For a while he is conscious only of a horrible pressure consuming him, a million hooks pulling at him, a hammer cracking down and pressing, pressing.
I am dying, he thinks. I am dying. I am dying. I am dying.
The thought repeats itself endlessly, no others interrupt. He cannot say who "I" is, or what the word "dying" means. But he knows this phrase as utter truth. The only truth. To question it, to even consider its meaning, is impossible.
He drifts…
A shocking moment occurs without warning. A new thought: golden, sweet, it cuts through him and suddenly he knows I am in pain.
I am in pain. I am in pain. I am in pain. I am dying. I am in pain. I am dying.
The "I" still eludes him, and this new word "pain" feels foreign compared to the now comforting sound of "dying."
He alternates between the two for an eternity…
When that eternity ends, he suddenly understands "pain," and he does not like it.
Pain is the uncontrollable storm of words and sounds, images, emotions, thoughts crashing through him. Or they are him. He still hasn't figured out "I," but now there is
a dark world, a cliff "you come home" "I don't have it" I'm listening he's not but watch Let's see what you can do, brother one must pity the forest
a cold world, horrific sound a flesh sound "damn" stabs and ice I should burn I do not burn a creature reversed walker farther father
a warm room, abandoned friends of paper and a twist of green between fingers a new mirror friend I did it golden "make it go away"
an empty void, silent sobs a nothing a "no" the only option death so be it push away away away away enveloped mourning black
an end, deep laughter the hand why do they not kill me a POWER rattling gold "bound to me" ripped torn shredded halved not death not death not death-
He thinks he might be screaming, but it is a fragmented sound. He is unsure if he is hearing himself or a memory. It is a chorus of a thousand voices, piecing themselves together into a distinct echo of pain.
The deluge won't stop. It won't stop and he is drowning in it, no chance to pause and understand, the images and feelings and emotions knifing into him relentlessly.
A form is beginning to manifest itself, however. Distorted and crippled, yet familiar. It settles around him- it is him. An awareness growing and taking shape into a body. The sense of suffocation suddenly becomes overwhelming and he gasps, then is startled when he hears the sound of it.
The images don't fade, they don't stop. But they are no longer what he is made of. Now there is a sense of containment, they are inside of him. And he is-is here. Gasping, breathing, feeling limbs that were never there before, and hearing now a frantic pounding heartbeat in addition to his sharp inhalations.
He tastes iron, and a strange sweetness. He has a mouth, there are few teeth in it. He can twitch his fingers and is rewarded with a comforting flare of pain. His breaths become more labored, and each is a struggle against pain, weakness making every desperate heave feel worthless and inadequate.
From there, the pieces fall into place more and more frantically. He can't keep up, can't adjust, consider, it just happens and happens and happens until
He is lying in a bed of some type. The sheets are strangely soft, and the sensation is so alien he almost feels as if he were floating. There is a light blanket draped over him, and his head is on a pillow. He can taste the lingering remains of something achingly familiar. He feels something cool drifting over him, a breeze. The sweat-drenched skin of his face makes it feel cold. A delicate scent drifts through the air. His arms are resting above the sheets, though they are wrapped in bandages. He can tell because the breeze does not hit them in the same way, and his skin feels stiff. His whole body feels stiff, as if every inch of skin were a scab.
His awareness follows the breeze, surmises an open window. He is in a room. He is being cared for. He is on a bed.
There is someone else in the room.
He feels his whole body jerk unwillingly in fearful surprise. The pain that splits through him only makes him writhe briefly before he is exhausted. He suddenly realizes that he has been missing an important piece of his own puzzle.
When he opens his eyes, the flood of light is unbearable. He shuts them quickly and tries to cover his face with his hands, but his arms won't move. He groans pitifully and attempts to control the pain, but now his head is throbbing.
But no, sight wasn't it. There is something else missing. Something else, a sense, or a component of some type. Something important.
"Loki."
His eyes fly open once more, but this time the pain doesn't stop him. The brilliant white world begins to soften and coalesce in to vague shapes and forms.
