Madness of the Serpent

The spirit reached backwards to pry loose Loki’s steel grip from its hair, and it was rewarded for this gesture by being roughly thrown towards the ground. Its hands instinctively reached forward to stop its fall, but the action was met with bright pain as it collided with a dark glass table in a lowered portion of the room. The sharp, brittle material bit into its palms and fingers as it landed on the shards in a collapsed heap.

Attempting to resist the uncontrollable instincts that threatened to overwhelm all rational thought in its singular desire to blindingly flee in panic, it tried to push itself to its hands and knees, shuddering at the sight of crimson liquid smearing the brown fibrous flooring.

This effort to recover from the fall was met with a brutal kick to its side, bright red pain exploding across its vision as the spirit landed on the hardened tiles outside of the lush, carpeted part of the room. The ability to breathe was temporarily halted as it lay on its back, the left half of its ribcage throbbing with intense agony as its lungs struggled to function.

Loki’s eyelids were partially closed, his jaw slightly jutted forward as he stared down at the spirit with quiet, contemptuous malice. He appeared completely unmoved by its small, desperate gasps for breath.

“I would hear you beg for mercy. Your cries will fill my ears with the sweet melody of your unraveling.” His tone and the dark hunger of his eyes filled the spirit with a strong foreboding.

“It does… not wish to fight,” it managed to interject, panting as it successfully drew in air, its hands holding the burning portion of its flank.

An eyebrow was elegantly raised, as if to ponder what an odd thing that was for it to say.

“Oh, there will be no fight. No struggle, no conflict. Not when our minds will be as one.”

To demonstrate his commitment, Loki brought the sceptre forward in both hands, flipping it so the blades pointed downward, aimed directly at its heart.

The triple blades winked in the sunlight, silver edges eager to bite and slice, though it suspected he did not intend to use the blades for their intended purpose. Despite Loki’s violence and brutality, he did not seek the spirit’s destruction – he sought its absolute control.

The tip of the blade flashed downward, and it released its throbbing ribcage to grasp the golden handle, the creased metal sliding against its palms before coming to a full-stop.

Loki’s eyebrows flared in surprise, then creased in frustration as he attempted to thrust the blade down into its body.

The spirit held him at bay, grabbing the handle with its other hand and bracing against the floor with strained muscles as renewed strength and vitality flooded its form. The blade tip grazed against the front of its suit, but the Jotun-Asgardian could not bring it down far enough to make the required contact with its flesh.

It felt the thrumming under its palms before it heard the weapon begin to gather power, the orb glowing with a painful brightness as the grimace on Loki’s face turned into a twisted grin. It gripped the metal tighter and focused its consciousness, struggling for control as the energy reached a feverish, teeth-vibrating pitch.

In one final, frantic effort, the spirit gave a strained cry from its lips as it seized the energy under its hands and propelled it back along the shaft. Blue fire sparked up his hands and into his arms as Loki shouted in startled pain, his body thrown backwards to land roughly on the ebony polished floor.

The spirit slowly rose to its feet, breathing hard as it held the weapon between its hands, staring down at the fallen Jotun-Asgardian. Faint wisps of smoke were curling from his palms and armored forearms, and he panted as he looked upwards into its face, his eyes widening in alarm.

It pointed the elongated blades towards Loki’s chest as he lay on his back, hesitating as he flinched in heartrending fright. Silently pleading with pale eyes, his tensed expression and body language indicated he felt trapped and helpless. The spirit froze in indecision.

A bone-shattering blow struck between its shoulder blades, throwing it towards the prone form of the Jotun-Asgardian. Expecting to collide with skin and armor, it instead slammed into the hard ground, Loki’s trembling image vanishing in a flutter of green, sparkling light as the illusion dissipated before its eyes.

It quickly rolled onto its back, expecting another assault from that direction, and aimed the sceptre’s blades at empty space.

But Loki had vanished, and it appeared to be the only occupant of the room.

A blood-curdling laugh sounded from every direction as its heart pounded within its chest, regaining its feet while carefully observing its surroundings.

Despite Loki’s absence from visible sight, it could still feel him – sensing his nearby presence but unable to pinpoint his location. It could possibly pierce the curtain of his illusions if it harnessed the power of the mind-jewel, but it would not rely on the dangerous stone unless there was no other recourse.

