Chapter Text
Loki would be inclined to call his trial many different epithets.
Long overdue – that’s for certain. It’s been months, it seems, since Thor dragged him back to Asgard, chained and muzzled like a rabid animal, and he’s been placed in the holding cells. The empty halls are just a prelude to the real dungeons, a place for those still awaiting their sentencing rather than a more permanent solution, and yet, Loki lost count of how many days he spent staring at the white, featureless walls, the guards bringing his fare and returning a while later to replace the muzzle being his only companions, the clinks of his chain – the only distraction from the unrelenting silence and boredom.
Superficial and just for show – for Odin already had more than enough time to make up his mind about Loki and it’s the only opinion that matters in Asgard. They are all here – Loki, Thor, The All-Mother, the members of the Council of the Elders sitting silently in their lodge, the crowd of common folk gathered to observe the spectacle, maybe even a foreign delegation or two – just to hear the king announce it.
Unjust, perhaps, if the concept of universal justice existed in Asgard. Alas, it does not, and anything the king decides, becomes the law.
Loki doesn’t get the chance to say any of it out loud, because the guards didn’t bother to remove the muzzle before wrapping him up in new, more constricting chains and leading him to the throne room to face Odin.
They lead him to stand in front of the dais, the noise his chains make and the clamor of the Einherjar armors seemingly the only sounds in the vast hall, as the gathered people hold their breaths. Loki walks, his back straight – despite the meager sustenance he received and no access to healing magic he could’ve used to prepone his recovery, his injuries mostly healed during his stay in the holding cells – and his head held high, his eyes focused on some point on the wall beyond Odin’s shoulder. This way, he can pretend he cannot see the false worry on the All-Mother’s face or the mocking grin on Thor’s.
The Einherjar escorting him stop before the golden steps leading up to the equally golden throne, then step away, pulling the tethers attached to the chain looped around Loki’s waist taut. That too, is just for show. He might be the one wearing them, but the chains aren’t for him. With seemingly every royal guard in the entirety of Asgard in the presence and with his magic neutered by the suppressive enchantments of the holding cells – the effects of which still linger, weighing him down, like a wet blanket wrapped around his mind – and the cursed collar sapping away his energy, Loki wouldn’t stand a chance of fleeting the throne room, let alone the castle.
No, they are for everybody else.
Gaze upon it and tremble, the restraints say, for here’s a monstrous creature, standing before you. Don’t let yourself be fooled by its benign appearance. The ferocious beast would destroy you all if not controlled.
The irony tastes bitter in his mouth though. Or perhaps it’s just the metal bit shoved between his teeth, pressing down his tongue.
Even with that, and with his heart beating frantically in his chest, he feels relief. This is it. This is the finishing flourish on the tale of Loki of Asgard, the last thing the fates still have in stock for him. And perhaps that was the sole reason he was made to wait that long. To make him pliant, resigned to his fate, ready to accept whatever sentence the All-Father has in mind.
Odin doesn't know – has no reason to know – that Loki made peace with that long before he even stepped through the portal to Midgard.
The king is sitting on his throne, his right hand wrapped around the hilt of the Gungnir, the other resting slackly on the armrest. His eye, half closed, rests on Loki and doesn’t stray.
Loki meets his gaze and holds it.
The hall is hauntingly silent, as they stare at one another, the All-Father on his golden throne, and his prisoner before him.
This is what they are, now, the lie that made them a father and a son having lost all its power.
“Loki Laufeyson,” Odin speaks finally, confirming what Loki already understands. “You brought great shame to your home and your kingdom. You dishonored the house of Odin and the Golden Realm Eternal with your actions.”
Loki has a reply for that, a mocking, scalding reply he meticulously planned beforehand. One that would push Odin in the right direction, yielding Loki the result he wanted to accomplish.
It seems that he won’t get an opportunity to utter it though, the All-Father apparently deciding Loki doesn’t deserve even a spurious chance to speak on his own behalf and defend his actions.
