I debated whether to put this under Thoror under Avengers. I eventually chose Avengers, because, although the only character is Loki (and a short visit from everyone's favorite God of Thund- no, not Zeus, jackass, Thor), it takes place after the events of Avengers. So, enjoy this character study of Loki, and don't get too sad like I do whenever I think of Loki.
Even though saying this doesn't actually help anything, I don't own anybody here. I wrote this in one night, and I don't have a beta, nor did I edit too hardcore, so any mistakes are my own doing. Just try to overlook them.
'So, without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you,' the story!
The first thing that made itself known was the presence of handcuffs. They were familiar, the weight, the burn; they had been forged in the mystic fires just outside the kingdom he had grown up in. He would not say his kingdom; this would never be his kingdom. Not when he was a child prince and had a chance, not when he was a young adult being taught to be a ruler, and not when he was a fully-grown adult who sat upon the throne. This kingdom belonged to his false father, false mother, and false brother; the family, and the lands, were not his, and were never to be so.
The handcuffs were heavy on his wrists, resting with significant weight upon his arms. He could feel the sizzle of an unfamiliar magic strengthening as he struggled against them, and thusly he gave up the fight. It was then that the second thing made itself known, and this was the cold. The cold was bitter, and yet he was not shivering. His body had long since acclimatized itself to a freezing environment, whether he had known it at the time or not. He could not yet see, and therefore could not know whether or not his skin had shifted in the cold. He took a deep breath, inhaling his memories and his surroundings.
The rest of his location and senses hit him all at once, rather than separately as the handcuffs and the cold had done. He was overloaded with them, overwhelmed; he nearly felt as though he would soon be flooded with his environment. He gathered himself and allowed his eyes to open wide, so that he may be assaulted with sight as well as touch, and scent, and all other senses. He was greeted with an empty stone room. It was a greyer darkness than what was behind his eyelids, but it was a darkness nonetheless. He could see wisps of hair falling down into his eyes, black in color and transparent in their closeness. He studied the walls and floor around him, but, as he heaved himself from being balled up on his side into a kneeling position, he observed that there was nothing to study. There was no bed, no food, no scratches on the walls. This room was a blank slate for him to fill with his imprisonment.
His blown pupils, black as pitch and surrounded by green irises, lowered to his own self, peering over his sharp cheekbones and solid jaw. He was not wearing any clothes, as was custom with the prisoners that were to be left in solitary for any length of time, so that they may not hang themselves. To his surprise, his skin was not yet the dark blue and patterned hide that symbolized his true heritage. Instead, it was still a paler pink, like a wall of snow backlit by a burning candle, with only the barest hint of robin's egg blue. He wasn't sure whether he preferred this more familiar form, or his truer one.
His hands were bound behind his back, and this unsettled him greatly, as his balance was thrown off more than he would have liked by this. He stood on shaking legs and bent his long limbs back in an attempt to slip his arms to the front of his body, but failed. He tried again, but caught his ankle between the cuffs and fell to the floor, his head meeting the stone floor with a solid thud. He tugged his foot free and gave up on the clearly hopeless endeavor.
Using his own head to push himself up, he again moved into a kneeling position. His nose was slightly crooked now from his fall and was keeping up a steady stream of warm blood. The gush was creating a slight fog around his face, the steam created easily as the hot blood touched the cold air. He blinked once, twice, thrice to clear his eyes, and shook his head to keep his hair from his vision. For the first time, he wondered how long he had been unconscious in this prison, as the full length of his hair passed by his eyes and was longer than he remembered. Ebony black, like a raven's wings, falling past his shoulders, and curling up at the bottom, his hair caught on the blood as it passed. He tossed his head forward and back again, throwing the locks out of the stream and back with the rest, where they stuck with fresh blood.
