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Marvel Cinematic, "In A King's Name" (Doom+/Loki)
The source of magic is wisdom, and the source of wisdom is using one's power in service of the greater good, the country. Loki has no country, not anymore. If he wants to keep his magic, he needs to find a mortal ruler who is worthy of his service. ...But one finds him, first.
As per the request, contains slight what-if AU, introducing restrictions on magic that force a sorcerer to be in the service of a sovereign. Also contains Loki being spoiled, Doombots, and Victor showing complete disregard for personal property, both his own and other people's.
.in a king's name.
Two years was a minuscule fraction of the time Loki had been alive, a blink of an eye, so it was a dismal knowledge indeed that two years ago he would have looked at the position he was in now, and chosen death before he allowed himself to sink so low. He was a fugitive from justice in all the nine realms. He was a frost giant runt who had believed himself a person all these years, manipulated by his adopted family; he could not earn their love no matter how he tried. He had utterly failed in elevating himself without them, so that they could see he did not need their charity any longer.
And he had lost his powers. Now it was all he could do to charm his way into hospitality -- to harmlessly enchant the owner of this apartment building to let him stay without Midgardian money, to keep himself looking up to their standard, and to keep SHIELD off his trail. It was not going well for him. He had only the smallest reserves of power left, not enough to attempt another grand stand. Even if he hoarded it, it would not last much longer.
Loki stayed at his apartment, fingers to his lips, watching the news reports on the television. He saw endless news stories about weak leaders, political bickering, economic turmoil, greed and prejudice and ignorance, and it disgusted him to merely be in a position where he had to so much as consider binding himself to one of these petty mortals.
But he was not the only one who knew the signs, and a mortal found him.
It was not an opportune meeting. The door slammed open without warning, the lock splintering away from the force dealt to open it, and Loki rocketed out of his chair in the same instant, daggers bristling in his fist and lips thinned. He was ready for anything -- Thor finally tracked him here, the Warriors Three on Odin's orders to recapture the escaped criminal, Fury's minions thinking themselves a match for him after he so meekly went with them before because it suited his plans -- but he did not recognize the man who stood in the doorway, clad head-to-toe in a suit of metal armor, with a green tabard and cloak slung over them. Beneath his faceplate, Loki could just make out the man's eyes, brown and intent on him.
"Loki of Asgard," the man intoned. He was speaking English, with an accent tinting his words. "I believe you are in need of my assistance."
There was something odd about him; some awareness that prickled at the back of Loki's mind, which he could not quite identify. Loki's eyes narrowed, but he said only, "Your assistance? Well, it does seem that I have acquired a little insect problem in the last fifteen seconds," with lip curled.
The man did not so much as flicker, no irritation or even acknowledgment entering his gaze. "You may posture if you like," he said. "But I am not impressed by it. Doom already knows that your power wanes."
As if it were possible to forget the name Doom; he recalled it now. A news program he had flipped idly passed had mentioned Victor von Doom, dictator of the Eastern European country of Latveria, a robotics expert who the world was beginning to notice might have skills comparable to those of Tony Stark, and an alleged sorcerer who hid his face from the world.
At the time, Loki had thought, what a ridiculous mythology they've built around a clever recluse, and assumed it would be of no interest to him.
But it was very much of interest to him if the man was clever enough to seek him out -- perhaps even to see what was ailing him.
"What, precisely, is it that you think you know?" he asked, with a condescending smile, and allowed himself to ease up.
Doom stepped into the apartment, immediately making it look smaller. "Obviously Doom would not fail to investigate these so-called gods who come to play on mortal soil," he announced. "I have read the texts that remain from the ancient Nordic tribesmen who first encountered your kind--"
"Rumors and gossip," Loki dismissed. "Do you pay such reverence to your tabloids?"
"--and the secret texts, left by the Asgardians themselves, and their frost giant adversaries." The man tilted his head back, unwavering. "Odin All-Father hangs himself from the World Tree to gain wisdom; the forces of all the realms speak to him, and tell him their secrets. And when he descends again, he swears himself to serve the people of the realms, and the wisdom to pledge his efforts to so righteous an end awakens magic to his command. And so it has ever been, to those sorcerers who serve in the Nine Realms."
The words were spoken with certainty, final, but there was no judgment in them; no mockery or superiority. They were a statement of fact, and the man who spoke them was simply relating the fruits of his research. Loki's eyes narrowed, watching him.
