more."
A silhouette of green and black became visible behind the fog, and Darcy fell to her knees, pressing her nose to the stone.
"You are wise to fear me, wiser than the prince of lies. Behold what good his silver tongue does to him now that he is in chains. Indeed, I humble him now that he realizes the futility of speaking lies when ridden of freedom. Come, come, mortal! You have not yet pleaded for the aid of the God of Thunder. Have you lost your voice?"
Darcy shook her head.
"Then help me appease this want. You must want something, too! Why that must be the key to Loki's shackles. I have no use for him nor do I care for his bold demands. I do not act on the requests of others. I am Hela, and my patience ought not to be tried with tricks or bargains. I release you upon this condition: take your prince, for I will take mine in return, and do not gaze back or endure, or I shall use your flesh and bones to create an armor for the prince of lies to wear so the world might gaze upon Hela's handwork. He would think twice to cross me then."
It was a relief when the wind of perpetual winter came howling, hitting her back as she leaned over Loki's mangled body. She put a hand over her eyes, protecting them from getting stung with her own tousling hair. Sif's voice came to her ears, muffled by the blizzard, but Darcy could not turn back and face the attack of the prickling snow. She doubled her torso, resting her head against Loki's, but he was as cold as the ice that started to gather around their figures.
"What happened? Where is Thor?" Sif shouted over the whistling of the violent weather.
Darcy shook her head. "We have to go," she mumbled against Loki's cheek, but they heard her.
Fandral took her hand, pulling her from the snow that threatened to bury her.
"Wait!" she shouted, reaching out with her hand to grasp the single golden horn that stuck from the whiteness.
Once inside the boat, the absence of the deafening howling was replaced with a piercing ring in her eardrums.
She fell to her knees, her hands hovering over him, hesitant as where to place them. He was a canvas of exposed flesh, cut and bruises, and the skin that managed to remained unharmed was pallid, white as the snow. The poison had burnt a path from his face to his hips, interrupted by his trousers, a path of skin that was no longer skin, but looked red like open flesh and muscle tissue. She took his hand, a bloody pulp painted in black bruises; the bones of his knuckles peeked through, and he had lost most fingernails.
"By Odin, what have they done to him?" Volstagg asked.
Darcy gulped air, swallowed the lump in the throat, pushing the tears back. "Uh, his hands - he had them trapped under these huge rocks. He couldn't move. He couldn't…" She stopped, feeling her chin contract and tremble involuntarily.
He opened his eyes, blinking away the remains of poison, washing the dirt with his tears.
"Sleep," Darcy said, and his eyes fluttered closed. "You're safe now."
"We can't leave Thor behind. I must…"
"No!" Darcy spat through clenched teeth, interrupting Sif. She squeezed Loki's hand harder, pressing it against her chest. "We're going. Now."
Loki had to bear unspeakable tortures for months. Darcy well believed Thor could wait a couple of days. It was crazy that they would stop to consider whether to leave when Loki was laying half-dead at their feet. It spoke of the preference for the older brother, and she had to inhale and exhale to avoid shouting. A reluctant agreement was better than none though, and they left, all minds but two preoccupied with tracing plans to come back for Thor.
They kept her outside the grand doors, and she paced, rubbing her hands as she heard his screams, sometimes falling asleep while leaning against the walls, like a stray dog would. He screamed for three days and two nights. When he stopped, that one night, she despaired, banging on the metal to be given leave to enter.
Of course, a multitude of hundreds was scattered around his bed as he writhed in pain.
"What's happening to him?" Darcy asked, and they stopped to stare, gloating in her ignorance. The chambers of a prince were no place for a mortal, less one deemed as a temptress and a witch.
"He refuses to have the venom extracted," answered a woman that attended him. She looked at Darcy with kind eyes. "He does not trust us, especially in his state." She swung her open hand over his face, signalizing the bandage around his eyes.