He realized, as he breathed through his mouth that was, thankfully, free and no longer muzzled, that there was no scent here, nor was there anything in the air to taste. It was a room filled with nothing but him. All he could taste now was his own blood. He could hear nothing but his own breathing and the steady thudding of his pulse in his ear, and the only things he was touching were his own skin and the uneven rocks that made up the floor beneath him. The floor was still frozen, his body heat seeming to make no difference, as it was not held by the stone. He swallowed, tinging his own throat with his blood, and tipped his head back so that his eyes met the ceiling. The ceiling was much the same as the rest of the room, dark and unlit, an endless grey and an empty space.
He let his head fall back down, hair coming to hang on either side of his face as he examined himself. He could see the wounds covering his naked form, deep cuts and jagged holes and burnt flesh decorating him like ruby stars on a white sky. He sighed as he examined the marks, feeling the pull of barely-healed skin as he turned to check all the wounds that he could. He was dismayed to discover he was littered with them, some from fights and some he could not even remember receiving. He forced himself to his feet once more, his knees trembling and threatening to just let his body fall to the floor. He made himself stay standing up and walk a couple steps into the room.
His bare feet made hardly any noise on the stone as he stumbled along, all six feet and two inches of him slicing through the frozen air. His heavy breathing was now filling the room, along with the echoing drops of blood falling from his chin. He made it to the wall after a few staggering steps and rested his forehead against the cold, smooth stone. He drew in a long breath and allowed thoughts to penetrate through the thickness of his purely physical haze.
He realized then exactly how far he had fallen. He had gone from being the prince of a kingdom and possibly the future king of his home to this - naked, handcuffed, and alone in an empty cell somewhere in the bowels of the castle grounds. He wasn't sure if he preferred the lie he once lived, or the honest way he had to be now. He had heard stories of his true ancestors when he was young, tales that parents and children alike would tell about the horrific monsters that lurked beyond the walls of the kingdom. He was just like the other children, fearing the beasts and making jokes about slaying them once and for all. He and Thor would stay up at night, sneaking into one another's chambers and discussing what they would do should they be the first king. His life may have been a lie, but it was a warm one. Now he knew that he would never be king, he would never be truly loved, and he would always be a monster.
He pushed off of the wall, straightening his spine and rolling his shoulders. He felt the tense muscles tug at each other as he moved. He used the pain as a distraction from his own mind, arching his back up to stretch those muscles out as well. His head was aching, his mind laced with the basics, his hatred and his anger, but it was mainly just full of a sweet, strong sadness. The piercing pains of his body were beginning to make themselves known, causing him to fall to his knees once more, his head falling back to the wall as he let out an anguished cry. The sharp lightning bolts of his physical suffering were nothing compared to the misery and grief of his own mind, but he allowed the pain to take him over so he would not have to focus on his own thoughts and memories.
A door he had not noticed before creaked open behind him, but he refused to react in any way. A beam of light from the hall outside the prison cell fell onto his trembling figure kneeling on the opposite side of the room. He shut his eyes against the harsh light striking him. A new figure came on, boots beating heavily upon the floor and creating loud echoes in the small room. The man stopped behind his fallen adopted brother, and a large hand fell onto his bare shoulder.
"Brother, how are you?" The blonde man asked the fallen prisoner. No answer came. He began making more attempts at a conversation, inquiring as to his memories and his state of mind, but the brunette man completely tuned him out. Before long, the brother gave up, giving the slashed shoulder a squeeze. A hiss slipped through the cracked lips of the broken man, giving his brother pause. When no further sound came, the boots left the room and the door shut once more. The beam of light that was cast upon the fallen angel disappeared with the king's favored son.
The trickle of blood slowed until there was no more drips falling to the floor. He could not feel his arms from the odd position they had been stuck in, but he could not bring himself to care. The severe pain that overtook his body was beginning to be overshadowed by his mental torment. His emotions were swallowing him whole, and it was not long before he gave into his own mind. His skin shifted suddenly then, dissolving into a deep blue, almost like an echo of the ocean reflected into his body. Patterns welcomed themselves to the fray, embedding themselves into the fresh sapphire. He inhaled deeply and opened his emerald eyes once more.