Title: Bait and Switch

Warnings: Blood, graphic violence, torture, extreme Loki whump, gratuitous H/C.

Author's note: To make up for the previous chapter, this one is almost entirely C.

Voices are the first thing to penetrate his swoon. When he blinks his blurred eyes open once more, there are two dark-haired heads leaning into his field of view.

"He wakes!" a familiar voice exclaims, and it definitely belongs to one of the dark-haired people he knows, but not the one he was wanting to hear from.

"Loki!" Thor blurts out as he surges up to a sitting position - or tries to, anyway. He is still very weak, cursedly weak, and the swift inhalation of breath he took turns into a coughing fit a moment later. "Where -"

"Thor, you must lie still," the voice says anxiously, and Sif's face comes into focus as she presses him back down against - well, it must be the floor, if the distance up the walls is any indication, but it is not so hard nor cold as the stone, so he must be lying on a blanket or something similar. Sif and Hogun both hover over him, their faces drawn with unaccustomed worry as they check him over for wounds.

Thor pushes them off, or tries to, with hands that shake and tremble uselessly. "Leave me - I'm fine," he gasps. "Tend to Loki - where is -"

"He's right over there," Sif says, indicating with a jab of her head somewhere beyond Thor's sight. "Fandral and Volstagg are tending to him. And you are not fine, so please lie still until we can finish treating you."

"Fandral and Volstagg?" Thor mumbles, although he relaxes slightly at the news. Although they are all friends, of course, Loki has always gotten along somewhat better with the dashing swordsman and the boisterous bruiser than with either of the others. The former because Fandral would actually laugh at Loki's jokes, and the latter because Volstagg had a heart that matched his girth, and could get along with anyone. Hogun and Sif were always a bit too intense, too driven, to take Loki's customary needling in good spirit.

"Yes, you can see him in just a moment," Sif says in a businesslike tone, but Thor can detect a note of uncertainty threading through it that he doesn't like to hear. "He's... going to be fine."

Stubbornly Thor struggles up onto his elbows, at least enough to peer past Hogun to the shadows beyond. The Warriors have got a fire going, which paints the stone chamber in a cheerier light than it deserves; and he catches a glimpse of his missing companions on the other side of the fire. Fandral's cloak is missing from his back, spread out on the ground with Loki laid out upon it; another cloth has been folded and placed behind his neck, and Volstagg is carefully helping him drink something out of a skin.

Thor can't see past Volstagg's girth to see the rest of Loki, whatever condition he might be in, but Fandral is kneeling by his side with his arms obscured from the elbow down. Loki's eyes are closed, but Thor can't tell whether he's unconscious or just exhausted. It matters not, because his lips part with breath and he's alive.

That reassurance at least manages to sap Thor's urgent fear enough that the weakness overcomes him, and for the moment he slumps back onto the floor and rests, staring up at the ceiling past Sif and Hogun's heads.

Or... not the ceiling, because the ceiling had fallen in; Thor remembers that, and he vaguely thinks he might have taken a chunk of fallen masonry to the head, even if he can't tell it apart from his other pains. The sky above them is shading to the slate-gray of twilight, but other than that they don't seem to have moved.

"They are all dead, then?" Thor says, and his voice comes out sounding weaker than he would like.

Sif nods. "When the signal went up, we moved as fast as we could," she said. "The bandits were in disarray when we arrived, and we did not give them a chance to regroup. Those that tried to flee from the bunker, we intercepted and put down. Those that stayed inside... well."

Signal? Oh, yes, the roof had blown out and there were giant monsters. That would be pretty distinctive from quite a ways off, most likely. "What are you all even doing here?" Thor demands, now that he has a chance to catch his breath somewhat.

Sif scowls down at him from her upside-down vantage. She has the look she gets when she wants to smack him for being stupid, but she refrains this time. "What do you think we're doing, fool?" she chides him, and Thor feels a pang in his heart at how closely her words echo Loki's, from before. "We came to rescue you!"

"Yes, but what are you doing here and not back on Asgard, getting help?" Thor argues back.

"Are you mad?" Sif shakes her head, exasperated. "There was no sign of you! You had vanished without a trace. Loki said you must have been magically shielded by your captors, and such a shield that could block his sight at close range would be sure to block Heimdall's at a distance. They could find you no faster than we, and you know what the time dilation is at right now - if we left you here, it could have been days, even weeks before we were able to return with a search party!"

