AN: Okay, so, I know there's no real excuse for me not updating WRTR in a few years, but this story idea has been tumbling around in my head for a while now, and I was inspired by the beautiful fanart done by Kibbitzer on deviantart here: /d6jf24d . For those of you interested, I do have about half a chapter written of WRTR, so there may be more of that in store soon.

The trial went as was to be expected. In accordance to the crimes committed against Midgard, he was sentenced to ten lifetimes of the mortals he had wronged. It would allow memories of destruction to fade into the generations. Though he was very much immortal, it wasn't going to be a small section of his life.

Thor tried protesting, the fool. Pleading instead for banishment, as it had been for his punishment. It would rehabilitate him; show him the wonders of life on Midgard. The Allfather's word is final. At the declaration of imprisonment, he felt something tear in his mind, a release of something, and all he could do was stare from his kneeling position on the golden floor of the Council Hall. The luminescent blue that had invaded his mind leaked from his irises, leaving a vivid green in their place.

He was lifted roughly from the floor by the guards. As they pulled him towards the doors, his head finally dropped, and wetness that had gathered in his eyes refused to fall.

Leading him through the deep recesses of the prison he was to be held in, the guards shifted their eyes. Yes, this was part of the punishment as well. Not only was he to be locked away for centuries, but he was to be utterly ignored. All mention of him was to cease. If he spoke a word, no one could respond. Any written record of him would be locked away until the end of his sentence. No one was to see, hear, or speak to him. He would be utterly alone.

They reached his cell. It was made of a thick plastic, coated in an impersonal white. It would be able to prevent any attempt at magic or trickery. He was led in, and then left alone. This was the start of his imprisonment. All sustenance that he would need was charmed to appear in the cell. There was to be no contact with anyone, not even with a lowly slave bringing gruel to a prisoner.

It's been a while now. He's lost count of the days, weeks, or months that he's been here. There is no concept of day and night in the isolated prison. He knows if he truly thinks about it, he could figure it out by counting the meals given to him. But what would be the point? Why try to measure the passing of time, when there is nothing he can do to change it?

He's witnessed people go insane while trapped here. The isolation and pure nothingness consumes and destroys any willpower that's left to survive.

His thoughts. Those are all that keep him company. His thoughts of ruling and destruction are now hazy and uncertain. Even his memories start to fade, after centuries of recalling even the most minute details. Defeating the Jotunn, attempting to kill Thor, they all turn to nothing.

His earliest memories arise, clear as the glass of the Observatory hidden in the recesses of the palace. Hugging his mother, after a particularly dark nightmare involving the terrifying and deadly Frost Giants. Showing his first attempt at transfiguration, presenting her with a crude feline shaped in stone. The singing of lullabies, lulling him to sleep which brought nothing but good dreams. These were all clear.

He sat, sifting through the years of memories, trying not to feel the white numbness settle throughout the rest of his body.

When he was not lost in memories, he was lost in the dreams that came with the necessity of sleep. He dreamt of the deep blue penetrating his thoughts and actions. His will being defied by his own body. The chaos and insanity that wormed its way through his mind, twisting as it consumed his dreams.

But then, it started. They started. People appear, as though they belonged there. His fa— the AllFather standing across the cell, staring darkly into his eyes, through to his soul. Anger and disappointment shone heavily in his eyes.

Thor, standing tall and proud, fighting some invisible foe. His perseverance and dedication shining through his being, like a beacon of strength.

And finally Frigga, his mother. Her calm demeanor, and loving eyes directed only towards him, lifted him. She spoke words of affection, he knew. Yet there was no sound. Even the images from his mind wouldn't speak with him. He couldn't hear her voice. He knew what she was saying was important, and that he needed to hear it, but he couldn't. He just couldn't! He should be able to read her lips, but he couldn't. His mind could not focus on anything but the sight of her beautiful form. His mind, the greatest weapon he had, seemed useless if it couldn't bring him this one bit of happiness.

It was so quiet.

Frigga was devastated at the sentence. Any older murals of her son were covered, letters of correspondence locked away. The only place she could see her son was in her memories, and it was tearing her apart.

She knew it would be so hard on him. Loki always had been the child that would work alone, perfecting all that he tried. Except, it seemed, the traditional battle skills practiced by the warriors and nobles of Asgard.

It always set him apart from others. He preferred to read the dusty tomes of the Royal Library rather than go out for a hunt with Odin and Thor.

Yet, though he preferred that solitude, she knew this sentence was going to be dificult. As a child, Loki had always wished for attention, though he wasn't obvious about it. He would quietly come to her, and ask whether the new spell seemed correct. It was the littlest things that she would do that would lift him.

Yes, the utter solitude of the punishment would ruin him.

And thus, Frigga started to think.