![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
[ He watches the blood dripping, spreading dark and wet upon the stones between his braced feet, rivulets following the deep-set grout; the stone is rough and cold upon his bare soles, the light filtering only dimly from the barred window above. He has never been in one of Asgard's stone oubliettes, except as a young boy playing where he didn't belong: looking down upon the criminals so dishonored and shamed as to be fit only to be chained below the earth and left to rot. The stone cell is cold, and absurdly large, an arching vault which only taunts him with his spaciousness; Thor has been chained between a pair of columns, his arms stretched like wings in flight, and there left for long, long hours--or has it been days? Weeks? No one has come.
His head is bowed with weariness, his shoulders slumped. For a while he fought and fought the restraints, disbelieving at first, then infuriated, then horrified that anything so paltry as a pair of chains could hold his strength; but of course it cannot be all that. Loki has put some enchantment on him, or else it is a magic in this place which is as old as Asgard itself: which keeps him docile and weak, which separates him from Mjolnir. Here his wounds do not even heal; the ragged slash across his chest has bled slowly but steadily all the while, the blood trickling down his bare torso, pooling between his feet. He has been stripped of armor and garments alike. His only accoutrements are a ragged pair of breeches, such as is given to prisoners, and the metal gag which seals his mouth.
His skin prickles with cold and pain, his arms and shoulders wracked and burning from being too long stretched, and his wrists chafed where the shackles bind them: but all that Thor can ignore. Harder to turn his mind from is the shame, the soul-eating sense of failure, of defeat. His brother routed him and cast him down: first from the towering heights of the city of New York, in Midgard, and then from Asgard's golden throne. What has he done with Odin and Frigga, with his friends the Avengers, with Jane, with all the others that Thor calls his own? He knows nothing of their fates.
Fear and shame are endless. They are serpents gnawing at his heart, wearying him with every moment he passes here, sinking him further into despair.
He does not know how long it is before the iron door at last swings open again. Thor lifts his head, shakes back his shoulders, finding some measure of defiance to draw out of himself. He must find defiance. Despair will destroy him, and that is one victory Loki will not have. ]
His head is bowed with weariness, his shoulders slumped. For a while he fought and fought the restraints, disbelieving at first, then infuriated, then horrified that anything so paltry as a pair of chains could hold his strength; but of course it cannot be all that. Loki has put some enchantment on him, or else it is a magic in this place which is as old as Asgard itself: which keeps him docile and weak, which separates him from Mjolnir. Here his wounds do not even heal; the ragged slash across his chest has bled slowly but steadily all the while, the blood trickling down his bare torso, pooling between his feet. He has been stripped of armor and garments alike. His only accoutrements are a ragged pair of breeches, such as is given to prisoners, and the metal gag which seals his mouth.
His skin prickles with cold and pain, his arms and shoulders wracked and burning from being too long stretched, and his wrists chafed where the shackles bind them: but all that Thor can ignore. Harder to turn his mind from is the shame, the soul-eating sense of failure, of defeat. His brother routed him and cast him down: first from the towering heights of the city of New York, in Midgard, and then from Asgard's golden throne. What has he done with Odin and Frigga, with his friends the Avengers, with Jane, with all the others that Thor calls his own? He knows nothing of their fates.
Fear and shame are endless. They are serpents gnawing at his heart, wearying him with every moment he passes here, sinking him further into despair.
He does not know how long it is before the iron door at last swings open again. Thor lifts his head, shakes back his shoulders, finding some measure of defiance to draw out of himself. He must find defiance. Despair will destroy him, and that is one victory Loki will not have. ]
no subject
Oh, those wretched birds wrought by cruel hands, their feathers frayed and spotted eternally with ash, their bodies grisly and twisted from the flame that sits upon their own shoulders. The falcon, beautiful and marked by its singular bloodlust; yet they, too, died with an Aesir year. In Muspelheim, they died thrice as quickly. Such was the curse of all things that soared the skies, for Sol and Mani were jealous masters of their domain. Beauty in flight is beauty made ephemeral.
So Loki amuses himself, drinking from crystal-wrought goblets of mulled mead, the drunkenness blurring the remnants of pain from his own battle wounds to naught. He has played with spells for weeks now, wondering how best to separate Thor again from his powers, but Odin Allfather has fallen into another long sleep, and he hasn't cared to follow the path Frigga-queen left in her flight. No one will shed further light upon the crux of the problem. In the end, it does not matter, for indeed Thor's immortality can offer amusement that will heal and heal again.