It would have to coax him out of concealment another way, as Loki would most likely not appear while it remained advantageous to hunt unseen.

“Quite the precocious little ghost you are. You’re certainly learning how to use that new body of yours.” The spirit could sense the heavy weight of his gaze, his tone teasing as his voice seemed to speak directly into its ear. It quickly turned its head toward the words, seeing nothing.

“Care to show me other tricks you have acquired?” Loki’s low voice breathed into its other ear, and it rapidly spun in the other direction, giving a start as it felt his hand brush against the back of its hair. “Perhaps I’ll see something I like.”

“Reveal yourself.” The spirit had meant it to sound like a command, but its unsteady voice made the statement appear to be more of a plea.

“Or what? You’ll wield my sceptre against me?” Loki scoffed impatiently. “Do not grow overconfident, little sprite. A handful of cheap parlor tricks does not make one a master of the sceptre.”

The spirit began to move in a slow circle, rotating as it tried to pinpoint the source of his voice, but it continued to change direction and distance as he spoke.

“Do you have any idea how long I toiled, learning how to channel my magic through the orb?” Loki asked, his voice holding an unease to it that was absent before. “The physical exertion and mental strain of honing such a delicate skill? The sacrifices I have made? The things that were taken from me?”

The distress in his voice was clearer with each word, and the spirit had no doubt Loki spoke of his torment in the dark place.

“Go on, little sprite. Call forth the azure fire from the blades and strike me down. Ensnare my mind and make me your slave. You may even enjoy it – the sight of a god groveling at your feet.”

The spirit did not need to see his expression to hear the wide grin in his voice. It kept its own expression as neutral as possible, not wanting to portray how shaken it was by Loki’s disturbed behavior. His moods and desires seemed to change with each passing moment, even more so than before. The conflict was bringing out the turmoil and madness within his psyche.

The spirit glanced down at the sceptre, studying its slightly curved length. It was true, it did not know how to call forth the energy to shoot outwards from the orb, but Loki did not know it could absorb the energy rather than expel it. Nor did he know the extent to which it could manipulate the mind-jewel. If the spirit had its way, he never would.

“The Chitauri are soulless creatures, incapable of rational thought or conscience. Why do you fight on their behalf?” it inquired, attempting to pull Loki’s mind away from the area of discussion that seemed to agitate him most. It strove to steady its voice in an effort to draw his attention back toward the invasion, its rapidly beating heart betraying the calm it attempted to emulate.

“I fight only for myself,” mocked his disembodied voice as a sharp pain cut across its midsection. It flinched and stumbled backwards at the unseen strike, the hand not grasping the sceptre immediately covering the wound. “You would do well to remember that when you attempt to solicit clemency on behalf of the mortals.”

With wide eyes, it scanned the empty room as perspiration began to form on its forehead. Loki’s capricious behavior was drawing an intense reaction from its body, and it was becoming more difficult to think clearly and not give in to bodily instincts.

Briefly moving its hand from the tear in its suit, it glanced down to see the alarming contrast of pale skin and bright scarlet on its palm. The expression on its face must have been amusing to the unstable Jotun-Asgardian, as he chuckled darkly at the results of his furtive strike.

“You no longer wish to enslave the peoples of Earth and dominate their planet as you originally intended?” it asked in a voice that trembled against its will. The fear prickling the back of its neck approached an unbearable level as the invisible Jotun-Asgardian hovered somewhere near.

“I will settle for tearing apart the pathetic would-be heroes calling themselves the Avengers. One by one, if I must.” His voice was tinged with an eager anticipation of the clash he hoped to bring about. “As pleasant as this exchange has been, once we are done here, I will make quick, bloody work of your new friends.” He spat the last word as if it tasted unpleasantly on his tongue.

The spirit blinked at his assertion of the word, one which he clearly fixed with a negative aspect.

“It does not believe the human warriors view it as a ‘friend’.” The humans had been overly cautious towards the spirit, not affable and accepting. Why would Loki assume such a conflicting idea?

“Oh? You appeared cozy enough with the mortals. I did not realize your nature was so gregarious. Perhaps they will find your obedience pleasing and keep you as a pet.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

It could not understand the source of this particular turmoil. The human warriors had shown it no preference, though they had tolerated its presence once it had stated its intentions to aid them. Likewise, it did not wish harm on the humans, but it had had never been under the illusion that they were anything but temporary allies.

