PROLOGUE
*
PROLOGUE
*
"The battle is over, brother, you have lost," proclaims the god of thunder in a somber voice.
The Avengers are all present, assembled within Stark Tower. Each one aiming their weapon at my battered form, oblivious to the fact that I remain prone due to my waning strength.
My gaze lingers upon Anthony, his pallor horribly pronounced. I resist the immediate urge to rise and examine the palladium levels within his Arc Reactor. However, showing concern for his well-being would seem misplaced after callously tossing him from the fifteenth floor without a flicker of hesitation. The mental influence of the scepter proved far more formidable to counter than anticipated. Fortunately, the Hulk dutifully fulfilled his role, relentlessly smashing my countenance into the tiles of the living room floor. Finally, I feel like myself again, and I can only imagine Thanos must be seething with rage
Observing Anthony depart for a drink at his bar, I discreetly cast a spell to transmute his beverage into apple juice.I witness the mortal grimacing at the sour taste upon his tongue, followed by a satisfied smile that graces his countenance. I cannot help but admire the dimples on his face. Even after narrowly escaping death, he retains his attractiveness... As for Steve, he does not appear to be in his optimal state. Whether superhuman or not, he must have exhausted every reserve of his being to lead the team to victory. It has barely been ten days since he emerged from his slumber, damn it! A substantial meal and a restful night's sleep would do him good. Perhaps the presence of a companion in his bed as well...
Bruce, Clint, and Natasha, on the other hand, display signs of exhaustion and teeter on the brink of hysteria. Engaging in battle against an alien invasion is an extraordinary circumstance. Psychological support would not be superfluous. However, who am I to suggest they seek the guidance of a reputable therapist?
Truthfully, I derive great satisfaction from witnessing the unity of the team. My plan has exceeded even my loftiest expectations. Thanos would never have relinquished me had he not been convinced of my unwavering loyalty. Furthermore, Earth would not have stood a chance against the impending threat of the Chitauri without my intervention. From the orchestrated hostage situation in Germany to the fabricated murder of Agent Coulson, every detail has been cunningly crafted to unite Earth's heroes under a single banner.
I would boast about my exploits if I weren't so exhausted. At this moment, I desire only one thing: a soothing hot bath. I do not trouble myself with a response to Thor. Besides, I remain mute, ensnared by the constraints of the magical contract that binds me to Thanos.
Thor grimaces in discontentment at my silence, his eyes shifting between anger and sorrow, akin to the ocean bracing for an impending storm.
"For over a thousand years, we have played, laughed, cried, and fought side by side," he declares, gripping my collar and shaking me. "Does that count for naught? Why did you assail Earth? You are well aware that this realm is under my protection!"
An involuntary laugh escapes my lips. I can feel the Avengers shudder with unease. I must appear deranged. Why deny it? What amuses me most is the rapid transformation of Thor, from a dissolute fool to a sagacious sage. Merely a century ago, he and the Warriors Three reveled in the invasion of kingdoms purely for their own gratification. His exile on Earth appears to have indelibly altered his perspective. Nevertheless, I discern in his eyes that he still regards me as his duplicitous, silver-tongued brother. His opinion of me remains unaltered.
Sighing with exasperation, Thor hoists me up by the collar, urging me to stand. I stifle a cry of anguish, lacking sufficient magic to heal my wounds.
The subsequent path is torturous. Accompanied by Anthony and Thor, I am escorted towards what I presume to be my next place of confinement. As we emerge from Stark Tower, men obstruct our passage, demanding the surrender of the Tesseract, an entreaty Anthony promptly rejects. Why would he bother to save the world only to place such a weapon into the hands of morally ambiguous businessmen? Soon thereafter, the Arc Reactor's luminosity intensifies, resembling a resplendent Christmas tree adorning the mortal's chest. Anthony collapses, and in that precise moment, I regret not having earlier checked his vital signs. He convulses, and I fear a heart attack may be imminent. Thor and the individuals surrounding Anthony prove alarmingly ineffectual. My blood races, and with a swift gesture, I free myself from the shackles that bind my wrists.
