Chapter Text
The watchtower was unmanned, or at least it appeared to be. They climbed through a hole in the citadel wall, Loki boosting them both on his shoulders and then transforming into a raven to fly through. He changed back as he landed, a small cloud of dust erupting upwards as his heavy combat boots hit the ground. He'd changed his clothes too, to his garb from his time in the Black Order.
The clothing was simple: a black long sleeve shirt, too thin to keep the cold out and covered in a myriad of hastily-stitched patches where the fabric had been torn, burnt, or sliced through. They never bothered to give him armor, so he'd had to construct his own; fashioning a patchwork vest and vambraces from scraps scavenged from the endless array of corpses left in their wake. On his legs were a pair of ill-fitting black cargo pants. He’d looted the pants off a Krull somewhere in the Medusa Cascade; he had chosen them because he liked the possibilities afforded by the many pockets.
They had been far too big on him then, and now they fit a little better, but he was still swimming in them and had to hold them up with a belt, attached to which were several daggers and a small blaster, just to be safe. Even with the belt, the pants sagged low on his hips and he kept having to pull them up with one hand.
Bruce and Valkyrie weren't clothed much differently. Loki spelled their clothes black (only temporarily, he'd promised) and supplied them with the large black hooded cloaks typical of Thanos’s followers. From within somewhere in his extradimensional pocket he had extracted a spool of red thread and some needles, and performed a quick spell to embroider the mark of the Black Order on the cloaks, right over the heart.
“Put your hoods up,” Loki commanded, “and stay behind me. Remember, my name is Nova.”
Bruce and Valkyrie nodded silently and pulled their hoods low over their heads, concealing their faces. They closed the capes and stood with their hands folded, walking smoothly as if gliding, just as Loki had practiced with them earlier.
Now that they were past the walls, Loki could see that they still had a ways to go before they actually encountered anyone. An enormous circular chasm was gouged into the earth, the bottom of the basin perhaps half a mile down. Stairs leading down were carved into the rock side, spiraling around the circumference of the basin. There were doors and pathways branching out from the stairs at several points, but it seemed to be a fairly straightforward way down to the heart of the citadel, located on the floor of the basin.
Across the other side of the chasm, perhaps halfway down, a platform was carved into the rock. On the platform was what looked like a small dome, similarly constructed from rock, with a small hole in the top and a hatch on the side. It was from the hole that the smoke Loki saw earlier was billowing. He stared at it for a minute, watching pillows of black smoke hurl themselves against the rock.
It was a clever feat of architecture, he had to admit, to have what he suspected was their crematorium suspended above the peoples’ living quarters. That way they wouldn't have to inhale the smoke, breathe in the dust of their loved ones.
He turned his gaze to the floor of the basin. Around the perimeter, nestled in and along the cliff face were what appeared to be layers of flat, square homes, stacked on top of each other with ladders and ropes providing access to the higher floors. He spotted myriad patches of green- so they did have agriculture after all, just on a smaller scale, most likely with individual family plots.
In the very center yet another circle was carved into the rock, this time with the entire circumference consisting of steps that lead to the bottom. It was an amphitheater, he realized, the steps being seats and the flat center the stage. And in the absolute center of the stage, at the citadel’s vertex, was a single coal-black gallows.
Loki heard Bruce’s breath catch behind him and surmised that the gallows had not escaped his notice, either.
“Whatever happens,” he reminded them, “no reactions.” Holding his pants up with one hand, he took the first step down into the abyss.
They weren't even halfway down when they encountered their first Silurian. It was stepping out of one of the many arches in the cliffside that leads into a tunnel, nearly colliding with Loki in the process.
“Beg pardon!” it said crossly, “Watch where you’re stepping, you…” The Silurian trailed off, horror dawning on its serpentine face as it realized exactly who it had crossed paths with.
The Silurian stood at about one and a half meters tall, and looked roughly as if a sand lizard had reproduced with a human. It had a triangular, reptilian head with large, black eyes and hardly any neck to speak of. Most of its height was in its torso, with short, stocky legs and arms. A thick tail dragged behind it, leaving a trail in the dirt. It was not defenseless, however. When it spoke, it revealed a mouth full of sharp, needle-like teeth, and its fingers and toes were tipped with two inch-long claws. It wore a red vest and white pantaloons fastened with buttons on the sides.
“F-Forgive this one!” it gasped, hurling itself to the ground and prostrating itself at Loki’s feet. “Forgive this one’s impudence-”
“Silence.” Loki kicked it to the side, not harshly. “You have a high priest, yes?”
