It felt as though a shard of steel had been driven through the top of his head, down through his body, severing every part of him. Yet Loki stood. His arms were held above him in chains, so if he were to collapse his torture would continue. Day after day, hour after hour, they continued, the faceless shadows had burnt and cut and mutilated every part of him. They gnawed at his insides and in his mind he screamed a scream so shrill and terrible he imagined his own ears bleeding from the pain inside. Shrapnel coated his lungs, breathing became a labour he fought hard not to give up on, because once he did it was over, and he wasn't going to let that happen. His innards writhed and his body stood stripped, drenched in sweat. He had touched nothing since his arrival, of which he remembered little, yet he was coated in grime and dirt. As though his pain had begun to push it's way out of his pores because there was no room left within him that wasn't already filled with it. He felt his hair clinging to his face and neck, saturated with that mix of grime and sweat that refused to leave him, like a parasite desperately clinging to it's host. He had acid in his muscles and his biceps twitched as he fought not to give in to letting the chains hold him up. The muscles in his chest and legs also began to twitch and he clenched his jaw with grim determination. The shadows sent wave after wave of mocking screams searing into his head, he knew they could hear how he suffered in his mind but he couldn't stop it. As his struggle continued his breathing became heavier and the shrapnel sliced into his lungs. He tried to shallow his breath but his legs began to shake and he felt so close to giving up.
NO! He bellowed into his mind, the screaming ceased and the shadows hissed, sending pain arching through his body. Everything tensed up as though he had been electrocuted, though in reality it was far worse. There was no jolting shock, just a burning, unending pain coursing through his veins. His breathing stopped. Then began even more heavily than before. He felt as though there was nothing in the universe but pain. He could not remember a time before it. He could not imagine a time without it. He would have collapsed but the agony kept every muscle in his body so tense he thought they might burst out of his skin.
Then he began to laugh.
It was a laugh so pure with hatred and pain that even the shadows were pressed back as the cackles reverberated around their beings. It penetrated all that was near made it fearful. He thought there was nothing but pain, but he was wrong. All he had left was standing. He put everything he could into standing until there was nothing left in the world but his concentration on keeping his feet firmly on the ground and his legs straight, though the tight cords of muscle spasmed with the effort. He laughed as the pain coursed through him again, a deep threatening laugh full of malice. They thought they had owned him, he knew they thought they had won. They did not know that he had been passed around as an object for too long now. No one owned him but himself. He refused to fall, to give into them, not after all this way.
So Loki stood.