We Die Together || Thor and Loki
loki-god-of-menace:
Loki noticed everything, an attribute he realized was both useful for keeping them alive and detrimental to his overall sanity. He could not help but hear the sword crash to the floor, and he turned in time enough to see Thor massaging the ache in his arm.
It was too soon. Too soon after their afternoon bout to be plunging again into the arena, but their captors cared as little for their comfort as they did for their lives. The salves and ointments they provided were crude, and lacked the potency or delicacy of the ones Asgard’s Healers possessed. They did little but stave the bleeding and seal the skin, and left the remainder of the healing to the natural abilities of their bodies.
Loki met Thor’s gaze.
“You are hurt.” He murmured. After Sanctuary it was difficult; difficult to watch Thor be harmed. If was for much that reason he had not yet torn out Ognar’s throat. If it had been his life, and his life alone, he would have long ago clawed that odious being’s trachea out and likely suffered the consequences. But the consequences in their current circumstances was threatened harm to his brother and Loki could not justify it. He could not do that.
Thanos had tried to break them by using them against each other. When the Titan had learned that pitting them against one another was not bringing about satisfactory results, he had turned to more vicious methods and had been met with at least marginal success. They might have fought each other on the Bifrost, but that seemed a distant memory now, and their quarrel a trivial one. The hurt and centuries of being treated the second-son and lesser brother had not been easily expunged, and he still felt bitterness coil in his chest when he thought of Odin’s lies, but now…
Now Thor had been his only companion for two, Norn’s forsaken years of death and blood and pain, and their new captors had learned rather quickly that the brothers turned savage when one, or the other, was abused.
Thor’s hand on his shoulder was a welcome weight, and Loki gripped his brother’s (uninjured) arm in return. His eyes reflected the ‘thank you’ he did not say.
“Together.” He murmured, “Even if it is a trifle dramatic.” He jested, nudging Thor with a shoulder as he turned back to his weapons. Humor was rare from Loki in the recent days. He was quiet more often than not and devoid of mirth; a distinct shift from the past, when he used to make it his personal mission to cheer any of Thor’s moods.
He sheathed two knifes, and slid on a short-sword that settled into the curve of his back. He finished the ensemble with a helm adorned with two, small horns. When their masters had finally allowed them monikers, they had chosen altered forms of their previous helmets. He was not certain if it was a form of a ridicule, or merely a way of making their appearances more remarkable for the crowds.
“Careful of your arm.” Loki cautioned, fixing Thor with a sharp look, “If it pains you in the thick of it…” He did not finish the thought. He would slit his own throat if Thor died. “…Just be careful.”
A loud, reverberating noise split the silence. The great arena horns sounded through the halls, and Loki could hear the Grandmaster’s voice, boasting of them and announcing the spectacle.
“It is time.” Loki breathed, and a shudder rippled through him as his skin shifted from white to blue. It always felt like something tearing - like his Aesir form was pealing back and ice was filling his veins. The dark in the chamber was immediately milder and the lights a trace too-bright.
“Together.” He breathed.
“I’ve suffered worse than this.” Thor boasted, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. Aye, indeed he had dealt with worse wounds, but the majority of them had been when he was within easy access to a cadre of well-trained healers on a battleground that the Asgardian’s controlled. Here, they had no such luxury.
Here they had to rely on their own natural healing, and each other. The amount of times he would have been lost were it not for his brother’s presence were beyond count, and the same could have been said in reverse. It stretched beyond the physical bolstering to the mental and psychological as well. In a strange twist of fate he had become the encourager.
“I’ll be careful.” He reassured Loki.
He felt more than heard the beginnings of the spectacle. The great horns seemed to bring up a rumbling from beneath their feet which then split the air with great booms, silencing the crowd and giving space that was immediately filled by the peculiarly lilting tones of their captor, their master. He cursed under his breath as he adjusted his weapons, moving to stand in the middle of the waiting area.
No more words were needed, the voice died and the horns blasted again, and the great door before them rumbled and shook. A fresh layer of dust rolled off of its edge as it ground down beneath the floor and the bright lights of the night-lit proving ground stabbed into his vision. They swung away, then back, then away, and back, like a wave of water crashing on stone. The crowds cheered – the wanted to see the challengers.
He strode forward, forcing himself to feel the rush of adrenaline that he knew would have to carry them forth. Time was that he would not have had to dredge up the joy of battle from some nigh-empty chamber deep in his soul – It would have flowed freely of its own accord. Sometimes Thor longed for those days, when a rousing speech was ever on his lips for troops that may have been foundering, when he and Loki led the charge of Asgard’s greatest warriors. For a moment he imagined that instead of a million or more cheering fans, the seats above and around were a massive army, glittering gold and sparkling like gems.
But the illusion was dashed as soon as it game. The Grandmaster, a towering hologram a hundred stories tall bent and finished his speech with a swooping wave of his hand, “I give you… Lord of Thunder!” The cheers rose and fell, “And Icebringer!” The horns sounded again, and great drums beat.
Over two years they had seen many layouts of the arena. Some devilry of technology or magic made it so that their contests had taken place in a hundred simulated battlefields. From frozen tundra, to burning desert; from grassy planes, to fire-blasted hellscapes. The layout this time featured ancient painted standing stones in a great circle, with more here and there scattered about as if a city had been demolished a hundred thousand years before and the land had reclaimed much of what had once stood. Shifting sand dunes were the floor, except where it was hardened into a path that wound among the stones.
Only the ‘sky’ belied that this was not real. Instead of the million glittering stars he would have expected to see above them, he saw only millions of staring faces, wanting a spectacle, wanting a fight… wanting to see something exciting. They were but toys on the field before them. He hated them all, and wished he had the power within him now to burn them and all their ilk to the ground.
A breeze blew from somewhere and on it’s breath was a stench, foul, of death. Now as Thor looked he spied that what he thought was paint adorning the stones was indeed the multi-colored spattering of blood from a dozen species of contenders that had probably been thrown into this ring to anger…. Whatever it was they would be fighting.
A yowling sound in the distance filled the air, followed by scrabbling claws upon stone. His fingers clutched the axe-hilt at his waist and gripped the sword in his other hand. Atop the furthest standing stone a shape appeared, scrambling like a feline up the rock and perching, staring. It’s luminous eyes glared out from mechanical housings. “Some kind of beast made of metal?” He whispered, but was cut off from further speech.
The ground rumbled, this time it was not again the horns. Sand amongst the stones was roiling like a boiling pot and then a great mound of it rose up and exploded. A great maw opened and spun toward them, filled with thousands of razor sharp teeth. Great armored plates like dragon scales lined the sides of the Sand Worm, and the bulk threatened to crush the both of them. He knew not how many of these worms, or how many of the metal devils were with them in the arena, only that they must fight…and survive.
