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[ 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. ]

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[ No, again his failure is painted and glossed by Thor's hand, lacking all delicate color and shade that Loki might have wrought. And yet still it is more complete for its crudeness.

For a moment, Loki considers retreat — what need has he to conquer a conquered man? He has already stolen Thor's birthright. Time and the requisite application of cruelty will mute the vestige of love in his eyes. A fell wind blows through the wooded depths of Loki's heart, and he knows he would do best to bow his head and accept defeat for now.

He cannot. Thor has obeyed in body, but the fire in him will not be doused by Loki's hands alone. If he leaves now, he would only give Thor what he seeks: proof of Loki's weakness.

He cannot, and yet he will. ]

Yes. [ The chains snake forward, drawing tightly about Thor's wrists despite Loki's earlier words. ] And for your disobedience, I'll have you strung up in the main hall stained and violated as you are. Tomorrow you shall have the pleasure of performing before an audience. [ So Loki slips off his golden throne, tucking and lacing his breeches until again he stands immaculate. His hands are shaking. ] Guard!

Edited 2012-12-27 18:06 (UTC)

[ The chains lash again, startling him into a brief, bucking resistance, like a stallion fighting against the bit, and then Thor settles with the banked fire glowing still in his eyes, a hot anger heavy in his breast with the weight of love which sits like a shackle around him, which he cannot go free of. ]

You fear to keep me in your bed. Instead you will send me away, and tremble alone and cold and wrathful tonight because I spoke to you of love when you would rather have my hatred. [ He hurls the accusations like javelins, and thinks that surely one or another must strike its mark, for he knows this is what his brother wants of him: that there be bitterness and rage and an insurmountable distance between them, that the bonds of kinship be ripped apart for the sake of Loki's vengeance. He does not think of himself made the display of his brother's lust and madness. Or if he does it is but briefly, his skin flushing as though with fever, and his struggle against his bonds renewed. ]

It is you who fears me, I think, that you must so erase all semblance of tenderness between us. [ he says prideful and angry and wanting. ] I can see how you tremble, my brother.

[ Unfortunate, the vast history lashed between them. Loki might have forsaken all ties of kinship between them, but no steel is sharp enough to cut through bonds tempered by the pain and joys of a thousand years.

The guard hovers in the doorway, hesitant — he'd been privy to the last of Thor's ill-advised speech. Loki gestures for him to remain where he is, but not before making the quiet fury of his response heard to both within earshot — ]

Hold your tongue, thrall, lest I rip it from your mouth.

[ The momentary distance has given him the wherewithal to step close again, glittering in the firelight like a false idol. The guard remains stock-still in the doorway, fear holding him thus.

Now, his patience returned, Loki wears a smile given edge by his own liecraft. ]

Ah. Forgive me, my temper oft finds strength where I would have it muffled instead. Listen to me thus, Thor — I will use you when I see fit, and discard of you again when I grow tired of you. [ His hand falls to Thor's spread thigh, so light as to be near intangible. ] Show me tenderness, if that would ease your heart, but do not presume to think that you know mine.

[ A flick of his wrist to usher the guard near. Loki's smile deepens, a crimson rictus carved into the pallor of his face. ] Come, guard. You've a happier task to perform tonight.