Work Text:
Broken
He wants to say something, before they leave. But of course he is in chains, gagged and wordless. And Thor, for all that he is looks deep into Loki's eyes fails to read what they are trying to say. He sighs against his constraints. To Asgard then. Perhaps there, they will have a chance to talk. Eventually. If anyone notices that the previously antagonistic villain is now strangely passive and unresisting, they don't say anything. They don't stop and wonder why.
Which is, Loki thinks, because they are fools.
Winning was a good plan A, but in all his years Loki has had to learn that even the best laid plans can fail. Losing is an acceptable plan B, in this instance. An Asgardian prison is surely safer for him now than anywhere on Midgard, and with luck he will be able to make Thor listen. Then of course he will have to rely on Thor to make Odin listen, and he can only hope that the much feted wisdom of the Allfather comes into play then.
He is left for too many days languishing in a cell, whilst they try and decide what to do with him. At first it rankles. Whatever else he may be, unless Odin has chosen to publicly disown him now he is still a Prince of Asgard. Is it too much to ask that at least his crimes be given the respect that they deserve? If his successes had to be ignored, could not his failures at least be given some attention? He had expected to be paraded before all of his former subjects. Shamed and humiliated, but at least seen.
Instead, he has been left to wait, alone and still voiceless. Even Thor has not been to visit him. So be it then. When the Chitauri come – and they will – Asgard will be in a war they were unprepared for. When Thanos comes, they will be doomed. If being ignored and left to rot rankles, that knowledge of what is coming turns his stomach to roiling acid. Futile rage and fear, mixing together. Asgard is – was – his home. He will NOT let it burn and die.
The days turn to weeks and his irritation gives way to genuine fear. Why has no one come for him? He knows he is not loved here, but surely his presence hasn't simply been forgotten? When at last someone comes, it is no one he was expecting. The prisons of Asgard are not as secure as anyone might wish them to.
It is Chitauri who come for him, melting out of the shadows, leaving only the corpses of guards behind them. Still manacled, his words stilled behind the metal mask, he has no way to fight back as they take him. Not that he doesn't try. He will not make this easy for them, not like last time when he had been weakened by his fall.
It takes them only seconds to subdue him, despite his struggles. Once they have a firm hold of him, one of them draws out a blue glowing device and activates it. As the all too familiar surrounds of his cell flicker he hears the first shouts in the distance. Thor's voice ringing out, calling for his brother. It is too late, the scene flickers out of existence and he feels himself being pulled and pushed all at once. Then he is stumbling between his captors, and thrown to the floor in a great hall, before a dark throne.
Thanos regards him with gleaming, vindictive eyes.
'You failed me, little god.'
He tries to deny it with a shake of his head, but without his words there is no way he can talk himself out this one.
'Take him. Do with him as you will.'
Loki's eyes widen in fear, as he mutely pleads for leniency. Thanos only chuckles, low and malicious.
'Do not worry about causing him too much hurt, not even death wants him now.'
With that, he is dismissed, dragged away by grasping, alien hands.
He finds himself flung down in a cold, dark room. His clothing is stripped from him, leaving him naked. They fit a collar, studded with eerily glowing jewels, then chain him by it to a post standing in the centre of the room. With careless, clumsy hands they pull the mask from his face, then leave him alone, hands still bound before him.
It could be hours before someone comes to him, or days. It is hard to tell in the never changing darkness. He talks, just to hear his own voice, but there is no power to his words. He has no power, here, and suspects that the collar negates it somehow. When someone comes, it is someone Loki recognises. The one who gave him the staff, and an army. He shivers at the heated, angry look in it's eyes.
'Do you hunger?'
It is a simple question, and with a start Loki realises that he does. On Asgard, he was sustained magically. But it is many many hours since he was on Asgard, and now his stomach aches for sustenance. So he nods, once.
'Then ask.'
'What?'
'If you want food, you must ask for it.'
Loki snorts, affronted. But this is a petty matter, truly. So with a roll of his eyes he does as he has been bid.
'May I have some food?'
The Chitauri sniggers.
'That is not how you ask. You get on your knees and beg.'
It would take more than hunger pains to being Loki to his knees, and they both know it. The Chitauri seems pleased when his demand is met only with bitter silence and a head held high. His pleasure worries Loki, but he doesn't let on.
With a nod, the Chitauri leaves him alone once more. This time it is definitely days before he returns, and by now Loki has grown beyond simple hunger. His belly aches, his muscles hurt. He can feel his body devouring itself. The Chitauri stares at him in watchful silence for a while, then he grimaces in what passes for a smile upon his face.
'Beg.'