Perhaps he can chain Thor to the rafters of Gladsheim's throne room and use him as a dart board.
Loki laughs, a mad curl of sound rising into the air like an exhalation of smoke. Finally he unfurls to his feet, casting off the shadows that had cloaked him for so long. He is clad in gold armor from head to foot, the green of his standard lost amongst gold and gold and more gold. Instead of horned helmet, he wears a golden crown sets with rubies the size of a child's fist. He smiles like a serpent.
The iron door creaks open, and it stays as such — to show Thor how close escape may be, and yet how far he is from ever achieving it. ]
—must you always live in such squalor, Thor? [ Loki says, and there is a note of joviality in his voice that has never been heard before. Perhaps because he has never known victory so complete, or perhaps because it has been shaped and formed by a lying tongue. ]
no subject
He does not know which he would like to do more.
But the chains hold, the columns hold, and Thor is at last subsided, panting through his nose, his weight hanging against the merciless grip of the shackles. And if not for the gag he would shout and curse himself hoarse, he would damn Loki a thousand times--or would he only beg to know what has become of those he loves? He is almost glad he cannot. The door left ajar makes his insides seethe; he is helpless here, utterly helpless, a pawn in whatever game his brother desires to play with him, and he could not have talked himself out of it even if he were free to try.
It leaves only waiting.
He glares at Loki as he recovers his breath, blue eyes brilliant beneath the shadow of his brow, the tattered hanging strands of golden hair. He loathes him, loves him, is desperate for his nearness, for any voice or touch after so long alone in his dark cell of stone. ]
no subject
The seed of a king is precious, after all. What better use for Asgard's greatest protector than to be made to protect future generations of Loki's loins within the heat of his own body? ]
Honestly, you haven't even a proper seat to offer your king. Perhaps I'll have a few servants sent down to see to your needs.
[ Loki circles Thor like a predator marking its prey, though he smiles yet without ferocity. He reaches out upon a turn, trailing his fingertips through a still-bleeding wound, pressing his fingertips to his own laughing mouth so as to spice his mulled mead with victory, too. ]
Which would you like to be named your thrall? [ He asks, a smear of blood upon his lip. ] The soldier? The man of iron? Your sweet-faced astrophysicist?
[ Only now does ire rise in Loki's face, and it transforms him, adding ugliness and age to the cold pale features, turning him into more beast than man. He flicks his fingers, once, and the muzzle comes loose to clatter raucously against the wet stone. ]
Answer me. Which of them would you like?
no subject
He watches Loki taste his blood, the streak of crimson staining his lips lending still more madness to his features. The mention of his friends falls like a slap across the face; Thor flinches, his heart jumping to his throat, and the clatter of the gag against the floor has him straining again, subtler this time, as though hours and resistance could be all he might need to wrench himself free.
His voice comes hoarse with disuse. ]
They live? [ And a faint, ragged thread of hope winds through the words, even in the face of Loki's cold wrath; he cannot help it, he cannot disguise it. ] Then I would have none of them, I would have them far away from here. You cannot mean to bring me to such a place and then give me attendants.
no subject
Hush, and listen. [ He draws in close, his mouth a whisper away from the bruised gash upon Thor's cheek. ] I stumbled upon a spell of particular import whilst ransacking the bowels of Gladsheim — did you know a bit of seid could reanimate corpses, so long as the kill is fresh?
[ It's a lie; the mortals are too important for Thor's ultimate submission in the future to come, but Loki would see those proud shoulders bowed with more than physical pain. He has won, he has won utterly, and he will stand here and revel in his victory until Thor finally realizes what the ramifications of his loss will mean for the Nine Realms.
Perhaps then Loki can take his revenge — murder has never been his wont, but humiliation, vulnerability, helplessness; these are what Thor will soon come to realize are his eternal companions. Immortals live forever, after all, and Loki intends to make each moment of life a struggle for this golden shadow who had once and again valued a planet of insects over his own sworn heart. ]
no subject
No. No, you have not. You have not killed them.
[ For he would be dead himself if Loki paraded their corpses before him, if he made such a ghastly host his attendant; such the prize for the god of thunder who failed all he swore to protect. He tries to rally himself; it cannot be true, but the possibility is yet the knife in his heart. He is so weary, his head a struggle to lift, and the shame of his failure weighs down on him. He cannot believe it true and he cannot believe it a lie; the hours or days or weeks wear down upon him, and anything could have happened in such time. How long has he been here, how long his brother's prisoner? What has passed in the worlds? ]
Brother, please. Tell me you have not.
no subject
Or so Loki wishes, but he knows Thor better than that. Mjolnir knows but to smash, not to build anew, but Thor as her wielder has mended his own wounds and the wounds of realms entire by will and love alone — he needs but a moment to rally.