In the silence, she could hear his teeth grinding as he fought to keep the pain under control. His fists closed and opened, crumpling the bedding. The red path caused by the venom was now a pinkish bright. He looked so skinny; his flesh tight against every muscle and hollow.
Darcy shook her head, amazed by the recovery. "Why?" she asked, daring a slight touch over the gauze on his face.
His hand shot out to grab her, quickly and swiftly, like a cobra attacking. Darcy cried out when his vice grip crushed her arm, bruising bone. At the sound of the familiar voice, he released her, and Darcy brought her arm against her chest, chaffing it with the other one; there was left a clear map of broken vessels in the shape of his fingers.
He took her hand again, gently, fingers sliding under her thumb to curl around it, the thick and coarse scabs and calluses grazing against her softness. His lips shaped the word "leave," and there was a small interval when they looked at each other, wondering whether to obey.
The crowd started to march past the bed, throwing haughty and hateful looks at the pair, but was halted by the presence of the queen by the doors.
Darcy looked over her shoulder, feeling a small seed of pride inside her. She wanted to laugh in Frigga's face, but was satisfied by looking away with her chin held high, shaking her hair behind her back. It was a small revenge after the months of rejection. She sat on the bed, by Loki's side, as the queen and the court watched. And what was a small sentiment of pride grew into full arrogance when Loki took her hand closer to kiss the inside of her wrist, lips pressing against it for the remaining time it took the onlookers to leave.
His long fingers went to feel the gauze, pressing over the depressions where the eyes were, and Darcy's own hand clasped over his, stopping him from removing it. His thin lips - so dry their color blended with the general pallor of his face – stretched in a grin, small drops of bloods emanating from the splits and widening cracks.
Darcy opened her mouth, before letting the voice sprout in her lungs and travel through her throat, and she imagined she would sound happy and reassuring, all those things that would prove him how glad she was to see him. But when she said his name, her voice cut mid-syllable, a sob arising abruptly and escaping her trembling lips without notice.
He meant to talk, but she was horrified when he could only mutter a low shriek. She ran to the table to get him a glass of water before he could try to get the word out. She helped him sit, smiling when she leaned and his breathing brushed her cleavage.
She struggled with the choice for a second, not knowing where to place her hand to help him drink. She didn't want to get another bruise. She settled for cupping his chin, and he recoiled quickly from the touch. She tried a second time with success.
Loki hated the water. He would have preferred wine, but Darcy believed it would do more harm than good. A simple gulp of wine doing him harm – he could have laughed, had not his throat being completely scarred; even the simple act of swallowing made it stretch and bend in a painful way, but the coolness and the moisture was like balm on his lips. If only she knew the only thing hindering his healing process was her constant vigil and worry.
A cough-like sound distracted him, and he reached with his hand blindly, getting to brush her neck. She was laughing, so he scowled, questioning, and she just pointed out how funny it was that he had lost his voice. He shook his head, still lost, and she said something about needing to have an argument with him, and how it would be so typical of him to pull something like that to avoid getting in trouble. He hoped she could see the glare through the bandages.
"Is the light?" she asked. "Is that what bothers you? You look so much better. Maybe you should…"
Loki heard nails scraping the coarse gauze, grabbing it to slide it over his eyes. The sting of light hit his eyes, and he shut them until they could adjust. The colors were wrong for a second, too bright, too much orange, too much blue, and he blinked, until her figure came into focus.
He saw her smile, her lips painted in rouge, and her cheeks flushed with a high color that he didn't quite remember them possessing before. As evidence of the passage of time, her hair had grown until it reached her waist. She looked slimmer to him, which was the oddest thing, because her breasts seemed fuller, if that was possible. Yes. Her breasts seemed bigger, draped in the tight white dress. The thought of putting his hand on one of them, fingers wide apart, to measure it, it was quite tempting.
"We haven't seen in ages, and you stare at my boobs. Of course," Darcy complained. "Well, don't let me stop you, big guy," she said, and pushed the curtain of hair behind her shoulders.