Not that he would. It wouldn’t change a thing. They already got all the warnings they needed. Revealing the details would only make him even more of a weakling, even more of a coward, in the eyes of Asgard.
In the eyes of Thor.
In the eyes of Mother.
It takes all his will, to keep his gaze from straying, from Odin’s face to those he used to consider his family, once upon a time.
“For your crimes,” Odin continues, and he sounds… fatigued and disinterested. Almost as if this entire pageant – one of his own design – was boring him greatly. “I strip you of your rights, your title, and your name.”
He doesn’t even say what name and title he means, as if the words “prince” or “Odinson” could no longer pass his lips in regard to Loki.
This isn’t necessarily shocking, even though Loki didn’t expect Odin to bother with formalities as such, since it won’t matter the moment the executioner’s blade falls.
Unless…
“Furthermore, since you’ve proven you cannot be trusted with freedom, it will be taken away from you.”
Loki holds his breath. Any moment now.
Odin pauses and sighs, then looks away, to his right, where the Queen is standing. Just for a moment, but it’s enough for Loki to lose concentration.
The All-Mother’s eyes are shining in the sunlight filtering through the tall, stained-glass windows into the hall, her cheeks flushed red. She shakes her head when Odin’s gaze falls upon her, but doesn’t say a word.
Behind her, Thor is standing, his face drawn and serious, his shoulders set, his hands fisted.
The ball of dread in Loki’s stomach twists and grows.
“Finally, for your cowardly deeds committed against Asgard, Jötunheimr, and Midgard, I hereby sentence you to live the rest of your existence in servitude to those your actions harmed.”
A pathetic whine tears out of Loki’s lungs.
“Father! You cannot–“ Thor exclaims, taking a step forward.
Odin brings the spear down. “Silence!”
Thor claps his mouth shut.
“If you wish to discuss my decision as my son,” Odin says, his voice stern and carrying a dangerous edge, “we shall do it later, in the privacy of our rooms. Here, I’m speaking as your king, not your father, and it’s your duty to accept it, as a citizen of Asgard.”
There’s a threat hiding between the lines, but Loki can hardly think about it, his mind reeling in shock, struggling with comprehending what has just happened.
This wasn’t what was supposed to happen.
Odin waves his hand, gesturing at the guards to take Loki away.
Loki digs his heels in, then jerks forth, making the guards stumble. One even drops the chain and it clatters to the gold-encrusted mosaic covering the floor.
Before they can regain their composure, Loki falls to his knees and raises his hands in placation, as high as the chain tethering them to his waist allows.
He’d beg, if he could. Bargain. Plead. Appeal to Odin’s compassion, as non-existent as it seems, to show him mercy and exchange the sentence for a more dignified, quicker end.
He cannot though, so he trains his eyes on the king, filled with a silent plea.
Kill me.
Take my life, not my free will.
Odin tips his head to the side and scoffs in disgust. “Take the prisoner to the preparation chambers,” he orders. He shifts his grip on the spear and stands up, leaning on it heavily.
There’s a pull on the chains and the Einherjar drag Loki up to his feet and away from the dais.
He stumbles as he walks, the whispers of the crowd echoing in his mind.
Prince of Asgard, made into a slave.
That’s ought to put him in the history scrolls, after all.
---
He knows where he’s being taken. Everyone in Asgard knows what the black dungeons are, even though not many get the opportunity to see them for themselves. Those who did, rarely lived on to tell the tale.
Loki did. A long time ago, in the times of his youth, his naïve curiosity pushed him to venture there, shrouded in an illusion.
The torture chambers were empty, then, silent, and dark, with no soul in sight, but even then, just laying his eyes upon the equipment and smelling the stench of blood and misery hanging in the air chased him away quickly, and lingered in his memory for months, haunting him at night, before the recollections faded away into the background.
They leave the castle by the rear entrance.