Loki turns his head away. He will not be defeated so easily. But his mouth is dry, and had been for days. His throat feels rough, coated with dust. His legs are weak and can barely hold his weight. It is pride alone that keeps him on his feet, but pride is something he has always had. Once again, the Chitauri seems pleased by his resistance, and leaves without another word.
The next time he comes, Loki is no longer standing. His legs gave out hours ago, so that now he rests on his knees. He can feel the humour in the Chitauri's gaze.
'Beg.'
He stares at the floor and refuses to speak.
Next time, he finally gives in.
'Please.' His voice is barely even a croak.
'Please what?'
'Water.'
'Ask properly. Beg me.'
Loki closes his eyes, afraid to catch even the vaguest of reflections in the shiny darkness of the floor. He can not look at himself as he does this.
'Please, may I have some water?'
It is clearly some kind of single, his capitulation. The Chitauri steps forward, regarding him with that same dark pleasure. He seems to conjure a jug from nowhere, tilting it and pouring so that a puddle of water forms before Loki, growing in size until he is kneeling in it.
'Go on then. Drink.'
Shamed, but too thirsty to resist, Loki bends down to the floor and laps at it like an animal. He would rather almost any punishment Odin could think up than to be reduced like this, to nothing more than the most basic of needs.
With the sating of this thirst, Loki finds some resurgence of his former fight. He glares up at the man.
'Are you happy now?'
The back handed slap takes him by surprise. No one has laid so much as a finger on him since his capture. He is prepared for the second and third which follow and feels some savage pride that he manages to stay on his knees.
'Know your place.'
The words hurt, reminding him of other times and places. He doesn't know his place, not any more. Is he a prince, or a king? A god or a monster? The Chitauri answers for him.
'You are nothing, and no one.'
He is kicked to the floor, sprawling in the wet. Even so, naked and coated with several days grime he manages to glare back defiantly. They seek to break him, but they can't. He is already broken beyond repair. So what if they strip him of the little he has left? What does pride matter now, what does anything matter?
Asgard matters. It is an unexpected thought, but a true one. The place he once called home is in danger, as are all the realms. And no one knows it but he, and he is stuck here. Even if he managed to get free, who would listen or believe him? The liesmith. The silvertongue. He startles himself by laughing, and once he has started he can't stop.
The Chitauri leaves him there, alone in the dark and the wet again. He laughs until his throat burns with it, until tears sparkle in his eyes. When he finally stop, his throat is dry and aching once more. Hating himself, he puts his face to the floor and laps up the remaining water.
Every day after that, when he wakes there is a bowl of water. He catches it up in his hands and drinks from it, letting the cool liquid soothe his throat and fill his belly. His stomach feels hollow and empty, his limbs still weak for lack of food. Water sloshes around in it making him queasy. It is not long before he realises that the token gesture of kindness brings with it another problem. Now that he has a regular supply of fluid, his bladder fills. A full bladder must be emptied.
When the Chitauri comes to him again, he is squirming with need. Face flaming, he closes his eyes once more.
'I need to relieve myself. Please.'
The Chitauri chuckles.
'There is nothing stopping you.'
Loki opens his eyes then, throwing an angry look at his captor.
'You can't honestly expect me to go here?'
The Chitauri only cocks it's head.
'But you will, when you have no other choice. Soon I think.'
'I will NOT.'
'I should make you beg for the privilege.'
Loki glares up at him. The creature is mad. It meets his infuriated gaze with one that is calm, serene even. Then it simply turns and leaves.
He spends the night – or what he assumes must be night – squirming with need. He burns with it, sweating and gasping as he clutches at himself. The next morning, there is no bowl of water and he is almost grateful. If he takes anything more into him, he will have no choice but to give in. It is mere hours before he realises that he may not have a choice either way.
No one comes, and he can't hold on any longer. Sobbing, with a mixture of pain and relief he lets go. Hours later, he is still alone, still sitting in a puddle of his own stinking piss. Days later, no one has come to him, and his thirst is back with a vengeance. He has no choice but to lay down and sleep in his own mess, feeling it soak into his hair. Eventually, he has no choice but to lap up the vile moisture, anything to soothe the dryness of his throat, his cracked, bleeding lips and burning, water starved mouth.
When he lifts his face from the floor, the Chitauri is standing there watching him. It's cruel eyes glitter.
'Next time, you will beg.'
The bowls of water appear again, and he can not resist the cool, crystalline clear liquid. Next time, he begs and instead of being left to sit and sleep and live in his mess, he is bathed in warm water. Soft cloths dry him and if hands linger too long upon him, it is a price he is willing to pay.
'What is your name?'
Loki blinks, confused. This creature knows his name. A swift kick in the ribs makes it clear that an immediate answer is required.
