Norse Myths. Loki. The time he lost a bet with the dwarves.

He thinks he's screaming. Curled up as far as he can go he can feel Thor's strong arms holding him up, trembling. Somebody is trembling. All of it—the crowd, the pain—it's gone, because he's trapped, drowning. Fingers reaching wildly to his mouth with blunt nails ripping but Thor has his hand he can't reach he can't move trapped his tongue sits thick and he can't open his mouth even the dwarves don't matter anymore smugly staring he had felt a coldness move through him when they stated their loophole, their way out. (Better than dying, isn't it?) He knew it was. He knew, and he had walked down proud and composed while inside he felt sick in his stomach and the noises stopped he could hardly put one foot in front of the other as though they had stopped obeying him come on.

He went. Felt grateful for Thor there in the small, far-off part of his mind that was not filled with white screaming numbness. Knew he would run otherwise.

And the pain was fine. Horrible, yes; it brought tears to his eyes but he focused on his clenched hands as they pushed the awl through his lips and as long as he didn't think he could pretend—and he couldn't think, because the pain washed away thought red-hot. But. But then the thread came, pulled around and soon the side of his lips touched and then more and he thought he was screaming but it could be anyone.

He couldn't open his mouth. Panic; tears rolling down his face and he's making a scene, he can picture the way they must be laughing, pointing at the trickster but oh it doesn't matter now. Not yet. It will matter later but now he reaches kicking wildly trying to claw out the thick thread but can't touch it even Thor is holding his arms.

"Shhh," he says. "Shhh, Loki, it's all right."

He has been speaking before, but it is only now that Loki hears him. Keeps on holding him until his strength is gone because it is only then that he will stop struggling. And the crowd—but there is no crowd. Not anymore. The sun has moved, hovering above the edge of the world, about to dip down and let the stars come out. They are alone.

The white numbness is still there. He's trembling, shivering, still trying to reach his face but Thor's hands are gentle now about his wrists. "Loki." He moves over, meets his eyes. "Loki, get a knife. Use a knife."

A knife. Of course. And he starts to say a knife but the word is smothered inside his mouth he can't open his mouth trapped.

"Loki."

He nods. A knife. Yes.

But they stay kneeling upon the ground for some time. The sun leaves them to it, and Thor holds him the way a mother should hold a child, he thinks. He has never been held this way, he thinks.

And the stars come out, and his hands still. He breathes.

It is he that pulls away first. Straightens his clothes, not looking at Thor; and Thor gives him the dignity. Breathes. Thinks to say something—no. No, don't try—his tongue darts out to taste the bloody thread. He cannot speak. He… no. A knife.

He nods, and Thor returns the gesture.

.

It is some time before he comes once more to Asgard. The coming back is foregone; he can never stay away.

His lips have healed with scars.

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