Cellmates

15

Loki knew this path without conscious thought. He had aged several hundred years within these halls and even now when all of it had grown foreign and foreboding, his memory served him. Even the intricate knot work that adorned so much of this place, spoke of an ingrained familiarity. And such patterns would always give warmth to the life he'd left behind, even with those cold lesions of his home world more truly ingrained upon his flesh. He remembered this walk in particular. More than once he'd been called to this throne room at the Allfather's behest. In the past the matters had been few and far between. Occasional scolding for mischief, interspersed with menial ceremonies and saving Thor from his own idiocy. Such trivial matters. Still, this wasn't the first time he'd been brought before the throne in chains.

And the last time he was sentenced to rot in the dungeons for the rest of his miserable life.

He was hopeful and nearly certain that he would never have to see the Allfather again. The old man's parting words had stung like salt in an open wound. And through his months of captivity, it festered. Born to be a king. So many times he'd been told that he was born to be a king. But in so few words he'd been degraded to even less than a prisoner. Even less than his Jotun blood. He was born to die abandoned and forgotten. A runt. A disgrace. Worthless in every respect.

Several years before he might have taken such cruelties to heart, given that Odin's last poor choice of words prompted his self-destructive escape through the Void. But it merely bolstered his hatred – his utter loathing. And after endless days in solitude it left him bitter and twisted and angry and lost.

And right where Naomi found him.

He held her even closer as they came upon the throne room. Her hand still shook from the burn she'd sustained, but she seemed well enough otherwise. Her bare feet were nearly silent as she walked across the polished marble floors. Her eyes swept the halls without much concern. But he knew her masks now and this was unfortunately one of them.

As the doors to the throne room opened, he felt her pulse quicken in her tightening grip. But there wasn't anything more he could do. Still surrounded by their caravan of guards, they were pressed forward until they were left standing at the foot of the dais. Normally the Allfather looked so carefully removed as he oversaw the Nine Realms, completely cold and emotionless, but as his gaze met the figures at his feet, he couldn't hide his discontent. "What is the meaning of this?" His rumbling voice carried through the room, quickly commanding everyone's attention.

Loki still maintained a white knuckled grip on Naomi's hand and she was still pressed into his side, now of her own accord. But he didn't respond, only retained the same emotionless façade, his dark green gaze focused intently on the condescending glare that fell upon him. After a long, chilling silence, Thor finally came forward. "He refused to come without her."

"As a prisoner, he has no place making demands."

Loki smirked, shortly noting his mother's wary gaze. She stood precariously at the foot of the dais, halfway between him and the All father. So had been her stead for so long. His eyes refocused on Odin just as he was motioning to his guards. And Naomi was very shortly removed from his grasp, their hands forcefully unlaced. They shared in that brief moment of panic, but he silently reassured her. I promised I would protect you. But there was a game to be played. A game of appearances. A game of restraint. A game he knew all too well. So he returned his attention to the Allfather as they took her away. But the guards thoughtfully acknowledged his seething gaze and they didn't go far – simply out of his reach.

"What have you to say for yourself?"

"Nothing," Loki said deadpan.

"You escaped your cell."