Barton-Hawk may have been the possible exception, as they had both undergone unique hardships under Loki’s captivity, but it knew this was not what Loki would wish to hear.

The spirit hesitated before speaking its next words, but once they were formed in its mind, it knew them to be true. But to say the words and incite Loki’s wrath? Was the risk acceptable considering the consequences?

“There is only one who has formed a strong connection with it, though that bond has been neglected and forgotten.”

Its explanation was met with silence. The spirit continued to speak, gripping the sceptre tightly in both hands as it readied for Loki’s reaction.

“If there is any being it could one day call ‘friend’, it had hoped it would be you.”

It heard something it had not expected. A slight hitch in his breathing, a small gasp of breath that was accurate in its location as it had not been voluntarily produced.

Darting its focus to where the noise had been produced, it had enough time to bring up the handle of the sceptre, knocking aside the thin, bladed weapon which flew through the air. It did not have time to react to his dark, towering form materializing back into the visible spectrum of light, nor to the enraged attack that followed.

“Do not lie to me, shade!”

Loki roared in unbridled fury as it attempted to bring the sceptre’s unwieldy length up to block him, unable to complete the movement as he tackled it to the ground with the shaft pinned between them. The spirit attempted to throw off the Jotun-Asgardian, but their raw strengths were evenly matched as he pulled it across the debris-strewn floor. The spirit was unable to overpower him and pull away as his wiry muscles wrapped around its smaller form, though it did struggle in near-blinding panic.

Their struggle carried them into the carpeted, lowered dais, Loki moving quickly to subdue the spirit by straddling its stomach, fragments of glass pressing into its back at the oppressive weight. He held the handle of the sceptre against its neck as he viciously pressed down.

He had the advantage of leverage and weight, and it grew frantic as Loki attempted to crush its throat, blood and air unable to reach its brain from the increasing pressure. It kicked in desperation, striking nothing but air with its legs. Loki merely chuckled as a blood-thirsty grin spread across his lips, his teeth bared hungrily.

“That’s it. Fight me with everything you have. I want to see the life as it drains from your eyes, knowing you tried everything in your power to stop me, and failed.”

As it pointlessly gasped for air, as it attempted unsuccessfully to unbalance his weight across its midsection, it pulled as much energy from the sceptre as it could, terrified in its overwhelming need to survive.

Loki leaned forward, his lips next to its ear as he hissed, “Disappointing.”

It drank in the boundless force of the mind-jewel, disregarding its previous caution in regards to the artifact in a desperate bid to survive.

Bright, golden, ungraspable power flowered up its palms and into its arms, the unbearable current slamming into its shoulders and coursed across its torso and back. Its spine arched from the sudden influx of energy which could not be entirely contained within its physical form.

Loki shouted as he was thrown from the unseen concussive force, the sound of shattering glass filling its ears. The noises were ignored – the spirit was too occupied by its skin bristling with electrical currents and its muscles roiling with liquid fire to notice what damage had occurred from its panicked attempts at self-preservation.

Attempting to slow its breaths, it opened its eyes and stared at the stone ceiling as its entire body seemed to vibrate. It had not dared to coax so much power from the mind-jewel previously, and it feared it had gone too far this time.

The spirit did not immediately stretch to its full height as it gained its feet. It remained slightly hunched over, feeling almost nauseous from the unexpected overabundance of energy as it panted for air. A sparkling layer of shards was all that remained of Iron Man’s wall of glass, but there was no room for guilt as the vestiges of true anger began to occupy its mind.

The constant apprehension, the fear which had become like a silent companion, the dread at facing the Jotun-Asgardian – these melted away as it glared towards the other occupant of the room.

Loki had only risen to his hands and knees near the center of the space, eyeing the spirit with something that approached caution. He appeared spent of energy, but it would not fall prey to his feint again. He seemed to know this as the infuriatingly arrogant smile returned.

“Well… that is interesting.”

It felt its face fix into a pained expression, lips parted with labored gasps as it held its throbbing neck with one hand.

Leaning against the unsettlingly warm sceptre gripped in its right palm, its chest began to tighten with the unfamiliar emotion of hostility. It was an unsettling, ugly sensation. Searing and red, the hue of molten stone. For the first time in its physical form, it desired physical violence. To strike and tear and maim.

