The power. Such a lovely sensation if brought, such a doom it could become. He had been rendered useless by the lack of it and by the need to find it; thrown into an insulting abyss fighting to go back in time. The regret, it was held within him, and the anger remained. He couldn't understand, rather he didn't want to understand; answers floating right before his eyes. He had fallen. He was done for. What he had fought for the hardest, was now forever out of his reach, redemption held far too highly for what he now deserved.
He had been falling for so long, floating, unable to control his path, coming in and out of consciousness. As gravity pulled him, his speed increased. Still conscious and very much aware of what surrounded him, his arms were placed in front of his face, trying to shield it from the strong wind. He felt himself become engulfed by a cold liquid which he assumed to be water, his fall causing massive amount of it to fly upwards. As he was taken over and pulled even deeper into the vast mass, his sorcery immediately told him where he was. Weakness overtook him, but his sense of survival triggered what little magical strength he had left and as he was tossed around by waves, he closed his eyes and focused on disappearing.
Probably almost a whole hour had gone by since he first set his foot on soft dark sand, and still, he could not bring himself to get up from his lying position, catching his breath, thinking. He was not one of feelings. True enough, he had felt strong feelings during the recent events, and still, they did not compare to how strong the confusion and the dishonor he felt at the moment.
He found hard to believe it, to believe it all, but most of all, he found it hard to understand why he couldn't regret what had happened. Not only was he the god of mischief, he was held as no ignorant. Regardless, he thought himself ignorant as he accepted what he had done. He had done wrong, but the only wrong done had been accomplished by not succeeding.
He felt offended, hurt and alone. His doom would not be his emotional instability which kept him from wanting to move or get up as he remained while grasping his upper left arm with his right hand. His doom was brought by his physical damage, though as a god he would heal fast, he was very much wounded and not yet ready for anything which might come.
And, oh, did someone come.
Days had gone by, but he did not heal, he had no opportunity to do so. Strange creatures had greeted him, but not in a kind way but in a violent one. He gritted his teeth but did not move, being already aware of the presence of others. He could feel his end coming, and he found it hard to believe that it would have to finish that way. Though he would not admit it, the hate and anger within him was as of late towards not his 'family' but towards himself.
But after the torture, the darkness and the forlornness had washed over the prince and once again brought that feeling of loss of purpose, an unexpected proposal came, not by his capturers but by a voice darker than Death itself. Loki could not escape it, after all, he had begged for an end to the pain to a point where he offered his abilities.
His request had been heard and accepted.