A/N: Welcome back! This part again features an explicit torture scene. I've marked its beginning and its end is at a horizontal line. It's up to you if you want to read or skip it. I hope that you'll enjoy this either way.

Constructive reviews are always the greatest gift to a writer and I appreciate it greatly. Enjoy!

Payment for his failures. That was the name by which the Dark Elves referred to what they did to him.

The first couple of times he had fought back. Hard. Like some untamed beast. But not anymore.

The Elves were proficient in both combat and magic. There was no point in fighting back anymore.

They had started the day after his little talk with Malekith. At least he thought it had been a day. It was impossible to predict time in that black little hole they held him in. There were no objects inside, nothing he could pass him time with. No bed or table. Not even so much as a bowl for his bodily needs. It was so dark that he could not discern the floor from the walls. His magic was encaged inside his shackles, desperate but unable to heal his wretched body.

No sound penetrated those walls, no sign from the world outside. Only that stench, those vapours of dead flesh.

He could hear his heart pound, his blood rushing through his veins.

His tunic was sallied with the blood from his throat and wrists. He had felt disgust at himself, at Malekith, at Odin for letting him rot in that place, at Thanos. All his fury was directed at that monster Thanos for it was his preferred methods they were treating him with, he was certain of it.

Then they had come for him. And the payment had begun.

A group of three would drag him from his cell to another room. They were always faceless, never speaking. And in that room he would be made to pay, in blood, sweat and silent cries.

The price was high.

Torture was not in the Dark Elves' nature for that cold race preferred to kill instantly and be rid of enemies. He could not believe that anyone else than Thanos himself was responsible for his treatment, but why? What did Thanos have that Malekith coveted, so much that he would even follow orders? What was it that he had promised them in return for their services?

He had fought back the first time they had bound him to a post and tore off his tunic. Then the whip had collided with his back.

One.

Two.

Ten.

Twelve.

Twenty.

Thirty lashes for the first time.

By the eighth day he stopped fighting back.

Sif and Fara were the last ones to enter the library and the Vanir shut the door behind herself. Jane was already inside, together with Thor and the Warriors Three. It was still early and Volstagg appeared more displeased than anyone else for missing out breakfast in favour of the meeting.

The library was the only place they could be certain not to be found.

"Now spit it out girl. What could be so important that it could not wait after a slice of bread or two?" The tall man's stomach rumbled in agreement.

Fara threw him an apologetic half-smile. Then she turned to Thor and Jane. "We found the solution to Jane's predicament last night." With a swift movement she vanished behind a shelf and appeared moments later with a heavy book in her hands.

"How? Did you spend all night in here?" Fandral asked in astonishment.

"No, but take a look at this paragraph." She beckoned for the others to come and look at the page she was pointing at. Thor went and took the heavy volume into his own hands, eyes sunken into the faded runes.

"What does it say?" Sif gazed from Fara to Thor and back.

"This cannot be." It was Thor who answered her, still reading with hurried eyes through the passages. "There is one way to retrieve the Aether from a person by using the Infinity Gauntlet. The Gem will be stored inside the gauntlet." He tossed the book onto one of the desks nearby, bows furrowed in deep thought.

"Where is that gauntlet?" Jane asked after a moment of grave silence.

"That I'd like to know as well." Volstagg sighed.

To that Fara listened up. It could not be. That would ascertain her suspicions but it also made things much worse. "But I thought it was kept inside Asgard's weapon vault."

"Well, it was." Fandral cleared his throat. "Unfortunately it's no longer there."

Thor rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Apparently Malekith's forces had enough time to get into the vault and take it."

The pieces of evidence fit together like a puzzle. "But then surely it is not only the Power Gem he desires." Fara spoke.

Hogun nodded in agreement. "He wants to unite all the Infinity Gems."

Time became unimportant. The whippings followed in regular intervals. Was it night? Or day?

Food and drink was denied him, the traitor, the coward. His skin was hidden behind layers of dried blood and grease. His own filth clung to his body like a second skin. He was tired. So tired. Every time they brought him back after a round of punishment he felt his body grow heavier and heavier. He wanted to sleep, to never wake up. How easy it would be to just close his eyes and let sweet sleep envelop his broken flesh.

But he could not rest, because that would mean that Thanos had free access to his mind. He would deprive Loki of the last peace he could wish for. No dreams were him allowed, not even dreamless sleep. Instead Thanos let nightmares pour into his skull, always similar and yet so different.

