He can't recall when he'd closed his eyes; couldn't remember the physical act of doing so. Perhaps it was between distant realms, heat and chill dancing upon his skin erratically; or perhaps it was against the creeping terrors that forced themselves in to his mind, crawling and writhing and slithering around like insects against his thoughts, eating through them slowly and aggravatingly like caterpillars on leaves. It didn't matter, he supposed, for at this point, the stars were etched on the back of his eyelids – ingrained in his mind with nostalgia. He could recall every swirl or breathtaking color – the intense blues that gyrated around the stars, tinged at the corners with swirling, smoky crimson, ever dissipating and reappearing to dot the galaxies brilliantly with splatters of color. He could recall the way it seemed the entire universe seemed to split at his descent – as if he was the dark spot of oil in this never ending water. He could still feel the chill of Gungnir's uru composition, metallic against his palm as it slipped away quickly. A sensation he wanted to ball his fist against – he would've if his brain's commands were followed promptly by his body, which seemed not to be the case in this void – he wanted to scream at, claw away, and forever rip from the edges of his mind. But his body remained still as it fell like a stone.
Time heals all wounds, they say. But in order for a wound to properly heal, you must first let it scab; allow the pain to dull. The god of mischief does no such thing. He picks and prods and pokes at his gaping wounds; examines his insides and shifts things out of place to try and make it better himself. Every time it seems like something might begin to callous at the edges; ever time some sort of scar tissue hints at being formed, he jams as many fingers as he can in to the wound at once and stirs it around until it once more bleeds, leaving him little less than satisfied at the throbbing pain.
It's as he's wondering casually to himself about whether or not he is so doomed as to spend the rest of his immortal life falling through the vacuum of space itself when it hits him. It hits him with such force and such gusto as a one hundred–plus ton of floating space matter should. He can hear as his body makes impact – the crunch that he can only assume is his bones, the cry of pain that escapes his lips, a foreign sound, as it were. He can feel the pain as it shoots through his body, a pain that encompasses his being and threatens to overwhelm him; feel the trickle of blood that has now pooled at the corner of his mouth and made a steady stream from his nose. And, in a swift and ill-timed moment of clarity, it is, in that moment – the moment he tries to look around, to observe his surroundings – he realizes that he had in fact never closed his eyes to the wonders of the space around him, but had, in fact, lost his vision. That day after day – month after month – of staring in to the brilliant void that had become his life as such had caused his loss of the ability to see. And in those blind eyes he can feel the water that washes over them, leaving unwanted, salty trails in their wake.
He laid for he knows not how long – broken mass of a former prince, tear stained streaks through the dirt and space dust along his cheeks; a pitiful image indeed – before he could hear footsteps. They were heavy, burdened footsteps that seemed to shake the very ground at every fall. The trickster tried hard to still his trembling, shattered body. "Loki Laufeyson," the voice called, a smugness clinging to it as if it had gotten the punchline to some intelligent joke that no one else had understood. He supposed, in a way, it had, having referred to him by that wretched name. He wanted to protest, to correct him, to scream. That's not my name. Son of No One. I am Loki, and Loki alone. Not-brother of Thor, and not-son of Odin, bastard frost giant, and the reckoning of their race. I am the God of Mischief, lie-smith, silver tongue. God of Fire and chaos and ill-will; but not – never – son of Laufey. It bit at him and gnawed at him to his very bones, but all he could managed was a less-than-intimidating growl of acknowledgement, ringing pain through the back of his very dry throat. He ached, and the longer he lay against the hardened grown amongst the pool of his own blood and shattered ego, it became more prevalent. There was a shallow, bitter laugh, and Loki could hear as the dirt shifted beneath the once more moving feet. For just a moment there was an eerie stillness, and he tried desperately to look around, only to be sharply reminded of the vision he no longer possessed. Suddenly, there was incredible shock through his system as he was violently pulled away from his shallow, self formed crater, his leather jacket snapping at the sudden movement. A sharp cry slithered past his lips, and he immediately tried to clench his jaw against it, though it was a fairly half-hearted attempt. "Laufeyson," the voice spat, hot breath brushing against his overly cool cheek abruptly, though his limp body could do nothing in the way of jerking away from it. "We can heal you." There was amusement in the statement, but he hardly noticed it. He was, in fact, very interested. "We can heal your physical ailments." As if to remind him his wounds were deeper, a writhing in his brain caused him to furrow his brows lightly. He wanted to scratch at it and pick it away. A gurgling sound would have to suffice as a response. "You would, subsequently, be indebted to me." Loki noted, though did not thoroughly investigate, the fact he referred to the favor in singular, as opposed to when he'd said 'we' could help you. At the moment though, it was safe to deduce he wasn't thinking overwhelmingly clear. Another choked, gargling noise, and he was dropped to the ground quickly, resulting in another pained shout. "So…it is a deal then. I have your word, no? One grand favor for another?" There was silence for a moment, Loki trying desperately to catch his breath.
"You…have my…word."