Chapter Text
Tom's rise to full consciousness was a gradual process. At first the only thing he felt was a stabbing pain somewhere behind his right eye that was nauseating in its intensity. Then he became aware of an awkward floating sensation, as if he were in motion, but not by his own power. That was when he first he noticed the feeling of two arms wrapped tightly around his body, holding him bridal style. They were powerful, muscular arms, and they seemed to be having no difficulty supporting his entire weight.
Tom tried opening his eyes, but the impenetrable darkness remained. Blind, he thought wildly, I'm blind. But no, now he could feel the brush of fabric against his face, and now he noticed the stuffy thickness of the air he was breathing. He was bound up in some sort of large sack.
But how had he gotten like this? What the hell had happened? Apparently he was being kidnapped, but he had no memory of any confrontation or struggle. He remembered meeting an old friend for dinner, parting ways in front of the restaurant, and calling a cab. That was all. After that, everything was a blank.
Tom tried to struggle against the arms which held him, but the fabric that he was wrapped in restricted his movement. Besides, the motion increased the pain in his head and his nausea to the point where he could taste bile on the back of his tongue. The last thing he wanted to do was lose his dinner within the close confines of the sack. He tried to shout for help instead, but he was so weak and he felt so ill that all he managed was a thin groan.
"He's wakin' up," came a deep, gruff voice above him. That must be the man who was holding him. "Shouldn't I put him out again?"
"No." A woman's voice this time, issuing from Tom's immediate right. "Let him wake up. He has good timing."
"He's bigger than I thought he'd be, him bein' human an' all," said the gruff voice.
"He is exactly the size specified," the woman said in clipped tones. "He is, in fact, perfect. That's why we're here. It's time to get our due for all our hard work."
"Hush," came a third voice. This voice was thin, nasally, and it came from somewhere further to Tom's right. "He's coming."
Silence fell, and then Tom could hear the echoes of booted feet walking swiftly over stone tiles at some distance away. The footsteps slowed and finally stopped, and a new voice spoke from the other side of the room. Tom could only just make out the words, muffled as they were by the fabric which covered his ears, but he could tell that the speaker was male. There was also something strangely familiar about his inflection, but Tom couldn't hear well enough to be certain. "Ah, Leelta. It is always a pleasure, of course, to see your shining face." The words dripped with sarcasm.
"Thank you for granting this audience," said the woman beside Tom. It sounded like she was speaking through clenched teeth. "It is most good of you."
"Yes, isn't it?" said the newcomer in a bored tone. There was a light rustling sound, and then more footsteps. The man was coming closer. "I surprise myself sometimes with my own magnanimity. Perhaps you would repay my patience by getting to the point of your visit as quickly as possible."
"The point," hissed the woman next to Tom, "is a certain bargain we made some thirty-odd years ago by earth reckoning. You came to me because of my expertise with the human form. You commissioned a mortal simulacrum. Perhaps you recall that?" As she spoke, the man who held Tom hefted him up a little, as if showing off his bundle proudly to the newcomer. Tom's head swam sickeningly, so he almost didn't notice the way the approaching footsteps halted abruptly.
"Ah, yes," came the smooth voice, closer now. " I perfectly recollect the circumstances of our agreement. Is there a reason you are bringing it up again now?"
"We kept our end of the bargain," the one called Leelta said. Her voice, which had previously sounded cultured, began to lose a bit of its polish. "We designed a most beautiful mortal to be your likeness. A work of art. I consider him to be my masterpiece, in fact."
"Do you, now?" the man asked so softly that Tom almost missed the words. The tone was polite, but oh-so-dangerous. A little chill raced down Tom's spine. Did his captors recognize the sound of controlled violence in that voice? It was like dark velvet. Like sweet poison. Tom knew that voice, had heard it issuing from his own lips, but he couldn't believe it. Couldn't accept it.
If Leelta was the least bit intimidated by the man she was addressing, if she heard the promise of slow death and torment buried within his seemingly innocent words, she gave no indication of it. "I do, indeed," she insisted. "It was I who made the design. It was I who gathered the materials from all corners of the earth. It was I who sang to the wind to bring to me a spark of life for your likeness."
"Yes," the other man interrupted, still speaking in that deceptively calm voice, "the design was ready made. You were to recreate me. And by the way, I do not recall giving you permission to exercise artistic license regarding his coloring, but we'll let that pass. The materials were simple enough. Even I can create a homunculus from dust and water. What I needed you for, first and foremost, was your soul-singing. And for that I paid you precisely what you asked."
"Two worthless trinkets!" Leelta said, her tone suddenly savage. "Baubles! Useless! You led us to believe that the blade called Archenwell and the Torch of Grid were both objects of great power."
There was a low chuckle from the man. "False. I merely did not inform you that the rumors about their powers were somewhat… exaggerated," he corrected. "All I ever said about them was that I could obtain them for you. That was the price you asked for, and I paid it."
"If you have any honor in you, you will pay us the true worth of our services," Leelta hissed.
There was a brief pause, and then the man spoke again. His voice was louder now and more business-like. "This is not about honor, is it, Leelta? This is about coercion. Now, why don't you unveil the poor creature you have trussed up in that sack? That doesn't look very comfortable."
"Tark, open it. Set him down," Leelta commanded.
The man who held Tom, whose name was apparently Tark, shifted him in his arms and unwrapped the heavy cloth from his body. Tom drew in a deep breath of clean air as his face was uncovered. He blinked open his eyes, but he was too dazzled by the light after prolonged darkness to make out much of his surroundings. He received the impression of solid oak paneling, white marble floors, gold trim and swaths of rich red fabric. He was in a palace of some sort. A very grand sort of palace.