Frigga dying.

Frigga burning.

Frigga drowning.

Frigga suffocating.

Through his own hand. And he would watch. Watch as life abandoned her, watch as her eyes grew cold and expressionless. Watch and smile.

And Thanos would whisper, scream, roar into his ear that it was his fault, his fault alone. Everything was his fault, because he was useless, inadequate, incompetent. He was not Thor, he did not have a family. He did not deserve one. He deserved nothing but pain, unending pain.

Thanos´ access to the depths of his mind had finally broken every last wall. There were no bounds left. The physical pain was now more pronounced, more blinding than ever.

Something inside of him wanted to protest. He knew it was all just tricks to weaken him further, to break his resolve. But that part of him remained unheard. Thanos was right. He was useless, inadequate and incompetent.

There were times when his conscience was strong enough to fight against the lies, when he could feel the weak spots in Thanos' power.

And then Thanos would whisper new things to him. All was Malekith´s fault for he had killed Frigga. Thanos could give him what he desired so fiercely – revenge. Revenge on the whole world. But only if he helped him in exchange. His promises were all too similar to those he had uttered when Loki had last found himself in never-ending darkness. Like back then, his words crept up his being like snakes.

And all that pain, that constant pain – whips on his back, on his chest, inside his skull.

It blinded his senses.

It seared his resolve.

"What if he's dead?" Fara spoke against her better judgement. She had not allowed herself to actually linger on him the last couple of days, but a lack of certainty and no visions caused the thought to re-enter her mind.

Thor's eyes remained for a moment on her, but she could not read the emotion behind their warm blue depths. Or perhaps she chose not to. It was shameful enough without having Thor knowing.

That she still thought about Loki, saw him in twisted dreams at night. Saw him dying, being tortured in the most horrid ways. Over and over again. They were always dreams; never prophecies. There was no certainty as to his whereabouts. The scenes she was made to witness each night left her drained the next morning, cold sweat clinging to her form. She knew she would go mad should this continue.

"That too may be possible."

"Serves him right, that bastard." Fandral breathed out, but like all the others he was doubtful that this was indeed the case. The fear that Loki could join Malekith and venture once more against them was both too plausible and too painful. The brittle trust they had forced themselves to offer him after Malekith's appearance in Midgard was now crumbling again like sand in the wind.

He had done it once before – fooled them into thinking he had died only to reappear again. All had mourned then. They would not this time whatever the truth.

(N/A: Warning! Torture)

Then came the day when Malekith's dogs thought of a new punishment. Something more fun, more painful.

And so they dragged Loki out from his tiny black hole as usual. But then surprise sunk in when he realised they were guiding him to a different chamber. And inside there was a table.

He was too weak to climb up and so they pulled his shrivelled form unto the table and bound his arms and legs to each of the corners. He was facing the ceiling and so he became even more confused. Would they not whip him today?

He was so lost in his thoughts that he did not see the needle until they held it before his eyes. The black thread caressed his blood encrusted face, like a worm stroking his nose with its tail. Then the panic started to manifest in his bones. Would they take his sight or his hearing with the pointed utensil? What he had not done in days he did now – he tried to fight back, to free himself. But naturally his weakened limbs possessed not the energy to fight the elven clasps.

Then the needle descended into the soft flesh on the left upper corner of his lips. So instead of fighting he tried biting. Like some wild beast he widened his jaw, parted his mouth and bared his teeth.

What a fool he was! They punished him first for his pointless fussing about. From where they conjured up that knife he never knew but the moment it ripped his face apart he did not care where it had come from. Its cruel blade sliced through the left corner of his lips, then descended deeper through his skin and up towards his cheek bone. He bit down on his tongue until he felt it go numb with pain but that was nothing to the agony of his split cheek. Fire ate at his skin, his bones, his gums. For a moment he feared they would do the same to the other side of his face, but they seemed content enough to let it be.

Instead two held his mouth shut whilst their third companion sew his brittle lips together right up toward his left ear. The Trickster, the Silver Tongue, the Mischiefmaker was now not only bereft of his voice, but of his mouth as well. The rough thread shut his lips bit by bit and Loki felt the elves´ satisfied tucks at the end result. Internally he winced at the new pain. He could taste the blood pouring into his mouth and bile rose up his throat. Fortunately there was nothing in his system he could have retched out because he was certain he would suffocate by it. His forehead and neck were drenched in cold sweat.

