Chapter Text
The majestic throne room of the palace gleamed with gold and the cold elegance characteristic of Asgard. The columns soared upward, as if reaching for the very sky, while the light streaming through the stained glass played tricks on the minds of those present, sometimes creating illusions, deceiving the eyes, and making it feel as if the walls and floor were alive. Every movement of a sunbeam became a mirage, casting ghostly shadows that seemed almost real.
Odin sat upon his golden throne, restrained yet imposing, holding his cherished staff in his hands. His gaze was calm, yet piercing—as if he could see not only what was happening before him but all the possible consequences that might unfold. Every breath in the hall seemed known to him.
Frigga sat beside him, but she didn’t even look at her husband. All her attention was fixed on her son. It was as if she could feel every movement, every thought, every emotion he had. Her eyes held a mix of worry and pride, and her shoulders trembled ever so slightly as she tried to contain her feelings.
Hela, on the other hand, hid in the shadow of the throne, behind one of the columns, her posture perfectly still, like a shadow in its own right. Her eyes never left Odin, sharp and perceptive, tracking the slightest weakness, the tiniest doubt or crack that could betray vulnerability even in the greatest of gods. Her presence in the shadows was tense, and Thor saw it, felt it—but remained steadfast, refusing to let her cold scrutiny affect him.
The entire hall seemed alive, imbued with grandeur, tension, and a hidden threat. Golden walls, the glow of the stained glass, the faint echo of footsteps—all combined to create a scene almost theatrical, set as the backdrop for a moment capable of changing the fate of worlds. It felt as if Asgard itself held its breath.
Every glance, every movement here carried a weight that could tip the scales of destiny.
And Thor stood in the midst of this boiling silence—unwavering, upright, radiating an inner storm. He restrained himself with all his might: his pulse throbbed in his temples, the hum of battle still coursed through his veins, and within him simmered a mixture of adrenaline, rage, pride, and something even more dangerous… something intensely personal.
He had won.
He had led Asgard to yet another victory, halted the bloodshed, held the troops from further advance. He had done what no one else could—neither in courage, nor in audacity, nor in… motivation.
And he had the right.
The right, for the first time in his life, to reach out for that which he had dreamed of for so many years. That which had grown quietly, stubbornly, almost painfully within him—the desire that no one could ever drive from his heart.
Loki.
The little Jotun prince… the lost wonder of his childhood, the dangerous shadow of his youth, the forbidden dream of his adulthood.
The one he had once protected.
The one he had been forbidden to remember.
The one whose name still burned in his chest, even when his father had commanded him to forget.
Now Loki was his prisoner.
His choice.
His trophy.
And even Odin would not dare take from him what Thor considered rightfully his.
“What do you want to tell me, son?” Odin’s voice rolled through the vaulted throne room. “Why have our troops returned?”
His words, heavy as a hammer strike, snapped Thor out of his brief stupor. He blinked slowly, casting a lazy yet piercing glance over the courtiers surrounding him. Then, for a moment, he softened—a barely noticeable, almost boyish smile for his mother—before once again becoming the composed, stern warrior before his king.
“We have taken half of Jotunheim,” Thor began evenly, though a hidden steel ran through his voice. “Captured the younger son of Laufey. Forced the giants to bow.”
He held a pause—the very one that separates boast from cold calculation.
“Why continue the bloodshed?” Thor lifted his gaze to his father. “Why should we lose our men in a war that can already be considered won?”
“Because that was my command,” Odin replied coldly.
A murmur rolled through the hall. The courtiers exchanged glances and whispers, splitting into two camps—those who supported the king’s wisdom, and those who saw in Thor’s decision the strength of a future ruler. The golden palace was momentarily filled with a soft hiss, like the rustle of snakes.
“I understand, Father,” Thor said calmly.
“Then why did you disobey?!” Gungnir’s staff struck the floor sharply, as if sealing the accusation. “And why…” Odin’s voice grew quieter, yet heavier, “did you bring the prisoner into the Golden Palace?”
Thor straightened. His face became a mask, his gaze icy.
“Loki—the younger son of Laufey,” he said as if that were a complete explanation. “While he is with us, the Jotuns won’t dare make a move. They are too afraid of losing their sorcerer.”
The words hung in the air like lightning just before it strikes.