'Loki. My name is Loki.'
'No. It is not.'
Now he is more than confused, he is angry.
'I am Loki, Prince of Asgard. God of chaos and fire.'
'Your name is nothing and you are no one.'
Loki sneers. Do they really think it is so easy? The creature only shakes it's head. It draws a hand out of it's robe, holding a device that blinks with the same eerie lights as the stones in his collar. It presses something and Loki's world descends into pure pain. He screams until he is hoarse, and when he has no more voice, the acid burn of bile marks it's passage through him as he vomits all over himself. Finally the pain stops, and he is left panting for breath, every one of his muscles twitching and shaking. As he comes round, he realises that he has pissed himself again and flushes.
This time he is left to lie in it, but only until he has his limbs under working control again. Then he reaches for a towel that has been left within reach and mops up himself, and the mess he has made as best he can before throwing it away from him.
The next time the Chitauri comes to him, there is no more mention of names. It carries with a bowl full of something steaming hot. The smell is enticing, and causes his stomach to growl with need. The Chitauri barely looks at him, as if bored now by his presence.
'Beg.'
So he does, pushing himself to his knees.
'Please. Please let me eat.'
The Chitauri sits down beside him, surprising him. It reaches into the bowl and retrieves what looks like a chunk of meat, full of gristle and fat. Under normal circumstances it wouldn't be appetising at all, but Loki is starving. The weight has fallen from him, so that he knows he is little more than skin and bones. When the Chitauri holds the morsel out to him, he leans forward and takes it from his fingers, straight into his mouth. The Chitauri practically purrs in pleasure as he Loki eats straight from his hands.
When the food is done, he stands once more.
'You have not eaten in weeks. You may experience some... discomfort.'
It is not long before Loki learns the truth of those words. As the food makes it's way through his digestive system, his stomach feels too full. It stretches, and the stretching hurts, like something inside him is tearing apart. His belly swells and aches. Every breath causes sharp stabbing pains in his side. He can not help the tears that sting his eyes, fall down his cheeks.
The Chitauri watches him for a moment. Then it comes to rest beside him once more. It reaches out and strokes his back, the touch comforting. Though he hates his own weakness, Loki can not help but lean into that touch. The Chitauri sits with him until the pain passes to a more manageable level of discomfort. Before it leaves it turns to him once more.
'You will eat only from my hand, and you will thank me for every bite.'
Loki nods, just once, in acknowledgement. He is weary beyond belief and his eyes are closed before The Chitauri has gone.
The next day, it turns up to feed him again.
'Beg.'
'Please. Please I need food.'
'Good.'
It sits beside him with it's bowl, reaching in and presenting a morsel to Loki's eager lips. Then it sits and stares at him, expectant.
'Thank you.'
'That is not how you thank me.'
'Then how?'
The creature opens it's robes, revealing it's gruesome naked body to Loki's eyes. Then it draws his attention to the thick, swollen appendage between it's legs.
'For each bite, you will kiss me. Here.'
Loki rebels at the very thought. He will not be brought so low. The Chitauri only stares at him. Then it laughs, that same grating, vile laugh with which it always greets his attempts at rebellion. It places the bowl beyond reach, before reaching out for Loki. He struggles, but his wasted body has no energy with which to fight back. So he finds himself flipped onto his stomach, and his legs parted. There is no attempt to prepare him before the alien's cock is shoved into him.
The Chitauri thrusts into him, hard, fast and unrepentant. His screams are torn out of him each time it shoves into him, his tears rent from him with each pull back. When it is done, it leaves him lying there, leaking blood and alien juices.
It is days before it comes back. This time, he refuses to even beg for food. The acts it wants him to commit are too high a price to pay. Each day that he refuses, he is plundered again. He hurts and he burns with a fever. He lies there and longs for death, sure by now that his body can take no more. Death does not come, and he remembers the words of Thanos. 'Not even death wants him now.'
For all his determination, starvation robs him of the strength to fight. The next time the Chitauri comes, he begs once more. And after accepting the stringy, unpleasant meat from it's fingers, he leans down and places a kiss on the end of it's engorged prick.
Next time, it has knew instructions.
'Now, you will lick it.'
In a matter of weeks, it no longer needs to ask. After Loki has been fed, he crawls between it's legs and suckles on it's cock, until the foul spend of the creature fills his mouth and spurts down his throat.
And so it continues. He never leaves the room, is never unchained. Every day, he begs for food, for water. For the right to relieve himself. When he does these things without prompting, he is given luxuries. A bucket to use, that he doesn't need to soil the floor where he sleeps. A scratchy, lumpy pillow for his head. A warm wash cloth, to wipe at the grime which always covers him now. When he doesn't, he is left bleeding and weeping on the floor.
