A Falling Bluebird

Burning

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Loki cowered in the corner, shoving himself as far away from the light as he possibly could. Even then, the deep shadow he shivered in appeared to be bathed in hot, bright light to his new eyes, though he knew that couldn't be. He knew the dungeons to be cool, but each breath sent a firestorm down his throat, the air itself was a forest fire clawing at his skin.

Odin had stripped his magic from him, as well as whatever unnatural ability allowed him to shift forms, apparently. The All-Father had then reclaimed his throne, leaving Loki to rot in Asgard's dungeon. No trial, no-one told of what had happened. Stripped of his Æsir façade, he was unrecognisable, and torture apparently wasn't necessary – Asgard's climate did it for her King.

Everything had fallen apart when Odin appeared at midnight in Loki's bedchamber. It had been strange, seeing the face he had made his own for what had to have been months at that point. Evidently, Midgard hadn't been good enough for the old dictator. Nothing had been said between them, all Odin had to do was chant some foreign words and whatever glamour kept Loki looking how he did was gone, and he had fallen into a panicked heap, shivering on the floor at the despot's feet. When he regained his senses, his magic was gone and he had been dumped in a cell.

Food was delivered once a day, maybe. It was impossible to tell the time. But each instance the Einherjar fed him meagre rations, they delivered a beating as well. Disgust on their faces, force behind their blows and slurs on their lips. Perhaps they recognised him. Even if they did, he doubted that would change how he was treated.

And Loki cowered in his corner.

His eyes were wrong; they stung at what should have been pitch black.

His skin was wrong, burning at the heat, and even Æsir touch.

Everything was wrong.

He tried, sometimes, to make that wrongness go away. But all that happened was his cell filled with blood, the wrong colour. Then there was a change: hotter, brighter, more pain. Then back to his cell, where he squinted and cowered, until he tried again.

♛ ♕ ♚ ♔ ♜ ♖ ♝ ♗ ♞ ♘ ♟ ♙

More time had passed. He thought.

Or perhaps it hadn't? Maybe what felt like years had only been months, weeks, hours. He couldn't know.

At first, he had thought someone would come. Odin, declaring he had paid the price. The Avengers? To gloat? Maybe Thor. But no-one, except the shadows of Frigga flickering at the edges of his vision.

Eventually, he stopped thinking about it, or he tried to, anyway. He didn't want to dwell on what could happen. He just had to wait. All-Father couldn't leave him indefinitely?

He would be rescued. By Thor or Odin or Frig- no, she died, she died she died. By somebody.

Somebody to help the something.

It was thoughts like that which made the prisoner snigger to itself.

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Warmth.

Heat. Too bright. Too loud.