These were all things that Thor knew already; all things he had plenty of time to consider, through the long hours or days of his captivity. But that only led to the question... "If the villains were so well hidden, how did you find us?"

"You," Hogun corrects him, and Thor scowls at him.

"No, find both of us, surely you don't think it was any less -"

"No, Thor, you don't understand," Sif interrupts him. "Loki wasn't lost. Loki let himself be found and captured, as part of a plan to find you."

Thor stares at her. Tries and fails to peer across the fire to stare at Loki. "What?"

"We didn't know for certain what manner of bandits they were," Volstagg said, lowering himself carefully to sit cross-legged on the floor. "But their clothes and gear provided a clue, as did the fact that they targeted you first off. Loki figured that if the attack were, ah, politically motivated, then they might be tempted to grab him as well if given the opportunity."

"And so I became bait and hook in one," Loki's voice speaks up from the floor, weak and tired but still there, thank the Norns. Thor pushes himself up enough to look at his brother again; Loki is still lying flat on his back, but his eyes are open as he stares up at the broken ceiling.

Thor is furious. "You made my brother risk himself on such a foolish scheme?" he demands in outrage. "He could have been killed - he nearly was killed -"

"It was his plan, Thor," Sif says with a sigh. "As none of us had a more clever one, we agreed."

Loki's plan? This whole nightmare of an evening - the capture, the torment - has all been according to Loki's plan? Thor shakes his head, unable to believe it.

"I knew that they would never allow me to cast any magics once I was in their custody," Loki continues. "Nor did I think it likely they would let me keep any amulets or other objects on my person. And so, I enchanted my blood."

Thor stares at him, thinking he could not possibly have heard right. "You what?" he manages to say.

Loki flashes a quick grin, and Thor is reminded horribly of the expression of deathly triumph on his face while Kreppvor and his mercenaries had been tearing into his flesh. "It was actually a fairly simple spell," he says, "not easy of course - I performed most of the summoning ritual elsewhere, then tied the trigger to its completion into my blood. As soon as a single drop of my blood reached the earth, the ritual was complete, and the monsters so spectacularly arrived on the scene."

There is so much wrong with this plan that Thor is not really sure where to start - his brother for coming up with such a hare-brained scheme, or his friends for allowing it. They must truly have been desperate, if they did not even blink at Loki's blatant usage of the darkest of summoning arts. And Loki himself - Thor does not imagine himself a master of magic, but even he knows how dangerous it is to bind any of those infernal beasts to any part of yourself, especially something as powerful as blood.

His brother sighs, his eyes fluttering shut as his head drops back against Fandral's cloak. "I admit," he says, his voice quieter and more feeble. "I was not quite expecting... such ingenuity. I knew they would torture me, of course - but I never dreamed that they could - hurt, so much, without ever drawing a single drop of my blood."

Thor's friends exchange an anxious look over his head, and Volstagg gives Loki's shoulder a clumsy, comforting pat. "Well, it is all over now," he says heartily, forcing cheer. "Everything worked out in the end - do you need more draught for the pain? There is still a little left..."

"Better not," Hogun cautions him. "Too much of that stuff can be addictive - or even toxic."

"But it's all we have!" Fandral exclaims. "This was supposed to be a hunting trip - we didn't bring any serious medical supplies with us. We need to get back to Asgard, and quickly!"

"Are Thor and Loki well enough to be moved?" Sif asks, throwing a worried glance across the fire. "You know how hard the Bifrost can be on injuries..."

Loki does not interrupt the conversation, which is unlike him, and alarming; he has never liked being talked over. But his eyes have fallen closed, and his breathing is dangerously slow and shallow.

"Well, it's not going to get any better for sitting around here," Fandral says with a huff. "We've got to get out of here before those healing stones run out!"

Thor knows of what he is speaking. Healing stones, despite their seemingly miraculous powers, are actually only a short-term fix. Their magic, bound to small stones to be portable and quiescent for easy use, heals wounds by rewinding time around the hurt flesh until before the injury was inflicted. Thor doesn't fully understand the magical theory (Loki does; he once demonstrated the principle in a truly disturbing experiment involving a healing stone, a knife, and two halves of a mouse) but he knows, as does every warrior of Asgard, that healing stones are only a stopgap measure until the wounded can be brought to real medical attention. Or, in the last extremity, to keep them on their feet and fighting till they die.

