Stabbing pain and overwhelming nausea besieged his senses, a wave of sickening realization at not having lost his life rose along with the memory of what had caused the wish to end it. The faces of those men he had called brother and father looking down at him, one filled with pity, desperation and a bruised but seemingly strong love, the other filled only with disappointment.
He did not know why he had expected anything more from the latter, he had fought all his life to be respected and recognized by him for who he was and what he could do. But he had never been one for physical prowess, and the deeds in which his abilities lay were not considered noble pursuits for any Asgardian male. So he was shunned for them and nothing had ever made him feel wanted, loved or worthy.
He was not worthy of their love because he was different at his core, no matter that they attempted to hide the truth in their web of lies, his very face and heart betrayed his true nature. He was a lie, their lie and he was always treated as such; he was ever the outcast, the weakling brother of a far greater man. He was no more than a pet to them, an animal dressed in princely robes for them to mock and degrade despite his position. Never mind that his intelligence and skills had proved useful to them on many occasions, they never heeded his council and would only ask for his aid when no other course was open to them.
They saw him as a scheming and devious element if he spoke against the ill conceived plans of his dear brother, and when he spoke against their mistreatment of him he was brandished a liar also.
The learning of his true heritage had only enforced those beliefs; he deserved their hate and mistrust because he was a monster, and his desperate actions in attempting to prove it and them wrong had only shattered his last hope. The hope he had clung to as tightly as he had to Gungnir as he hung over the abyss, those last words to him where as a death knoll to that hope, as well as for his heart and, he had wished, his life.
'No Loki!' He drew his hands over his eyes. Oh how he longed for death so as not to hear those fateful words echo in his mind any longer!
The pain in his body returned him to the present, causing him to cry out, but he realized he could breathe, however laboured. The air was stale, hot and uncomfortable. He was lying on a firm, yet uneven surface, but he was not hurtling through the vacuum of space any longer, that was something to be thankful for. But where might he be, what fate had now befallen him?
He attempted to pry open his eyes, fatigue lay heavy on them, and the space in which he lay was dark. Struggling for a few moments to adjust to the poor light he was able to make out that he lay on a roughly hewn floor, cut crudely out of the living rock it seemed, a primitive world then perhaps, inhabited by cave dwellers or the like.
He attempted to sit up, the pain intensified as his abdominal muscles worked, but he could tell his discomfort was not merely from muscle fatigue or from his wounds, the pain shot jarringly through his chest. Rubbing his hands together he sparked a small blue flame which gave him enough light to see by, it elevated soundlessly in front of him, he looked down at himself to inspect the damage, bringing his hands to his sides.
They were caked in blood from where he had wrested his armour from his body, and blood stained and covered his garments, concentrating around the tares spaced along both sides of his chest. He pressed his right hand to his side and stifled a cry of agony, almost loosing consciousness again, he guessed that he had several broken ribs; the left side seemed the same. He winced, tears springing to his eyes, his breathes short, shallow and excruciatingly painful. He tried to regain composure and breathe deeper as panic rose in his chest; he needed help, he needed his strength and his mind to clear, a heavy fog lay over it making simple thought a struggle.
Now that he had some light he could at the least tell he was in a small room carved in hard rock, there was a door a few feet in from of him, wooden, riveted with crude metal, with bars across the small opening at the top. He glanced around what seemed to be a cell, to his right was a low bench bolted to the wall, to his left a pile of rags and a bucket containing water, behind him the far wall. He decided he should attempt to support himself against it, so he took a deep breath and pulled himself backwards, slowly so as to cause as little pain as possible, but it was still almost more than he could bear. He planted his hands against the stone, raising himself and pushed off with his legs, which where thankfully undamaged.
His back finally made contact with the wall, his breath laboured from the exertion and pain, his head reeled; sickening nausea and a numb warmth rose as the darkness returned to embrace him once more.