It is as if the whole world has stopped.
There is no sound other than the pounding of his heart into his ears, and the soft breaths he takes in. No green leaves rustling in the wind, no birds singing, not even a slight shuffle from the crowd that has gathered behind him.
“Loki.” The Allfather breaks the silence, and the tap of Odin’s staff Gugnir on the tiles feels like an earthquake. “Do you deny your crimes?”
He does not look up, eyes fixated on where spellbound and rune-wrapped chains hold his wrists together. As if he is some criminal, not the prince he is.
“No.” Loki says, and his voice is as clear and cold as ice.
There certainly is movement behind him now, a murmur of discomfort going through the gathered men and women. Under different circumstances, Loki would be amused. Let them be uneasy. There was nothing bad in what he did.
“Then do your accept your punishment?”
Slowly he lifts his head, green eyes dripping with contempt and hate as he meets the Allfather’s gaze. There is still a way back. He may still fall to his knees and plead for mercy, and Odin may still sigh and pat his shoulder and grant him forgiveness.
But all it takes is to think of Angrboda, and of all the children that he barely got to hold before they were torn from this arms, of them being locked up and hidden away and broken to the saddle.
Loki sneers, ignoring Frigga’s pleading looks, and Odin takes it as a yes.
By the chains that bind him he is pulled back, and Loki is once again made painfully aware of the stares, the quiet gazes, as with quick, harsh movements his robes are pulled down and away, fabric tearing to reveal unblemished ivory skin. And no matter how he tries not to move a muscle, to stay prideful and cocky even when his breeches, too, are torn off and he stands naked as the day he was born, he struggles as a murmur rises between the onlookers, speaking of his deeds, his stature, his parts.
Shame creeps upon him, but he pushes it away, forces it into rage, coursing from his chest through his limbs and bouncing back as his bindings prevent it from breaking free and turning the room into an inferno. Instead, it boils under his skin, but Loki forces himself to stay composed. The moment he shows weakness is the moment in which Odin wins, and with him all those who ever taunted him.
Slowly he turns around, a challenge in his eyes as he looks over the small crowd, fingers clenching into fists. He will remember them, all of them, and they will pay. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or this century, but one day. He has immortality ahead of him, and Loki is a patient man.
A rough hand grips his hair and he is pulled back, not even given time to comply as he is forcibly made to lay back on a raised platform, the marble cold and hard against his bare skin. Chains are fastened until he cannot move more than his head and his legs, and that is until firm hands grip his thighs and force them apart, spread for the whole of Asgard to see. And then, as if to make matters worse, when Loki sets his eyes upon a particular spot on the ceiling and tries to focus on it, tries to forget and ignore this humiliation, someone starts to chuckle, and the sound spreads through the gathered nobles like ripples in a pond.
“This is enough.” He can hear his mother hiss, and he strains to listen to, back arching as he tilts his head back in an attempt to see their upside-down figures. “He is only a boy, Odin. He has been humiliated enough.”
The laughter swells, and Loki isn’t certain if it is because they can hear her, or because it seems as if he is writhing against his bonds, only exposing himself further in the process. Yet no matter the cause, it still makes his gut clench, and he clenches his wrists as Odin pushes his wife away, snapping something about him learning a lesson. Loki just wants it to be over with. And it seems his wish will be fulfilled as he is pressed back down on his back, the restraints tightened a little.
“He knew full well what he was doing, Frigga.” He can hear his father growl, too soft for anyone else to hear, but he has sharp ears, always had. “And now he will face the consequences.”
Loki catches sight of the needle and he feels his heart might stop.
Slender fingers press his folds open, not so incidentally displaying him to all onlookers, and instinctively he clenches his muscles, trying and failing to ignore how it raises another series of chuckles. He’s far too aware already of his breaths speeding up as he presses his chin to his chest, trying to see the movement of the needle, but he cannot prepare himself for the first jab, gritting his teeth as the string is slowly pulled through the flesh of his labia. Still, it is bearable.