Just as they step out through the gate and onto the paved street, Loki takes his chance. He swirls around, staggering the surprised guards, then bolts into a run.
Or rather, what would be a run, if the chain binding his ankles allowed for that. It doesn’t though. It’s long enough for him to walk with relative ease, but not much more than that, and all he can manage is an undignified, awkward scamper.
It doesn’t take long for the guards to get back on their feet and follow. With the collar still firmly locked around Loki’s throat, his most trusted tool is out of his reach, and without it, his attempt is doomed to fail.
Soon, the first Einheri catches up to him. The man grabs the chain and yanks it, and the force of it is enough to send the pavestones flying toward Loki’s face. He can’t use his hands, bound as they are, to break his fall, so he lands on the ground hard, hitting his head on a protruding stone.
His vision darkens for a few heartbeats and when he blinks it away, his entire entourage is already there, standing in a tight circle around him.
They drag him to his feet once more, then keep the chains wrapped around their gauntlets as they lead him on, now stumbling half-blindly as the blood from the cut on his forehead drips down and blurs his vision and he can’t even reach to wipe it off.
He does manage the last look at the blinding sun, just before the chains are yanked again and he’s pulled inside, the heavy gate of the prison halls closing behind him.
---
The black dungeons aren’t completely dark, this time, even though the flickering light of the few torches isn’t enough to completely chase away the shadows from the corners.
It’s still enough for Loki to see all the important details. The rack in the middle, the lines of tools on the walls, the three torturers waiting for him, two men and a woman.
Unlike the executioners performing in public, they wear no masks. There’s no audience here, just the tormentors and their victims and it matters not, if they are recognized.
Loki does recognize them all. Osmund, son of Garth, Latham the Orphan and Astrid of the Eastern Meadow. People who, not so long ago, would bow their heads in respect when he passed them on the street.
They don’t bow now, just stand there, waiting for the Einherjar to depose Loki in the middle of the chamber.
The Einheri – the one who caught up to Loki first – clips a chain that’s hanging from the low, vaulted ceiling to Loki’s collar and they all step away. Soon, Loki can hear the metal grate falling, sealing him inside with his torturers.
Astrid walks over to the wall and cranks the reel, losing the slack on the chain until Loki is forced to stand on his toes or risk getting choked by the collar.
Osmund collects an item from a workbench at the side and brings it before Loki.
“Are you ready to accept your new role, Your Majesty?” he mocks and brings up the two halves of the metal circle.
The collar is different from the one snapped around Loki’s neck right now, made of dull, gray metal, thicker, taller, and simple, lacking any ornamentation, the looks leaving little to interpretation about the status of the wearer. It’s not the most important part though.
Even in his weakened state, Loki can feel the magic radiating from it, the mixture of powerful spells forged into the metal. His senses remain blind to their nature, but he doesn’t need that to know what it is. It can have just one function anyway.
The thrall curse, meant to change the one who accepts it into an obedient slave, forced to follow every whim of their master.
Osmund gestures at Latham, and the man reaches for the clasp of the muzzle and yanks it off.
“So, what would it be?” Osmund prompts.
Loki clears his throat and spits in his face.
Osmund clicks his tongue, smirks, and slowly wipes off the mixture of blood and saliva off his cheek. “Not going to lie, this is the answer I was hoping for,” he says, the corners of his lips curling up in a nasty smile. “Shall we?”
The others seem as eager as Osmund and soon there are hands on Loki, tugging and prying the pieces of armor away. They don’t get far though, the chains getting in the way, so Osmund produces a token key and fiddles with it, until the shackles on Loki’s wrists and ankles activate and open.
The moment his hands are freed, he reaches and grabs the closest torturer by their throat. It happens to be Astrid and the gurgling sound she makes when Loki’s fingers curl around her neck is quite satisfying.
There’s a crack and pain blossoms at the small of Loki’s back, spilling over his body and locking his muscles in spasms. It costs him his balance and the collar squeezes his throat, cutting off air.