"You have been without a king for some time now." Doom folded his arms. "Your attempt to make yourself overlord of Midgard, to wield your own power as Odin does his, has failed. Overambitious and underdeveloped, and perhaps, not even of your choosing."
"Be careful what you speak," Loki told him, low.
Doom said, "You need a sovereign. I offer myself."
It should not have been such a tempting offer. But Victor von Doom had already proven himself intelligent and resourceful by identifying his need and hunting him down. No doubt he had ulterior motives, because he must be ambitious to think to harness a god's power, but Loki even admired that. He was certainly a better candidate with those traits alone than any of the other so-called leaders that Loki had heard about on the television news.
There was no need for explanations with him. There was not even a need for deception, and that was such a novel concept that Loki almost found himself yearning for it.
"You make it sound like you have done me a favor to present yourself," Loki said, mildly, and then chuckled, spreading his hands casually. "I think it is the other way around. You would have me to your service... I think you should be on your knees pleading out every reason you could think of to sway me."
"Can you afford to be picky, with so little power remaining?" Doom asked. "But I think we both know why I need not beg."
"And why is that?" Loki pressed, smile fading. He had a feeling he would not like the elaboration.
Doom's eyes were brown, a light brown that seemed to let him see deep, deep into their depths, and it was so curious that there was nothing particularly there -- no anger, no impatience, no fear, no pride.
"Because you were made to be ruled," Victor von Doom said. "In the end, you will always kneel."
Shock and white-hot fury pulsed through him, and then he was moving, power building in the palm of his hand, and he lashed out, a bolt of searing green balefire slamming into the mortal's breastplate, sending him hurtling back and crashing into the wall. When the surge of energy faded, there was stillness, only the crumbling of the broken architecture and the simmering of the fading balefire breaking the perfect silence. Doom did not stir.
"No!" Loki's voice sounded ragged even in his own ears. His breath came fast, and he had broken into a sweat with the effort of the power he had mustered in the attack. "I was born to be a king."
It took him a long moment before he stepped over to the fallen man. Almost immediately his eyes narrowed, and he reached out, gently nudging the slack head with a shoe. It rolled away easily, trailing wires and sparks.
...A robot. He had been an artificial construct all that time. Loki scowled briefly, and then kicked the torso back out into the hallway.
An interesting man, whoever this Victor von Doom might be.
Loki made him wait. For a week he idled away his time, casually shifting blame for the damage to the apartment onto something else, wheedling a hotel room out of the proprietor while renovations were underway. He watched the news and read the papers, paying especial attention to anything involving Latveria or Victor von Doom, and otherwise did little more than eat and sleep.
But a week was as long as he could wait. The magic had completely faded from him by then, and even his senses were starting to dim; he no longer had the awareness of what was around him that came from the elements. There was no physical hardship -- he had known deprivation of magic, which felt like being parched in a desert and unable even to swallow -- it was merely the absence of it. But even that much was disconcerting, when he had known magic all his life.
The first time he had to duck suddenly off the street to avoid being sighted by Thor, casually walking down the street with some of his mortal comrades-in-arms, he closed his eyes, cursed his poor senses, and knew he was done playing games.
He had no other options. His oath to Odin he had long cast off. His oath to Thanos had been forsaken. He must swear a new one.
So Loki went to the airport with a few meager belongings in his luggage, wearing a suit and pea coat, and told the attendant at the desk, "To Latveria, please," and smiled as he handed her someone's credit card.
Part of him wondered if meeting the real Doom would be different. If the unruffled veneer and the cool competence that had intrigued him were a side-effect of the fact that he had only encountered a robot, and perhaps the man himself would be different -- less controlled, more petty. But the rest of him felt sure that Victor von Doom was not so sloppy as to make robots that could imitate him, and then allow them to be recognizably different in personality.
No, if the robot had been that way, surely it was because Doom was that way.
Latveria was like a homecoming he hadn't let himself believe he'd wanted. The air was crisp and clean and cool instead of hazy with the chemical waste of the mortals' daily lives, and there were plentiful forests and lakes. A castle rose high above the city where Doom's subjects dwelled, commanding their attention and their awe.
When he approached the castle door, a robot stepped forward and announced in a tinny voice, "Halt." Then, after but a single heartbeat wherein Loki contemplated how his hypothetical sovereign would respond if he made a terrible proud scene at the front door, the robot added, "Asgardian Loki. You may enter." It stepped out of his way again.
