This story deals with mental issues. Therefore there are triggers, suggested graphic content (though most are hallucinations) and characters I made to fit and fill the story. No, this is not a oc/canon character shipping story. No, this is not a canon/canon character shipping story. It's not a shipping story at all. Just so you know.

I don't claim to be an expert in mental illnesses, but I do have personal and first hand experience, so I hope I am able to translate my meaning. This will be a long story, so buckle up for probable feels, anger and shock.

Obligatory credits which have been added late:

I do not own The Avengers or any character from Marvel or other companies. The title picture is NOT mine, I am simply using it until I am able to draw one myself. The artist is karicykiro on tumblr, so please go give them credit for the wonderful image. I honestly have not read any other Avengers fanfictions or even many fanfictions at all, so if this story is similar to any other it I'm really quite sorry.

Hope you enjoy. -Hades

I'm going to put the triggers here, so it doesn't ruin the chapter when it appears (I will add to this list when they appear):






Oh the seemingly endless torture.

He couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel, the silver lining, and glimpse or shimmer of hope. There wasn't even a cooling blackness for him to sink into, no unconsciousness for him to retreat to. He couldn't close his eyes, as you can't close what is already closed. Eyelids screwed tight, they seemed to be made of glass, freezing, burning glass, showing the horrors that were in front of him, that were all around him, that were inside of him. He heaved, trying to expel what felt like oil from his organs, only to have them slosh and sear his insides. He couldn't scream, he had no air in his lungs, he couldn't even breathe in, and yet he was still alive; alive to endure this pain. His clothes didn't protect from it either, they only seemed to double it and constrict his body further, the attractive coloured leather cutting into his skin where the cloth wasn't torn (and it was, ripped and soaked, tight and loose; a mess of clothes). His hair was dripping downward, seemingly much heavier than normal hair; droplets of oil falling from it as it curled around his face, a living breathing monster attached to his head, sending pain down through the scalp.

Pain wasn't even the right word for it. Indescribable pain doesn't cover it either. There is no word that has been made, or will be made, to describe what he was feeling and thinking. You'd think he would overpower it, "with all his strength", defeat it, and rule it as he had planned to the humans. But he couldn't, he was trapped in weakness, his powers stripped and his head blurred. He tried to escape into the back of his mind, block out, and barricade himself from the physical outside. Running closer he saw a light in the back of his head, and a sliver of hope tore through him, urging him to run faster than he had ever done before. His outstretched hand reached for the light, his weary face lighting up slightly. He hadn't felt this hopeful for an escape of pain since…

Then it was gone. Or, it wasn't. The whiteness had been a smooth surface, now it became more realistic, taking on the texture of coarse hair; a beard. He fell back on his rear, tears now openly pouring down his face as he looked into the face of his father, his furious, disappointed, hate-filled "father". He couldn't escape, not even in his mind. The whiteness overtook his body (well, his mental projection of his body), wrapping around him in tendrils and smells that he was all too familiar with.

He snapped his eyes open, screaming and vomiting oil. He just wanted to take a breath in, to feel cool air sooth his insides, but all that he got was the terrifying feeling of not being able to breathe, but still being able to live. His head was aching as he felt the conflict of his other-self inside, fighting with that… man. The pain in his skull only grew worse as two pricks of pain on his forehead burst outward in the shapes of decrepit horns, curling upwards. Rotting and frayed, but still holding together, they formed a essence of familiarity – the horns he had worn with pride now were a part of him, and they were so, so heavy. His head thunked to the ground, sending bolts of pain through his contracted and sore muscles. His neck cracked as he lifted his newly adorned skull, the weight causing his eyelids to droop, giving him the sight that was as if he was half under the water, or looking through half goggles.

A blurred, armoured figure approached. He begged through oil for help, but all that came out was more oil and garbled nonsense. The figure ignored him and bellowed inaudible insults, then a familiar hammer came crashing down on his head, splitting one of his new horns in two. The blow would have killed him, but that would be too easy and quick, instead it send wave after wave of paralysing shock down his skeleton, causing him to writhe and spasm, his clothes contracting. The figure leaned down close, and he looked up wearily into the figure's eyes, which were filled with hate and malice.

"Now who's kneeling?"

"We have to help him! He doesn't hear me!"

"Why should we help him? He tried to rule and/or destroy mankind, remember that? That was a thing that happened."

"Look, I agree with Stark for once, this… man, deserves whatever is going through his head right now."

"Thank you, Steve."

"Both of you be quiet, Thor is right, he deserves to be tried fairly with this new information of mental issues, not suffer unreasonable mental anguish. That and I'd rather see him in a cell suffering sanely than in a padded, soft room with blissful insanity."

"He tried to use you, Banner!"

"Didn't work out to well for him, remember?"

"Are any of you even listening?! Help me!"