Loki does not allow him the mercy of a moment. ]
I will allow you two. Choose.
[ He draws back a fraction once again, the smile painted upon his mouth, so that Thor may look upon the architect of his despair. But the leather-gloved fingers of one hand remain a constant gentle pressure upon Thor's cheek, streaking the congealing blood across his cheekbone, into the dull golden chaos of hair.
Perhaps a spell, then, to wind about Thor's wrists, to make him a mindless puppet of the throne — but even that would amuse Loki only to a point. He thrives not on the sum tally of evil deeds performed, but on the reactions of those who bear witness. Thor will nail his hands and feet together with the sharpened bones of his mortal harlot and bless Loki for the clarity of fresh pain, and only then will Loki lie to himself about peace and contentment. ]
no subject
His brother's hand is at his cheek, a mockery of tenderness sunk into his skin, and Thor remembers how once he saw Loki fall into the star-pierced abyss and mourned him, how he saw in his eyes that they were enemies and yet grasped him and dragged him close and laid plain their way: Loki would come home. He remembers how he longed for a touch at his cheek, for gentleness between them. There is nothing more to mourn for now. He is not Loki's brother, he is his brother's toy now, and still--
Still with his head turned, his lips are at Loki's cold palm, and he cannot but remember the intimacy of brothers, and mourn the loss of it. His brother now is a liar and a thief and a murderer, and yet Thor's lips press to his palm as though he might remind him, too.
Then his eyes lift again. ]
I will have no attendants. Leave me in this place alone, brother; and if you must do harm, do harm to me. It is me that you hate so.
no subject
Such is power, and so the glut of Loki's cravings have been met, and met thoroughly.
How little Thor understands, at the end of it — that Loki tore the safety of his own sanity apart simply in the pursuit of hatred above all. That Thor is the sun and the distant stars and the warmth of brother and friend and savior alike, Loki cannot deny, but there is no meaning in sentiment if Loki's decree obliterates it. He is king, now.
What if I tell you that I will offer them all as thralls to the most savage of my armies, instead? Would you still choose to ignore my generosity?
[ Words offered in a soft, cajoling tone, as if Thor is simply an obstinate child to be soothed with the promise of sweetmeats. ]
no subject
And the savagery in the depths of his brother's eyes make him fear.
He does not know what pain is, really. Even those agonies which he suffered at a younger, more foolish age served to make him wiser, to add to his great bright reserved of strength. But now it seems as though Loki's hands, Loki's words may yet teach him what pain is. ]
Give me to them instead.
[ His voice cracking, Thor yet tries to bargain, turning his mind from his own fate to that of his friends instead, to sparing them the pain and humiliation he is learning. It is this blade which is the sharpest, and the easiest to turn upon him: his love. ]
Please, my brother. [ As though he may yet lay claim. ]
no subject
Brother; the crux of the problem. Had Thor called him Loki, perhaps he might have reconsidered, perhaps he might have turned aside and seen the limits of Thor's pain. But even now Thor seeks to tug on the heartstrings of a heart that has long since been transformed to steel and iron.
Two fools stand in the deepest of Asgard's oubliette, but only one of them is a liar. ]
I said two. Choose.
[ And though his cupped hands offer nothing but tenderness, his voice is neat and clipped and impatient. The cajoling tone disappears, leaving a canvas blanked of color and life; so Loki looks upon his brother of old and waits for an answer.
Indeed, Loki will teach him pain. Pain like Asgard has never known, and pain like Asgard will never again know. Loki has seen enough murder and hatred to have lost his pity and his sympathy both; now he is the royal pillar of Gladsheim's halls, the epicenter of all murder and hatred. And Thor will be the first to succumb. ]
no subject
He jerks back from Loki's touch, and turns his head aside, bowed low between his slumped shoulders, and Thor does not speak a name. His lungs are iron in his chest, despair the cold blade lodged in his heart, the weight which bears him down. He is hung upon his own tree, to suffer and agonize and learn, perhaps, the cold lessons Loki will teach him, but though he may be the instrument of his friends' deaths either way, he would rather be an instrument through defiance than obedience. ]
no subject
Even a liar's untruths are worth nothing if he does not prove himself capable of truth from time to time. Trust is the currency of manipulation, you must understand.