A homecoming indeed. A human man met him just inside, and bowed, politely. Doom's control over his people was certainly impressive; Loki was very familiar with how little these modern Midgardians cared for such respectful gestures.
"The gate guardian let me know you were coming, sir," the man said. "I have notified His Excellency, and the kitchen staff. They should be preparing a welcome dinner for you as we speak. Would you like to be taken straight to His Excellency, or would you prefer to bathe and change first?"
Loki paused a long beat, looking around. If his response had been assumed, he would have been offended. But since the choice was his...
"I would love a bath," he said, starting to shrug out of his jacket.
There was a bathroom adjoining the room he had been taken to -- a room that was lavishly decorated and spacious, with space enough to house the apartment where Doom had found him in the space between his bed and the far wall, where wide glass doors led out to a balcony overlooking the city -- and the bathroom was just as nice. There was a deep, wide inset bathtub that could have seated at least three, lined with onyx, and a small stand-up shower with a ledge to sit on and beautiful transparent glass for the wall.
Loki sank into the bathtub and closed his eyes, thinking briefly of Asgard.
There had been places just like this. Wide open, with great doors and billowing curtains; where it seemed as if space was infinite, and so the castle's designers had created sweeping layouts with room for the vast presences of the men and women who would fill them. Where the beauty of one's surroundings was as important as their utility, because those who made use of them expected and deserved both. Servants to attend to their master's needs and fuss over his comfort.
The palace of a king, the courtesy due royalty... He had missed that. But it would seem that he didn't have to.
The spread that was served in the dining hall when he arrived was substantial. Mutton, boar, chicken, fish littered the table on deocrated platters; broad bowls of salads with carrots and mushrooms and tomatoes; dishes of cheese and fruit and berries, and flagons of honey-wine and water. A few lit candelabras were posed about the table, and at the other end sat the man: Doom.
He looked precisely the same as he had in Loki's apartment, with the same green cloak and tabard, the same elaborate metal armor. His fingers were woven together in front of him in a waiting pose, and he glanced up when Loki entered, and rose slowly to his feet.
"I see that you have realized the wisdom of my offer," Doom said, and lifted a hand, gesturing for Loki to sit across from him.
The table was unnecessarily long to seat only two, but that was not what kept Loki on his feet. He kept one hand on the back of his seat, and said smoothly, "A starving man must settle for the least unappetizing food he can find, and only hope that it does not make him ill."
He thought that they both knew that his pride covered for his acknowledgment; he thought, also, that that knowledge might distract Doom from what he did not bother to say, what Doom most likely could not have known. Both of his previous oaths he had left of his own volition. He had left Odin's service and forsworn Thanos's. He would consider an oath to a mere mortal no more viable.
The moment Doom sought to take advantage of his service, the moment Doom took him for granted, the moment he was disillusioned with what Doom offered as a king and a leader -- he would find a way out.
"You are not prone to flattery, I see," Doom said with amusement.
"Is that a problem?"
"Not at all. I believe that admiration and respect are things that must be earned." There was not even a moment's hesitation, no discomfort at all in that firm statement. "When I have earned your praise -- then you may give it if you like."
When he earned it. So certain that he would. Loki fought that flicker of appreciation, studying Doom from across the table. There was an implacable composure in his brown eyes, deep and fathomless, studying Loki with analytical reserve.
"A bold statement," Loki said. "Boldness is quite a desirable trait in a leader of men." He shook his head. "--Which is why I find this calculated cowardice so disheartening."
"Cowardice?" Doom echoed, his eyes narrowing beneath the metal mask.
Loki turned, his gaze skimming the room thoughtfully, seeking out the entrances and exits. Not the one he had come through. A small side door, perhaps, a service corridor that might have a secondary use.
He said to the empty air, "I will not swear fealty to an automaton."
A long heartbeat passed. The robot behind him did not speak or move, apparently done playing games and pretending to be the real thing. Then the small service door that he had sighted behind a cordoned drape swung open.
The real Doom swept through. This time -- for the first time -- when their eyes met, Loki felt a spark of recognition go through him.
In Victor von Doom's brown eyes he saw a ferocity, a pride, an ambition: he saw confidence and power, intelligence and wariness.
The eyes of someone who would lead his people, who governed with a steady and iron touch, and whose strength and dedication would be a deep, calm well for Loki to draw from.
