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The guards are already rounding the last of the prisoners up, how boring. Loki returns to his book, ignoring the hubbub going on outside his cell. Once he’d been left alone by the ringleader of the escape (a snub which, while infuriating, he can understand - Loki was once a prince of Asgard after all, the creature likely assumed he could not be trusted to stand against them), he’d watched the proceedings with the air of someone watching a mediocre play. Now that the commotion was mostly resolved (and Thor didn’t even show up, not even to accuse him of being involved, disappointing) he was fast losing interest.
So he picks back up his book. His thoughts drift briefly to his last conversation with his mother - not mother, with Frigga, he recalls with a sharp pang. He had spoken rashly. She’d used his words against him and he’d lashed out. A fine thing to do to the last remaining family member who seemed to remember his existence.
She will come back when things quiet further. She’s never stayed away for long, not more more than two days at the outside. He’ll apologize then, for how their conversation went.
For now he returns to his book.
Thor stands and takes the brunt of his jeering insults, his expression not budging for a moment. Loki finds himself trailing off, mocking smile falling off his face.
“What? Have you lost your tongue since last I saw you? Have you really that little regard for me that you will not even deign to respond to my accusations?”
“Loki,” Thor says and his voice is heavy. Alarm bells sound in Loki’s mind. His pulse picks up, palms suddenly slick with anxious sweat. Something is wrong.
“What? What is it?” He says. The bravado, the air of smug superiority is gone. He feels sick.
“That monster has Mother. And I need you to help me get her back.”
Loki is so angry, he cannot stop shaking. He is angry at the creature, angry at Odin, furious at Thor for not stopping this, for allowing the monstrous dark elf take their mother, for valuing the life of the mortal Jane over her life -
( - though he knows that could not be Thor’s fault, because she would have acted to protect the mortal girl without prompting, even if Jane were not her son’s lover, even if she were truly an anonymous mortal - )
- but most of all he is furious at himself.
His back hits the wall, his furious cry cut off in a moment. He’s shaking still, raising up his bound hands in defense. For a moment, the fury in Thor’s eye matches his own and he really thinks his brother is going to strike him, oh yes, and won’t that give Loki another weapon to wield against him, the crown prince striking a bound and defenseless prisoner, how honorable-
Then the rage in Thor’s eyes drains away, and Loki sees the fear, the worry, the helplessness underneath. Thor drops him and turns away.
“This plan is likely to get us killed,” Thor says and does not sound happy about it.
“Yes,” Loki says with grim, unwavering certainty. Thor’s frown deepens but Loki does not falter.
If he dies to save her life, so be it. His life was never worth much anyways.
“Only a good seat to watch Asgard burn,” He says with a wicked smile and his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Jane struggles wildly against him, spitting with rage. Loki supposes they should have kept her up to speed, but she’d been quite unconscious when they’d plotted the show and there hadn’t been time to catch her up before they arrived and had to take places.
His mother doesn’t need to be told to know. She only needs to take a single look at him before, despite the knife to her throat, she gives him a half-smile, a small conspiratorial smirk. After a moment of holding his expression of triumphant villainy, he returns the smile, a perfect mirror of hers.
It was not a bad way to die. Painful, but not an ignoble death, Loki thinks to himself as the sounds of the fight fade around him. He’s flat on his back, barely able to draw breath, chest a blinding spot of agony. Cold numbness spreads down his limbs. He has saved the life of his mother, then the life of his brother. He wishes he could have last words with them, but by the time Thor is dropping to his knees by his side, blood is bubbling up in his throat and the crushing pressure on his chest steals his breath and makes speaking impossible.
He fades out to Thor’s desperate, tear-streaked face face, his fingers brushing his cheeks, and his pleas to hold on. Thor has always been so foolishly sentimental. He should have spared his tears.
He thinks it all might be over, but then he hears the soft notes of a lullaby, one he knows better than his own name, one that conjures a memory from deep in his soul. Frigga was singing. Loki tucked into his bed, wrapped in a quilt. Warm, safe, secure. If this is death, it is perhaps not so bad. Infinitely preferable to what he suffered in the Void. It really wasn't so bad this time…
Consciousness returns, however. Loki wakes, returned to his broken, bleeding body and desperately wishes he was still unconscious. The pain in his chest is sharp and pulsing. A thin cry escapes his throat and his body spasms, wracked with the agony of the Kursed’s wound.
He becomes aware that his spasms have not moved him, and that he is not flat on the dusty ground anymore. Strong arms are wrapped around his waist, holding him securely but gently in place. His back is pressed to a broad, warm chest. It inhales and exhales, rocking him with each breath. He becomes aware of his brother’s voice, rough with tense fear, whispering a desperate mantra.
“It’s all right, brother, it’s all right, you’re going to be fine, it’s okay…”
Loki chokes on blood and cries out. He’s gripping his brother’s arms, squeezing so tightly he must be paining Thor, but Thor gives no indication. It just hurts so much, the crushing pressure on his chest, the burning ice that sears his veins. Tears are running down his cheeks and he writhes, unable to escape the agony or get a good breath into his mangled chest. Thor’s next inhale is unsteady, his face presses to the side of Loki’s head.
There’s a hand pressed to the sucking wound in his chest, a hand with long, thin fingers. His blood pumps out over the hand. Warmth slowly spreads over his torso, traveling through his veins and chasing out the poison darkness. Loki’s vision clears a bit.
Frigga smiles at him, an attempt at reassurance, though it doesn’t quite travel to her eyes. “Hush, my son.” He tries to open his mouth, to apologize, but he still cannot speak; he is shaking too hard. “Just hush, Loki. Let us take care of you, my dearest.” She begins humming again, the soft lullaby that mixes with her magic to ease away some of the pain.
His helpless, pained writhes slow. The panic recedes, replaced by a fixed calm. He manages a fuller breath in.
Between Thor’s secure hold, his careful rocking and whispered reassurances, and his mother’s magic, mixed with her song, Loki is eased back from the edge of death.