“O-Of course, of course.” It nodded hastily, putting its small hands together in a penitent gesture.
Loki gave a curt nod. “Alert them of our arrival,” he said tonelessly, and stepped past the Silurian, continuing down the stairs. Bruce and Valkyrie swept soundlessly behind him, capes billowing.
“This one thanks you for your leniency!” the Silurian called after them desperately. “This one is not deserving of such benevolence!”
Loki did not bother to look back or respond, so neither did Bruce or Valkyrie. He heard the Silurian scuttle back into the cliffside tunnel, and moments later a horn sounded throughout the chasm. Instantly reptilian figures burst out of practically every orifice in the houses and in the cliffs, more than he would have thought possible for such a confined space.
Some began flooding into the amphitheater, whereas others were hurriedly tugging on black robes and congregating at the bottom of the stairs in anticipation of their arrival. Yet others were emerging from one hole only to disappear into another, reappearing moments later with children and eggs in tow. Dragging them back into their homes, they slammed the doors shut, covering the windows.
By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs not even five minutes later, the frenzy of movement had all but ceased, save for a few stragglers still making their way to the amphitheatre. The rest of the town was silent and still, boarded up.
A small group of seven Silurians had congregated at the bottom of the stairs, all wearing black hoods nearly identical to those Loki hastily fashioned for Bruce and Valkyrie. They parted into two lines of three, forming an aisle on either side of the stairs. One Silurian stepped forward. It was older than the rest, with chartreuse scales and a scar bisecting the left eye, which was milky with blindness. It held a staff in one hand. In the other, a noose.
“Hail, Son of Thanos,” it greeted. “Hail, Death.”
“Hail, Son of Thanos,” the other Silurians repeated after it, chanting in unison. “Hail, Death.”
“Hail Thanos,” responded Loki, performing an odd half-bow, half-curtsey. He sank halfway down to one knee, then straightened back up before running his right hand across his throat like a knife, then placing that hand flat, palm facing down, over his left hand’s fist. He held this gesture rigidly in front of his chest. “Hail, Death.” He gave a short, jerky bow, and the Silurians followed suit with identical bows.
This bizarre ritual now complete, the old Silurian holding the staff opened the conversation.
“Nova,” it greeted. “You look much… healthier than this one saw you last.”
“I have not been in need of reeducation for some time now,” Loki responded coolly. “I am obedient to my Master.” He cocked his head, though his tone and face was as expressionless as ever. “Can you say the same, I wonder?”
The Silurian flicked out a flat, black tongue nervously. “This one is a dutiful subject.” It blinked, eyelids sliding shut sideways. “Your siblings are not with you, this time?”
“I am now trusted enough to lead missions on my own,” Loki said. “I have, however, brought two new recruits with me. They are under my command. Should they misstep, you will inform me. I shall take on the matter of their punishment personally.”
The Silurian bowed its head. "Of course," it said. It contemplated Loki thoughtfully. "How far you've come," it mused. "Solitary missions. Disciples of your own."
Loki lowered his gaze modestly. "My Master has recognized my dedication to the cause," he murmured.
"Astounding," the Silurian praised, but there was something in its voice that seemed snide. "To think, just a few cycles ago, you were in a collar and chains. Unable to walk, crawling after your siblings. And now… well. Your Father must trust you very much, indeed."
If the Silurian was hoping for a reaction, Loki didn't give it one. He just continued to stare down the Silurian, stone silent. It didn't take long for it to crack.
"May this one inquire what brings you to Silurias?" it inquired, tongue flicking out. "Has this one done something to attract our Master's ire?"
"No," Loki responded curtly. "It was a matter of accident. Our ship was fired upon, and we require materials for repairs. A place to stay in the meantime would not be remiss. There are other supplies we require- medical supplies, fuel if you can spare it."
The Silurian's eyes widened slowly. "That is most unfortunate, indeed."
Loki's eyes narrowed. "I take it this will not be a problem?"
"No, no, not at all!" the Silurian reassured him hastily. "No, no it is… it is an honor, truly, to host a Son of Thanos. This one is of eternal service to the Black Order."
"And the Order thanks you," said Loki. "Though our sojourn may be brief, you may ask of me anything. My Master rewards those who are loyal."
The Silurian bowed its head. "This one thanks you deeply, Nova, Son of Thanos. Your arrival is fortuitous, indeed. Three eggs hatched yesterday, so a Sending Off will be held. It would be a great honor if you were to conduct the ceremony."
"The Blessed Ones have been chosen already?" Loki inquired, looking unsurprised.