“Do you truly believe that losing one of his children will stop Laufey?” Odin’s voice was icy.
“I know it,” Thor replied calmly, though a shadow of doubt slipped through the depth of his voice.
“Then you are a fool. A naive boy,” the king roared, sharply rising from his throne.
The hall trembled. The courtiers froze. The air grew heavy, like before a battle—a battle in which there would be no victors, only scars upon the family and the kingdom. It seemed a new war would erupt… and it would begin here, in the golden heart of Asgard.
But before Odin’s wrath could break free, Hela appeared beside him—as if a shadow had materialized from the half-light. She gently touched his shoulder, her gesture tender, almost daughterly… yet there was not a trace of warmth in her eyes.
“Father, please,” she said in a quiet, soothing, almost silky voice. “Everything is fine. Thor simply… erred in his judgment. He did not intend to question your will.”
Her gaze slid toward her brother—cold, assessing, slightly mocking. A smile, carrying a hidden threat, barely touched the corners of her lips.
“He is young,” Hela continued. “Inside him boils the desire to prove his strength. That’s all. Let him show the prisoner. And after… you will decide for yourself what he deserves: punishment or praise.”
Her words fell onto the golden floor, precise and sharp, like a blade.
Odin exhaled slowly, heavily, as if shedding a part of his fury. Then he sank back onto his throne, the carved wood of the backrest creaking under him. He waved his hand—a gesture that signified not mercy, but a postponement.
Hela stepped back, dissolving into the shadow of the column, like a predator that had withdrawn its claws but had yet to decide whether to release its prey completely.
“Very well,” Odin finally said, and without even looking at his son, he turned to the guard. “Bring him forward.”
A heavy, drawn-out creak of doors followed. The throne room filled with the echo of footsteps—steady, confident, foreign. But soon another sound cut through them, sharper, harsher, like a shard of ice.
A scream.
Deafening, furious, desperate.
Thor felt something inside him tear, flesh stretching painfully over bone. His fists clenched so tightly that air hissed in his joints, and thin snakes of lightning danced between his fingers, barely flaring. Instinct—bestial, all-consuming—demanded that he rush forward: tear Loki from the guards’ hands, shield him, protect him from these piercing gazes, from humiliation, from fear.
But he did not move.
He had no right. Any display of emotion—and his carefully constructed future would collapse.
“I will kill you!” Loki’s voice rang through the vaulted hall, sharp as an icy blade. “Do you hear me? I will kill all of you! I swear… I swear by the blood of my ancestors…”
He was dragged by chains like a wild beast, thrashing and struggling, though his strength was nearly spent. Thor saw him up close for the first time in the light of the Asgardian lamps: emaciated, yet unbroken. His overly pale skin—whiter than snow—was streaked with fresh cuts. The blood on his cheek had dried, but a new drop slid down along the curve of his jaw. A bruise under his eye swelled, fresh, one that hadn’t been there when Thor had given the order to halt the battle.
Thor felt a storm roar within him.
“I swear…” Loki continued, his voice torn and trembling, yet still burning with fire, “…you will pay for every drop of my blood… for every one…”
The guards, knowing they were under the king’s protection, merely exchanged glances and smirked before shoving the prisoner forward. Loki fell to the stone floor at the foot of the throne steps, hitting his shoulder hard.
“You will all die… all of you…” he rasped, bracing his palms against the cold gold.
“Enough!” Odin’s voice cracked through the hall like a thunderclap, and the room fell silent as if the air had been ripped from its lungs.
But in that silence, Thor heard everything: the furious pounding of his own heart… and Loki’s quiet, almost imperceptible inhale — full of pain, fury, and unbroken will.
Loki fell silent, but not from fear—his scream had cut off like a taut string because he was gasping for air. His shoulders twitched with each shallow breath, and the chains clinked with every movement.
Thor saw everything.
Every cut. Every mark from a strike. Every breath that came too painfully.
And he felt the storm inside him growing, ready to break loose at any moment.
Odin leaned forward on his throne, studying the ice-cold prince with a cold, appraising interest—as if he were looking not at a living being, but at a trophy brought by his son.
“So this is he,” the king said slowly. “The younger son of Laufey. The sorcerer they spoke so much about.”
