Chapter Text
Loki was intimately, unfortunately familiar with Asgard’s dungeons. A warning as a young child became a harsh threat, and finally an all-too-common solution.
Loki acted ungrateful during Thor’s birthday feast? Maybe a night in the dungeons will inspire better behavior. Loki ruined one of Thor’s hunts by using his magic to save his sorry ass? Throw him in there for a week or so, and he would learn. Loki was caught bedding a man? That definitely deserved time in the dungeons, at least a month or two, and a vicious slap in the face. Loki had the gall to challenge the Allfather’s war plans in front of the council, and publicly reveal his sexually deviant ways in the same night? Sew his mouth shut and keep him locked away for a year or maybe a couple more.
Loki sat in the corner of his small cell and watched the drip, drip, drip of water in front of him, noise echoing on mossy, stone walls. It was always a pain to drink from that water. At first, it was the taste, but that usually became a nonissue quickly as desperation overruled any lingering hesitancy. At least his mouth was not stitched shut this time. Getting the water to drip in between the stitches was always inordinately painful.
This time, he could not even drink at all! What, with the gag shoved in his mouth from after New York still in his mouth. It was one less problem to worry about. His trial would most likely be before the dehydration really got to him. The hardy nature of his Jotunn body made him able to withstand dehydration and hunger a little longer than the average Asgardian. Loki chuckled, bitter and choked with the gag—even his body was made to be tortured.
Anyways, it was safe to say he knew these dungeons well. Knew the patrol guard on the third floor favored his left leg, his limp acquired from a prisoner altercation a decade ago. Knew the rattling, rusty lock on the cell he was kept in now. Knew the guard manned in front of him had a tendency to sleep like the dead. Knew the pathways out of the dungeons, multiple chances of freedom.
But this time around, he was really, truly fucked. Loki had led the destruction of Midgard, fought against his brother, worked with Thanos—nevermind the fact he had yet to be punished for nearly eradicating Jotunheim and forcing destruction of the Bifrost. (Nevermind that he hadn’t wanted to.)
Loki was resolutely not thinking about his punishment. Sitting here in his cell, hunger and thirst gnawing, hands bound and far too many bones broken, with Einar the guard snoring outside—he finally had some peace. There was no looming threat of Thanos or scrambling to engineer a plan to save Midgard, no world-altering reveals from his father, no betrayal from a brother who he had never had. There was just Loki.
He had run out of desperation or survival instinct fueling him these last few years. The truth? Loki was tired. So very tired. He was done fighting tooth and nail for misdirected dreams of happiness. Loki was done.
He leaned his head back in the corner of the cell, and let the cool stone walls envelop him.