A/N: I apologize for the delay in a new chapter. If you're still reading this, you're awesome.

Pain.

Relentless. Constant. It ate away at him, tore his flesh and disintegrated his bones. Sleep became a distant memory, and the nightmares of his past became the long, excruciating force of reality. Voices whispered, nails dragged into his mangled skin. Their torture was unceasing, ever violent in progression. He knew not of the sorcery they possessed, but it was founded in an evil he had never known.

They would not let him die. No...

He could not die.

Blades of shining hot metal pierced his heart, slit his throat, spilled his blood. Hands as cold as death wrapped around his throat and choked until his vision blackened and he would awake with a start, gasping, as dizziness overcame him and laughter sounded in his ears (always laughing). His hair was set on fire, his tongue was ripped from his mouth, his eyes gouged from his head, all of this over

and over

and over

again.

His dark art, Thanos' utter control of life and death and power fueled their unyielding punishments, bringing him back to life when they had taken the soul from his body, rejuvenating his sight and flesh and blood repeatedly only to butcher him once more.

Thanos held within his hands the very dominion over life and death and Loki was certain he had the patience of an eternity to continue his wicked controls.

There was no day. Only night. Always night. Dark and mysterious, wrapping misty fingers about his heart and brain, slowly and patiently draining the life from him until there was nothing else for him to give.

Yet despite it all, they made certain - they made absolutely sure, no matter what it was they did, that he never lost his sense of hearing. That no matter how much he might want to block out their taunts, or the scraping of metal sharpening metal, or the laughter or footsteps or even his very screams, that he would always be aware of it, always listening.

Always.

"And where are they, Odinson? What keeps the Allfather from coming to your rescue? Where is your league of soldiers, marching with hearts set on your defense?"

"Listen to how he screams, like a maiden, like a whimpering child - "

"For who could possibly love such a disgrace to the very foundations of Asgard?"

"...unable to defend himself, he would dare to call himself a warrior - "

"And what useless blood beats within that immoral heart, that he would fall from the realm Eternal and be forgotten like an unwanted infant..."

"Gods no," he whispered to himself as he hung from his chains, blinded once more from their fingers popping his eyes out like fruit, but always able to feel to feel to feel the blood running down his face, always always always.

"No one is coming for you," The Other would whisper, and indeed, it what was he had begun to know the first creature to have visited him in his stone prison as. "You have been forgotten, worthless prince. No one remembers your name, nor the crimes you have committed. You are but the dirt they shook from their clothing and they have moved on. You are alone."

You are alone.

Shame burned within him like a wretched flame, growing hot and heavy in chest until he could no longer bear it. It was as if some other force had taken control, and he could no longer stop his own tears from pouring or the cries that ripped from his throat. He did not want to give them that satisfaction but he could not stop it, could not regain the control he had lost long ago.

Lost, lost creature.

And it is when they come again, mouths curved into wicked smiles and he is released from his chains and he falls to the ground in a broken heap, unmoving, staring up at the sky with sight restored and he finds himself thinking, how very beautiful it is.

How very beautiful.

Until rough hands grab ahold once more and he is carried (dragged) across the barren landscape and tossed into a stinking pit. The smell hits his sense before he himself hits the muck, and he is suddenly overwhelmed with the stench of waste, slimy and hot and reeking. He gargles uselessly beneath as he pushes himself to the side of the pit, grabbing ahold of out jutting rocks there, gagging and desperate to climb, to get out, to breathe.

But those hands, those strong, evil hands, grab him and shove him beneath until he swallows it down, struggling uselessly, and he is certain he is dead, they have let it happen this time, he has drowned.

But no...

He is lifted just before, lifted back up onto solid ground and he collapses onto his stomach, heaving and dizzy and nauseous until his body shudders and he vomits - spewing forth the feces that had found its way in, and the smell of it makes it all the worse and he cannot stop, cannot stop the agonizing cramping of his muscles, even when nothing else is coming out.

And someone kicks him in the ribs and stars dance before his vision and all of a sudden it changes and he is no longer dry heaving, he is vomiting again, but this time it is red and thick and something registers in his brain that this

is

blood.

The sight had become so familiar.

And for reasons he will never know, it brings forth a flash of horrid memories - memories he had thought long since forgotten, of when he was but a child and had fallen under some mysterious illness that had kept him bedridden for weeks, vomiting constantly until yes, blood had come forth. So much of it. And the healers had gone nearly mad with panic, trying various remedies that only served to make it worse and he remembered feeling so certain he was going to die.

Until...until someone had realized that the illness itself was not wrought of anything physical, but was of a spiritual realm, a curse of sorts, and that the Vanir would surely have a remedy.

A remedy they had not been willing to give up.

And he remembered, though it had been told to him after, that Thor had taken it upon himself to travel through long nights and dangerous territory to lead a foolhardy expedition to attain by force the particular potion to save his brother. And though it wrought much controversy and brought the realms to the brink of war, he had succeeded and many, including Loki himself, attributed his actions to the saving of his life.