[ He takes an acquiescent step backwards, respecting Thor's need for space. Let him deliberate, and let him come to the decision that Loki has already made for him. ]
Let me prove myself to you. Two names, Thor. They will be delivered to you to be used as you please, and I will not treat the rest unkindly.
no subject
His breath hitches painfully. ]
Jane.
[ The name is a croak, a hoarse breath, nearly a sob. Jane, of course Jane, and oh, how Thor regrets loving her, that his love was what damned her. ]
And I cannot--I cannot choose another. Please, Loki. Choose for me, if you must.
no subject
He is not. Laughter echoes in depths of his mind, laughter shaped by ice and snowfall. Loki has worn his deception for a thousand years, but after the revelation he has never forgotten the monster hiding beneath the lie. That's why his gaze does not waver, and that's why he can tighten the noose about Thor's neck without guilt tightening about his own.
Loki shifts back, his brow creased in contemplation. Esconsced again in the shadows, even the gold of his armor does not shine. ]
—no. [ He says, with manufactured cheer. Suddenly his brow smoothes, the curl of his smile returns. ] I've been reasonable with you, and still you've shown me only contempt in return. I can't very well reward you for that, can I? [ Without waiting for a reply, Loki makes a chopping movement in the air; his fingertips leave behind a trail of phosphorant yellow. Thor's chains unhook themselves from the bolstering pillars, but they do not fall. Thor remains suspended in the air.
There, thinks Loki, taking the end of the chain in hand. A true bird in flight. ]
Come along, now. You can pay for their lives with your own servitude.
[ Let Thor drown himself in his relief now — it won't last for long. ]
no subject
He has not lost himself yet to despair. He can still be harmed.
It is strange to be able to move, yet to still be suspended, still hung upon the tree of his imprisonment, and Thor takes a staggering step forward, his legs nearly buckling beneath his own weight; so it has been long, then, or the magic or the flow of blood or the shame and grief have worn upon him. He takes another tremorous step after his brother, another, straining as though he drags a great weight, his arms uncomfortably outstretched. Loki has bid him follow, and he will follow; he will serve, too, if that is what is commanded, and pay the price of the lives which Loki might otherwise destroy in hatred of him. Thor was born a king, the blood of the ancients in his veins; now he is made as a thrall upon his belly, crawling for the mercy of the hands which twist the blade in his back. He writhes, he seethes with shame and fury, and yet there is hope, too, blinding, insidious hope. ]
Will you tell me what you want of me, brother?
no subject
Then, just like that, he turns again to lead them from the cell, not pausing to catch and catalog Thor's reaction. The chains rattle in his grip; his hands are alight with a fine tremor. ]
Furniture has neither kith nor kin. [ He flicks a dispassionate gaze over his shoulder. ] And your king is in dire need of a footrest. Hlidskjalf is terribly uncomfortable, you see. [ The suddenness of his fury has left him breathless, but again his tone is imbued with the patient indulgence that has characterized his manner thus far. They pass into the hallway, Loki setting a pace too rapid for Thor's stumbling gait; if he falls, Loki won't slow.
(Still, the red moon carves itself into slivers high above Gladsheim's buttresses, and Loki-king's blood runs black in the face of two innocuous syllables. Brother still, even with Asgard poised at the edge of ruin.)
No. There is no hope. By the time the sun falls and rises again, Thor will have learned the cruelty of reality again and again. Pain and humiliation can accomplish much, but Loki has his claws sunk in the chambers of Thor's heart. There is much worse that he can do — if he wills it so. ]
no subject
Shame batters at him still, but there is also relief; humiliating as it is to think of being bent down and made into furniture--perhaps before the entire court--it seems a small price before the lives of his loved ones. The weight of despair eases back, slowly, cautiously, as new hope begins to thread within him; he is out of that cell, he is in his brother's company again, however much pain and humiliation Loki should wish to afflict on him--surely there will come a chance to wrest power from his hands, to take back the throne, to cast Loki down from the towering heights of his madness and destruction, and then, oh then...
So he keeps silent, seething, stumbling after his brother's too-swift gait, but his breath comes stronger now, and in his eyes there is a new gleaming of resolve. ]
no subject
Another scouring pass of the hand of magic over Thor's bared body, and the grime and blood of a full moon's turn spent strung within the oubliette disappears. Loki is not gentle; the magic burns down into Thor's very pores, into the roots of hair, across the seam of his mouth and eyes. The offensively filthy breeches are reduced to ash with a flickering tongue of conjured flame. Finally, with a critical glance over his work, Loki draws upon one last spark of magic for a quick application of a glamour to hide the oozing wounds from view. They will heal, in time, now that Thor is free from the magic imbued in the stone walls of the dungeons, but Loki has no obligation to speed that process.
