Time passes at the same rate in all of the nine realms. But not in the spaces between. In the time it takes for the sun to rise and set on Asgard, anywhere from a second to a millennium could have passed in the between-spaces.
For Thor, for Odin, for all of Asgard and Migard, mere minutes have passed since Loki fell through the unending abyss of open space and into the residual energy of the collapsing Bifrost, hurling him into parts unknown.
For Loki…it has been lifetimes. He has long since lost track of the passing of time, long since ceased counting the hours from that moment when he last looked upon his false family, rejected and fundamentally broken.
For that indeterminate period, he has been wholly, utterly at the mercy of Thanos. But interspersed with prolific physical and psychological battery to subdue the imperious God of Mischief and Lies and bend him to his will, is the dispensation of secrets to power which none have before seen, much less wielded, now Loki's to command. He has been formed by Thanos into the single most useful tool in his arsenal. And tools do not feel regret, or sadness, or peace, or joy.
The Migardian city street is relatively quiet at this hour of the evening, with only a half-dozen humans traversing its cracked sidewalks under the flickering yellow florescent street lights mounted atop rusted poles. Cloaked in invisibility, Loki strides confidently past them, dressed in a simple, unassuming tunic, though he knows the Migardians cannot see him. He casts a satisfied smirk over his shoulder in their direction, knowing that within one mere planetary rotation, they will be cowering in their homes. Or better, lying dead in the street. That is, assuming Thor remains on Asgard rather than attempting to travel to Migard and interrupt his war.
Thor.
Through the tendrils of foreign thought and influence spiderwebbing through his brain, addling his thoughts, he senses a flicker of emotion. He cannot recall when he last had such a feeling picking at his mind. Curious, he pushes through the veil of Thanos' control around his memories and lets out a quiet, halting gasp as the flicker immediately becomes a flame, burning strong and bright, consuming all other immediate thought. Is both positive and painful at once, altogether overwhelming, and can be summarized by that single name.
Blue eyes flash to emerald green and his knees weaken with the mental exertion. He falls back against a dingy brick wall, grimacing and clutching at his skull with both hands, fingers tightly entwined in his long hair, threatening to pull out the strands by their roots in his anguish. Not even Thanos with all of his power can permanently claw that emotion from his being. It is too deeply engrained in every fiber, having been nourished from infancy. Brotherly love, born out of admiration and affection for Thor, despite his adopted brother's arrogance and his numerous faults, still lingers within him. Now he can remember it; though not for long, he knows, for Thanos will surely be able to sense his sudden moment of clarity within seconds.
Removing his right hand from his head, Loki conjures a pen then lowers his left and scrawls, in shaky lettering, two words across his palm, knowing what will happen in the next few days and needing to say this, even if only to himself, even if he knows Thor will never see it.
Loki can sense a distant presence, all surprise and disgust and unrestrained wrath, hurtling toward him across the psychological link he shares with his unwanted master. The pen in his right hand disintegrates, turning to ash and fluttering to the damp pavement at his feet. He lowers his head, dark green eyes beginning to flicker back to pale blue, then closes his fist tightly, silently praying and hoping against hope that by some miracle of the gods the distance will be too great for Thanos to reassert his mind-numbing control. But even the pain radiating through the heel of his palm from the strength of his clenched fist is not enough to keep him anchored to that single errant emotion, and it is stamped out by Thanos' rage within seconds.
And with the extinguishment of that emotion, Loki once again is reduced from a sentient, independent being to no more than a tool in Thanos' plans for Migard and beyond. He is still Loki, in a sense, but with any and every shard of goodness or decency stripped away, leaving only the cunning, calculating, malicious aspects intact, the ones which will rejoice in the terrified screams of mortal souls, the glory of destruction to come.
Loki straightens and blinks once, then twice, at the vague sensation of knowing that has just forgotten something important, but being unable to recall what it was. He rolls his eyes at the notion, chiding himself for his absentmindedness. He raises his left hand to snap his fingers and will himself back to Thanos for the final preparations for his theatrical entrance on Migard, when smudged black ink catches his attention. Uncurling his fingers, he gazes in mild confusion at the words on his skin.
"Forgive me."
He raises an eyebrow in surprise, but there is a push from the back of his mind, suggesting boredom and indifference. His mind not completely his own, Loki simply shrugs, giving no further thought to how such a thing came to be, and flicks his wrist. The words disappear.
A smile settles upon his lips, and his plain tunic disappears in a golden glow, quickly replaced by leather and gold and a long, dark green cloak. A golden staff with a brilliant blue, shining orb in one end materializes in his hands.
Loki casts a final glance down the Migardian street, identical to him as all the others he had looked upon that day. His gaze follows a group of young humans stumbling drunkenly down the sidewalk on the other side of the street, laughing and talking amongst themselves.
Soon, you will all kneel before me.
He watches them until they had disappeared around a street corner. His smile widens into a grin.
You will always kneel.