Tark attempted to set him on his feet, but Tom's knees buckled under him. He slumped to the floor in a kneeling position. The next moment, he felt rough fingers burrow into his hair and tug, jerking his head back. He hissed as the jostling of his head made it throb worse than ever.
Tom looked up to see three figures hovering over him. The woman, Leelta, was red haired, middle aged, and dressed in a tweed suit, of all things. On either side of her stood two men. Tark, a brawny, tattooed man with a shaved head, stood on her left side. On her right side stood a slimmer, weasely-looking man wearing tortoise shell glasses. All three of them looked more or less like normal human beings.
It was Leelta who currently held a fistful of his curls. With her free hand, she reached into her tweed jacket and drew out a wicked-looking knife with a serpentine blade. Tom had only enough time to draw in a quick breath before the blade was positioned at his throat, kissing his tender skin with its cold edge.
"Interesting," came that voice again. It sounded bland now. "Is this the point where I'm supposed to start begging for his life?"
In spite of the blade at his neck and the fingers clamped in his hair, Tom tried to tilt his head forward so he could see the owner of that voice. To his surprise, Leelta assisted him in his endeavor by adjusting the knife and forcing his head forward. Tom's eyes had adjusted enough to the light by now that he could take in the figure before him.
Even though that honey-rich voice had prepared him for the sight which met his eyes, it still sent a shock through Tom to see Loki standing a few meters in front of him, his legs apart and his hands clasped behind his back. The god of mischief was dressed in his signature green cloth and black leather. The garments were beautiful to look at, but they made Tom's skin itch sympathetically in remembrance of uncomfortable costumes. Loki's posture was simultaneously regal and insolent, just casual enough to be a subtle insult to his visitors. He was gazing at Tom in just the sort of way Tom might find himself gazing at a beetle on the ground – not with loathing, but with complete indifference.
"I should think you'd want to preserve what you were so eager to create," Leelta said tauntingly.
"Indeed," Loki mused. He pursed his lips, examining Tom more closely. "What color are his eyes, exactly?"
"They change," Leelta said proudly. "Aren't they striking?"
"They are not mine," he replied dismissively. He turned and paced a few steps away before circling back. He appeared to be moving out of sheer boredom rather than restlessness, as if he were trapped in a very dull meeting instead of a critical negotiation in which a life was at stake. "What price are you asking in exchange for his life, exactly?"
"His weight in gold," Leelta replied promptly.
Loki threw back his head and laughed.
"Enough of that!" Leelta said impatiently. "We know you have twenty times that amount in your own possession, not touching what is within Odin's own vaults."
"I may have a hundred times that amount, but I would not give you the smallest pinch of it," Loki whispered, all humor leaving his countenance as swiftly as it had appeared. "I do not renegotiate bargains. Not ever."
"You would condemn him to death, then?" Leelta hissed. The blade in her hand slid suggestively along Tom's throat, leaving a thin line of blood. He could not feel the cut itself, but he felt the slow trickle of several drops of blood down his neck, so he knew it was there. He drew in a slow breath, forcing down the whimper in his throat before it escaped his lips.
Loki peered at Tom's neck for a moment, then his eyes flicked up to Leelta's face. Tom saw Loki's eyes narrow slightly, just for an instant, but then the expression was wiped from his face and the look of indifference returned. "Why not?" he asked softly. "I commissioned his creation for a purpose, but he has already fulfilled it, more or less. I have no further need of him. Do as you will."
"I'm warning you, Odinson," Leelta screeched so sharply that Tom's ears buzzed painfully, "I don't make idle threats! He will be nothing but a dark smear upon your pretty white marble if you don't acquiesce to our demands!"
"I grow weary of both your threats and your company," Loki sighed. "If you'll excuse me, I have much better ways to occupy my afternoon." He turned away abruptly with those words and began to make his way towards the large oaken doors on the opposite side of the room.
"So be it!" snarled Leelta, quite overcome with disappointed rage.
In that moment of utter panic, Tom finally found his voice. Careless of the blade at his throat, he shouted in desperation, "Loki, please!"
Loki paused mid-stride and spun on his heel to face Tom. He was smiling. His form flickered once and then disappeared completely.
Suddenly there was a scream from Leelta that cut off abruptly and turned into a sickening gurgle. The hand which held the blade to Tom's neck went slack, and the knife clattered harmlessly to the ground. Tom glanced up to see a dagger protruding from Leelta's throat. It was withdrawn in a fluid motion, and the dead weight of Leelta's body collapsed forward onto Tom. He shoved her away in disgust and staggered to his feet.
By the time Tom was standing, Loki was already whirling away from the crumpling body of the weasely man. Tark had let out a roar and charged at the god, but Loki was much too swift for him. Moving faster than Tom's eyes could track, Loki leapt up onto the burly man's back and threw an arm around his neck to hold himself in place. Then he brought his dagger straight down through the top of Tark's skull and gave it a cruel twist. He jumped down just as the tall man toppled like a felled tree.
Tom stared at the three lifeless bodies, too dazed to fully process what had just happened. And then, before his eyes, the three bodies began to warp and change. The human forms shifted into monstrous, bloated creatures with large heads, long arms, and wide, toothy mouths. Tom let out an inadvertent cry of horror and backed away hastily. He looked down at himself, and found his clothes smeared not with red human blood, but with a sticky, black ichor.
Something moved at his side. He gave a violent start and swung around to find himself staring into Loki's impossibly green gaze. The god was grinning with the lingering enjoyment of his kills. His pale face was spattered with drops of thick, black blood, and more of the same disgusting substance covered his clothing, but he didn't seem to care. He just laughed with exhilaration, and then he held his hand out to Tom.
"Welcome to Asgard, Thomas."