They stand back, just watching as he struggles, until he manages to gather his feet under himself and draw a breath.
“Try that again, and I’m leaving it on for much longer,” Latham growls, swinging his baton in front of Loki’s face. “This is your final warning.”
Loki sneers at him in return, but doesn’t try it again, just stands there, on his toes, as they strip him of the rest of the armor, then cut away the cloth underneath. They tug off his boots too, and even his undergarments, until the collar is the only thing he’s wearing.
Astrid takes a step back, props her arms on her hips, and crooks her head to the side, admiring their handiwork. “I always fashioned a prince would be much more impressive than this,” she jeers, before turning back to the wall and releasing the chain.
Osmund and Latham grab Loki’s arms before he has a chance to crumble to the floor and half-lead, half-drag him forward, towards the rack.
“Lie down. Hands above your head,” he’s ordered, and – when he’s too slow to follow the command – there’s another crack and the baton is pushed to his side. It hurts more, now, without even the questionable protection of the layers of cloth and leather.
When the pain subsides, his arms are twisted above his head and secured in the manacles and Osmund is in the process of fastening similar restraints around Loki’s ankles.
When it’s done, the man brings up the thrall collar again. “Last chance,” he says.
“Never,” Loki snarls.
“We’ll see about that,” Astrid says sweetly and drops a small runestone onto the exposed flesh of Loki’s abdomen.
At first, it feels cold, but it heats up quickly, going from uncomfortably warm to searing in moments. Loki grits his teeth, just as the first wisps of the smell of burning skin reach his nostrils.
“Here,” Latham says, grabs Loki’s jaw, forces it open, and pushes a piece of leather between his teeth. “It would be a shame if we ruined your teeth. Your future owner might want to do it themselves.”
The others laugh, but the sound soon drowns in the scream that bubbles in Loki’s throat, just as the runestone burns through his skin and buries itself in his flesh.
They don’t bother to muzzle him again.
There’s nobody around who would care for his screams anyway.
---
He doesn’t know how long it lasts, doesn’t even care to know. There’s no end to look forward to. There’s just this, and only this.
---
At some point, he must’ve blacked out, because the next thing he registers is a torrent of ice-cold water being poured on his head. He splutters and coughs and only then blinks his eyes open, to be welcomed by Osmund’s face twisted in a nasty smile.
“Wake up, my prince,” he says. “We are not done yet. Unless you’re ready to accept your new role.”
Loki thinks up a suitably vicious curse as a response, but when he tries to say it, it comes out only as a miserable moan, his throat raw, his voice as good as gone from all the screaming.
“As you wish, your highness,” Osmund chuckles and retrieves the runestone again.
---
Unlike the children of Thanos, Odin’s tormentors aren’t creative in their methods of torture. Most of the time, they are satisfied to stand aside as the runestone works its course, only resorting to other tools as the flight of fancy strikes them.
It matters not, in the long run, whether it’s the bespelled stone, or the thin files they push under his fingernails, or the thread covered in poison they use to stitch his lips and eyelids shut just to yank it away a moment later, or the pins they pierce his nipples with, or the clamps they place on his tongue or genitals. It all serves the same purpose. To bring pain.
And it does, until Loki’s entire body feels like an open wound. Until there’s nothing else he can focus on but the agony.
At first, he holds on to the faint hope that a day might come when they miss a step. Get too overwhelmed by their personal enjoyment to stop at the right time. Push him further than his body can take and let him tumble down into the never-ending darkness, into the eagerly waiting maw of oblivion.
It doesn’t last.
If there’s one thing his torturers do have in common with Thanos and his minions – is that they know what they are doing. They know how to bring him close to that edge without pushing him over and they do it, over and over. Just when it feels he won’t be able to take anymore, they leave him alone, giving his body time to recoup, to heal just enough to bear the next round of abuse.
He tries insults, but they don’t work, just like his goading.
