Chapter Text
“Puny god,” the Hulk huffed, and Loki could do nothing but listen and feel as the beast walked away from him. Every step sent vibrations shuddering through the floor and he could not help his muffled whimpers as they jarred his battered, broken body, shards of bone grinding together under a paper-thin layer that felt more blood and bruise than skin.
Pathetic. To have been brought so low, to have come so far and for his body to fail now, of all times.
Yet underneath the smokescreen of anger and agony, Loki wanted to crow in triumph. Every single part of him hurt, his head was thick and heavy with utter exhaustion and his seidr was all but screaming from overuse, but he had done it. It was over. The mortals had the sceptre and were winning the battle, and it would only be moments now before they closed the portal and the invasion would be done. More importantly, Loki was finally, finally free, his thoughts clearer despite his exhaustion than they had been in months. He was alone in his head, and he wanted to weep from utter relief.
But he was not finished yet. It was true that he would not have to play this part much longer, but there was one more trick left to pull. The haphazard little team of mortals that had finally managed to unite against him would be back soon, bringing his oaf of a- no, bringing Thor with them. Loki still had a part to play – still had to fight, to claw his way out of this mess, because there was not a chance in Helheim that he was going to allow himself to be taken again.
What tentative plans he had been able to make in the small space in his mind that had been his alone had never dared reach this far, but it should not matter. Loki was a master strategist and had been called God of Lies; improvising was second nature to him.
In fact, it would be easier now than it had been in centuries. How long had it been since he did not have to compensate for Thor or Thor’s shield brethren’s idiocy, since he had to protect no one but himself? Finally, finally Loki could protect himself.
A tiny, broken part of him had hoped… well, it didn’t matter now. He had spat enough clues at his brother, manoeuvring them past the blue with a tongue of silver and a predilection for chaos, that if Thor had truly cared then he should have been able to put the pieces together.
That the warrior had not done so should not have surprised him; ever had Thor been blind. Why should he have chosen now to grow a brain, when he had never done so before? When had Thor ever been there when Loki had needed him?
Perhaps he should be flattered instead, that even his worst effort had always been enough to fool the golden prince. Yet he could not dredge pride up past the creeping hollowness in his heart.
His hurt at the Asgardian he had once called brother was a distant throb now, barely tangible amidst the hundreds of greater pains wracking his body. His seidr was the worst of all, sending burning pain through his very soul. He had abused it these past few days, using it when he had not been in any fit state to be walking, forget fighting.
It had been necessary, but now that he was alone Loki let a grimace grace his face. He would need his seidr still, in the coming hours. Would need all his talents for one last performance.
To that end, he dropped the threads of illusion that he had been wearing for days now. Light shimmered from head to toe, the energy leakage a by-product of his exhausted magic, but Loki did not look down at himself as the glamour faded. Only a few lingering shreds remained, anchoring him to an Aesir form, for he had no wish to look upon monstrous blueness. The rest of him was revealed but he did not wish to think about that, not when he needed strength for what was to come.
The warmth of his own blood was sticky against his skin, bones shifting inside of him as the dropping of the glamour allowed enough energy spare for his wounds to finally begin to heal. He was bolstered by the fact that he was back in the Nine Realms at last, the familiar branches of Yggdrasil a balm to shredded seidr channels, and by the fact he need do nothing more than to lay there and let himself breathe.
Each breath was painful, but he was used to that by now. Lying there in a crater shaped by his own body was humiliating, but again, he had become used to such things. Better to recuperate, better to save his strength for getting him somewhere he could finally put himself back together. Then he could figure out who ‘Loki’ really was now that so many things had proved themselves false.
He knew what he was not, though. He was no puppet, not ever again. He was Loki and Loki was Chaos, and the Titan should never have tried to control him.
Far too soon, the hum of machinery – inaudible to human ears but sharp as knives to Loki, whose every sense was on high alert – alerted the mage that his short respite was over. Groaning quietly, his every muscle tensed as he reached for his abused magic. The ten minutes or so that he had lain there was nowhere near enough to even begin to recover, but he was no longer writhing in agony as he cloaked himself once again in pretty lies.