Despite her lighthearted tone, Loki could tell she was trying to swallow the pain. He noticed how her lips and eyebrows twitched, ruining the illusion of calmness. Even her hand trembled slightly when she brushed back his hair, fishing for dirt and pebbles on his scalp as she hummed an improvised melody.
Darcy needed this time with Loki more than he. He could read it in the dark spots under her eyes and the puffing around them; it told him that her exterior had cracked under the pressure of being silently judged and despised since the day she set foot in Asgard. She had become the lost child, and there was that small part of him that he had suppressed for long enough, but that time he wished to give in.
Darcy almost broke down when he brushed his hands up her arms, over her shoulders to grab her and make her lie across his chest. She didn't even to try to counterbalance it with any witty comment, because her head on his shoulder and his arms around her were not to be spoiled with words.
She held the impulse, struggling with the decision to bother him with her laments. She did so anyway. "I'm sorry," she said. "You almost died, and now Thor…" But the cry never came. She gulped down air, burying the wailing.
His arms tightened around her in reply. She fell asleep almost immediately, and he smiled at her audacity. Anyone stupid enough to trust the God of Lies to watch over them as they rested deserved a good mocking.
She was bold in thinking he needed her cares, and bolder when she tried to feed him. He complied, which pleased her immensely, but he couldn't truly bear the overwhelming taste of food, the overexertion of his buds, and the salt coating the inside of his mouth and throat. It sat at the bottom of his stomach like a rock.
"It tastes amazing," she said after tasting the creamy soup for herself. "You can forget about it then, buddy." She shrugged, and ate the rest.
They had used their ability to communicate without speaking. They tugged at the bond, like the cable cord of an old telephone, sensing the meaning in the force put into the pull. Darcy had grown accustomed to the discomfort in her chest when he called out for her. It was but a slight pinch.
"Oh, they've treated me okay. They feed me and all," she answered when the familiar thread seemed to tighten around her heart. "It's just the whole bitch faces and side-eyes that bother me. I think they just need to hate somebody, you know? And since you sort of sacrificed yourself to save me, I'm now the bad guy."
There was something that he enjoyed though, and he sought it by asking for wine. She would always get him water, of course, but he loved to see her walking away until she broke into the stream of sunlight that came through the window. With that, her robe became but a halo of white fire under it, revealing her curves as she sauntered with a determination that her own reckless self-confidence gave her. He loved to see her move, even if it meant she was leaving.
She stood by the table for some moments, eating grapes while she spoke, and he worked on listening, because her lips parted, clashed and pouted in the most offensive manner. Her mouth was profane, and it boggled him how anyone could devise such a depraved feature, surely to get him. Hadn't they met in the most horrendous coincidence, Loki would have sworn someone placed her in his path to undo him.
Once she sat back on the bed, holding the glass of water, he grabbed her by the neck, giving her a start for which she let the glass slip from her fingers. He nibbled and scraped and tasted and caressed, not minding her muffled protest when his tongue slid inside her mouth.
He wanted more, and quickly. He could not believe how his own hands quivered with the impatience. He wanted to take her, bury himself in her warmth, and lose himself for hours to forget the terrors. He imagined he could alleviate his pain by marking her once more, tainting her skin as he grabbed her with too much force.
She was so delicate, but he could barely bring himself to regret it when she was being so tempting. It infuriated him. All of it, it made him so angry, and he could only translate it into the kiss. He hated not being able to resist, he hated the picture of her luring others unknowingly with that smile of hers. He wanted to make her scream. He acted from pure lust and jealousy. He was jealous of everyone that had the privilege to look upon her, to breathe her scent as she walked past.
She made it worse by laughing, because he knew that it was the sound of her conquering him, acknowledging her power over him, even when it was just this shrieking sound that she made when he kissed her neck, tickling her. He wanted to wipe that smirk, replace it with a grimace as she begged for more.
Loki couldn't frown hard enough when she stood to leave. He was perplexed, disoriented, and angry at the idea that she did it to tease him. But Sif was there, waiting for Darcy to come outside so they could talk.