And he is rushed viciously back to the present, gazing down upon the crimson puddles and a crippling, heart-wrenching longing fills him and tears blur his vision and he struggles for control as he is beaten once more. He suddenly cannot stop, cannot control his own traitorous tongue and he cried out not in pain this time, but he cried out for him.

"Oh Thor!" he sputtered over the sounds of his bones breaking. "Oh T-Thor, gods, brother, save me. Thor, please...p-please c-come and..." His hair is torn from his head and he can no longer hear the sound of his heart. "Oh please Thor," he whispered. "Please Thor, make it stop."

Thor.

THOR.

THOR SAVE ME PLEASE, I BEG OF YOU, I BEG -

Loki awakened with a start, darkness bathing every inch of his surroundings. He thrashed about wildly, desperately as some sort of...net? clung viciously to him and would not break its hold. The harder he fought, the tighter it clung until he suddenly found himself falling, smashing hard onto the wooden surface. A gasp escaped his lips at the same time confusion clouded his senses and he lied there, on his stomach, not moving an inch.

Wooden surface?

He reached down slowly, heart pounding angrily against his ribs (whole, healthy bones) and another choked gasp flew from his mouth when he felt the soft fabric beneath them.

A blanket. He was touching a blanket.

Realization was slowly dawning as he drew his knees closer, underneath his body to slowly stand, the blanket that had trapped him falling to the floor. Something...something was not right. He knew where he was, he could never forget this place if he tried -

Something pulled in his heart and he clenched his jaw. Raising his hands slowly from his sides, he mouthed a silent spell and watched in transfixed awe as light sparkled from his fingers and danced about to illuminate exactly where he was.

His bedroom. In the palace.

Home.

And not only that, but his magic...it had worked. He could use it, there were no restraints on it, it was wholly his again...

A shaky breath escaped his lips and he ran desperate hands through his hair. Is this possible, how can it be, was it only a...?

"Loki?" He jumped at the sound of his name and turned swiftly, hands already pulsing with energy until he finally registered the sight before him.

"Mother?" he whispered and a smile crept slowly across her graceful features.

"Are you alright?" she responded in a similar tone. "I heard a crash..."

"I...I am fine," he croaked, unable to take his eyes off of her. "Mother, mother, what...what is this? Why am I here? What is -"

"Dear boy, what troubles you?" She entered slowly into his room, eyeing him carefully. "Are you well?"

"The...the Void," he murmured, taking a step away from her. "Thanos, the fall, mother, what is happening."

"Loki," she said, coming to stand directly in front of him. "You are scaring me. What is it that you are speaking of?" Loki watched her with wide, wide eyes and he spared his shaking hands a glance as the light danced about them.

Gods, but it had...it had seemed so real...

"It was just a dream," he whispered and tears of such genuine joy filled his eyes then and he looked at her...he looked at his mother, who looked so very confused and concerned and he launched himself into her arms, pulling her close into him, whispering over and over to himself, it was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream...

"Loki, my love," she whispered gently, rubbing small circles into his back with one hand as the other ran through his hair. "A bad dream? Poor boy..."

"Oh mother, oh mother, I'm sorry," he whimpered, holding her tighter. "Mother please, I'm so sorry, please..."

"Whatever are you apologizing for?" she whispered. He trembled in her arms and wondered how...how this could be. When...when exactly was this? His mind was slowly catching up to him and in his relief he had somehow forgotten...

Thor's banishment. Laufey's death. The battle on the bridge. If he was home, then how was it he was back in his chambers, with his mother embracing him so?

This was not right.

"Mother," he said slowly. She did not respond. Her arms about him, though, were tightening. "Mother, let me go."

"I think not," she said, but it was not her voice, not her gentle tone. She squeezed and he let her go, trying to push against her shoulders to get away but she would not release him. "Not just yet, dear prince. I'm not yet finished with you." His heart dropped heavily in his chest and it was then he began to fight, struggling uselessly against the supernatural hold, breaths coming in frantic, terrified pants.

"You're...you're hurting me," he wheezed and she started shaking against him and he could not figure out what she was doing until an uncharacteristic cackle sounded against his ear.

"Is that not what you deserve?" she said, voice deep and threatening and he watched in horror as the walls about him began to crumble and disappear and he closed his eyes, no no no no no -

He somehow was not surprised when the hold on him lessened and he was shoved forcefully, flying back several feet until he hit the all-too-familiar earth and the ache in his bones crept silently up his spine.

A trick, a trick, all a dirty trick.

Left in shambles, he watched them approaching once again as the last of the illusion faded, and he could not stop the tears. Could not stop the sobs that wracked his body as they beat him with their guns. But it was not from the pain. Not from the pain this time.

Just the hopelessness.