Mortality || Give-Me-A-Scotch
Loki had always hated the rain. Now, he was both gracious and loathsome of it. It had been pouring down raining since his arrival on Midgard. He was freezing cold and drenched down to the very bone. He could tell that it was autumn, judging by the trees and the colors of their remaining leaves. The temperature was dropping.
He was exhausted. He had been walking for hours, becoming more and more disoriented with each passing minute. It was hard enough to breathe without with his lips sewn haphazardly stitched with twine…He was certain that he would succumb to pneumonia or hypothermia before the infection had time to set in good… And that was fine with him. If he died, it would be yet another slap in the face of the Allfather.
This… punishment was a mockery. It would teach him nothing. Humans were and always would be beneath him. He was not at all remorseful for his actions and his only lament was that he had not won. His magic and abilities had been stripped from him when he was cast out of Asgard- he was mortal, just as Thor had been.
He was not Thor.
It would take more than a harlot with a smile to make him change his ways. It was too late for that now anyway. He had lost the Tesseract. There would be no place safe for him once Thanos began his campaign of the Realms.
The prince ached, and where he did not ache, he was numb. He could no longer feel his extremities by the time he reached the edge of the wood and stumbled into a recreational area of some sorts. There were no people about, thankfully, due to the downpour and he seated himself in a park bench with a small roof overhead. It didn’t do much good because of the wind, which blew a good bit of the rain back on him, but he honestly couldn’t have cared less. He hoped the Allfather was watching.
Without realizing it, he had dipped his head back and was starting to slowly drift out of consciousness… Only vaguely registering the roar of a craft of some sort over the fading sound of the rain.