"How can we help? All we can do is stand here awkwardly while your "brother" goes crazy."

"We do not have these troubles in Asgard; everyone's mind is relatively sane! Humans should know how to cure this, correct?"

"Yeah, it's called the loony bin."

"What was that?"

"A second ago you wanted him dead! Or second best, to rot in a cell! What made you change your mind?"

"I do not know, he looks so fearful of something we cannot see, and I feel the need to help him. He is still my brother."

"We have doctors for this, it's okay, Thor."

"Let us take him to them immediately!"

"How, exactly? Try getting close to him will result in him ripping your arms off."

"I will transport him, he cannot harm me."

"Bet you he does."

"I'll take you up on that."

"How much you got, Captain?"

"Boys! Quiet! Alright, Thor, I'll have Fury find the nearest secure place.

"So why aren't you taking him back to Asgard already?"

"We cannot fix him there."

"Then how do you expect to fix him here?"

The chain clung tightly to his neck, adding more weight to his upper body as he crawled, broken and bruised, towards the figure, his eyes to the ground in front of him. His clothes were more torn this time, leaving most of his body bare.

"Yes, Goat, good. Here is a reward."

His mouth was parched from the constant drooling and vomiting of scorching oil, and he longed for water, or any liquid that would quench his thirst. Expecting it, he raised his head, eyes weeping longingly. A fist came down and smashed his head back into looking at the ground, "Know your place, Goat." He sobbed, feeling boiling oily tears dribble down his cheeks and chin. "I'm feeling generous, so here you are Goat, something for you to drink." There was a scraping but he didn't dare look up, and a rusted pan came sliding into view. It was full of water, and his eyes opened wide as he dived down, cradling the pan and burying his hot face into it.

He quickly realised his mistake as new pain leaked through his face and ripped sleeves into his arms. He had failed to notice the wisps of steam coming from the water and the pan. He flung it away, feeling his skin peel and sizzle, even start to connect with his clothes, in reaction to the boiling objects.

"No! Bad Goat!" A solid kick came from nowhere into his ribs, and he curled around at an unnatural angle, feeling his rips scrape together, forcing him to collapse and lay in a fetal position on the ground, trying to cool his burnt skin with his natural abilities, because he hoped, he prayed, that they would work now, as they hadn't before. They didn't, and all he could do was lie still, not wanting to move as his severely burnt skin had fused with his uncharred flesh and clothes, and any movement could rip the two apart.

"Pick it up."

He turned his neck, creaking flesh and sad eyes staring at that horrible figure. "W-What?" He choked out, more oil flowing from his raw throat. It was the first time he had properly spoken, and even to him his voice sounded strange. It sounded pitiful, weak, and pathetic. Like he was at the moment. Not at all like the silver-lined silk it usually was.

The figure frowned, familiar anger taking over his features. "Goats do not speak." He whispered.

He tried to understand what the figure had said, but by the time he understood the boiling pan was already pushing his nose back into his skull with the power that only his brother could muster. In natural defence he tried to roll away, but it only served to tangle himself up in the chain around his neck, and rip his skin and clothes apart. Blood flowed from his new wounds, and from his nose. He expected it to be cool and nice; but once again, he had gotten his hopes up for nothing, as the blood also turned out to be scorching oil.

"Is that understood or not, Goat?"

He didn't dare open his mouth, instead only sobbed and nodded violently, feeling the digging of the chain around his throat and limbs. His brother was his ruler now.

"Can someone explain to me what is wrong with this previously arrogant and somewhat evil individual?"

"Here's the short story; he went crazy and then this."

"Too short for my liking."

"Listen to me, my brother is never like this, he is always in control of his mental abilities, even if they have bad intentions. He has never lost control. What is wrong with him?"

"I don't know, but if you really want me to I'll find someone who might know."

"Be quick, I will hold him here."

"Good luck with that, also keep that thing on his mouth, I'm actually kind of scared to hear what would come out of it if it were gone. His hands already seem to be explaining things enough."

"So you are leaving?"

"Hey, he's no concern of mine, and I have a city to rebuild, so bye."

"Farewell, thank you."

"I should go too, I can help Stark."

"See if you can keep up with me, wonder boy."

"Farewell, thank you too."

"I'll stay; I'm interested in what is happening."

"Thank you, doctor. And you?

"I don't have anything urgent that needs doing, and you might need help. I'll stay."

"I'm staying with her."

"And I'm getting the head doctor, so I guess I'll stick around for a while longer."

"Where are we?"

"An abandoned section of the northern forests above New York."

"What is this building?"

"It used to be a logging factory, now it's just dilapidated."

"Will we be staying here long?"

"You ask a lot of questions. And no, but until we can find a safer place for him, we will stay here. Now excuse me while I actually get the guy who's going to help."