But that will not happen today. Thor gathers his strength and pushes up from the ground, climbing to his feet with a great effort. "Fandral is right. Waiting abets us nothing," he says. "Fandral, Hogun - make a litter, as best as you can, to carry Loki out of this place. Sif, keep watch for any more bandits who may still be out there. Volstagg..." Thor trails off, still ashamed to show weakness, but of all of them Volstagg has the most strength to spare. "Lend me your support, my friend."

"Of course, my prince," Volstagg murmurs, and readily offers his arm for Thor to lean on.

Despite their help, climbing the stone stairs out of that dungeon is one of the hardest things Thor has ever done; the air crowds close and stifling around them, reeking of horrors and death. But then they are out and under the open sky, in a little clearing between the forest's edge and a rocky overhanging cliff. There are pieces of rock, here and there, strangely softened and slumped from where they half-melted as they were blasted into the air when Loki's conjured monsters shattered the roof. Where did they go, anyway? Thor doesn't think Loki will be able to answer that, and isn't sure he wants to know.

Vanaheim opens out around them, deceptively serene and beautiful under the night sky. Stars are appearing in the velvety darkness overhead, blanketing the forest in starlight. Thor stares upwards into the sky as his friends carefully carry the broken body of his brother up out of the dungeon, and gathers his breath for the call. "Heimdall! Open the Bifrost!"

Thor's stay in the healing rooms is not protracted. He has always healed quickly and well, and now is no exception; before a day has passed most of the bruises are already fading and the worst of the cuts have scabbed over. There will be some scarring, Eir tells him, but it will be faint. Thor would prefer to have no reminders of this cruel day, but he is not ashamed of scars.

By the second day he has been discharged back to his own quarters to rest, and discovers that not all scars are on the skin.

Though he knows that he is safe now and well, he finds himself full of nerves, jumping at every little sound. The shadows out of the corner of his eye seem to form into the shape of a fanged wolfskin hood, and the lights that gleam out of the depths of his mirrors seem to match the spark of madness in Rathveig's dead eyes. All that was familiar seems now unmoored, adrift, and as much as he berates himself for foolishness he cannot help but wonder: Vanaheim was supposed to be safe, and it was not. What else is not safe?

Worst of all is the emptiness of his brother's rooms, for Loki has not yet been discharged from the healer's rooms. He has ever been slower to heal than Thor, and he was far more sorely wounded this time. It has been many years since the brothers shared a room, but when Loki moved out he didn't go far; his chambers still abut Thor's with a shared balcony on which they had spent many a night stargazing, talking and (more recently) drinking till the moon set.

Not every night. It is not unknown - and becoming less so, in recent years - for Loki to shut himself into his rooms for days at a time, or disappear from the palace entirely for weeks. Yet even though Thor knows he is not far, the balcony seems hauntingly empty.

It's different now - now that he knows that Loki is not away of his own choice, careless and carefree, but confined to the infirmary by horrific wounds that he suffered for Thor's own sake. Guilt eats at him like acid, paining him more than any of his own fading injuries, and even the comforts of Asgard seem dull and flattened under the weight of it.

Nights are the worst - Thor cannot sleep, tossing restlessly on the very edge of slumber; for the darkness seems full of faint noises that, just on the edge of hearing, transmute into his brother's cries for help. Time and time again Thor starts up, certain he heard Loki calling for him, only to remember that it is impossible - Loki is in the infirmary, on the other side of the palace - and lie back down.

When he does sleep it is no respite: he is tormented by dreams that are half-memory and half cruel fantasy. He dreams again of the monsters that Loki summoned in his vengeance, except this time instead of the wicked Vanir they have Loki in their claws. Loki begs Thor for help as the vicious claws tear him slowly apart, but Thor's limbs are mired in molasses and he cannot move fast enough.

Thor jumps awake, eyes wide and staring in the darkness. False shining phantoms hang in the air above his head close enough to reach out and touch, horrible visions of metal framework and bright exposed bone. They aren't real, Thor knows they aren't real, but that doesn't help; he shudders and presses his fingers into his eyes, willing his traitorous heart to calm.

He must find Loki. He must go to him and see that he is all right, that none of these visions are true, and then he'll feel better. Thor pulls on a light robe even though he is soaked with sweat - knowing if he does not, he'll quickly chill down - and sneaks quietly from his chambers to make his way to the healing rooms, stopping only to make a detour in the night kitchens.

