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Waking up felt strange.
There was an intense pain pervading his body and he struggled to breathe.
Something kept him from taking the deep breaths he wanted to; something was in the way. Like the time Thor had placed the damn hammer on his chest. But this was different. It hurt.
He couldn't remember. The pain dulled his thoughts; the sleep wanted to pull him under again. He struggled against it.
Why? It's supposed to be over.
He wasn't sure why he was thinking that. It was like another voice inside his mind, disconnected from himself.
His veins were burning too, like something was trying to burrow out of them and into his cells, throbbing incessantly.
I've been poisoned.
But no, it still felt wrong. Something had happened, something he couldn't remember.
Jane?
Now, why would he think about Thor's mortal dalliance in all this? It hardly made any sense.
She had slapped him. Quite impressive, he had to admit. She clearly wasn't one easily intimidated by "gods".
He had protected her. Ah, now it was beginning to clear. Thor's foolish mission to shield Asgard from the dark elves. He had come to his cell...
"Thor, you fool!" he wheezed, gasping against the pain penetrating his chest from the effort.
All was quiet. The aftermath of a storm, he could feel it in the air.
They were gone. He had protected them, saved them, and they were gone. Left him for dead.
I should be dead. Why am I not?
For a moment he wondered if they would send someone to retrieve his body or just leave him to rot. The latter was more likely. Odin wouldn't care to give him a proper funeral and Thor would be harshly punished for treason. If he even survived the inevitable confrontation with Malekith.
And if he didn't, it wouldn't matter. The world, as they knew it, would be gone; the nine realms plunged into darkness.
He felt an urge to laugh but managed to resist it. The pain would be unbearable.
The hard ground was digging into his back, a fact he was just beginning to take notice of. It was a minor nuisance in all but it kept becoming more uncomfortable. He wanted to move but hesitated.
Summoning his magic, he began examining his body, pushing down the fear of what he would find. Even though he was alive the damage might be too great. He might be left paralyzed, unable to move, slowly perishing from thirst...
Damn it, Thor! Couldn't you have made sure I was really dead?
The worst injury was in his chest. Yes, his senses already told him that. The spear had gone in right below the rib cage, barely missing the organs, and out through his back.
The blood loss would have been immense. Yet, his life essence was replenishing. The wounds were already closing, his magic told him. It was the process of healing that caused the pain.
It shouldn't be possible.
He had been injured before, of course, but never this severely. Never on the brink of death.
He'd seen others perish in battle; he'd known there was no coming back from this. He'd been honest in his last words to Thor, convinced he would not be around to regret them.
The pain was easing. He dared move his fingers, then his hands.
Don't be a coward.
Gritting his teeth at the scolding voice in his head, all too familiar, he forced himself to move.
Rolling over on his side caused a coughing fit that almost made him vomit. Slowly, shaking, he rose on his knees and elbows, keeping his head low till the dizziness eased. There was a large, dark stain where his blood had seeped into the ground.
I shouldn't be alive.
It was the second time now, death had tasted him and spat him out. It seemed that neither Hel nor Valhalla wanted a part of him.
He laughed, no longer minding the pain, then he cried.
Abandoned by all, owned by none.
Sitting up, he swallowed the tears. If this was another chance, he would take it, make the best of it. He did not come back for nothing.
They would not put him in a cell again.