Thank you guys so much for reading this story! I am so very glad that you take the time to read it. A very warm thank you to those who gave me reviews, especially to those that were anonymous to whom I am unable to send a thank you reply. That sounds grammatically awkward. Anyway, this chapter is much shorter than the previous ones, but it's got quite a bit going on in it.
To linde13: I cannot reply to your review because you disabled private messaging! However, the word 'syrgja' is in Old Norse. The meaning, however, has mild spoilers, so I would prefer you didn't search it up just yet ;).
Warning: This chapter may or may not be considered more graphic than my usual writing.
He was not sleeping, so why was this a nightmare?
His mind was alive, awake, unmerciful, shouting in his ears memories he tried to drown. Drown with even more memories, more voices that tore at him, more truths that made him sick. A nightmare he could not rise from. Reality.
His eyes were closed, forcing himself in his own darkness. His own endless Void, universe, that he could manipulate—control—destroy. And yet it was the same, over and over again—the memories and fears they had forced down his throat until he was swollen with screams. He was awake, and he could feel the pain in his broken bones, the torn skin across his chest and back, the twisted and mutilated insides that were torn out and sewn back together crudely like rags. And yet he could not move, could not rest, could not change.
Long live the king.
He felt bile in his throat, coating his tongue. His head spun. He tried to breathe, but he did not want to.
He could still taste it on the back of his tongue.
Somewhere between the lacerations and broken bones, between the ripping of his throat and burning of his tongue, between the dismemberment and drowning, between Thanos' visits and the poisonous words, they had let him climb onto his feet. They weren't broken this time, nor torn off or twisted to the opposite direction for laughs, but when he stood all he could feel was pain pulsing in every pore. He felt too alive—too aware of the panicking life rushing through his veins even when he sought for rest. To feel every bit of his body, from his fingertips to his skin, was disgusting.
They said things, jeered things, shouted—but he could not understand them. Not yet. He didn't want to listen. No more. Their words were like arrows. No more.
"Are you a king, Frost Giant?"
Do not speak. Do not speak.
"Do you think yourself worthy of a throne?"
(I who was and should be king.)
Laughter. They hummed with humor. A song of agony. He tried not to wince. He knew what their song meant. Pain. Pain. Pain.
"All kings must be crowned."
They forced on him a crown of jagged nails and barbed wires—the venomous teeth of beasts and machine. It pierced his flesh and dyed his black hair with his own blood, rivets of red down his face, blinding his eyes like rain. Venom sunk its teeth into his forehead and nearly blinded him, piercing his mind with its nails and wracking it with horror and agony. The weight bogged him down until he swore it would snap his neck.
(The rightful king of Asgard. Betrayed.)
"A cloak for our good king!"
They stripped him. Stripped him of his clothes until he was left with nothing but rags. Stripped his skin from his bones until his back was shredded, nothing but a bleeding mess that even vultures would turn their nose away in disgust. He could not scream. Not if he wanted them to force him to swallow down his own tongue.
They gave him a cloak—the skins of their victims, the beasts they hunted in the galaxies and the corpses of the innocents they slaughtered—and draped it over his quivering shoulders. The stench of rotting flesh filled his nose and he nearly choked. It sank beneath his skin and fermented his blood until he was a living carcass.
(who controls the would-be king?)
"A parade to honor our king!"
And they sang and laughed and dragged him across the barren rock until his feet left rivers of blood behind him. They stoned him until his blood mingled with that of his makeshift cloak. He thought he could think himself into a dream-like state, until he couldn't tell if he was alive or dead, in reality or fantasy, until he couldn't care, but it was all too real. The pain, the shame, the horror—it was all too real.
"Long live the king!"
"Praise to the Frost Giant runt!"
"Where is your kingdom, my lord?"
"Where is your throne, your highness?"
"Where are your followers, your majesty?"
Do not speak. They will tear your throat out and let you drown in your blood. Do not speak.
(could never have a Frost Giant sitting on the throne of Asgard)
They shoved him to his knees so roughly the bones cracked under his weight. They had led him to a crater, a stinking, steaming crater that made his stomach turn. It was brewing with Chitauri feces, fresh and old, the stench enough to make him ill. He tried to close his eyes, his own blood already threatening to blind him.
"A feast to celebrate our most gracious king!"
"Who are your guests, my lord?"
"Who would you invite to dine with you, my king?"
"Who would even care enough for you to come, Frost Giant?"
None. They needn't ask him. He knew the answer. None.
(Do not speak. They will pour fire down your throat. Do not speak.)
"Enjoy your own feast, Asgardian."
They shoved it down his throat. They drowned him in their waste, until he had to swallow down both their excrement and his own vomit. He fought, he tried to raise his head, but they forced his face down until he couldn't breathe. When he flailed, they beat him. When he tried to breathe, they made him sink deeper.
"Worthless monster, who makes play he's still a king."
"Unloved and unknown, who thinks himself a prince."
"What leader is he that none care that he suffers?"
Time passed—an hour, perhaps, or even a year, and they finally tossed him aside to sink in his own vomit.
He cannot sink. He cannot dream. He cannot breathe. He was rotten, betrayed, destroyed, inside and out. He could only wait for more.
There was nothing left for him.
"I don't care."
The voice jolted Loki from his memory just before vomit could crawl up his throat. He willed himself to remain limp and unresponsive on the bed (Stone? Hole? Cage?) as if asleep, although his mind was too far from rest. The voice sounded familiar, and yet Loki couldn't picture a face to match the sound.
"I don't care if you're all beaten up like this. That you were gone for maybe a hundred or so years."
Loki thought he saw a bow and arrow flit through his mind. He couldn't understand why.
"You've done too much shit to this world for me to feel the least bit sympathetic to you."
He tasted it again. (do not open your mouth do not speak do not make a sound they will find you)
"Whatever happened to you, whatever it was that they did to you for all this time, I hope they broke you."
The voice shook, as if it was unsure whether to believe what it was saying. For a moment Loki wanted to open his eyes. To see if they were truths or lies. But he was so tired.
"I hope they made you suffer, I hope they made you regret everything. I hope—I hope they made you ashamed. Because you deserve every single bit of it. You do. You do."
Like a child at prayer.
"I just wish Thor didn't come get you so quickly. That they would have kept you for longer, because you deserve a lot more than this."
He tried to move his hand. It wouldn't even curl a finger. He wasn't sure what he would do if he could.
A sound of a slam, a click, and then silence. For a moment, he did not understand. He almost had forgotten the sound of a shutting door after so long.
Silence.
Is that the truth?
Silence.
That is the truth.
Silence.
Truth.
(i never wanted the throne)