"Everything is in preparation." The Silurian turned and beckoned for them to follow.
The old Silurian- the High Priest, Bruce assumed when he first saw it and had since dubbed it thus in his head- led them directly to the amphitheatre. The amphitheater was packed with Silurians in black, nondescript clothing. They were sitting eerily still, hands folded in the same gesture Loki had made when greeting the High Priest; right hand flat over their left hand's fist. There was no movement amongst the crowd, save for the occasional blinking or tongue-flicking.
The front row of seats directly in front of the gallows was unoccupied, and the six black-cloaked Silurians who had accompanied them sat down on it, tails dangling over the side.
"You." For the first time, Loki addressed Bruce and Valkyrie directly. He almost responded, but stopped himself just in time. Even though it was several degrees hotter down at the very bottom of the basin, he was grateful for the black cloak, the large hood that concealed his face. Anxiety must be plastered all over his face, he thought, and just keeping himself from fidgeting took an incredible amount of concentration. He wasn't sure he would be able to control his facial expressions, too.
Loki jerked his head sharply towards the seats where the other black-cloaked Silurians were sitting. "Sit," he commanded. Bruce performed a short bow, counting to three in his head before straightening back up and gliding over to the seats. He couldn't risk looking over to see if Valkyrie was doing the same, but he could hear her rustling beside him and that eased him somewhat.
Now seated, Bruce lifted his head just enough to see Loki, the gallows directly behind him. He was perfectly still, rigid in his composure, back ramrod straight. The sun was directly overhead, causing the hollows in his face to become even more apparent in the stark contrast of light and shadow. Seeing Loki like this… Bruce didn't know what to think. He knew their only reasonable course of action was to follow Loki’s lead, to play along until they could get the hell off this planet, but… he wasn't sure how much he could trust Loki to keep them safe.
It wasn't that he thought Loki would do anything to intentionally harm him or Valkyrie. But Loki’s mental state back on the Statesman was tenuous at best, and now it seemed to be hanging by a spider’s thread. He'd had at least two episodes in the past twenty-four hours, both resulting in uncontrolled, destructive blasts of magic. If he had an episode or fell into a dissociative state in front of the Silurians, they’d all be done for.
So far, thankfully, Loki seemed to be holding up surprisingly well. It was unsettling, to say the least, how fluidly he slipped into the role of Nova. His speech, posture, gait- everything was completely controlled and precise, devoid of any emotion or affectation. He was so different from the Loki Bruce had come to know onboard the Statesman that he found himself wondering if he had even known Loki at all, or if that was all just an act, too.
Loki strode into the center of the stage and performed a low bow. As he straightened up, a white marble basin appeared in front of him in a shimmer of green light. The crowd remained silent, but their excitement was palpable, tongues flicking out as they collectively leaned forward slightly. The basin filled with a pale, milky liquid and Loki stared into it for a split second before lifting his head and gazing coolly ahead.
“Hail, Thanos!” he called, voice magically magnified so that it filled the amphitheatre and beyond, echoing off the walls of the basin. “Hail, Death!”
The Silurians all stood at once. “Hail, Thanos!” they repeated, their combined voices so loud the ground vibrated beneath Bruce’s feet. “Hail, Death!”
Loki gave no response, but he raised his left arm and held it parallel to the basin, stretched out in front of him. He rolled up his sleeve, and Bruce barely managed to suppress a surprised inhale when he saw that like his hands, the skin was completely littered with scars.
There was a part of his forearm where a chunk of flesh was… missing, as if it was gouged away and skin just grew over the depression. His wrist was ringed with thick white and pink keloid scars, a permanent testament to what must have been exceptionally vicious restraints. It hurt just looking at it.
“Freedom,” he said, eyes fixed on his arm. He raised his right hand and a black obsidian knife shimmered into existence in his grip. “Is life’s greatest lie.”
He pressed the knife into his wrist, the point sinking several centimeters into the flesh. “We are unequal the moment we are forced into this world. Some are born stronger, smarter, richer. There can be no freedom, no true equality, in such an existence.”
Loki drew the blade down his forearm from his wrist to his elbow, then vanished the knife. He pried his fingers into the wound, holding it apart. Blood dripped steadily from the wound into the basin. The milky, translucent liquid soon grew pink, then red as more blood flowed into it.
“The only freedom,” he continued calmly, and there was a small, but compelling fervor to his voice, “is Death. It is only when Mistress Death takes us in her embrace, that we may know true freedom. Freedom from suffering. Freedom from pain. Freedom from confusion, from hunger, from disorder.”