It should have been difficult, to shroud the underlying wounds whilst leaving those from today’s battle intact, but illusion magic had always come easily to Loki. He had often wondered why, when illusion was ordinarily one of the more complex uses of seidr, but no longer. At last he knew: he had been veiled in a kind of illusion ever since he was a babe and his magic was well-used to the feel of it.
His experience as a shapeshifter also aided him, for Loki had long ago become at ease taking forms that were not his own. It had been a necessary skill amongst the Aesir for whom magic was women’s work and wit was dishonourable. Walking in other skins had been the only way he had ever experienced freedom.
God of Lies, indeed. His whole life had been a lie, and he had to wonder if his epithet might have been different had the All-Father even once told him the truth. How was he ever to have learned otherwise when he had always been surrounded by liars and falsehoods?
Not that it mattered now. His mind was rambling from the pain, and he needed to focus. Glancing down at himself at last, he winced again and magic bled from him in response, altering to his whims even as his very bones ached. His form filled out, non-existent flesh padding his skeleton, the black marks faded from his eyes and his clothes shimmered back into golden armour rather than stinking rags.
The additions to the glamour cost him energy he did not really have, but they could not see him like that. He had already established his part; he would not risk putting them on guard now, when their triumph should make them pay attention to all the wrong things.
Pretending he did not hear the elevator open, he dragged himself from the crater at last, placing one cracked hand after another on the steps and hauling himself into something akin to vertical. He felt their eyes on him, as harsh and glaring as mortals (plus Thor) could muster, but it was nothing compared to the acid of the Chitauri and Other and Titan. So he merely looked up, modulating the weariness in his voice to acceptable levels, and quipped drily, “I’ll have that drink now.”
His voice was raspier than he would have preferred, but the taunt did its job. It was not out of character for the Loki he had built, and their snorts and glares and incredulous glances meant that none of them were looking at the hint of green sparking at his fingers or the matching flares from the cuffs Thor wore at his waist. Restraints custom built to hold magic-users – they would not ordinarily be strong enough to hold him, but battered and weakened and depleted as he was they would more than suffice.
That was what the charade was for, after all. Merely refraining from teleporting away was probably enough to convince Thor that he was depleted enough for the chains to work, but this would go easier if they underestimated him.
It was a trickster’s wont – to make them look where he wanted them to look, let them glare and sneer all they liked, so long as none noticed the way his magic eased over the shackles like a razor-sharp file. He wanted to scream from the pain of it – he had nothing left to give, and it felt like his magic was cutting inside him along with the metal – but a vicious glow of satisfaction quickly repressed that desire as he felt the magic of the cuffs falter and flare. Then the invisible binding shattered entirely and he wanted to smile, fierce and bright the way he had not smiled in years.
He held himself back with no small amount of effort, presenting his wrists agreeably enough to be shackled and making his smile something sinister and arrogant rather than the joyful, maddened shriek penned in his lungs. Even so, Stark (Loki was not unaware of Midgardian custom) eyes him suspiciously, murmuring to his companions, “Just like that, huh?”
Thor waved a massive hand dismissively. “Fret not, Man of Iron, I know my brother’s schemes well. This is indeed familiar behaviour. He is out of options, and so it is in his best interest to comply until he can twist some other plot. These chains will bind his magic; that will suffice to contain him.”
Loki winced. It was more because Thor was unbearably loud and his head was no less sore than the rest of him, but the other Avengers interpreted it as admittance of defeat and accepted Thor’s word.
Fool.
Thor had never really known him. Never bothered to try. He knew him even less now, because Loki did not even recognise himself anymore. Knowledge of his character or not, however, Thor still should have known better. Merely binding his magic would not be enough to render Loki harmless.
Thor tended to forget, claiming he relied only on ‘tricks,’ but Loki had trained under the same standards as his brother and he was still a formidable opponent even when forbidden his natural talents. Perhaps not enough to best Thor, the paragon of the Aesir warrior class, but he was by no means defenceless.
Whilst there had been times when he had indeed bowed meekly to whatever punishment awaited, as Thor suggested, Loki had only ever done such a thing when there was likely to be an acceptable outcome. This was not one of those times.