It decided immediately it hated every aspect of this emotion. But that did not change the spirit from feeling the heat rise in its cheeks, nor did it loosen the tight muscles that fixed its jaw into place, making speech more difficult.

“Cease this, Loki.”

The Jotun-Asgardian’s eyebrows perked upwards in response to the inflections of heat in its voice.

“But we have only just started. You cannot stop the third act just as we reach the climax. You will disappoint the audience just as they begin to see what you really are.”

The spirit had absolutely no comprehension of what he was speaking. It chose to ignore his tiresome words of deflection and cut through the diversion, having had enough of his twisted amusement at its expense.

It possessed large quantities of empathy for its wayward Jotun-Asgardian, but the spirit was learning even it had limits as to how far it could be pushed before it negatively responded.

“You speak impressive words about the sins of the humans. But it is only an attempt to convince yourself they are deserving of their fate.” It paused, attempting to stop the trembling in its limbs, unable to suppress the vexation from its voice.

The reactions being elicited from its body were growing beyond its control, and the words of anger burst from a place it had never before tread.

“You accuse the humans of being monsters, and perhaps there is truth in that, but your actions are no less monstrous.”

Loki continued to grin at the spirit, but his expression took on a brittle quality.

“I did not ask for your rage, but now that I have it, it is more delectable than I imagined.”

“Be silent!” it snapped hotly, eye slightly widening at the aggression in its own voice. Drawing in breath, hoping the increased oxygen would clear the red fog in its mind, it stared at him with a state of exposure it had not felt to this degree previously. “Just… Stop. Speaking.”

Loki watched it closely, his piercing eyes fixated on its face as he remained mercifully quiet, simply listening with his eyebrows creased at the unexpected behavior from the spirit.

“Why did you force me into this useless vessel? You had no need of me to open your portal. There is no purpose to holding me under your control, no logical reason to bind me to your side.” The spirit voiced the questions that had plagued its mind since the beginning, and even though it knew the words would infuriate its captor/rescuer, it could not cease them from being formed.

“Am I a source of amusement? A possession you can speak at when you need to hear your own thoughts reaffirmed?”

Loki’s eyebrows traveled even further up his brow.

“It’s me and I now? Have you finally elevated your status above that of a discarded fruit bowl?”
It attempted to ignore Loki’s words, knowing their purpose was to wound. This was only partially successful as its eyes began to fill with moisture.

The animosity and anger was beginning to transform, evolving into a prickling expansion of pain in its chest. An expression of deep hurt, one which was experienced physically and emotionally. Hurt at his treatment, his disregard, his cruelty.

It was glad for the change. Pain and anguish were far preferable to the toxic fumes it had tasted in the beginning stages of fury. It had felt enmity as a spirit towards the dark tormentor of Loki. But those emotions had been raw, pure, unenhanced by biological chemicals.

Anger in a physical body was far more visceral. Far more potent, savage, and unstable. It was an emotion it never desired to experience again.

“Have none of your words been genuine or true? Do you only know how to coerce and threaten?”

The spirit did not pause to wait for an answer, unable to cease its flood of emotions.

“Why do you claim possession of me one moment and attempt to extinguish my life the next?” Its voice grew more unsteady as the pain in its chest traveled deeper, filling its throat with an ache that stung its eyes.

“I am no freer now than when I was confined in the orb. Perhaps you were correct. Perhaps you should have left me to languish in my prison. Perhaps it would have been preferable to- to this,” it stammered, desperate to communicate its pain while simultaneously understanding its words would not be met with kindness. It was not wrong in its assumption.

“Are you finished?” the Jotun-Asgardian asked dully, his expression disinterested as he regarded the spirit’s shivering form, his hands resting behind his back.

“Why am I here? What do you want from me?” it practically begged of him, voice cracking as it wondered if the agony in its chest would split its form in two. It silently hoped to once, just once, receive an honest, truthful answer. An answer without scorn and derision.

For him to just once treat it like a… person.

The Jotun-Asgardian did not reply for several heavy seconds, and when he did, his gaze focused to its right and pointed towards the golden weapon.

“That. Is what I want from you.”

Its lips trembled as it wondered, “The sceptre? That is all?”

“Not that. That,” Loki responded curtly, emphatically pointing at what it believed to be the weapon. But he was not indicating the sceptre at all. He was pointing at the hand curled around the golden handle.

Only… it was no longer a hand.

Notes