Bitterness was all Loki knew as he was escorted into the dungeons. Deep down, he knew he had erred, but all at once he didn't know what he should have done otherwise. All he had wanted was recognition, one way or another. Was that too much to ask for? All his dear brother had to do was lift a hammer, and he was loved and adored. Because he was strong and brave, qualities not everyone had been born with. Always, no matter what he did, Loki was overshadowed. Was it so wrong to wish to be seen as equal to his own brother? Why was he so beneath Odin's respect?
Tch. Loki knew why. He was a monster. A creature that even he had been raised despising. He was a relic, taken as an object of truce. All his life he had been told that he had a chance to become king of Asgard, when in reality that chance was nonexistent, no matter his efforts. The glory had and always would belong to his hot-headed brother. No matter what talents he had, he could never have been equal to Thor in Odin's eyes.
Only one person had ever recognized his abilities, had looked him with the same love Thor always received. Frigga. His mother. Even still, despite knowing his true parentage, Loki called her "mother" with the same love he always had. She had never pressured him to become strong and brave, as so many others had done. She had seen where his true talents had been, his cleverness and his cunning. She had taught him magic, even when all of the Aesir looked for brute strength in their people, because she knew that he would excel at it. She had truly loved him.
And he would never see her again. Against his will, he felt his eyes begin to sting—but still he kept his head high. A day would never come when Loki, prince of Asgard, would be seen weakened by emotion. He turned to one of the guards.
"These chains are beginning to chafe. Mind adjusting them?" Loki held out his wrists. The guard huffed.
"The Allfather warned us of your tricks," he said haughtily. "I won't fall for anything." The guard, far more dramatically than was necessary, turned away; clearly he was newly appointed and very proud of his new position. Loki shrugged, smirking slightly. He hadn't really expected it to work, anyway. So instead he made a great show of trying to adjust his wrists on his own, jangling the chains as loudly and obnoxiously as he could all the way to the dungeons—despite the fact that it really only made him more uncomfortable. As they neared the cell, another of the guards rolled their eyes.
"You'll have plenty of time to stretch your damn wrists in your cell," he said, clearly exasperated. Loki didn't say anything. He just defiantly jangled the chains once more before being shoved unceremoniously into the cell, tripping over the shackles that bound his ankles. Quickly and none too gently, the guards removed the chains before Loki could stand, and the wall that enclosed the cell was immediately raised. It would keep him in, and anyone else out.
Loki watched the backs of the guards disappear around the corner before examining his new space. There were a few sparse furnishings already within, alongside a pile of books—clearly Frigga had been involved. This was more than could be said for most of the other cells, and already there were other prisoners glaring and making rude gestures. Ignoring the taunts and jeers being called out at him, he lay down slowly on the thin bed. It was then that the gravity of his situation struck him.
His freedom was gone entirely. In the past, he had at least been able to roam the realms, to escape from everything if he wished. Even the tortures that the Other and Thanos had been able to concoct had provided a painful escape; at least they had kept him from dwelling too long on anything. Now, however, he was reduced to the space of a single exposed room. He could try to escape, certainly, but the chance of Odin merely capturing him again—or simply just killing him—was too great.
Loki was trapped, confined within his mind, and most of all—though he hated to admit it to himself—he was lonely. Throughout his life, all Loki had ever craved was the recognition of others. Oftentimes the recognition was as an enemy or an opponent, or sometimes merely as a nuisance. However, although it had never been what he truly craved, he had still been seen as something. He had always been defined by his contrast with others, by the way he tended to clash. In an odd way, it had always been a consolation; he could always cause trouble for others.
Now, even that was taken from him. There was nothing left for him but his little cell and the pile of books in the corner, and the hatred and disappointment he would receive from everyone he had once known. All he wanted was to fade away, to disappear. He was tired of everything. Tired of hurting. Why couldn't Odin have just left him to die as he had been meant to? There had never been any true hope for him. He was angry and he was hurt, and he was bitter and he was lost.
Loki shut his eyes tight. No. Not everything was lost. He still had a shred of pride left from his—albeit perhaps false—grooming as a prince. He wouldn't lose it, not yet. He vowed to himself that he would still stand proud, regardless of his situation, regardless of anything else that might happen. He was still Loki, prince of Asgard. Despite how far he had fallen, he wouldn't let Odin, Thor, or anyone else see him fall completely. He wouldn't let them have that satisfaction.