Even when he begs, later, after they strip the last shreds of dignity from him, they only laugh.
As much as he wishes, there’s no way for him to take the matter into his own hands, either. On the rare occasions he is released from the rack, there are never any sharp objects left within his reach and they watch his every move like birds of prey. Then, when he refuses to eat, they force a funnel into his mouth and pour the gruel that passes for sustenance here directly into his stomach.
The thrall collar is never far away, always left somewhere where Loki can see it. And each time they catch him staring at it, they have the same question.
Are you ready to accept your new role?
He can hear it, banging around in his mind, even when he’s alone. Even when he slips into a restless slumber, it’s never far away, sounding in the murky darkness of his dreams.
That’s the whole point of it, isn’t it?
For him to willingly accept it. That’s the only way the spell would work without destroying the mind of the victim completely, leaving them unable to perform even the most basic functions. And what the use of a slave like that would be?
So, each time they ask, he musters the will to say “no”, to shake his head.
He doesn’t bother with saying “never” anymore though. It’s a lie, and he knows it now. He knows their methods. He knows that no matter what he does, they won’t let him go. No matter what he does, they won’t let him die.
It’s just a matter of time, before his mind shatters, before he can take the pain no longer and accepts the only alternative there is – becoming a mindless tool of another.
It happened before, after all.
Thus, each time he answers, he adds “not today” in the confines of his own head.
---
To those trapped in the black dungeons, the progression of time loses all meaning, so Loki has no idea if it’s years, or months, or mere days later that the time arrives he can’t do even that.
“Are you ready to accept your new role?” Astrid asks, her tone bored. She isn’t even looking at him, busy sorting the tools at a workbench nearby.
And, just like that, Loki knows he cannot take this anymore.
“Yes,” he whispers. His throat is one raw wound after they poured boiling water into his mouth the day before. Or perhaps it was just now, that’s why it hurts so much.
Her eyes snap to him and a triumphant smile blooms on her face. “Can you repeat that? I don’t think I’ve heard you correctly,” she chirps, even though Loki’s sure she did.
“Yes,” Loki says again, and it comes out more easily this time. “Under one condition.”
She crooks her head. “This is not how it works,” she jeers.
“I want to choose,” Loki says and swallows the blood that pools at the back of his throat.
Osmund’s laugh reaches him from the corner of the dungeon. “That’s some gall you have there,” the man says. “What gives you the idea that you are in a position to choose anything?”
“I want to choose,” Loki repeats, then pauses for a breath. It’s been a long time since he talked that much and even that leaves him winded. “Who, among those whom my actions harmed, would be my master.”
Osmund exchanges glances with Latham and Latham shrugs.
“You thought you could get away from us this easily?” Astrid chortles and reaches for the runestone.
---
Loki didn’t register either of the men leaving, but they must have, for there’s a clatter of armored boots on the stones – the torturers wear only soft-soled shoes, so Loki wouldn’t hear them coming – and a rush of fresh air.
The stone gets removed and Loki lies there, stretched on the rack, panting, before the pain fades enough for his brain to register the changes and urge his eyes to open.
There’s a troop of Einherjar standing in the dungeon, their shiny armor looking like an artifact from some other version of reality, something that doesn’t belong in Loki’s dark, cruel, painful world.
“The All-Father will see the prisoner now,” one Einheri says.
Osmund grunts something unintelligible, but it’s a direct order, and even he cannot disregard it.
The manacles holding Loki down are released and he is dragged up, to his feet. His wobbly legs refuse to hold his weight though and the bones in his arms are still mending after the last time Latham broke them with his hammer, so his jailers are now forced to keep him upright. Even putting on the clothes he’s given – a simple linen shirt and trousers, garments fit for a prisoner or a slave that nonetheless feel surreal to have after so long of going completely naked – is too much of a task at the moment, so they put it on him roughly, before transferring him to the custody of the royal guard.
