Five years.
Five years alone, hungry, cold, in the dark, under Thanos' cottage.
That would break even the strongest of men.
That would probably kill a frost giant runt.
If Thanos hadn't altered his body with the Reality stone, making it impossible for him to die, unless someone consciously tried to kill him.
So, he lived.
A miserable, horrifying existence.
Everyone had abandoned him, had left him to die, had utterly scorned him.
Yet, still, he kept on living.
Starved, weak, skeletal, but alive.
The only source of light was the sunlight filtering through the floorboards.
Eleven days after he'd known Thanos was dead, he'd taken to chewing his wrists to alleviate the gnawing hunger inside him. When they began to bleed, he used the fluid to write on the walls. No one could hear him, so he wrote his thoughts down.
Two weeks, and he slipped into his Jotun form. He barely noticed, except that the chill was somewhat less, and his blood was now black instead of red. A lifetime ago, it would have bothered him immensely, but it wasn't as if there was anyone to see him.
Three months later, and the north wall was covered in letters, written over each other in a tangled mess, as if someone had dumped alphabet soup on the wall. Still, Loki wrote. He wrote apologies, mostly. It was all his fault that his brother would never come for him. All his fault, because Loki had taken the Tesseract. "You really are the worst brother," Thor had said. Loki couldn't help but cry when he thought of his brother's disappointed eyes.
By seven months, Loki had become so starved for company, so tired of the agonizing silence, that he filled the void with his own words. He'd tell stories, sing off-key tunes he remembered, compose letters to Sigyn aloud, and talk to himself. He did a lot of that, actually. As his mind slowly, but surely fractured into splinters, he would babble constantly, almost forgetting that he was the only one there.
One year, and two months, and Loki began weakening. He could no longer even drag himself across the floor to the dripping water that ran down the wall every time it rained. He lay on the pile of rags that he slept on, and went over his previous life aloud. It was difficult to believe he'd ever been anywhere else, that everything outside of the cellar was not simply a figment of his imagination. But, still, he would go over his loved one's names in feeble reverent whisper. Sigyn, Vali, Narfi, Sleipnir, Jormungandir, and baby Fenris. Thor. Anthony Stark and Bruce Banner. Each name called up a fuzzy image in his mind, reminding him of a better, happier time, when there was laughter, and sunlight, and food. Sigyn, Vali, Sleipnir, Jormungandir, and baby Fenris. No… he'd missed one.
By one and a half years, he'd forgotten what they looked like.
Two years, and Loki lay facing the wall, unable to move, but still mumbling softly to himself. He wasn't even sure what he was saying. He fell ill, and coughed, and shook from fever. In his delusion, he imagined someone came for him. He would hear a soft, loving voice calling his name, and tender hands stroking his hair. "Sigyn…" He would whisper as he shivered, wrought with chills, but Sigyn didn't come.
Three years, seven months, eighteen days, and Loki fell asleep. To the untrained eye, he seemed dead, like a blue skeleton, lying in the pile of rags, his long, matted dark hair fanning out around his head. But, if you were to pay careful attention, one would see the weak rise and fall of his chest, and hear the dreadful rattling that had accompanied his breathing for a year and a half.
Two more years rolled by before someone finally came for him.
The trapdoor to the cellar opened, and a young elvish princess and her brother-in-law crept down the stairs, wrinkling their nose against the pungent smell.
Such tears were shed, when they found him.
Sigyn brought him to the house they had been gifted by Tony Stark, and gathered his children, so that, maybe, when he woke up, they could be a family, again.
Narfi, from Jotunheim. He was overjoyed to see her, but Sigyn soon discovered that he'd hardened in her absence. He was no longer the loveable little child she remembered. He'd retained his energy, and his fascination with all things new, but he was moody, and would spend hours staring into space, the most miserable expression in his eyes.
Vali, from New Asgard. Without either of his parents to care for him, he, also, had gone downhill quite some ways. He was underweight, cripplingly shy, and spent most of the time attempting to block the world out with his music, blasting from his earbuds.
Sleipnir, Jormungandir, and Fenris, from Anthony's house. Her own children seemed to be the happiest, yet… her two sons didn't remember her at all. Sleipnir remembered her, and Gandhi seemed to recognize her a little, but Fenris clung to Pepper, and peeked his big green eyes out at her in distrusting nervousness. She'd fixed the issue with a cupcake and a story, but the three of them seemed to have made their own lives. She was almost reluctant to bring them home.
But, bring them, she did.
The house in Malibu was big, large enough for all of them to have their own room, and then some. Sleipnir helped Sigyn prepare dinner, and after the meal, they all got an early night. All of them were jet-lagged – Narfi was technically planet-lagged – and they welcomed their slumber eagerly. All except little Fenris, that is. He had trouble sleeping, and crept into Gandhi's room, and the two of them stayed up until wee hours of the morning, discussing their current situation.
In truth, all of them were nervous about the future.
None of them knew what they were to do in Malibu, if Loki was going to wake up, or anything.
Unsurety is the most terrifying thing of all, and it was all Sigyn could do to keep their family from falling to bits.
Narfi and Sleipnir did not get along.
Fenris was afraid of Vali.
Vali was a whole stack of issues all to himself, and Gandhi, well…
Honestly, Jormungandir seemed to be taking the whole situation the best. Still… Sigyn was sure she could be doing better, but she wasn't sure how. She cried herself to sleep, wrapped like a limpet around her husband's skeletal frame.
TheOnlyHuman.