Darcy stumbled back when he refused to let go of her, and she stared for some seconds at their linked hands. She broke into a laughter that infuriated him, but he released her, almost too late because it had given her all the confirmation she needed, that she did have power over him.
Darcy tried to stifle her laugh, seeing how Sif looked bitter, serious, her eyes focused on a point above her head as she spoke.
"We are leaving again," Sif said.
"To get Thor?" Darcy asked, quickly picking on the dark mood.
"Of course," Sif said with a sneer, annoyed. The red spots on Darcy's pale neck made her angrier than it was rational. "Odin is marching with us. There are rumors," she shot a glance through the open door, seeing Loki seemingly resting. "That some powerful… enemies had joined Hela's ranks."
At the slight shift on the mattress, Loki turned to look at her. Darcy was looking down, abstracted and worried. He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone and this was enough to make her talk.
"They are all going. To get Thor. Oh, don't worry, she wasn't looking for you. They probably know you are still too…" The word "weak" somehow sounded like the worst insult, so she let the sentence unfinished.
Speechlessly, she leaned her head forward, as if praying, and just let it rest on the curve between his neck and shoulder. His temperature increased, and hadn't it being for the bond, she would have mix up the physical warmth for something deep inside him. She sensed the glee that he tried to hide, a bright candlelight in the upmost darkness, buried under layers and layers of cold ground and stone.
She sat upright, looking into his eyes, but the God of Lies betrayed nothing, except when he wanted to, so his lips retracted in that grin of his, and he raised his eyebrows in a pretend mask of pleasing surprise.
The moment the thought of running to get Sif crossed her mind, he caught her by her upper arms, keeping her in place.
"How long…?" she couldn't bring herself to say the rest. The contrivance could be far too great or too simple, depending on when it all had started. She wondered whether it had started before he went away, before Sigyn warned her. And she was the stupidest, stupidest person for running like a scared kid asking Thor to get Loki because he was in danger, and, oh, he was surely dead, someone needed to go get him. He had set the trap, and she had walked Thor to it. No, she had pushed both Thor and Odin into Loki's trap.
Darcy inhaled to scream, but then there was his hand on her mouth. They worked in silence before, so she looked into his eyes, asking him whether he had planned it all the moment she was dying.
"No," he croaked, squinting, exasperated by her wild imagination. He was far too busy at the time to concoct a backup plan that convoluted. "Of course not." As he spoke, his voice became clearer, "I just merely ceased the opportunity. You were so eager."
Darcy's gaze threatened him with telling.
He chuckled. "Odin took his entire army with him. Who are you telling? The queen? The Æsir? They despise you."
She shook her head, feeling a cold sweat take her entire body. His words were laced with a hatred that crawled inside her, making her feel dizzy.
"With the Allfather gone, I am the only one who can speak in your favor. If they know of this treason, I would fall, yes, but you are falling with me."
He had never threatened her, not with the intention to make her feel frightened for her own life. Those were jokes and teasing, but this, he was dead serious. But she wasn't so sure it was a threat. Something that she could bring upon herself by shouting the truth, it was more a prophecy. He needed do nothing, just witness her open her mouth, and that would be all it took.
She thought of the baby, almost wanted to touch the slight bump, but refrained. He nodded, waiting a reply, his jaw set. She nodded, he let go, and she whined, gasping for air.
"Why?" she asked, breathless, their mouths so close they gave the image of two accomplices whispering secrets to each other.
"I shall be king, at last, and they will all kneel to their rightful lord. No one will dare mock me again."
Darcy looked up to the ceiling, and he placed his forehead against her neck, a breathy laugh rolled down her skin that made her tremble. She could pray to no one, for Loki had stolen all illusion of a holy authority higher than her. He was her only god and religion, so it made sense that she would implore to him, knowing he would never hear or answer her prayers.
Yeah. I hijacked mythology and made it my bitch. So my main inspiration for Hela was from the comics. R&R~