The guards put a new set of chains on him – or perhaps it’s the same set as before, even though the loop around his waist doesn’t fit nearly as tightly, slipping down his hips almost immediately – and replace the muzzle.
It bothers Loki little, now. Compared to the rack and the stone and all the other tools, it’s just a mild inconvenience.
An Einheri gives the chains an experimental tug to check if they’d stay on. The results seem satisfactory, for the guards surround Loki on all sides then, with two men grabbing his arms, and start towards the gate.
“Wait.”
It’s Astrid. She’s holding a piece of cloth.
“Put it on him. Sunlight will burn his eyes after so long in the dark.”
One of the guards grabs it and fastens the blindfold around Loki’s head, leaving just a thin strip of light at the bottom. Then the cloth is adjusted and even that disappears, plunging Loki into complete darkness.
Unable to see and too weak to stand on his own, he has to rely on the strength of the guards to stay upright.
Even like that, it’s not hard to guess where he’s being taken – through the gate and up the stairs.
Then the main gate opens and Loki has to admit Astrid was right, even the feeble light that seeps through the rough cloth burns his unused retinas, forcing him to close his eyes.
It doesn’t matter anyway. He takes a deep breath of the deliciously fresh air and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, until the rough, sun-heated cobblestones of the street under his feet change to the polished marble floor of the royal palace.
---
The pattern of the footsteps echoing off the walls changes, telling Loki they are no longer walking through the corridors, which is soon confirmed by the thump-thump of the heavy door of the royal hall closing behind them.
The guards lead him down the aisle, then step away.
Devoid of their support, he collapses to his knees.
He has no idea, if it’s just him and the guards, or if the hall is full of people. He doesn’t know if the All-Father is there, looking down at him, or if the king is yet to arrive.
At least for a moment, before the words reach him.
“Remove his blindfold and gag,” the king says and just the sound of his voice sends a shiver down Loki’s spine.
The guards oblige, and the pressure the muzzle applied to his bruised jaw lessens and goes away, followed by the cloth slipping off.
The hall isn’t nearly as bright as the streets outside, the heavy curtains drawn as they would sometimes be during some festivities that could drag for days, to not bother the guests with the sight of the sun rising and setting beyond them, but Loki still has to blink rapidly before he gets used even to the dim light.
Even then, he doesn’t dare to look up. This is his only chance, and he cannot waste it on being disrespectful.
“Your majesty,” he says. His voice doesn’t work that much better than before, but the hall is still silent and he can hope it carries enough for the king to hear. “I am at your service.”
“Your keeper told me you have a request to make of me regarding your sentence.” Odin’s tone is calm and collected.
“Aye, my king.”
“What is it?”
“I understand the weight of my crimes against you, your people and your allies, my king, and I accept your justice. All I ask for is the ability to choose who among those who I wronged would hold my life in their hands from now on.”
There’s a stretch of silence, filled just with the subtle clinking roused by Loki’s shaking hands, and the rush of blood in his ears.
“Look at me,” the All-Father says.
Loki does.
The All-Father’s eye is on him, sharp and focused, narrowed in expression that, Loki thinks, might be consideration rather than anger.
Thor is standing in his rightful spot by the king’s right side and there’s a small smile on his lips, that only grows the moment he notices Loki’s looking at him. It takes Loki a few heartbeats to comprehend what it means.
The fool.
He looks back at the All-Father and doesn’t allow his gaze to stray anymore.
The king sits back on his throne and runs his fingers through his beard, seemingly deep in thought. “For the sake of your past loyalty and for your former services for the glory of Asgard,” he says, “I will exceptionally grant your request.”
Loki bows, sinking further to the floor, until his forehead touches the tile. “Thank you, your majesty, for your infinite grace.”
The All-Father lets him stay like that for a while, before he speaks again. “State your choice, slave.”
Loki swallows, licks his lips, and draws in a long breath. “Anthony Stark of Midgard, my king.”