Loki let out a breath, and said simply, "Now, that's more like it."
And as Doom approached him, he knelt.
As per the request, contains slight what-if AU, introducing restrictions on magic that force a sorcerer to be in the service of a sovereign. Also contains Loki being spoiled, Doombots, and Victor showing complete disregard for personal property, both his own and other people's.
.in a king's name.
Two years was a minuscule fraction of the time Loki had been alive, a blink of an eye, so it was a dismal knowledge indeed that two years ago he would have looked at the position he was in now, and chosen death before he allowed himself to sink so low. He was a fugitive from justice in all the nine realms. He was a frost giant runt who had believed himself a person all these years, manipulated by his adopted family; he could not earn their love no matter how he tried. He had utterly failed in elevating himself without them, so that they could see he did not need their charity any longer.
And he had lost his powers. Now it was all he could do to charm his way into hospitality -- to harmlessly enchant the owner of this apartment building to let him stay without Midgardian money, to keep himself looking up to their standard, and to keep SHIELD off his trail. It was not going well for him. He had only the smallest reserves of power left, not enough to attempt another grand stand. Even if he hoarded it, it would not last much longer.
Loki stayed at his apartment, fingers to his lips, watching the news reports on the television. He saw endless news stories about weak leaders, political bickering, economic turmoil, greed and prejudice and ignorance, and it disgusted him to merely be in a position where he had to so much as consider binding himself to one of these petty mortals.
But he was not the only one who knew the signs, and a mortal found him.
It was not an opportune meeting. The door slammed open without warning, the lock splintering away from the force dealt to open it, and Loki rocketed out of his chair in the same instant, daggers bristling in his fist and lips thinned. He was ready for anything -- Thor finally tracked him here, the Warriors Three on Odin's orders to recapture the escaped criminal, Fury's minions thinking themselves a match for him after he so meekly went with them before because it suited his plans -- but he did not recognize the man who stood in the doorway, clad head-to-toe in a suit of metal armor, with a green tabard and cloak slung over them. Beneath his faceplate, Loki could just make out the man's eyes, brown and intent on him.
"Loki of Asgard," the man intoned. He was speaking English, with an accent tinting his words. "I believe you are in need of my assistance."
There was something odd about him; some awareness that prickled at the back of Loki's mind, which he could not quite identify. Loki's eyes narrowed, but he said only, "Your assistance? Well, it does seem that I have acquired a little insect problem in the last fifteen seconds," with lip curled.
The man did not so much as flicker, no irritation or even acknowledgment entering his gaze. "You may posture if you like," he said. "But I am not impressed by it. Doom already knows that your power wanes."
As if it were possible to forget the name Doom; he recalled it now. A news program he had flipped idly passed had mentioned Victor von Doom, dictator of the Eastern European country of Latveria, a robotics expert who the world was beginning to notice might have skills comparable to those of Tony Stark, and an alleged sorcerer who hid his face from the world.
At the time, Loki had thought, what a ridiculous mythology they've built around a clever recluse, and assumed it would be of no interest to him.
But it was very much of interest to him if the man was clever enough to seek him out -- perhaps even to see what was ailing him.
"What, precisely, is it that you think you know?" he asked, with a condescending smile, and allowed himself to ease up.
Doom stepped into the apartment, immediately making it look smaller. "Obviously Doom would not fail to investigate these so-called gods who come to play on mortal soil," he announced. "I have read the texts that remain from the ancient Nordic tribesmen who first encountered your kind--"
"Rumors and gossip," Loki dismissed. "Do you pay such reverence to your tabloids?"
"--and the secret texts, left by the Asgardians themselves, and their frost giant adversaries." The man tilted his head back, unwavering. "Odin All-Father hangs himself from the World Tree to gain wisdom; the forces of all the realms speak to him, and tell him their secrets. And when he descends again, he swears himself to serve the people of the realms, and the wisdom to pledge his efforts to so righteous an end awakens magic to his command. And so it has ever been, to those sorcerers who serve in the Nine Realms."
The words were spoken with certainty, final, but there was no judgment in them; no mockery or superiority. They were a statement of fact, and the man who spoke them was simply relating the fruits of his research. Loki's eyes narrowed, watching him.
"You have been without a king for some time now." Doom folded his arms. "Your attempt to make yourself overlord of Midgard, to wield your own power as Odin does his, has failed. Overambitious and underdeveloped, and perhaps, not even of your choosing."