If he were taken to Asgard now, execution would be the most favourable outcome. Odin had never been fond of listening to his ‘lying tongue,’ and Loki would pick an easy death a thousand times over being prisoner again, at the mercy of those who would eventually come for him or whatever punishment the All-Father would think to concoct. Loki severely doubted that Asgard could do worse than he had already endured, but that did not mean that the Aesir would not try.
He had become lost in his head again, Loki realised as he felt metal clamp around his outstretched wrists. There was a brief tingle as his skin came into contact with the runes, but his alterations held and the power dissipated through him, actually empowering his own magic with an influx of foreign-familiar energy.
He bared his teeth at the sensation, too tired and distracted to mask something so inconsequential. Odin. Of course the All-Father had enchanted these himself, a leash for his wayward pet-
Enough. He had more control of himself than that, and the small sign of aggression had caused the mortals to shift and tense even as there was a vicious kind of satisfaction in their eyes. They must have assumed it was pain, or perhaps indignation.
Then Thor brought something else out of his pocket, and again Loki could not quite control himself. His eyes widened slightly, skin paling a shade under the cover of his illusions.
He had seen these before, but despite the way the All-Father had despised Loki’s designation of ‘silvertongue’ he had never actually gone to such lengths to quiet him. Such restraints were barely ever used on Aesir… but then Loki wasn’t Aesir, was he? Now that he finally knew the wretched truth, perhaps the All-Father no longer saw use in his pretence and wanted the monster muzzled.
Loki tried to think of it as an honour, that his unenhanced words could be considered on par with those races for whom a single word could bind a man to their will – Enchantresses whose voices were imbued with their seidr; Reapers who needed only a name to kill; nightmarish creatures from Nifleheim whose shrieks could bring despair to the bravest warrior’s heart. He tried, telling himself that he did not care, but though he had been titled God of Lies he had never been good at deceiving himself. No seidmadr could truly do so if they wanted their magic to answer their call; magic was about will and desire as much as skill. You could not shape your intent properly if you warped who you truly were.
The muzzle… well. Loki had survived many things, he could survive this too. It was not so much the indignity that grated on him as the memories, the rising tang of blood choking his throat, but he forced himself to think of different things.
His plans – how might this factor into them?
Oh, Norns, he could see that the muzzle was frigid and rough, knew how it would grate against tender skin. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it…
Plans. The muzzle would save him from making a mistake, giving away his next steps and not-actually-bound magic when he was too tired to control himself. It would save them from pondering his growing silence, when wordplay took energy that he simply didn’t have.
Metal on his lips, blood on his tongue, can’t-open-mouth-can’t-speak-can’t-breathe-cant…
In a last bid effort to control himself, he risked a glance over the Avengers. Did they find this fitting, that the rabid beast that had invaded their world be muzzled like one? Barton certainly did, that viciousness never dulling from toxic blue eyes. Romanoff was calm, poised, her fury more ice than fire. Yet Stark, surprisingly, had a curious twist to his lips. “Is that really necessary, Thor?”
Barton actually growled, not that Loki blamed him for it. That particular human was well within his rights to hate him and it made sense that he would not take kindly to a person who was supposed to be his teammate trying to stop anyone doing whatever the hell he wanted to Loki. Stark was the odd one for speaking up.
Oh, Loki was well aware that Americans had certain standards that they liked to think they held themselves to. They had laws regarding ‘humane’ treatment and the ‘rights’ of all beings – rights Odin would have done well to heed – but he would not have expected those to apply to a planet-invading aliens.
Bitterness welled through him at the thought that Stark – a human he had personally defenestrated and an inhabitant of a world he had brought war and death to – was more willing to defend his rights than the Aesir that protested love for him. The mortal was a better man than most.
Thor, for all his claims of brotherhood and all their shared history, did not even seem to think of what such a device might do to Loki. There was nothing tender in him as he said, “Nay, my brother can wield words as sharp as blades, and it is better not to give him the chance to scheme. ‘Tis only temporary; it will be removed upon our return to Asgard.”
With that, Thor raised the muzzle. It was all Loki could do to mask the pleading in his eyes; he refused to be weak again, refused to bow and cower. He would master himself.
Then the metal touched his lips.