“It was the only way,” he breathes, sounding almost—but not quiet—regretful; and Thor searches in the darkness to make out his face. But he can see nothing and tell only where his brother is by the sound of footsteps as he moves.
“I couldn’t let them kill you,” Loki goes on. Thor would like to say something but the gold-wrought gag holds his tongue still, just as the chains tie his limbs. He would like to say: Why are you working for them? He would like to say: release me now.
He can say nothing. He waits, but Loki only moves around and around him in the darkness. The smooth face of a clock beneath him. He cannot see the hands ever-moving long against the stone, but he can hear the ever-present tick of the second hand. It will be hours before they come out once more; he can still feel the blood on his cheeks, not yet dry. Loki had been waiting. Watching, perhaps.
The pacing stops; he hears Loki settle onto his heels before him—can imagine the way he turns his head quizzically, can almost feel the weight of his gaze, but cannot read what silent words are before him. He cannot respond to the presence before him, and it is that which frustrates him—unable to speak or even reach out he is nothing more than a living statue, prisoner in an endless darkened hall.
“When I free you, they will know,” he says, and touches Thor’s shoulder lightly. “You will have to be ready.”
He nods—he will be ready. He feels like he, too, works on coiled springs; infernal clockwork; held in place always straining against itself, awaiting movement.
But the touch retreats, a sigh rests gently before him. “I will need to count on you to fight,” he says, soft. “You will need your eyes.”
He stiffens, shakes his head, can feel the tension that had drained out of him flow back into a tight knot as he realizes what his brother means to do.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait—”
How many hours? Almost the full twelve, before his eyes grew back, and then out they would come again, broken, trundling, grinning on twisted wire.
No. No, please.
He cannot speak, but he tries; oh how he tries—to reach and yet even now with the chains loose and long they are not long enough to hold Loki, still standing on the edge of the clock.
“I’m sorry.”
He has lost count. Lost count of the hours as they roll together numberless, the days that are indistinguishable from one another here in this empty place.
But instead of leaving the steps move closer, thin strong arms wrap around his back and hold him, tight. Loki rests his head on his shoulders, moves his fingers over the cold metal of the gag and Thor can almost feel the light touch on his skin.
“It’s all right,” he breathes, at last. “I will stay with you.”
And he does—all through the lonely hours, as the hands of the clock wind their way round the endless face; as the long cold chains tighten inexorably, dragging him closer to the center.
And then again the hands meet and the bell rings dully; a low, echoing reverberation that flees into the darkness. He can see with restored sight the small doors open and the peering, laughing painted faces. The bell winds its way through his mind, and he sits upright, still reaching.
Only a dream.
Screeching, rusty, they fling themselves out, hands outstretched with blood on the tips of each serrated edge, and he cannot move, cannot even scream as they cut into his eyes pulling them from their sockets leaving only blackness and laughter—he can swear they are laughing.
And when at last they pull themselves into their holes and the doors force closed with the last round of the bell he curls into himself and feels the salty sting of tears beneath the pain. And the second hand continues as it always does: tick. tick. tick.