Chapter 2: Regrets
During the few months of my imprisonment, I said and did nothing. I sat on the bed and had mental conversations with myself, planning mischievous pranks. After the first decade, I pulled off my green and gold tunic to the white undershirt below, in addition to my shoes. I sat, and paced, but mostly sat. Then, after a century, I yelled, screamed, at the unresponsive guards. I still had not been given any food, but when I didn't die, and just the hunger remained, I deduced that there was a spell upon the cell that prevented me from dying of starvation. Less fortunately, there was no way to keep track of the days then, as I could not perceive the gaps between mealtimes. I had tried to count the seconds by counting my breaths, but I lost count at two million, seven hundred eighty-three thousand, nine hundred and eleven when I fell asleep.
Hunger became my constant companion, as did Anger, Hate, Pain, and Vengeance. I no longer paced, instead choosing to curl up into a corner, or lie on my bed. I began to have nightmares, so many nightmares. Every time I closed my eyes. I could see the faces of those I had killed. Asgardian and Midgardian alike. Their haunted faces and screams haunted my sleep as well as waking hours. Eventually they were painted on my eyelids. Their faces formed before me, in the dusk and shadows of the room. A face also haunted me, wrinkled, ancient, malevolent, powerful. I could not tell what it had done to me, it was only memories of something else, that try as I might, I could not seem to remember.
Eventually, after a millennia, I turned the pages of my memory and walked among the relics of a happier time. I saw two boys, one golden and strong, one raven-haired and wan. I saw their happiness, and felt the love of the family again. I felt the love of the younger shift, turn sour. Gone was the happiness, instead replaced with ambition, greed, and hate. I saw the man the boy grew into be cold, ruthless. I watched mutely from the shadows as he betrayed everyone who ever cared for him with a smirk on his face and a mad glint in his eye. I saw him do unspeakable things with insane glee. I saw him, reduced to a shell, a husk, and thrown away with the chamber pot. I relieved all of my actions and emotions throughout my descent into madness.
I had grown up happy with my place in the world, but grew hard when I saw that everyone, even my father, favored Thor over me. I delved into magic and did nothing but study, expanding my mind to impress Father, to show that I was worthy of his love also. I grew isolated from my people, family, and friends, presenting a mask to hide my true feelings, preferring to desperately gather knowledge in a bid to win the throne, to show Father that I was strong and good enough.
When Thor had been promised the throne, I had been shocked, betrayed, angry, and hurt by this betrayal. My father had raised me to be a king. I had spent my entire life waiting for this, only to have it snatched from me at the last second. My brother, the one who partied, laid with so many maidens even he had lost count, the arrogant oaf, was to be king. When my father had told me I was adopted, and the son of his greatest enemy no less, I didn't know what to think. But at the same time, I did.
I felt betrayed, furious. I had grown up with him whispering in my ear that I was born to be a king, and now he said that I was of no matter or use to him. I understood it then, in a mad flash of clarity. He could never have given the throne to me, and why he always favored Thor all those years. My life was a lie. I hatched a plot then. More than mere mischief, this was evil. I shoved away all twinges of doubt and went onward with my plan.
After Thor had destroyed the Bifrost and I was dangling from the staff I had always wanted, I tried to tell my father why I had done it. He rejected me. I felt so much grief, like a yawning chasm in my chest. I had nothing more to live for. I let go and fell into the void, my grief overwhelming my every thought. I was glad in a way, to die. Vindictively imagining my family mourning me, in pain. But in barely a fraction of the pain I had been in for all these years.
For the first time since I entered the cell, a tear slipped down my cheek. I raged inward silently, berating myself for my foolishness, pride, and vanity. I had thrown away everything good in my life, and now just emptiness remained. For that was what I was, an empty hole. I had tried to fill it with revenge, but it just grew larger. My grief was an ocean, stretching out before me. I was so sorry. For everything. For all of the families that I had torn apart, for all of the lives I devastated, for the sorrow and worry my family felt for me. I wasn't worthy of their love. I was worthy of this cell though. And here I would remain for eternity, without a chance of redemption and to never see my mother again, never touch her cheek, never apologize to Thor.
The storm of emotions in me raged on, and I felt something crack. The void I felt in me, broke apart, and unfamiliar emotions rose up. They were shame, hope, and regret. I sobbed from their force, and sobbed again at myself. I was pathetic, lying here and sobbing pitifully. I was a prince of Asgard. I should be acting better than this. But, I reminded myself, you're not even that.
When I saw the faces of my victims, I cried out to them, that I was sorry. They paid me no attention, and howled away. A voice in my head, sounding disturbingly like mine, spat insults at me. I eroded under the pressure of the voice, the faces, the hunger, the lack of time, the smells, my unwashed body, the feelings. I called out to Thor, Mother, Father, Heimdall, Sif, the Avengers, the guards, begging them to help me.
I was alone. Utterly alone. Just me and my storm, for millennia. Crying out in a void where no one could hear me. Drowning alone. I couldn't assuage my guilt, with no chance for retribution, and no one to talk to. Swirling, falling, trying to claw my way back up, I descended so far into my mind that I lost all perception of my surroundings.
Poor Loki! I feel so sorry for him, even though I wrote it. How's he going to survive?