Thus appeased, Loki again takes up the gilded chains and leads Thor out into the unforgiving spill of daylight.
The servants of the court have been trained well enough to contain their attention, but the courtiers — the esteemed lords and the ladies who once bent the knee to Odin's might, who once laughed and jeered at the green-eyed runt of a seidrmadr who existed only as a blight upon the Allfather's house, the same who have now murmured binding oaths to Loki-king the conqueror; their eyes are fixed now to the sight of brother and brother chained together in a perversion of brotherhood.
No one dares to break the silence. ]
There. [ says Loki, when they have climbed the steps leading to the great seat of Hlidskjalf. Already a winding line of supplicants fills the great hall: commoners and fools and high-born blaggarts, none of whom will have anything of worth to say. Normally Loki would not have appeared here, having much else to busy himself with, but today he has a lovely new accouterment to flourish. ] Come now, on your hands and knees.
no subject
But this is no audience as it was in the peaceful days of Odin's rule, raucous and full of boasting and cheer. His staggering steps, a harsh breath, a clink of chains echo to the vaulted arches, the great hall filled with horror and silence. They watch them come, the conqueror and the prisoner, the younger brother and the elder, the king and the thrall. They watch him follow Loki bared like a lion shorn of mane, in chains that gleam and glitter, on legs that tremble with weakness. And when they come before the throne, they watch him bow, silently, to Loki's command, sinking down to hands and knees upon the floor.
Their king, their first-born heir, their beloved: Loki's thrall now, and he wonders briefly, his cheeks darkened with shame, with anger and humiliation, if they will ever see him as king again; if they will ever rally to his banner against their conqueror, or if they will only see the man who knelt to his brother's word, and bowed down his head.
He stares at the floor between his hands, awaiting further humiliation. It is their lives he buys with his obedience, and so Thor remains above all the protector of Asgard and Midgard. ]
no subject
(That Loki's heart beats in the same way is no issue — after all, his heart knows neither kindness nor generosity. )
Loki settles back in his gilt throne, and, after a moment of theatrical contemplation, he swings his legs up to rest upon the small of Thor's back. His heavy black boots are stark against the muted gold of Thor's skin: he admires the sight of it openly, playing idly with the musical links of the end of Thor's chain.
There. Loki's triumph sits heavy in his chest, and it feels nothing like triumph at all.
For a time, he offers his attention to the court. Even the years spent away from Asgard's tides has not blunted his skill at navigating the intricacies of Asgardian law and the subtle machinations of the court: so he wheedles and cajoles and blackmails through the myriad complaints that are brought to him.
In the end, one king is indistinguishable from another. All men fear for their sons more than their disposed loyalty; so Loki tilts his head to catch the errant light upon his golden crown, and so the nobles and the commoners alike leave the court of Gladsheim filled with black hate for the Jotun usurper, and yet unable to find flaw or injustice in his decree.
(Loki does throw a whole battalion of men into the dungeons with the promise of torture most vile when they speak up against his right to sit upon the throne. And he flings a dagger at a stupid old fellow who dares to offer his poxy daughter as consort of the king.)
How Loki despises it all.
An hour passes. Another follows. Loki scrapes the heel of his boot across the curve of Thor's spine, splayed indolent in the cradle of the throne. He speaks again, low in his throat, words meant for Thor alone. ]
My legs are beginning to cramp at this angle. Spread your knees and lower yourself until I tell you that the height is suitable.
no subject
Under other circumstances he might be proud of Loki, but now he is only disgusted by the waste of it, by knowing that Loki could be a good king, a fine king for Asgard, but that he has no interest in being anything of the sort; that holding the throne is for vengeance and hatred and nothing more.
Meanwhile, his own humiliation burns in him, to crouch on the floor like a dumb beast and be treated as his brother's furniture, naked for all the court to see: utter degradation, to no purpose but vengeance and vengeance again. How his brother must hate him to do this; how the knowledge of it wears away at him as grief does, and despair: bowing his head, making weak his body, a sorrowing exhaustion in him that does not permit rebellion. He does have to bite his tongue to keep himself silent when Loki banishes a battalion to imprisonment and torture, fearing to worsen their fate by speaking against it. Not here, he will speak in private if he is not gagged again, and hope his brother will listen to reason.
