Jotun Prince

Darkness

         The moments following Loki's recapturing were not particularly pleasant for anyone involved.

         Loki had been generally compliant as long as Thor was within his sight but as soon as they had dipped down below the glorious city into the damp darkness of the dungeons, things got ugly.

        All at once there were too many hands holding him, touching his skin, and making him feel claustrophobic. He'd almost forgotten this feeling, he was almost a fool for more or less forcing himself back into this dynamic. This was better. He reminded himself. There were less false pretenses.

        The hands pushed him down to the ground.

There were so many of them.

         The dungeons were so dark, he couldn't see. He could only feel. He'd forgotten what it was like to live in darkness. He'd lived most of his life that way. It was an unnatural way to grow up. Darkness was where things went to die, he'd been born in it.

The hands were searching him, checking for weaponry, anything sharp.

They were pushing down on him, rubbing his face in the damp dungeon floor.

         They had always been pushing down, he had always been beneath them, tangled in their grasps. He pushed up against their weight. He was relentless in this act. Eventually he was on his feet. He couldn't see but he could feel the warmth of thousands of bodies around him.

        There were not, in fact, thousands but there may as well have been.

         Loki was punching, biting, clawing. He was ravenous and he was wild and he could not see. The hands were quick to retaliate but he would not be still. He tasted blood. There were so many hands holding him, pushing him down, tearing into him. His mind slipped, his body went limp.

He tasted blood.