The long lean body rests against the crisp white wall. Legs crossed. Hands holding a book's spine, while its mate poses to turn the next page. His eyes, green with a dark twist gaze at the book's inner secrets. Around him is a modest nest, a wood framed bed, a table and chair with book stacked high. It would look like a bright and comforting place, with white walls so bright and clear and huge floor to ceiling windows. It would look like a comforting place, until you step outside of the glass. Darkness surrounds the light room with towers of concrete etched with dust and age. Scripts of runes run along the wall and the place is quiet and deep. The light room becomes an island of isolation, it becomes a prison cell. Loki's cell.
For hours he sits against the wall reading, once a day the guards pass, but that is all. No one sees him sleep. No one sees him move a muscle. And no one cares. None but one.
In the dark room the broad shoulders shift with discomfort against the hard headboard. Worked from solid gold, it and the other pieces of furniture gleam in the dull light. Hands flinch into fists then muddle loose again, only to repeat. Eyes are hidden as the long locks rest against the smooth gold. The darkness hides the elegance of the room with its high ceilings, cool touch, and vast proportions. It is massive. And there, next to the large door there rests Mjolnir. Cold metal matches the dark cold room. The cold room where no light can seem to penetrate. Yet look there, step through the door and enter a bright world. There light dances off gleaming gold surfaces. It strikes through distant chatter and laughter. Golden, lighted, and happy is this palace hall, as all the rooms are in the sun kingdom of Asguard, except for this chamber. Thor's chamber.
He smiles among the courtiers and royalty. Flirting with the girls. Leading his people. But no one can see. No one knows his mind thinks constantly of one. And like his chamber it is dark with a mourning blackness.