Chapter 4
The halls of Asgard are shining, shimmering golden, but Loki dwells not on his surrounding. On the high table on which the royal family usually dines sits the nobles, the judges of this competition between Loki and the two dwarves.
He does not need to know the results; he knows already the outcome.
One of the two brothers, the stouter one, walks up to him and sneers. "Your head, your highness," he demands mockingly, his face leering and confident.
Loki fights down the urge to run and flee, of which surely the bards of Asgard will sing of endlessly should they witness such an event. He flashes a smile, albeit shakily, instead.
"My friend," he says, choosing his words with great care. The dwarf's eyes narrow dangerously - but Loki has yet to show him the true extent of the title of Silvertongue. "There is a problem with your demand. To give you my head is to offer you my neck - and that was not included in the terms we agreed upon."
The dwarf starts to pull himself to his full height, but Loki rushes on. "Unless, of course, you are able to severe my head from my body without touching my neck. If it is so, let it be given that should my neck be touched, you shall offer your own head and neck." Loki pulls at the collar of his tunic, freeing his neck and revealing the pale skin underneath; an offering, a challenge to the dwarf.
He watches the dwarf and knows, safe in his quick wits and words, that there is no life to be lost. Not today.
But as if on cue, the dwarf's face split open into an unholy smile. "Your head is still mine," he says gruffly with no small amount of glee, "so will I sew your mouth shut, to still your silver tongue."
Loki turns around, pride be damned, but the dwarf grasps his forearm roughly and shoves him against the table Loki's gifts rest upon. He looks up at Odin, at Frigga, at Thor; but they are not there, where have they gone, where are they? He sees Sif, still with coarse and inky hair, looking down at him from the high table, where the rest of the nobles laughed and dined.
One glance, and she turns away.
The dwarf forces his head back, an awl and coarse black thread in his hand. He bends over Loki, huffing vile breath onto his face and Loki would have gagged had he not been too terrified. The grin is still there, although much more wider, distorted, familiar?
"Foolish little god," and the dwarf suddenly morphs into Stark, trademark grin and all. He cups Loki's face almost gently, croons, "give me a show, won't you?" and brushes a kiss on the corner of Loki's lips. Loki leans into him, closing his eyes...
The grip turns bruisingly hard, Loki's eyes snap open, the dull shine of the awl in Stark's hand, drawing closer, closer; Stark continues to grin, he wants a show; the awl pierces the spot where Stark had just kissed and Loki opens his mouth to -
Wake up.
The bed is wet with sweat beneath him, and the digital clock that rests upon the nearby table reads far too early in the morning for any productive activity. The spot where the needle had went through tingles unpleasantly; Loki raises a finger to trace over the almost invisible scars.
(Foolish little god, a whisper at the back of his mind, give me a show, won't you?Loki ignores.)
He wipes the sweat on his brows away, gets out of bed and makes for the bathroom - today is a big, big day, as Osborn had said the previous night.
Today is Stark's trial.
"What do you mean, we have to move?" Amora demands. "Do you know how much time I spent on those wards?"
The man looks at her, unapologetic. "Ma'am," he says and no one misses Amora's face going from black to blacker, "yer can aither 'ave yer trial safe against mojo but infested with termites - or yer might as well set up yer magic circles and voodoo in the new courtroom nice an' comfertable. Not my probl'm."
Before Amora can break out into a tirade and curse the man into a frog, a rat, god forbid a mixture of both; Loki steps in. "Thank you for informing us," he says, dismissing the man. "We'll move the wards."
The man looks at Loki disinterestedly before ambling off, and Amora turns on him. "That was a mortal," she points out vehemently.
"He had a point, Enchantress," he replies, calm.
Amora graces him with a sneer, and what time is it, it's far too early in the morning for him to be taking care of this. "We are gods, Odinson," she says pointedly. "We bow to no whim of a mere mortal. Or have you placed yourself on the same level as them, oh mighty son of Odin?"
"What difference will it make, Amora?" Loki returns. "You heard him. You're welcome to place your bottom upon a rotting piece of furniture, but I doubt the rest of the people present today will be similarly inclined."
Amora glowers at him. "They're here to watch Stark be put behind bars anyway," she says, scathing. "Osborn just wants to show off."
"Humour him," Loki snaps.
(Subtle and soft,give me a show?)
Wait.
I want to put on a show, Stark had said, says with a slow smirk dancing upon his lips.
"Fuck," Loki says out loud. Amora throws him a scandalized look.
"You have limited time, Enhantress," Loki all but shouts at her. "Set up those wards, as fast as you can, and make sure that it holds. We're being played, dammit -"
"By who," Amora sneers, "Stark -"
"Yes, Stark," and Amora stares at him with the look ofhave you lost your marbles. He snarls at her. "Stark wants to put on a show, you fool, he's planning something - "
Amora scoffs. "Your intelligence must be decreasing, Odinson. Stark's a mere mortal alone in that room."