He feels his mouth opening as if to speak, but he can think of nothing to say.
Loki. A name, but more:
The God of Mischief, God of Lies, Trickster.
The titles ring strangely hollow to him. He can sense his connection to them but cannot embody them.
"Loki…"
There it is again. It feels uncomfortable to hear it. He wishes the other person would stop saying it.
Who is that other person?
"Loki, can you hear me?"
He knows the voice. The sound embodies an ancient power and a word: father.
Odin. Odin Allfather. Odin not his father. Odin, the one-eyed who controlled his fate. A shackle on his ankle he'd tried to break and break but could never scratch. A lie painted over his skin, a lie painted onto his tongue.
The one who'd allowed him to be returned to the Chitauri.
An immense and dreadful fear begins to turn in Loki's stomach. This one will hurt him, just like the others. Even if he felt he could turn his head he doesn't want to see that face, the single eye, the judgment and the hatred.
He keeps his gaze focused on the ceiling. His vision has recovered enough that he can make out the gold leaf and wood detailing of Asgard. His mind says then that he is in Asgard, but the knowledge of it feels distant. Everything around him is like a vision obtained through a glass. And there are multiple layers of glass, each one containing a different world, a different time, all superimposed over each other and shifting dizzyingly. Odin's presence is unforgeable, and Loki has no doubt that he shares a room with his father. But something is unraveling. What was a cool breeze before suddenly feels like a hot breath burning his skin. The bandages were actually chains all along, the soft bed is sharp rock, biting into his skin. And on his chest- Thor's hammer. Pressing down harder and harder…
The little air Loki had been able to take in is suddenly rendered meaningless. His whole body starts to quiver. He needs to get away. Odin will return him to the Chitauri. Odin will kill him and it will not be an act of mercy. Odin is the Chitauri. Odin is him. Odin has been his sole tormentor the whole time.
"Loki, lie still. You must lie still!"
A command, but Loki cannot obey. He doesn't want to. He can hear Odin moving as if to approach and the adrenaline that courses through his body jerks him to the side. The Allfather will continue tearing out parts of him until there is nothing left.
"Stay away from me!" Loki cries, his voice shredded beyond recognition and the injuries in his mouth slurring his words. He suddenly finds himself on the edge of the bed, moving despite the flames of pain that burn every part of his body. "Don't touch me, stay away-"
He falls, hitting the ground heavily. And though the pain itself is light compared to what he had been experiencing for months with the Chitauri, it is more than he can bear at that moment. Loki screams as hard as he can, curling into himself and willing everything away.
Why didn't he kill him? Why didn't he kill him? Why only a tiny blade and not a devastating blast of magic? Why only cuffs and a muzzle rather than an evisceration? Why the laughter and the torment instead of a swift end? Why the shackles around his ankles instead of a rope around his throat?
He distantly registers someone else entering the room. "My Lord, what did you do?"
"I did nothing! He only just woke up, he refused to lie in peace!"
"Please step aside your Excellency."
Loki feels strange hands touching him, soft and feminine. They repel him for some reason. He can't stand their gentle touch and he almost wants to scream "just hit me! Please let me feel something… sweet…"
But he doesn't, because the new person is whispering words of power meant to set him blissfully asleep. The sound of Asgardian magic pulls a moment of clarity from him, and for a brief moment he lets himself feel comfort at the ancient sound. A few tears slip down his face while his body stills, and the grip on reality he'd struggled to regain is torn from him once more.
Okay, so I definitely owe everyone an apology for that wait. I can only give the standard "delayed-fic" excuses of school and more school. I'd like to thank Tom Hiddleston's ridiculous stunt at Comic-con for reminding me why I love Loki, and the user who PM'd me two days ago for reminding me that I should probably get my ass in gear on this thing. I dedicate this chapter to you. As it is, however, I realize that this chapter itself probably isn't that satisfying in terms of plot, and it basically ends the same as the last chapter. But I SWEAR I have the next chapter (which is more plotty) in the oven and it's almost ready. Thanks so much to everyone who has stuck with me through my pompous verbosity and rude hiatus.