Many thanks to Aublanc, my beta for this story.
Apologies for getting off schedule. I'll post two chapters today to make up for it.
Title: Ye Olde Hope
Prompt: "The energy of passions and obsessions; You become what you think about all day long."
Warnings: Mental Imbalance, Mention of Torture, Thoughts of Assisted Suicide (sort of)
The God of Mischief threw back his head and laughed in the face of his would-be tormentors, crimson dripping from his mouth and the gouges so great in number that he'd quite lost count. It mattered little that they'd been quick to take his tongue. His vocalizations still served well enough to annoy his captors.
But he had no illusion that he'd keep even that small comfort for much longer. As inept as they were at torture, as imbecilic as these honorable Aesir were, even they might be driven to a breaking point; his goal, of course. He had no wish to live out his days in this contemptible prison, healing old wounds and regrowing limbs only to suffer the same indignities again and again, century after century.
And what purpose apologies for a crime he felt no guilt at committing? What purpose apologies for a crime not of his choosing, not of his making, a crime that was never and would never be his and his alone? What purpose apologies never accepted and words never heard?
None.
So the Father of Chaos laughed, the glint of madness in his eye.
Soon.
Soon.