The day the Chitauri asks him again for his name, he chokes on the words. His existence has become simply this dark room and the things required of him. He only shakes his head, and feels the Chitauri's sick pleasure.
'Say it. Tell me what you are.'
'I am nothing.'
Content, it leaves him alone.
When it has gone, he opens his eyes and stares into the darkness of the room. When he speaks, it is so quiet a whisper he can barely hear his own words.
'I am Loki.'
It is his secret, that he still knows his own name. He holds it close and finds a strength he thought he had lost. Secrets have always been of use to him, something he can manipulate to his own ends. They think him broken, and he is. Was, long before they got to him. But he is not defeated.
He is Loki, prince of Asgard. He is a god. Once, he was a king, and a king does not abandon his people, even when they abandon him. In the darkness he smiles, and if there is madness in it he no longer cares.
He begs when it is required, submits to the demands made of him, no matter how degrading. Each new humiliation gives him something to work with. He uses it to fuel his hate. He seeks out the Chitauri's body now, anticipating it's needs. In giving in, he has found a way to fight back. He gives the creature pleasure and slowly, a day at a time, it lets down it's guard. It keeps feeding him, and he builds up his strength, biding his time.
He lets it rut into him, arching his back, a picture of submissive encouragement. It all but purrs in delight. Next time, it lays down and pulls him onto it, so he rides it to completion. And in that moment, when it's eyes roll back, he strikes. It's robes fall open around it, open but not discarded. It takes less than a second to slide a hand into a pocket, to pull out the device he knows is kept there.
The Chitauri hisses, reaching for him, but the instrument by which it can cause him pain is in his hands now. And Loki, he is no longer starved and weak. He brings his chained hands up and around the creatures throat, choking off it's attempts to cry for help. Choking, until the body stills beneath him. Choking, until it's windpipe is crushed beneath his fingers. Until it's body jerks in death throws so violent they almost throw him off. It soils itself at the moment of death, piss splattering Loki's stomach and thighs. He laughs until his laughter turns to sobs.
There is no time for this now. No time for hysteria. He has only killed one, and there are millions of them billions perhaps. And Thanos. Thanos who made the mistake of thinking a fallen god beneath his notice. Oh yes, Thanos. And his words still wring in Loki's ears. 'Not even death wants him now.'
So be it.
He presses each button in turn. Not the one that causes him pain. One causes him a sudden jolt of pleasure and he closes his eyes in short lived relief. If they had sought to defeat him with kindness he fears to think where he would be now. Finally, he presses the right one and with a click, the collar falls open. He reaches up to remove it and rubs at his neck where it has rested for so long.
Then it is only a matter of minutes to break the chain that binds his hands. The manacles still adorn his wrists but he finds he doesn't mind. They are of Asgard, of home. They remind him of everything he has lost, everything that matters.
He slips on the soiled robe of the Chitauri, leaving the creature naked and cold in the dark, as it has left him so many times. With the collar gone, he feels the power that has always been his close at hand once more. Part of him, as it was always meant to be. He creeps through their halls, hidden from sight. He stands on the throne room of Thanos, watching with cold eyes.
The army they gather now is many times the size of the one which he was given, but it will be no more victorious.
He listens to their council of war, making sense of what he can. Then he closes his eyes and reaches out, seeking the paths he used to wonder. All roads lead to Ygddrasil, if you know how to follow them. When he finds what he is looking for, he steps forward and with a rush of power so strong it makes his head spin, he is gone.
He dreams of Asgard, but it is not where he goes. Thanos will take Midgard first. Loki recognises in him a creature akin to himself. He will want to prove that he is the better monster, by taking what Loki could not. He will want to make that point, before he wages his war of annihilation across the nine realms. So it is to Midgard that his steps take him. The way is long and he is weary, but the purpose he carries with him this time is far greater and more glorious than that which he carried before.
This time there is no tesseract, no portal or short cut. It doesn't matter, he will make it in time. He must make it in time.
When he appears on Midgard, it is in the same tower, the very same room in fact, where he faced his previous defeat. At another time, he would delight in the startled expression upon the man of iron's face. Instead, he lets himself sag to the floor. It has taken all of his strength to reach this place.
'Tony Stark. You must gather your Avengers. War is coming.'
Then he collapses to the floor, spent. But the man, mortal as he is, is no fool. He is no Thor, to ignore tidings of such importance. He closes his eyes and waits. The Avengers will be gathered, and this time they will have two gods to fight at their side. With the last of his strength, before he falls into unconsciousness he manages to get out four more words.
'And get my brother.'