He wished it would take an end. Why could he not be allowed mercy? Had he fallen so deep into shame that mercy was beyond his reach? One after the other his mistakes danced before his inner sight. The times he had hurt someone, the times he had broken something, the people he had once loved. For the first time in years he felt the weight of his crimes. Now he was doomed to gradually dissolve as each day took some of his life force. No one pitied him. No one missed him. No one searched for him.

He knew his eyes must have turned to their natural crimson long ago, his broken skin shifting constantly between a sickly white and an icy blue hue.

Fury intermingled with boiling hatred in his veins.

One day he would get his vengeance. And it was not the kind he had yearned for those past years. It was something much stronger, darker, untameable and all-consuming.

A mortal would have given up by now, forced through shock, blood-loss, dehydration or blood-poisoning. But someone like him could not give up on life so easily. It clung to him, its sharp fangs never letting go.

"I think we should all go now and get something into our stomachs. There is nothing more we can do at the moment and it won't do to starve ourselves." Volstagg declared, but it was evident in his grave eyes that even he was more in contemplation over the Aether than breakfast.

The others agreed and so the rest of the day carried in usual fashion.

She hated it. The uncertainty of everything was infuriating. She tried to keep herself occupied with little tasks, but quickly she got bored.

Fara could not help but feel that they were all putting up a farce. Each one tried to ignore their anxieties, but they were evident still to her keen gaze. They all had the same fears. What would become of Jane?

What would become of Asgard?

(N/A: Warning! Torture)

The whipping he had anticipated that day came afterwards. He was so tired, so disgusted. His feet could no longer support his weight and he held unto that familiar post like to an anchor. It was a fight to keep himself up.

The whip cut through the air with an angry hiss.

He could feel himself losing his grip. Were it not for the shackles that bound him to that column he would have tumbled to the ground like some towel. Those were not his usual lashings. The pain ran deeper into his flesh. Tiny blades slid through his torn muscle and grazed his bones.

He bit down hard on his already bruised tongue. He could not afford to open his lips in agony or the thread would tear right through. He had to endure, would not give them the satisfaction of ripping his own face into shreds.

He winced with every cut and pull. His arms, his back, his legs. Was there skin left beneath all that blood? The hooks and blades tore his flesh from his bones, cut through him as if he were but paper.

It felt like eternity.

When they stopped, he could hear soft murmurs and whispers behind him. He could not discern any words, had not the power to listen to them for long.

He fought the blackness that crept over his eyes. He feared it for the new terrors it would surely bring.

The silence was everywhere. It was what he breathed, smelled, tasted in those unending hours inside his little hole.

The only sounds he would hear then were those of his desperately pumping heart and the rush of his blood.

The silence was only broken when they came for him. Then the atmosphere would be broken by the hissing of metal shards and leather strings through the air, the clashing of two blades against each other before sinking into his paper skin. His whimpers sounded only inside his head and he was grateful that the creatures surrounding him could not hear the pathetic sounds his dry throat and sealed lips might otherwise produce.

But Thanos could. He could and he relished in his agony, demanded more and more. Those were his ideas and when he tired of the whippings he instead instructed the elves to torture him in other, slower ways.

You will bring the Aether to me. Again and again he would hear those words through the fog in his mind.

So they opened his barely closed skin anew with strange foreign knifes and threw acid into the bleeding streaks. And cut deeper. And poured more of that fire liquid into his wounds.

Sometimes they drilled holes through his hands and feet. Ran pikes through the maze of sinews, nerves and bones. Not enough to let him die, still not enough. Life was like a disease, a parasite that ate him from the inside out.

Some hours every day. Then they would bring him back to his cell.

And in that cold and unyielding misery his mind clung desperately to that last bit of sanity, reached out to the last sparks of hope, of warmth, of light.

In those darkest moments he imagined himself not alone. Silken curls the shade of honey illuminated his crippled conscience. A delicate hand brushing away the greasy strands of raven hair that stuck to his forehead. A pair of golden orbs his sole source of warmth. Soft whispers that it was alright, that all would be fine.

Sanity was overrated. And he happily let go of it in exchange for those stolen visions of light and comfort.