He withdrew his fingers from the wound and wiped his hand on his shirt. The wound remained gaping open, deep enough that Bruce could see the yellow layer of fatty tissue even from where he was sitting. The blood was slowing, thankfully, from a steady stream to rapid droplets.
There was a hypnotic quality to the performance- the rhythmic, almost soothing sound of blood falling into the basin, the calm and even tone to Loki’s voice. Bruce’s stomach was churning, but he couldn't look away.
“Today, three lucky elders will be taken into our Mistress’s arms.” Applause erupted throughout the amphitheatre as the High Priest slithered into view, followed by three Silurians. One was missing an arm, another was using a crutch. All were clearly elderly, older than the High Priest even, their scales dulled over with age and movements slow.
Most strikingly, however, they looked elated. Ecstatic, even. One blew kisses to the crowd, waved and winked at someone in the audience. There were hollers of support from the crowd, whoops as the one-armed Silurian performed a little twirl.
The three Silurians joined Loki at the basin, standing around it. He made a gesture with his fingers and the blood dripping from his arm coagulated, though the wound remained open, unhealed. The liquid in the basin began to swirl, the color growing from a deep red to black, the consistency thickening. The High Priest stood beside him and handed Loki a black noose. The Silurians lowered their heads reverently, eyes sliding shut as Loki gently placed a noose around each of their necks.
“Please kneel,” he said softly, “to receive Death’s Blessing.”
The Silurians in the crowd murmured excitedly. Loki bent down and lowered his face into the black liquid. When he stood back up, his lips and the tip of his nose were coated in the thick black fluid. He kneeled down gracefully in front of the rightmost Silurian, placing his hands gently on either side of its large, reptilian head. He kissed the left cheek, then the right, leaving behind a smear of black.
Its eyes slid shut in contentment, body relaxing. Finally, he kissed the Silurian on the lips, holding the kiss for several seconds before pulling away. Bruce could see a drop of the black fluid drip down his chin. The Silurian’s throat bobbed as it swallowed.
Loki repeated the process, no less reverently for the remaining two Silurians, then helped them all to their feet. They seemed slightly dazed and unsteady, but their faces were beaming, radiating pure ecstasy and relief. Bruce wondered what exactly was in the mixture Loki seemingly fed to them.
Loki led them to the gallows. They stood in a row on the raised platform, and the High Priest assisted Loki as they attached the nooses to the wooden beam. The crowd fell into a hush, the air rife with anticipation.
Finally Loki stepped back, and bowed to the three Silurians. One of them mouthed what looked like a “thank you,” a single tear dripping from its eye. Loki made eye contact with the High Priest and nodded curtly. He raised his hand, and the Blessed Ones dropped.
It was well past dusk when one of the higher ranking Silurians led them through a series of tunnels in the cliffside to a door embedded in the rock. It was boarded over, and there was a lock on the handle.
“This one apologizes for the inadequacy of your sleeping quarters,” it said, an anxious tremor to its voice. “You left in quite a hurry the last time and it felt- inappropriate to enter the private quarters of Children of Thanos. It has been boarded up since.”
“That is fine,” Loki said dismissively. “We require a place to sleep, nothing more.”
“This one thanks you for your understanding.” The Silurian bowed, and though its hands were shaking, it unlocked the thick padlock with a black rusted skeleton key. Loki simply ripped the boards off the entrance with his bare hands impatiently and pushed the door open.
It creaked ominously, and a thick musty stench of rotted blood wafted out. Bruce had to stop himself from gagging, and it seemed the Silurian was similarly affected, its eyes widening. Loki didn't appear to notice at all, and strode into the room. He snapped his fingers and a ball of light appeared, hovering in the center of the ceiling.
“It is adequate,” he said, and waved a hand at the Silurian imperiously. “Leave us.”
Hand clapped over its nostrils, the Silurian seemed all too happy to scurry away.
Loki jerked his head at Bruce and Valkyrie. “In,” he said, in that same brusque, commanding tone. Bruce wavered, unwilling to enter the source of the foul smell, but Valkyrie walked easily into the room. Bruce had no choice but to follow. The door slammed shut behind him and Bruce jumped at the sudden noise.
Loki waved a hand and Bruce felt something in the atmosphere shift, as if he were suddenly teleported to a higher altitude. Instantly, Loki's posture dropped, exhaustion taking over his features. Whereas before he was rigid and carefully controlled, like a puppet held by taut, invisible strings, now he collapsed in on himself, the strings slack.
