It has been many years since I wrote anything, but it seems my hand has not forgotten the task. I no longer can track the days- they blur into one another and I cannot tell if it is day or night. I time life by the delivery of meals and it has been years since I have seen the sun. There is no hope in this place.
I once was a prince. I do not know why I feel the need to write this. No one will read this and it is likely to be destroyed after my execution. But I suppose I need to mind myself of these things more than anyone else. I am Loki, once of Asgard, born of Jotunheim, and set to die without a realm to call home. But ones such as I deserve no identity. They would take my name if they could.
The cruelty of imprisonment is not the physical torture, but the slow degradation of the mind, slowly driven mad by the lack of stimulation. I have read the same books She left for what must be at least five years.
Even today I regret my final words to Her. I miss the scent of graceful spice that followed Her even when She appeared in illusion. I miss Her voice, comforting and and assuring. I wish for Her strength in these dark days.
She once called me Her most deeply curious child. I believed that to reference my thirst to know all things, but now I wonder if it was not a reference to my oddity when compared to Thor. It is yet one more thing I will never know.
I have many thoughts, but so little time to express them. My guards hint that my execution may come at the end of the week, and so I must write.