Author's Note: I know. I should be updating On Shadow's Edge and instead I'm writing new things. Oopsies.

But then again, some of you expressed interest in what I imagined happened to Loki during his time in the Void. Here's a piece of it. :)

PRETENCES

It occurs to Loki, as his head is forced back for what must be the tenth or eleventh time, that the physical torment is little more than a way of keeping up pretences.

Not that he isn't in pain, of course; not that he isn't gasping for breath, his hands curling like stiff white claws somewhere by his head; not that somewhere in his mind he isn't pleading for this to end; but even now he has the sense, the perception, to realise that there must be more to it than this.

The creatures who do this to him—they are waiting for something.

They have not told him so; instead, it is a silent intuition that leads him to this conclusion. He has endured torment before (he tries to comfort himself knowing that he has escaped in the past, and of course he will do so again) and from what he has seen of his captors, they could do far more damage than they have caused thus far. They are toying with him, keeping him hurt and submissive, but in truth they have gone no further than that.

Loki almost wishes they would. Just once. This drawn-out pain on the border of agony is becoming tiresome.

He stiffens in his bonds as one of the creatures approaches again, and he feels the manacles digging again into his wrists, which are already rough with blood from his many attempts to drag them from the cuffs. His hands are raised on either side of him, keeping him kneeling on the dark floor. Many times now he has stared at that floor; it is dark and gleaming stone, and when they bring the lights in, he can see his reflection staring back at him—gaunt, tired, desperate.

Still, he has not given in yet. That is something.

He wonders, vaguely, if Thor would be proud of him.

The creature is right in front of him now, watching him with its head tilted. Loki stares right back, breathing heavily, and he tries to steady himself by focussing on the strange lines of his tormentor's garments—the full hood, probably heavier than it looks, and the tiny, glinting stretches of metal over its forehead and jaw. There is an intricacy to the mask that Loki almost admires even in his current state. And—is that writing, inscribed on the collar beneath the cowl? He has never noticed it before…

Unfortunately, they have realised by now how he uses his focus as a distraction. Without warning, he feels a hand clamp down on his hair, wrenching his head back, and then another palm forces itself down onto his eyes. He lets out a low hiss, trembling, trying desperately to keep his panic under control.

I am a King, he whispers to himself. I am a King, I am a King…

A King does not give in to fear. A King does not allow himself to be broken this way.

Ah, and there it is. The need to prove himself is still so, so strong, even though he has fallen far and away from anyone to whom he might do so. Ironic for an illusionist—he has latched onto his last identity as his only lifeline, and yet a small part of him cannot imagine why he clings for strength to something that has brought him naught but pain.

The pain now is a different kind. Loki feels a cry welling in his throat and he bites down hard against his lip to keep it from escaping, but it is not easy, for six fingers in a sharp, clawed glove are scraping along his chest, shredding his skin like knives until he feels his blood welling and trickling from the wounds. He fights to pull away, to no avail; his breath rasps hot and ragged against the arm of the creature blinding him.

"Your fight is meaningless. Why do you resist?"

That voice again—the same one. It is the only one that speaks through all of this. Its accent is strange, as though its jaws are constantly trying to close between words and have to be forced open again each time. Its owner has never touched him. Loki remains silent, his neck arched back, blind and shuddering in his chains.

"Cease your resistance and we will cease the pain."

No. Loki tries to duck away from the hand against his eyes. No. I am a King.

"Submit, and you will be ready."

I am a King. I am a King.

"We have laid open your flesh, but he will open your mind. You will know truth."

He?

Loki stills, for just the barest moment, and then he curses silently, for now he has given himself away. He hears the voice give a harsh command. The claws dig deeper into his chest for split second, eliciting a low, hoarse cry from his throat, and then they release him again. The hands retreat, and he slumps forward in his bonds, trying not to choke on his own breath.

By the Norns, but this hurts.

He doesn't know how long he has been here. Days, certainly, but whether time has elongated to weeks is more difficult to tell. He has not seen daylight since they brought him here. Instead, they come with lamps when they want him, lamps that glow with a harsh, cold light as if from a newborn star. It stings his eyes; he has never seen light like this.

It is some kind of prison, of that much he is certain, but there is something terribly alien about it, even to him, and he was once one of the most well-read in Asgard. He is no fool. One imagines a dungeon in rough stone, its discomfort drawn from its primitive nature, but this… this is different. Everything is dark and smooth and gleaming, the walls almost mirror-like as they reflect the blue-tinged light. He appreciates the effectiveness of such a setup even if he must endure what it brings upon him. It is less crude and more subtle, trading dankness and stench for a masterful way to dizzy the mind; in his current state, he is never quite certain how many have come to watch him, for their silhouettes are distorted by the flicker of the lamps reflected all around him, and his eyes are beginning to have difficulty focussing. For this reason alone, he would almost prefer that they draw close.

Now, as he opens his eyes, he can see his own blood spreading along the floor around his knees. It is darker in places where it has dried, but the newest spots are oddly translucent—or perhaps that is only his imagination, and a trick of the light.

He has vomited twice, but there is no trace of it; each time they have cleaned it away, leaving only the blood. They, at least, seem to think there is a point to it. Loki still maintains that they are only keeping up pretences.

What he wants to know is why.

The room suddenly darkens. Loki raises his head with difficulty, but before he moves even a few inches, one of the creatures has pressed its wide palm against the back of his neck, and he feels the clawed glove digging deep into his skin as it forces his head down again. Warm blood trickles over his shoulders. He struggles, his breath rasping in his throat—and, this time, it is not pain that forces the low sound from his lips.

It is fear.

The tattered fragments of his senses are suddenly reeling in a silent warning, screaming at him that in this moment he is in more danger than he ever has been before. The presence that he feels—he knows, somehow, that it could lay merely a finger upon him and he would be overwhelmed—

Loki stiffens. No. He is a King, and he will be damned if he will let them break him down to something less.

And so, without raising his head, with an odd, satisfied smile playing about his lips, he speaks for the first time.

"I wondered when you'd come."

I may or may not add more to this as the mood takes me. I think it works well as a one-shot, but then again, it might be fun to continue... so we shall see.