"Wards are up," he said. "Even if there are seidr users here, they'll be blocked from scrying." His voice was hollow. He wasn't looking at either of them as he spoke, gaze fixed at the farthest corner of the room, cloaked in shadow.
The room was a small cavern, carved crudely out of rock, the floor uneven. It was barely larger than the small bathrooms onboard the Statesman . There were two rotting bedrolls on either side of the cave, rolled up and propped against the wall.
That wasn't enough to explain the viciousness of the smell, and Bruce followed Loki's gaze to the back of the cave, taking a couple steps further to see better. The stench was stronger here, and once his eyes adjusted to the dark he could see the outline of… a box? He squinted, pinching his nose shut, and dared to take a few steps closer.
For a moment he didn't quite believe what he was seeing and he looked over his shoulder at Loki questioningly. Loki hadn't moved, still staring into the shadows, mouth set in a grim line. He looked very pale, eyes glassy, and Bruce had a feeling that if he spoke Loki wouldn't even hear him, lost somewhere in one of his dissociative states.
Bruce turned back to inspect the cage, gut twisting unpleasantly. It was small, hardly big enough to fit a medium-sized dog. Some of the bars looked rusted, but as Bruce's vision adjusted he realized it wasn't rust at all, but dried, crusted blood. Several strands of black hair were caught on the bars, stuck in the hinges. The rock underneath the cage was so stained and saturated with dried blood to the point that Bruce almost mistook it for its natural color. A small pile of bandages, half-rotten, was shoved in the corner. It reeked of misery and pain.
There was a sudden hand on his shoulder and he jumped, but it was just Valkyrie, her hood pulled back, braids loose. Her eyes were wide, lips trembling slightly.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Do- do you think that's- that he was-" She jerked her head in Loki's direction, not looking away from the cage.
"Yeah," Bruce whispered back. He reached out and tugged on one of the black hairs twisted around a bar until it snapped in half. He twirled it between forefinger and thumb, looking at it sadly. Valkyrie inhaled sharply, eyes darting from the hair to the cage. "I think so."
She gagged and turned away, one hand over her mouth. Bruce couldn't tell if it was from shock or the smell. He watched the cage for a while longer, contemplating. How Loki, tall as he was, could even have fit in there. How he'd have no choice but to stay curled up in a stress position for however long he was forced to stay in it.
Finally he tore his eyes away from the cage, coming to stand next to Loki. "Hey," he said softly, trying to convey a reassuring sense of calm that he absolutely did not have. Loki didn't move. Bruce gulped and looked over his shoulder at Valkyrie. She was sitting, slumped against the wall, sword cradled in her arms. She noticed him watching and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up, even as her face remained twisted in a grimace of uncertainty.
Bruce sighed and took a deep breath. Tentatively, he reached out and touched Loki's hand, lightly at first, just barely brushing his fingertips against Loki's knuckles. "Loki? You in there?"
Loki's fingers twitched and Bruce dared to go a little further, tracing circles against the back of his hand, feeling the ridges and valleys of his veins. There were a couple seconds where Bruce wondered if Loki could even hear him, but then he shuddered suddenly and jerked his hand away. He blinked several times, focusing, and Bruce could see the exact moment that he registered the cage. His eyes were a little too wide, the pupils blown. His lips parted just barely, then curled into a snarl.
Loki lifted his right hand, fingers outstretched towards the cage. They were shaking, but he managed to hold his arm steady and clenched his hand into a fist, eyes flashing green. The cage crumpled. Bars snapped and twisted inwards. The piercing shriek of metal on metal filled the small cavern as the cage was crushed like a ball of paper, until all that was left was an indiscernible pile of contorted, disfigured metal, completely unrecognizable from what it was moments before.
Loki released his fist, breathing heavily, and let his arm drop to his side. He collapsed against the wall of the cavern and slid down it until his legs gave way beneath him, the whole time staring listlessly at the twisted hunk of metal. It looked like a dead spider, rolled on its back, iron legs curled in on itself. Flattened and lifeless.
Bruce eased himself down beside him, propping his forearms on his knees. He didn't speak. There wasn't really anything to say.
Surprisingly, it was Loki who spoke first. "I didn't…" he said, then trailed off. His voice was heavy with exhaustion. He couldn't seem to look away from the remains of the cage.
The corners of his lips quivered and he seemed to struggle with finding his next words. "I didn't want this," he finished, the words laced with grief, sorrow. "I never wanted any of this." He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, lowering his head to hide his face in his arms. He didn't move for the rest of the night.