You will beg for something as sweet as pain…
There are brief moments of horrible lucidity, where the nameless being that knows nothing but the tearing of flesh, the monochrome of reds, and the unending agony, regains self-awareness and remembers that his name is Loki, and he was once a prince of Asgard.
There are moments when his tormentors retreat to let his wounds heal, only to tear them open anew. In the beginning the Chitauri come in waves, as if they recognize that providing relief makes the promise of torment all the more terrible. But when he begins to predict their coming and going, when he tries to prepare himself, they change. Now when they retreat snickering into the shadows, stained with his blood, he knows not if they will return in a few minutes, or a few days.
There are moments when flinching away from their advances causes just as much agony, and he can only scream as they puncture him, burn him, violate him. When is able to crack his eyes open, he sees skin bleeding alternately red and blue. He knows his magic is failing. The silent spark he's known all is life flickers in his chest. The threads of energy slip from his grasp.
The deep cold that has settled on his skin begins to sink deeper into him, as if seeking refuge from the surface wounds they inflict. He thinks he hates that the most: feeling his body revert to its true form in an attempt to save itself. But hate is such a trivial word, now. Hate is the given, unremarkable. As is the pain.
He tries to lose himself in his mind: let his consciousness drift away until the pain is a simple buzzing in the background. But the Chitauri don't allow him even that escape.
"The Allfather was right to cast you out as he did. You were a poison among the Asgardians, the quicksilver that tarnished their gold."
"See how easily your dearest Thor sends you to your doom? He delights in your pain. He blames you for his banishment. He is disgusted to have once thought of you as a brother."
"You deserve everything we do to you. The universe has decreed you worthless. Do you not think you were abandoned on Jotunheim for a reason? Even the monstrous frost giants could sense the failure in you. Odin took you with politics in his heart, not love or compassion. He quickly realized his mistake, didn't he?"
"Your life is a lie. No wonder the truth never escapes your lips. But here, this is the truth: you will never escape. Your body knows it. You disintegrate before us."
"Behold the frost giant, makes play he's still a god."
They whisper to him through jagged teeth, so close to his ears he can feel their hot breath searing his skin. Each remark drags him back to the present, to the rending of flesh, the invasion and desecration of everything he is.
He begins to lose himself. Slowly, slowly, they peel away the layers: He is evil, an enemy of earth. He is falling, a cast-off son. He jealous, an overlooked brother. He is young, a promising student. He is Jotun, a mistake.
He is nothing, as it should be.