Chapter Text
The silence was far less a punishment than the darkness. Loki Laufeyson would far rather be stricken deaf than blind; to stumble through the endless black, the choking deep that unfurled solid fingers and dug into his white skin to make him a faceless part of it, was worse than death itself. He’d grown up in a palace he’d believed to be made of light, where color and warmth were as the very breath he took. There was never any absence of sun or star to mark the passage of time--not like here. Alone in the shadows, eternity passed with every breath.
There was truly no sleep for the wicked. He had no way to tell when his eyes were truly closed. The stones beneath him and the shackles around his wrists provided his only bond to this plane; otherwise, he was simply floating in the abyss again, with nothing to support his back, no strong arm around him, no comforting rustle of silk across skin. Just.. nothing.
Sometimes, though, there was hope. It was faint and small, but it arrived with three women like a beacon in the midst of a raging tempest. The woman up front held the delicate thing, the sole source of sanity in this forsaken place--a lantern he might’ve considered simple, when he was still a proud prince. Glass was frosted in whorls of opaque white and yellow, trimmed in thin bars of white iron and shaped into parallel designs of petals emerging from the last snow of winter. The handle was perfect for a woman’s small hand. Her white fingers clutched it as if it were a weapon, but he admired the shape nonetheless. The small bars gathered into the shape of a graceful stem, one tiny leaf reaching out to rest over her finely-shaped knuckles. He saw her fierce eyes, the angry set of her brow and tightness of her mouth, but still nearly wept with joy. Like a fool, he leaned toward that light and bit back a cry when it touched his face. He felt no heat, no physical touch, but Valhalla had finally penetrated the tomb of Loki the Traitor, and he would be grateful.
Their footsteps rang in his ears like funeral bells in Midgard. Although he wished to retreat from them, he remained still just for a chance to enjoy a few more moments of light. He followed it with his entire body, arching with the curve as the maiden set the lantern down on the floor far enough away that he couldn’t reach even if he strained against the chains. They kept most items out of arm’s reach, even though he had no use of his hands. Standard practice, he knew; prisoners were considered dangerous, any trinket considered a weapon no matter how great or small. Loki might’ve been stubborn as a true son of Odin Allfather, but he no longer had the will to fight anyone. He was damned to die here, or to go mad, so he would cling to sanity as long as he could, even if it came in the form of a cheap lantern.
They didn’t speak to him. He knew their faces from exactly twice before. The similarity of their eyes and the set of their jaw suggested a shared father. All three had the same flaxen locks braided back over slim shoulders, simple jewelry adorning their throats and wrists. The second woman carried covered buckets. The third carried his muzzle.
His jaw ached when he set eyes on the wretched thing. It was fit to render his Silver Tongue completely useless, and as barbaric as it was, she served her purpose. A few small eternities ago, Loki fought her. Half a dozen servants grabbing him and wrestling him to the ground wasn’t nearly enough; it wasn’t until two Einherjar clubbed the backs of his legs and crushed fists to his temples that he took the muzzle for the first time. Finely-crafted, it seemed to be created just for Loki Laufeyson. It filled his mouth, held his tongue down, and rendered his jaw immobile once it was locked behind his head. He recalled shouting that it was an insult, unfit to be used against the son of Odin.
He, however, was no son of Odin. So he chose not to fight when the eldest approached with conviction. He remained on his knees, head bowed forward, and without a word from her, obediently parted his lips to wait. Soon came the taste of metal, followed by the small click of a lock. He glanced up at her and with grief, saw that her eyes were blue.
His arms came up next, hoisted up by a chain that attached to the center of his shackles. The eldest pulled them high over his head, until he stood to his full height, legs popping as they unstretched. He hated being forced to stand, as it left the lantern seemingly miles below; in the darkness again, he felt small fingers slip over his plain prison clothing. The laces fell away like ash in the wind, leaving him bare (so very bare and exposed and helpless, just like always!). The breeches slipped down his legs and caught over one foot.
When one of the ladies pulled the cloth away, his breath caught in his chest. He wished to be treated as an animal, so he could just hate them all, yet one... just one, tenderly lifted up his foot, tipped it forward, and pulled the rest of his clothing away. Then, he felt her hand, soft as a feather, brush over his ankle in a touch that reminded him so much of his mother (Thor’s mother, you fool, she was never yours!) when he’d run to her, so very afraid and so very uncertain.
The touch was gone. It was replaced on his cheeks, as cool tears from eyes that were so tired of unseeing.