He is exhausted by the passing hours, by the pain and humiliation, and when Loki tells him to shift he does so without arguing: splays his knees wider, and sinks slowly down until he is crouched on his elbows, almost relieved by the change in position; a breath leaves him, and his eyes close as his head bows lower, his legs bracing anew so that the stabbing in his knees is not quite so terrible. ]
no subject
Another spread of time passes. Loki has a pretty maid feed him nuts and grapes from a silver platter; each time she draws her hands to his mouth, he laves his tongue across her soft fingertips with unnecessary flourish. This empty-headed whore had once spurned him in Thor's favor three or four centuries ago; now she has been made cognate with the wooden chairs and the stone walls, like Thor, nothing more than furniture to be used and discarded at will.
As the evening crowds out the day, Loki's patience draws short, and with it, so does his care for the complaints proffered. When the sun nears the end of its descent from the sky, Loki cuts off a milk-faced craven in the midst of his blubbering proclamations of loyalty; this time, his weapon is not a simple dagger, but the straight thrust of Gungnir summoned to his hand. The ceiling above trembles with the force of the magical blow, and golden shimmering light falls to leave smudges of stinging burns on all those unfortunate to be standing beneath. ]
Your king hungers. [ Loki says, with the mischievous glee of one who is still unaccustomed to the great power now invested in him. Before the last syllable has left his mouth, the servants scurry from their posts to ready the great hall for an evening feast. Loki slides to his feet, dragging Thor after him with no acknowledgment save a jerk of his chain. ]
Have him kneel beside my seat. If he speaks, lash him. If he speaks again, lash him again, and fit him with a gag. [ Such are the instructions that Loki leaves for a servant, before he disappears into the hallways of Gladsheim for nearly a quarter of an hour.
Loki emerges again into the great hall still resplendent in the ruby-crusted crown, but he has changed his raiment into the casual elegance befitting a feast untethered to martial matters. The feast begins with a toast; each of the nobles stands to hail Asgard's glorious king — an ancient custom that Odin had long since cast off. Loki, on the other hand, finds the ritual compelling.
Only after the toasts are complete does Loki fall back into his chair, a goblet of wine in one hand and the other sunk into Thor's golden hair. He strokes his fingers through the sunlit strands, gently, indulgently, as he speaks to those surrounding him, as if Thor is a royal pet to be shown off before the court. ]
no subject
When he is brought to the feast hall, he does not speak, for he would not give Loki the satisfaction of seeing him gagged again; but it is a poor thing to grasp at these crumbs of defiance, and to kneel like a docile pet at Loki's feet, with his brother's hand gentle in Thor's hair. So long have they been at war that under other circumstances Thor might have welcomed such affection, only he knows there is no love in this touch, only indulgence and contempt. Thor is his prize, to sit naked at his feet before all the court; once the glory of Asgard, the beautiful golden heir, now a prize of war to be used and degraded as the conqueror sees fit. He burns through the toasts, as one by one the nobles who once swore their unending loyalty to his father stand to hail Odin's usurper.
He does not know how much more of this he can bear.
The feast drags on and on, course after course well into the night, and Thor refuses every scrap of food offered him where he kneels beneath the table like a dog, but stays obediently at Loki's side. What other choice is given him? He is bound to his brother's will, for the price of those lives which are precious to him, and perhaps all of Asgard besides. ]
no subject
So Loki leads Thor through the passageways known to them since their birth, the walls now stripped of red and gold and replaced instead with the green of Loki's newly fashioned standard.
But he does not lead them to his own quarters upon the far side of Gladsheim's reach — he has taken the king's former chambers as his own. Here, little has changed, because Loki has spent a scarcity of his time in pursuit of succor or slumber. Ruling is a tiresome pursuit, after all, and the chains of Fate had shackled him to the inevitability of service instead. So he has writhed through the diplomacy and killed and killed until he is sure of his superiority.
He now chains Thor to a post of the marital bed once belonging to the All-father and his queen — and he finally looks up at him, a hint of surprised mockery in his face. As if he had forgotten Thor's presence entirely. ]
Ah. [ Loki sprawls backwards over the bed, leaving Thor to his own devices. The chain will allow him but a few steps from where it has been fastened, so the options are admittedly rather limited. ] You ate very little upon this night, Thor. [ Loki shifts to his side, looking up at Thor through the fall of his hair. ] Do you not hunger?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)