The screams from the people above him was like a beautiful melody for him. He could feel the smell of burned flesh, smoke and death. He could hear people scream in agony and almost taste the fear in the air.
Asgard was falling, and he was still trapped in the dungeons, completely forgotten. He found that hilarious, but all that left his sewn lips was a digusting and choked imitation of a laughter.
The universe was on fire, and all he could do was to smile a broken, bloody smile.
He started to pull the chains that were trapping him. A cracking noise was made as every bone in his hand broke, letting him slip out of the shackle binding him. He laughed again, and laughed ever more as he felt how the stiches broke, tearing and scaring his lips. He rose, his legs shaking as he did so like they wanted to buckle beneath him.
His hysterical laughter filled the room, because Ragnarrök was here and it was so perfect and hilarious.
And somehow, it was his fault. He had been trapped in a dungeon in years, and he still caused the fall of the worlds.
He was Loki, of nothing.
And everything he touched turned to ash.