"Be careful what you speak," Loki told him, low.
Doom said, "You need a sovereign. I offer myself."
It should not have been such a tempting offer. But Victor von Doom had already proven himself intelligent and resourceful by identifying his need and hunting him down. No doubt he had ulterior motives, because he must be ambitious to think to harness a god's power, but Loki even admired that. He was certainly a better candidate with those traits alone than any of the other so-called leaders that Loki had heard about on the television news.
There was no need for explanations with him. There was not even a need for deception, and that was such a novel concept that Loki almost found himself yearning for it.
"You make it sound like you have done me a favor to present yourself," Loki said, mildly, and then chuckled, spreading his hands casually. "I think it is the other way around. You would have me to your service... I think you should be on your knees pleading out every reason you could think of to sway me."
"Can you afford to be picky, with so little power remaining?" Doom asked. "But I think we both know why I need not beg."
"And why is that?" Loki pressed, smile fading. He had a feeling he would not like the elaboration.
Doom's eyes were brown, a light brown that seemed to let him see deep, deep into their depths, and it was so curious that there was nothing particularly there -- no anger, no impatience, no fear, no pride.
"Because you were made to be ruled," Victor von Doom said. "In the end, you will always kneel."
Shock and white-hot fury pulsed through him, and then he was moving, power building in the palm of his hand, and he lashed out, a bolt of searing green balefire slamming into the mortal's breastplate, sending him hurtling back and crashing into the wall. When the surge of energy faded, there was stillness, only the crumbling of the broken architecture and the simmering of the fading balefire breaking the perfect silence. Doom did not stir.
"No!" Loki's voice sounded ragged even in his own ears. His breath came fast, and he had broken into a sweat with the effort of the power he had mustered in the attack. "I was born to be a king."
It took him a long moment before he stepped over to the fallen man. Almost immediately his eyes narrowed, and he reached out, gently nudging the slack head with a shoe. It rolled away easily, trailing wires and sparks.
...A robot. He had been an artificial construct all that time. Loki scowled briefly, and then kicked the torso back out into the hallway.
An interesting man, whoever this Victor von Doom might be.
Loki made him wait. For a week he idled away his time, casually shifting blame for the damage to the apartment onto something else, wheedling a hotel room out of the proprietor while renovations were underway. He watched the news and read the papers, paying especial attention to anything involving Latveria or Victor von Doom, and otherwise did little more than eat and sleep.
But a week was as long as he could wait. The magic had completely faded from him by then, and even his senses were starting to dim; he no longer had the awareness of what was around him that came from the elements. There was no physical hardship -- he had known deprivation of magic, which felt like being parched in a desert and unable even to swallow -- it was merely the absence of it. But even that much was disconcerting, when he had known magic all his life.
The first time he had to duck suddenly off the street to avoid being sighted by Thor, casually walking down the street with some of his mortal comrades-in-arms, he closed his eyes, cursed his poor senses, and knew he was done playing games.
He had no other options. His oath to Odin he had long cast off. His oath to Thanos had been forsaken. He must swear a new one.
So Loki went to the airport with a few meager belongings in his luggage, wearing a suit and pea coat, and told the attendant at the desk, "To Latveria, please," and smiled as he handed her someone's credit card.
Part of him wondered if meeting the real Doom would be different. If the unruffled veneer and the cool competence that had intrigued him were a side-effect of the fact that he had only encountered a robot, and perhaps the man himself would be different -- less controlled, more petty. But the rest of him felt sure that Victor von Doom was not so sloppy as to make robots that could imitate him, and then allow them to be recognizably different in personality.
No, if the robot had been that way, surely it was because Doom was that way.
Latveria was like a homecoming he hadn't let himself believe he'd wanted. The air was crisp and clean and cool instead of hazy with the chemical waste of the mortals' daily lives, and there were plentiful forests and lakes. A castle rose high above the city where Doom's subjects dwelled, commanding their attention and their awe.
When he approached the castle door, a robot stepped forward and announced in a tinny voice, "Halt." Then, after but a single heartbeat wherein Loki contemplated how his hypothetical sovereign would respond if he made a terrible proud scene at the front door, the robot added, "Asgardian Loki. You may enter." It stepped out of his way again.