Swiftly, I crouch beside the man, assessing the extent of his injuries. Thor endeavors to seize my hands, halting my progress, yet I surpass him in swiftness. Through an unspoken incantation, a force field materializes within seconds, repelling any who approach within a three-foot radius. It is at this moment that Hulk, driven by unrestrained fury, delivers a powerful punch against my magical barrier. Time slips away quickly. Placing my hands upon Anthony's visage, I meet his distressed gaze, his jaws clenched. I offer a reassuring smile, though the fear lurking in his eyes reveals the bitter failure of my attempt at solace.
Meanwhile, Thor aligns himself with the Hulk, relentlessly pounding my feeble force field with thunderous blows. In hushed reverence, I murmur a few ancient curses in Old Norse as I set to work. Tied to the reactor's energy, my sorcery identifies the problems, presenting a display of information before us—a dashboard conjured by my own power. I uncover not only the injured man's heart rate but also the defective components within the reactor.
Placing my hands upon Anthony's chest, I strive to restore the flow of energy by infusing it with my own dwindling reserves. Each assault upon my force field weakens my magic, particularly when Captain America joins the frenetic fray. I had hoped to preserve what little magic remained, intending to utilize it to reach Asgard.
However, suddenly, such aspirations appear implausible. Tony perishes before my very eyes. I know not what foolhardy actions he took to render the reactor so unstable, but its continued overheating threatens to consume him from within.
Another strike against my force field nearly compels me to release my grip.
Tony's astute gaze fixes upon me, and he weakly furrows his brow. At last, he seems to comprehend my desperate endeavor to save him. A memory resurfaces, an image of him as a child contorting his features in a similar manner.
It is in that fleeting moment that I realize I fear losing him more than I fear my own demise. Thus, I redistribute my meager reserves of magic, endeavoring to cool the reactor. Then, I hear Tony catch his breath, and I know I have succeeded. Dizziness engulfs me, and I finally collapse upon the mortal, my protective shield shattering.
"Excuse me, handsome brunette," the mortal whispers into my ear, "but I never go to bed on the first night..."
A relieved laugh escapes me, intoxicated by the warmth in his voice. If he possesses the strength to jest amidst the chaos, he will undoubtedly recover swiftly. Alas, I cannot say the same for myself.
Drawing each breath becomes increasingly arduous, each inhalation a struggle. A searing pain pierces my chest, and the mortal's voice seems to echo urgently, directing his companions to clear a path. As I begin to cough up blood, a somber silence descends upon the scene. The veils concealing my true nature slip away, one by one, beyond my control. I open my eyes, which I do not recall closing, only to behold Anthony, Hulk, Steve, Clint, Natasha, and Thor, each by my side. Those whom I consider my family, my pack, my horde, appear taken aback by the frail form now prostrate at their feet. I am acutely aware of my youthful visage, a stark contrast to the divine namesake I share.
Emerging from the halls of the mages in Alfheim, I took great care to veil these youthful traits beneath numerous spells. The two hundred years spent learning magic alongside the elves had not alerted me to my abnormality. At least, not until my return to Asgard. Jotuns age much more slowly than the Aesir, a truth that eluded me at the time. Long regarded as an outcast among the gods, I swiftly concealed my inexplicable youth, even altering my bone structure to conform to Asgard's standards. If Thor approaches his thirties in Midgard, I must appear as naught but a young lad fresh from his teenage years.
"No!" Tony exclaims suddenly. "No, no, not you!"
Natasha lets forth a horrified sob.
"How is this possible?" Steve exclaims.
"Do something, Bruce! The lad is fading!" Clint implores.
I have no recollection of witnessing the transformation, yet Bruce leans in to examine me, his hands trembling.
"I suspect there's internal bleeding," he utters, his voice desperate.
"He has exhausted his magic and can no longer employ it for self-healing," Thor interjects, his tone thick with emotions he struggles to contain.
It feels like an eternity since my last breath. The heavens gradually darken overhead. I sense gentle hands caressing my face, arms encircling me, a body tenderly cradling mine.
I know they will never grasp the reasons behind my actions. Why I led the Chitauri army to their world. Why I purloined the Tesseract. Or why I turned them all against me. Nevertheless, I hope they will never forget the depth of my affection for them. They are my children, my friends, my loves. If only they could fathom the tenderness that resides within me, death would not truly claim me. Instead, it would multiply my existence within the embrace of each of their arms.
I am Loki, the god of chaos. This is how I attained mortality.
The comments are appreciated. Chapter 1 is in progress.
*** I am looking for an English beta reader ***