Loki shakes, in both the dark confines of writhing shadows and the blinding shine of daylight, and the tremors reach every expanse of his skin, cutting deeper and deeper to the bone. He sleeps, but tries to avoid it, too fearful of the whispers that haunt him, and his eyes are darker, and he feels like noticing it because that is the only thing to notice, sitting in a glass prison with just his gaunt reflection to keep him company.

His cheekbones are more pronounced, and he sometimes hooks a finger behind the bone just to see if it hurts-does he even feel pain anymore?-and has long since abandoned his surprise at the fact that it doesn't. His hair is tangled, knotted in all sorts of places, dark ebony giving way to faded color as he rots in his cell, and his limbs feel as heavy as anvils, despite looking pounds lighter-he's just skin, and he's starting to lose the small amount of muscle tone he once had.

His magic, as well, is depleted, and it feels as if someone took his insides and tied them up and shoved them back in, knotting the ends off and connecting them to other places. He feels as if his very essence has been taken, and Loki thinks, fleetingly-because he can barely hold a thought for longer than a few seconds-, that his soul, his core, has been stolen, and all that's left is a decaying hole that will soon swallow him from the inside out.

At first, he'd talk to the guards, mock them and their stoic ways, tasting the fear lying in their eyes and drawing from it, but he has given up on taunting them, instead choosing to sit and look at the white of the floor, or the white of the ceiling, or the faint transparency of the glass walls, and he hopes that if he looks at himself long enough, he will see what Frigga sees, or what Thor once saw, or what Odin saw so many years ago. He watches and waits and sits and hopes that he will find that glimmer of hope his brother-not, hatred, hurt, pain, kill-had spoken so stubbornly of.

Maybe he will look inside himself and see the reason why Frigga had embraced him, given him sweet shelter within her arms as he'd wept in his youth, lovingly carding her long fingers through his mess of black hair, kissing the top of her son's (monster's) head.

Why had she done such things, such wonderful actions that smothered the most awful lie?

Loki finds that he's beginning to wonder about a lot of things, and each question takes him deeper and deeper into a pit he cannot climb out of, and the gleam in his eyes flares up at the idea, and then it dies just as quickly, and he thinks-flare, die, flare, struggle, struggle-fight, fight, fight.

Fight the questions, and the pain, and the sickness deep inside him.

Fight the lies, and the torment, and the years leaving bright flashes at the backs of his eyes.

Fight, but he can't, and he rests limply against the wall, and it hurts to move because there are still fresh cuts and bruises across his body, and he doesn't want to mistake the rustle of his tattered clothing for the eerie laughter of those who-hurt, something as sweet, kill, agony, agony-will, sooner or later, come for him.

Loki does not fight because he can't, and the battle inside his mind finally gives out, both sides losing as they're consumed by his innate desire to just be-to take and control and have-and he resists the urge to let his skin turn blue-he doesn't want to see the monster on the outside, too.

Flare, fight, fight…fade.

THE END. I was going to do a few more, but I think it's best that I just stick with the main people. Please R&R! Feedback is always appreciated! ;)

Thanks for reviewing, everybody! ;)