A twitch of a grin flickered across Loki’s face, ragged, almost mad.
“Amusing…” he rasped, lifting his eyes. “The king who hides behind the swords of others has decided to look upon the one his army fears…”
A whisper rippled through the hall. Someone gasped. Someone stepped back.
Thor knew: in the past, Loki would have lost his tongue for words like that.
But now—now everything was different.
Odin rose slowly from his throne. His steps echoed heavily as he descended the steps, each one sounding like a sentence pronounced.
Thor took a deep, painful breath. He saw his muscles tense, felt the light within him gathering into a flash.
Hela noticed it too. Her eyes gleamed.
Frigga—only she—did not look at Odin. She looked at Loki. And her gaze was not cold… but full of compassion.
“So…” Odin began, stepping close to the fallen prisoner, “you are the one for whom my son halted the war?”
Loki lifted his head, the chains clinking.
“I am the one…” he hissed, “who would rather die than be a plaything for your golden beast.”
And he looked at Thor.
Directly. Deeply.
With hatred.
With despair.
With something else—something Thor was afraid to name.
A hum of lightning ran across his skin. The hall noticeably chilled. Frigga sprang up, Hela froze in anticipation, and Odin slowly turned toward his son.
“Thor,” he said, “explain to me why this boy is worth the lives and deaths of your warriors. Why did you halt the advance?”
Thor lifted his head. His voice was even, though a storm raged within him.
“Because he is a good trophy,” Thor said, quietly, almost calmly, though inside everything twisted. Nausea rose to his throat, strange and acrid, as if he had just swallowed poison.
Each word cut him from within.
Each one—a betrayal.
But he spoke.
“He is an Omega,” the Thunderer continued, holding Odin’s gaze. “Beautiful. Clever. Strong. He will become… a fine possession.”
The hall froze for a fraction of a second—and then erupted.
Odin smirked mockingly, his gaze gliding over the prisoner as if inspecting a commodity. Then his laughter tore through the silence—loud, relieved, almost joyful. He leaned back on the throne, tilting his head.
“So that’s it!” he shouted. “So that’s why you halted the troops! Not out of mercy, not out of strategy… but because you wanted this little ice prince to warm your bed!”
Laughter rolled through the hall in waves.
Unrestrained. Cruel.
Relieved.
The courtiers exhaled almost in unison, exchanging glances:
Ah, so that’s what it is.
So it’s simply desire, not defiance of orders.
Loki knelt, bowing his head, but Thor saw his shoulders twitch.
Not from fear.
From humiliation.
From a rage so pure and icy, it could have split the hall in two.
“Not enough local girls for you, brother?” Hela asked lazily, stepping out of the shadows as if she had foreseen this scene. Her voice was playful, but her eyes—cold as blades. “Or did you just want something… more exotic?”
Her smirk gleamed like a knife.
Thor clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Lightning leapt from his skin and struck the stone floor with a faint snap—a warning that anyone could understand.
But he remained silent.
He had to remain silent.
Otherwise, everything would collapse.
Hela slowly circled the hall, stopping beside Loki. She leaned in, inhaled the chill of his magic—and smiled with satisfaction, as if savoring a rare flower.
“Yes…” she exhaled. “I see why you brought him here. There’s something about him. A predatory beauty.”
Loki lifted his gaze to her—bright, green, deadly.
And she laughed.
Thor shifted forward slightly, but stopped just in time. Odin cast a look at him—testing, heavy, unyielding.
If he faltered—everything would be over.
“Very well,” Odin said slowly, as if weighing each word, “let the entire court see who has driven you mad.”
It was not an order. It was a demand—leaving no choice.
Loki twitched, the chains scraping against the stone floor. His eyes flared with icy fire, sparks of rage and desperate defiance.
“Never!” he growled. “I won’t let you… I won’t!”
But Odin merely frowned, his eyes flashing—sharp, unyielding.
“You do not choose. Your master is Thor. He will do as I command.”
In that moment, Thor felt the tension squeeze his chest. Every movement of Loki, every trembling breath, every heartbeat—he heard it all. Inside, a storm raged—an urge to break free, tear Loki from the chains, shield him with his own body, protect him at any cost.
But he could not.
So he did the only thing left to him.
He slowly approached the Omega.