He avoids meeting others in the hallways, and when he slips into the infirmary it is empty except for his brother. As a prince, Loki has a chamber to himself, and the healers have all gone to sleep except for a young apprentice in the other room keeping watch over a bank of monitoring spells.

The chamber itself does not lack for comfort, though it is still unmistakably a healing room. The bed is low to the ground to allow easy access to the patient, but the mattress is soft and the blankets and sheets soft and kind to healing skin. Runes are carved into the headboard - some glimmer with light, showing the status of the bed's occupant, while others are tied to numbing and pain-relief spells that can be used at need. On the outer wall of the chamber are large glass doors opening onto a small balcony; they are flung wide now, flooding the chamber with silver moonlight.

Beside the bed is a long shelf or table, festooned with gifts from well-wishers, and it eases Thor's heart to see that there are many of them at the same time he feels his throat sting to realize that none of them are from him. He recognizes some of them as charms or gifts from their friends; an ornate silver knife belonging to Fandral, and a basket of cookies that Thor knows are the specialty of Volstagg's wife Hildegund (unopened.) It must have been a great trial for Volstagg, Thor thinks with a smile, to bring them here without sampling any.

But his smile fades as he studies Loki himself. He came here hoping that the sight of Loki would chase away the evil memories, but if anything Loki looks even worse than before. He is wearing a light robe not unlike Thor's, with the top unfastened and loose; his chest and shoulders are covered with blazingly spectacular bruises, marching around his shoulder and neck and across his chest. They darken to an even uglier color around his right shoulder, before disappearing under a smooth white brace; Thor winces to think at how painful they must be. Another white bandage wraps his lower abdomen; Thor can just see the edge of an ugly red cut at the top of it.

Bruises decorate Loki's forehead and cheek, as well, although these at least are starting to fade already; still his face is lined with exhaustion and pain, deep sunken circles around his eyes. He looks as though he is sleeping, albeit fitfully; and so it is a surprise when Loki speaks.

"Do you really find your return to palace life that boring," Loki says in a raspy voice, "that you find more entertainment in watching me sleep?"

Thor blushes like a student caught without an answer as he stutters in reply. "No... not..." he says. "I... I just wanted to make sure that you are well, Brother."

"I am as well now as I was yesterday," Loki says, and finally opens his eyes. They are shot through with red. "Better, in fact. What are you doing here?"

Thor shuffles about, and brings out his napkin-wrapped spoils from his stop by the kitchen. "I... thought you might be hungry. They were making cheesecake in the kitchens - I know that is your favorite..."

Loki tries to sit up and immediately sags back, grimacing at the pain the aborted movement apparently caused him. "Unfortunately for you and Volstagg's well-meaning wishes," he says, "your fine gift will have to go unappreciated. I cannot have anything more than fine broth for another day or two yet, while my guts finish recuperating."

"Oh." Thor wilts, guilt digging its claws into him again. He should have known that; he should have guessed. Kreppvor had torn deep into Loki's core in his last rage; Asgard's healers were powerful and knowing, but recovering from such a deep wound takes time. "I... I'm sorry."

And it is all Thor's fault. All Loki had suffered... still suffers... because Thor was not strong enough to protect him, because Loki willingly gave himself to such an ordeal just to rescue him. Because Thor was not strong or clever enough to rescue himself first.

"You should be. The soup they serve here is absolutely abominable. I might as well be drinking straight glue." Loki watches him for a moment, then sighs. "What is the matter with you, Thor?"

"I am sorry..." Thor looks at the splash of moonlight on the floor, at the soothing art on the walls, at anything except Loki's face. "I... I cannot sleep... I keep seeing... hearing..."

"Tch." Loki made a noise of exasperation. "I should have guessed you'd be moping around. Don't tell me you were so deeply affected by my performance?"

Thor's head snaps up, eyes blazing with anger. How can Loki insinuate that Thor would not care? "Of course I - performance? What performance?"

"Back in the bandit's lair, of course," Loki says offhandedly. His eyes never waver from Thor's face. "Oh. You didn't realize? It was all a show. I took the precaution before I allowed myself to be captured of casting a spell on myself that would numb all pain. I didn't feel a thing. All that screaming and flailing, that was just an act to fool our captors."