A homecoming indeed. A human man met him just inside, and bowed, politely. Doom's control over his people was certainly impressive; Loki was very familiar with how little these modern Midgardians cared for such respectful gestures.
"The gate guardian let me know you were coming, sir," the man said. "I have notified His Excellency, and the kitchen staff. They should be preparing a welcome dinner for you as we speak. Would you like to be taken straight to His Excellency, or would you prefer to bathe and change first?"
Loki paused a long beat, looking around. If his response had been assumed, he would have been offended. But since the choice was his...
"I would love a bath," he said, starting to shrug out of his jacket.
There was a bathroom adjoining the room he had been taken to -- a room that was lavishly decorated and spacious, with space enough to house the apartment where Doom had found him in the space between his bed and the far wall, where wide glass doors led out to a balcony overlooking the city -- and the bathroom was just as nice. There was a deep, wide inset bathtub that could have seated at least three, lined with onyx, and a small stand-up shower with a ledge to sit on and beautiful transparent glass for the wall.
Loki sank into the bathtub and closed his eyes, thinking briefly of Asgard.
There had been places just like this. Wide open, with great doors and billowing curtains; where it seemed as if space was infinite, and so the castle's designers had created sweeping layouts with room for the vast presences of the men and women who would fill them. Where the beauty of one's surroundings was as important as their utility, because those who made use of them expected and deserved both. Servants to attend to their master's needs and fuss over his comfort.
The palace of a king, the courtesy due royalty... He had missed that. But it would seem that he didn't have to.
The spread that was served in the dining hall when he arrived was substantial. Mutton, boar, chicken, fish littered the table on deocrated platters; broad bowls of salads with carrots and mushrooms and tomatoes; dishes of cheese and fruit and berries, and flagons of honey-wine and water. A few lit candelabras were posed about the table, and at the other end sat the man: Doom.
He looked precisely the same as he had in Loki's apartment, with the same green cloak and tabard, the same elaborate metal armor. His fingers were woven together in front of him in a waiting pose, and he glanced up when Loki entered, and rose slowly to his feet.
"I see that you have realized the wisdom of my offer," Doom said, and lifted a hand, gesturing for Loki to sit across from him.
The table was unnecessarily long to seat only two, but that was not what kept Loki on his feet. He kept one hand on the back of his seat, and said smoothly, "A starving man must settle for the least unappetizing food he can find, and only hope that it does not make him ill."
He thought that they both knew that his pride covered for his acknowledgment; he thought, also, that that knowledge might distract Doom from what he did not bother to say, what Doom most likely could not have known. Both of his previous oaths he had left of his own volition. He had left Odin's service and forsworn Thanos's. He would consider an oath to a mere mortal no more viable.
The moment Doom sought to take advantage of his service, the moment Doom took him for granted, the moment he was disillusioned with what Doom offered as a king and a leader -- he would find a way out.
"You are not prone to flattery, I see," Doom said with amusement.
"Is that a problem?"
"Not at all. I believe that admiration and respect are things that must be earned." There was not even a moment's hesitation, no discomfort at all in that firm statement. "When I have earned your praise -- then you may give it if you like."
When he earned it. So certain that he would. Loki fought that flicker of appreciation, studying Doom from across the table. There was an implacable composure in his brown eyes, deep and fathomless, studying Loki with analytical reserve.
"A bold statement," Loki said. "Boldness is quite a desirable trait in a leader of men." He shook his head. "--Which is why I find this calculated cowardice so disheartening."
"Cowardice?" Doom echoed, his eyes narrowing beneath the metal mask.
Loki turned, his gaze skimming the room thoughtfully, seeking out the entrances and exits. Not the one he had come through. A small side door, perhaps, a service corridor that might have a secondary use.
He said to the empty air, "I will not swear fealty to an automaton."
A long heartbeat passed. The robot behind him did not speak or move, apparently done playing games and pretending to be the real thing. Then the small service door that he had sighted behind a cordoned drape swung open.
The real Doom swept through. This time -- for the first time -- when their eyes met, Loki felt a spark of recognition go through him.
In Victor von Doom's brown eyes he saw a ferocity, a pride, an ambition: he saw confidence and power, intelligence and wariness.
The eyes of someone who would lead his people, who governed with a steady and iron touch, and whose strength and dedication would be a deep, calm well for Loki to draw from.
Loki let out a breath, and said simply, "Now, that's more like it."
And as Doom approached him, he knelt.