"He has a plan, he always had, it's going to be something big,"parades and flowers and his name in the sky, Loki had dreamt of that a time ago. "Set up those wards, Amora, we haven't a moment to lose. Now."
She scowls at him but chooses not to argue further, disappearing in a swirl of green. Loki takes a deep breath, calms himself.
(Foolish little god, it's too late.)
Time to find Osborn.
"Don't be ridiculous, Odinson," Osborn says testily. He looks more haggard, circles beneath his eyes - thank the Norns Spider-Man or some other villains decided to not attack New York for the past few days.
"Cancel the trial, Osborn," Loki insists, but the man only holds up a finger for silence. Loki bristles,no one tells him what to do, dammit, but lets Osborn talk anyway.
"There are superheroes," he starts, "that can very well take Stark down if he tries anything funny. Hell, sic Magneto onto him and any gun in his hand will just bend back into itself! That's why we're having a trialfullof superheroes, or did you forget?"
"I did not forget," Loki says icily. "Stark is up to something," he repeats for emphasis, "he wants to put on a show."
"Give me proof," Osborn replies bluntly. "Proof of this plan." Loki stares at him and he raises an eyebrow.
"Is your pride so precious to you?" Loki asks instead, all spite.
Osborn sighs heavily. "I can't cancel the trial, we need at least a day's notice," he says grudgingly. "And everyone is already making their way here. We'll lose face after all the trouble we went through."
Loki shakes his head. "We will come to regret this," he warns him.
Osborn shrugs. "What can Stark do? Shoot him and he'll go down," he leans over to flick at a speck of dust on the edge of his table, "just like that."
(Just like Hammer.)
No use arguing, Loki realizes. He shakes his head one last time and teleports away.
The courtroom is mostly empty, save for Amora, Loki and a few more people who came a tad too early. He glances at the clock - it was still eleven, and the trial is set in the afternoon.
Far too early.
Someone settles in the spot besides him and he inclines his head up to look at whoever it is. Why sit with a stranger when the place is so empty?
"Magneto apologizes for being unable to attend. Some matters of importance has cropped up, and I'm here in both his stead and my own." The woman smiles at him, her brown curls framing her petite face - but Loki sees for a second, a flash of yellow eyes.
Ah.
"You must be Mystique," he greets. "I am Loki Odinson. Many thanks for coming today."
"Likewise," she says out of courtesy. "Will Emma be joining us?"
"There has been a minor dispute within the Cabal," Loki answers conversationally. "Miss Frost and Namor will be unlikely to come today."
Mystique eyes him, but accepts the explaination with a curt nod.
They stay in companionable silence as the courtroom slowly fills with people over time. Ambassador Schmidt strides in with his assistant, sitting at the very back; Madame Masque sweeps in mere moments later, her mask elegantly perched on her face. Fisk walks in and greets Loki like an old friend although they have never met before, a reporter and a photographer slips in, their lanyards reading 'The Daily Bugle'. Some people Loki does not recognise but he is sure Osborn had invited joins the crowd - a red-haired woman carrying a sizable metal briefcase sits down behind the defendant's table, and a man with four metallic arms maneuvers himself into the room, carefully avoiding Amora's markings.
Speaking of the devil, where is she?
He turns to ask his companion, but falters when he sees not the familiar face of his friend, but Mystique's chosen appearance. The absence of Victor's company hits him like a punch, leaving him reeling and also bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Mystique turns to look at him but he shakes his head, gives a small smile, everything is fine.
Amora and Skurge saunter in soon enough and take their seats on the other side of the court. Osborn hurries in, taking a seat next to Fisk and leans in to discuss matters with his fellow businessmen. Loki glances about the room once more, and cannot ignore the feeling oftrap, trap, it's all a trap.
Judge Hart enters the courtroom and everyone rises up. The legal procedures are droll and much tamer compared to Asgard's courts of justice, and Loki watches with a perfunctory eye, preferring to look out for any possible threats. Amora would have been unable to set the more complex wards in place, requiring more than a measly period of five hours to properly set up such wards.
Finally, Stark is escorted in by two burly guards. The crowd hushes and Loki leans forward in his seat. The villain grins widely at them, ever so smug.
(He catches Loki's eyes and winks at him; Loki can only feel the unpleasant tingling of his scar, a subtle reminder of his dream he does not need.)
You're up to something, aren't you, he mouths at Stark, who merely cocks his head in a gesture of I can't hear you; but his eyes, shining and excited, give everything away. Patience, Loki catches before Stark is placed before the court in his full glory.
"Anthony Edward Stark," comes the judge's gravelly voice. "You hereby stand before us for the crime of planned and executed homicide. Do you - "
"Your Honour," Stark calls out, interrupting him. "Skip the proceedings, everyone would rather read the iTunes user agreement." He turns to the court, sweeping a critical over all of them and lingering a while more on Osborn.
"I plead guilty."