"Here lies everything
The world I wanted at my feet"
A thick stench of bile masked the dense air. A reek of sickness and infection. Of shit, of dampness and mold intertwined with the coppery scent of blood and saline tears. Of death.
The only light that lingered in the damp recess of this foreign prison was that of two candles, flickering warmth against the moody cold of the cavern. The light befell a figure, barely illuminating his blue skin. Though their warmth was nowhere near meeting him, the figure shook not of the cold.
Sitting above the prisoner, on a ledge specifically crafted for it, laid a serpent; head as large as the height of a average man, and seven times that in length, the creature did not bother to stir from its resting place. In fact, it could not. Its enormous head draped, as gracefully as such a creature could muster, over the ledge, its jaw pried open to reveal its forearm length fangs, a milky white liquid dripping from within at a rapid pace.
The prisoner beneath had his arms spread from his sides, chained to the stone behind. Once upon a time, they would've been level with his shoulders, but since then, he has been stripped of all dignity and pride that would've once kept him in his crucifix like stance, and now rested upon his knees below.
The figure lurched forward slowly, his head bobbing slightly. His eyes fluttered open, revealing deep, crimson irises that brightly contrasted his blue skin. They gazed forward in a sense of agony, watching the cavern before him. He twisted his wrists lightly, as if trying to slide his hands free of the shackles that bound them, but this only serviced in reopening previous wounds, causing him to wince a bit as a stream of maroon liquid spiraled down is forearm.
Swallowing the best he could against his painfully dry throat and mouth, he tried to pull his body to the right with all of his might, what little that might be. Not to try and break free, but to try and get out of the way. But, to no avail, as he couldn't shift very far, and the milky white drop landed on his shoulder, running slowly down his back, leaving a trail burned down to the muscle – and, in some places, deeper – finally forming a filmy puddle on the floor below.
Loki bit his cracked lips in pain, droplets forming quickly at the corners of his eyes, spilling over to trace intricate patterns on to his face. Bound in this place, Loki could no longer muster the amount of magic to flow through his veins that he might, as a subconscious reflex, cloak himself as an Asguardian, let alone enough to heal him. As a result, the Jotun suffered burns and lacerations across his body, leaving him in a constant state of agony.
Not that he would let anyone know. For even if they bothered to come, he would make no noise, not even a whimper to whet their appetites.
Of course, that's not to say anyone would ever come. At first, they did. They would come and stare at him. Marveling at the fallen son. The has been; the could not. They would marvel while the children taunted him like some captive animal. But, among those present, never the two people he wanted to see him the most. The two who sealed his fate.
Hearing footsteps in the distance, Loki was pulled away from his thoughts. In his best attempt to ignore the searing pain that encompassed his body, he raised his head, keeping his face a blank canvas as he watched. The dim light from the two adjacent candles cast dancing shadows across the crevices around the cavern, causing Loki more discomfort than assurance. He narrowed his gaze expectantly as the footsteps drew nearer, his heart pounding ferociously.
A petite figure rounded the corner, and Loki eased his face in to something softer. She'd returned. He wanted to scold her for being so long, but decided against it, all things considered.
She made her way quickly – quietly – towards the agonized Jotun, what appeared to be a bucket in her hand. The All-Father's last, pitiful attempt at compassion. This container – he couldn't remember what Odin addressed it as, and, frankly, didn't really care – would be a barrier between Loki and the serpents foul sting. It took two days to fill completely, and twice as long to be cleaned and returned. This time, however, it had taken her longer – she had been occupied with something else, and, had Loki had the mental clarity to inquire, he would've.
She moved close to him to place the container on the resting place between Loki and the serpent, two small, stones that jutted out from the wall where the lip of the container would rest. As she did so, the aching Jotun leaned in to her presence, his muscles going limp as he did so. She had a comforting, motherly presence about her. Her clothing smelled like the fields within the shining citadel. A smell that reminded him of the springtime, when he and his brother, when they were much younger, would be about in the courtyard, playing with the other children. Laughter filled his ears, and a small, soft smile graced his lips, be it only for a moment.
His eyes widened, and he pushed his aching body away from her with a low hiss. He pulled his lips thin in an almost disgusted manner, glancing at her through his eyelashes. His crimson irises trailed her being, finally meeting with her own crystal blue eyes.
The one person who has shown him compassion; he should have expected her a traitor. He watched as her face twisted with a look of confusion. "Leave," he hissed dryly, though his voice was so weak that it barely managed a whisper. She leaned down to him in a childish manner, bringing her face level to his.
"Pardon?" she inquired, her voice light and melodic, raising her brows as she did.
This upset Loki. He was not a child, and did not appreciate being spoken to as though he were. Especially not by a maiden whose only purpose in life was to clean shit and piss and snake venom. She was beneath him, in every manner, and he would not be depreciated.
"LEAVE ME!" he shouted as loud as he could muster. He felt his lips crack and his throat ache as he did so. And for a brief moment, he saw his own bright emerald eyes reflected in the pool of tears the formed over her own.
He took in deep breaths – as deep as he could – each one shaking as the maiden scrambled to leave his sight.
The longer he drew out his breaths, the more he could fill fatigue setting in.
The longer he drew out his breaths, the more his thoughts raced.
What was she doing in the citadel?
Speaking to All-Father? To Odinson.
Why?
His breaths evened themselves out with each thought that passed through his mind, and the realization that he was now standing hit him like a rock as consciousness began to stray from him. He struggled to fight back, but allowed a defeated moan to pass his lips, and almost sickening crack gracing his ears as darkness enveloped his mind.