Thor stares at him, mouth opening and closing as he tries to form words. "It... it wasn't real?" he finally manages to say. All his guilt, all his remorse - it was for nothing? For a moment he feels a flash of anger - that he has been duped, wallowing around in misery when it was so unnecessary - but mostly he just feels an overwhelming sense of relief. The iron bands around his chest seem to snap, allowing him to breathe in deeply for the first time in days, stand up straight without the weight of guilt pressing him down. Loki was all right. Loki really was all right, and Thor has not failed him. "You really didn't feel any pain?"

But wait. Something about this isn't right, isn't adding up. Thor frowns, running memories over in his head. Back on Vanaheim, right after Thor had regained consciousness, Loki had admitted that he had not expected their enemies to torture him with such ingenuity; he hadn't planned for the torture session to drag out so long. If he had expected his spell to take effect within only a few moments of his capture, then why would he have gone to the trouble of casting such an extensive and difficult spell on himself first?

"Of course not," Loki scoffs. "I am quite fond of you, my brother, but not that fond that I would put myself through such an ordeal unfeigned. It was a good show, though, if I may say so myself."

"Aye," Thor says slowly. He is more sure than ever that Loki is lying - not then, but now, pretending he is fine when in fact he is not. But why? Why would Loki lie to him, about this? To lessen the sensation of humiliation, perhaps; to cover up the fact that he misjudged the situation and was hurt so badly as a result of his mistake. Thor knows the the sting of shame well himself, and Loki has always been more vulnerable to it than himself. Perhaps Loki is like a cat, that takes a bad tumble and then washes itself with great dignity, making shift as though the fall had been all his own idea. "You were ever a skilled actor..."

Watching Loki carefully, Thor sees his brother relax minutely against the covers as Thor seems to accept the lie, sees the slump of his good shoulder and quiet exhalation of breath. In a flash Thor understands; Loki is lying for his sake, Thor, to divest him of the weight of guilt and banish the horrible memories that haunt him.

That his brother would do that for him - even in his usual underhanded way, to try so hard to ease Thor's conscience - fills Thor with a glowing warmth. But it is not right, that Loki should go on having to bear the memory of pain while Thor is allowed to forget it. So he reaches out to the head of the bed, gently cupping the side of Loki's neck in his palm, and Loki's eyes widen as Thor leans in close.

"...but not that skilled, I do not think," he says quietly. "You do not need to lie to me to make me feel better, Loki."

Loki swallows hard. "I -" he says, stuttering himself now that his composure has failed him. "I only meant to -"

"I know," Thor says, and smiles. "It is very kind of you, Brother. But not necessary. I don't think I've said it yet, Loki, so... thank you. For rescuing me, for being willing to risk such horrors to save me. It was very brave. You are just so... incredibly brave."

Loki's eyes brighten, filling with a gleam of silver that reflects the moonlight. Thor leans forward and presses his forehead against Loki's, careful not to rest any of his weight on his brother's wounded form.

When at last he straightens up again, Loki has a small smile on his face, though lines of silver track down his temples from the corners of his eyes into his hair. There's a matching wetness on Thor's cheeks that he tries to ignore. "Is there anything you need, Brother?" Thor says, brushing his hand over his face with studied casualness. "Perhaps not food, but - anything else? Books to read? Anything I can bring from your chambers?"

"A comb," Loki says promptly, then hesitates. "Or - then again, better not. I can't," and he lifts his right hand just a few inches to illustrate, wincing in discomfort. "Can't really lift my hands high enough to brush it right now, anyway."

"That is no impediment, then," Thor informs him, rummaging around in the chest of drawers by the wall until he finds a comb left among the healing supplies. He holds it up to Loki, smiling in triumph. "I shall be your hands!"

"Oh? And will you wipe my ass, later, too?" Loki says sweetly, and laughs at the expression on Thor's face. "I may hold you to that, too. But come. I may be stuck here for a while longer, but I need not look like a rat's nest in the duration."

Thor smiles, declining for now to engage in any more brotherly ribbing; he crosses back to the bed and seats himself on the edge by the pillow. With much coaxing and hissing he manages to carefully maneuver Loki up so that his head and neck are supported against Thor's thigh, and he can run the comb through his brother's hair unencumbered.

It's all right. Maybe not yet. But it's going to be all right.

~end.