More bearable, at least, than the cruel, twisted smiles of amusement at his humiliation, constricting his throat. He hisses a curse as the needle punctures his skin again, and the smooth, hairless folds are pulled tight against each other by the string. Nothing will be able to press past, not without causing himself pain, Loki realizes. Fingers are pointed, the silence from before replaced by a swelling buzz of murmurs. He feels like an attraction, an oddity to be gawked at.
It makes sense, as that is exactly what he is. A freak of nature, who brought shame on his family by whoring himself out to other men. Loki is no fool, he knows full well that everyone and their dog has slept with some Jotun woman, at least once while he was a boy. But he dared speak of love, and this is the way he is rewarded for it. The love for a mistress, and the love for his children.
With the second stitch his eyes begin to water, and Loki hates his body for betraying him like this as he
bites back the tears, forces his breathing to remain even and calm and composed and fails. They love it, his crowd, he can tell from their laughter, from the amused tone to their words, from the rage in his mother’s eyes when he cranes his head back again to see her. And even when the pain (sting and sting and pull over and over again) becomes ignorable until he can almost, almost forget about it, the laughter rings in his ears.
Freak.
Whore.
I will not have him bringing shame to the house of Odin even more than he already did when he walked in with that- that-!
By the time the chains are loosened the tears have left wet tracts on his cheeks and his limbs are stiff, and when they pull him up to his feet Loki staggers and threatens to fall. He takes a few moments to steady himself, head down, unable to look at the people watching him anymore. If only it were so easy to shut off the laughter still echoing in his mind.
He is given no more than a single robe to cover himself, but Loki is grateful nonetheless. Every step he takes tugs at the stitches, tugs the wounds open again, and sends drops of blood running down his thigh and occasionally staining the floor. He feels numb, even when they reach his room and the cuffs are finally removed and the doors close and he is locked inside once more. There is no relief when his released magic sends furniture and stacks of books and piles of paper flying, only a sliver when he drops himself on his bed and curls into the fur covers and thinks of sleeping and a long, hot bath when he wakes. It is over. It’s finally over. Sobs he has been holding back for what feels like hours rise from his chest, and the wraps his long, skinny limbs around the furs and hugs them close, presses his face into them and tries to forget the world.
And then there is the soft, gentle touch of warm fingers on his bare shoulder, a whispered “Loki.” and he turns at once, lets his mother wrap her smooth arms around him as he cries into her shoulder, pressed against her side. She kisses the top of his head, slowly strokes her slender fingers through his hair, and it feels like they sit like that for an eternity, until he runs out of tears and the fabric by her shoulder is soaked, his breath coming in soft hiccups.
“It is alright, I have you now.” Frigga whispers, and he suspects she’d been murmuring such things all along, wishing he had listened. “They will not hurt you anymore, my sweetling.”
“I will get them.” Loki croaks, waiting for a scolding word or a scorning gaze, but instead she just continues to stroke his hair, keeping him close. “I will get them all.”
“Come.” Frigga says instead, and with slow, careful movements she urges him up to his feet, keeping one arm around him and guiding Loki to the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You will not be bound to your chambers for long, now.” She informs, and from her tone he can tell with ease that even if it is not Odin’s plan, she will make it so.
“And the stitches?” he asks softly as he lowers himself into the large tub, sinking gratefully into the warm water and letting it ease his stiff limbs.
“I will make it so that they can be removed, but it will take time.”
Loki nods, washing the tears off his red and puffy eyelids, and looks up to her, slowly feeling his strength return to him. “I will be more careful.” He swears, and for the first time that day, no matter how softly, Frigga smiles.
“I trust that you will. Rest. I will have dinner brought to your chambers.” She promises, leaning down to press a last kiss on his forehead, before leaving.
Loki would be busy enough planning without her interference.