Roughly, without fully realizing it, he pulled him by the golden chains, forcing him to rise. And for the first time, he looked into Loki’s eyes, seeing there a genuine, fierce anxiety—a fear that crawled across the skin like a cold spike.
“Strip him!” Odin commanded, his voice echoing through the hall like a hammer strike. “Before everyone. Let all see that he is your prize!”
Thor froze.
Inside, everything burned. Lightning danced across his skin, his fingers trembled, his breath hitched in his chest. Every instinct, every sensation, every spark of power screamed: Stop. Protect him.
But he could not step back.
He lowered his gaze to Loki.
The Ice Prince met his gaze—rage, contempt, despair, and something else that pierced Thor straight through the chest.
Thor drew a deep breath.
He gathered all the composure he could muster.
He grabbed Loki by the shoulders, holding the chains between them like a barrier, like a promise to cause less pain than there could be.
And he began.
Slowly. Carefully.
Every movement was a battle: Loki struggled, the chains clanged, his cries pierced the hall, and his gaze tore Thor apart. Inside, a storm raged—an urge to break free, throw everything aside, and hide Loki from everyone’s eyes in this hall.
But on the outside, Thor remained cold. Calm. Steel.
Movement after movement.
Resistance. Whispers. Cries. The cold of foreign skin under his fingers. Waves of terror, anger, and pain—all mingled into a single storm he held inside.
When Loki was finally completely naked, the chains clanged, and Thor stepped back.
He allowed the hall to see his prisoner.
But he did not look.
He did not allow himself to look.
“Very well,” Odin finally said, his voice softer but still loud enough to fill the hall. “I understand why he appeals to you.”
Thor felt a strange shiver inside: relief, pride, and that same forbidden joy he had never allowed himself to acknowledge.
“You may keep him,” added the king, and in his words there was a strange mixture of permission and cold interest, as if he had tested his son, checked his strength, and was now satisfied with the result.
Thor lowered his head. His shoulders trembled for a moment—not from fear, but from the tension that had built up over these hours.
“Thank you, Father,” he said evenly, restraining the storm of emotions within. His voice carried both gratitude and defiance, and that which he could finally allow himself to feel: triumph over circumstances, over war, over all who had tried to stand in his way.
“So be it,” Odin said, returning to his throne. “Now, everyone may depart.”
For a moment, the Golden Hall once again filled with the quiet whispers of the courtiers, their gazes sliding over Thor and Loki as if trying to read what remained unsaid.
Thor looked at his captive. Loki sat motionless, his eyes piercing Thor’s—icy, dangerous, proud. And in that gaze was everything: rage, despair, and something that made Loki his.
A second stretched on. Then the courtiers slowly began to disperse, leaving Thor and Loki alone.
Only when the Golden Hall emptied and Odin’s footsteps faded into the distant silence did Frigga, like a shadow of care and strictness at once, approach them. Her gaze was stern, reproachful, and Thor immediately felt awkward, like a child caught in mischief.
She didn’t speak a word, yet her silence was louder than all the screams that had just echoed through the throne hall.
“Poor child…” the queen whispered, extending her hand toward Loki’s cheek, yet never touching him. Her fingers glowed with a soft, golden light. “Poor child… I am sorry you had to endure this. Truly sorry.”
The scratches on the pale face of the Jotun slowly began to heal, as if the Queen of Asgard herself was whispering healing spells through her gesture.
“Now… everything will be all right,” Frigga continued, her voice gentle, warm, yet firm. “I will make sure that everything will be all right.”
“Mother…” Thor stepped forward, but the words stuck in his throat, constricting his heart.
“Be quiet, Thor,” Frigga said sternly. “Just be quiet. We will talk about this later.”
“Mother…” Thor began again, but the queen raised her hand, cutting him off with a light, almost commanding gesture.
“I said ‘later,’” she said firmly. She carefully removed her son’s red cloak and draped it over Loki’s trembling shoulders. The fabric settled perfectly, as if shielding him and creating an invisible barrier from everything he had endured. “Now, you need to take care of him… It’s time.”
Thor reached out, wanting to lift his Omega, but Loki barely moved, brushing himself off and turning away, refusing to let anyone touch him.
“Don’t you dare…” he rasped, the last words he managed before collapsing into Frigga’s embrace.