It's quiet in here.

It's really, really quiet.

Every now and then, he'll hear a noise from outside the room, some reminder that somebody is out there, but nobody's come in since Natasha and Carol left. Every footstep he hears he expects to be Natasha coming to tell him what to do next. She has to come and tell him what to do next.

He's seated on the mattress, his legs pulled up to his chest with his wraps wrapped around them tight. His gaze flickers around the room, but there's nothing to look at. Even as his vision starts to return to normal, as the world grows more clear, there's nothing to look at. The room is a dull gray on three sides, with a pane of darkened glass on the other. There are no decorations. There's no color. There's nothing.

He wants to do something. He wants to get up. He wants to pace back and forth. He wants to move. But he can't. Natasha told him to stay in bed, so he's going to stay in bed.

He rocks back and forth, just to do something. How long has he been sitting here? Hours? Days? Minutes? He doesn't know. Time seems frozen in this deserted room.

Loki grabs his head, squeezing his eyes closed. "I can't do this," he whispers. "I can't do this." He can't keep sitting here. He can't handle the silence. He can't handle the occasional noise that breaks it, giving him hope that somebody is going to rescue him, only to be left disappointed and alone every time.

He flops back on the bed, sprawling himself out on the mattress. "I can't do this," he mumbles to himself. He can't do this. He's not going to do this.

Loki cups his hands around his mouth and yells, "Heimdall!" Heimdall has to see him. Heimdall sees everything. So where is he? "Heimdall, I need you! I need help! Please!"

Nothing happens.

Of course nothing happens.

If Heimdall was going to send somebody to help him, he would have done it already. He knows the truth, though he doesn't want to admit it. He's been abandoned. Asgard has abandoned him. They already lost the only prince they cared for. Why would they rescue the one they never wanted? They never wanted him as their king. They never wanted a Frost Giant on the throne of Asgard.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He doesn't know who he's whispering to. His people? His family? His brother, who would still be alive if he hadn't goaded him into a war he was all too eager to fight? He doesn't know. He's just... sorry. He's so, so sorry.

"Heimdall!" Loki cries. "Heimdall, you cannot leave me here! You have to bring me home! Somebody has to bring me home! I–"

He cuts himself off.

I am your king.

But he's not, is he?

He pretended he was. As the second son of Odin, the throne should have fallen to him after Thor's death, and there was nobody but Frigga to say otherwise. There was nobody to make it known that he wasn't the son of Odin; that he didn't have any claim to the throne. So everybody went along with it. They followed his orders. They trusted him.

But Heimdall knows the truth.

Heimdall knows that he shouldn't be king. He knows that Loki has no claim to the throne. And maybe the rest of Asgard does, too. He doesn't know how long has passed. Long enough for Odin to wake up. Long enough for the truth to come out. Long enough for Asgard to decide they have no more use for him.

The throne will do better in the hands of one of Asgard's warriors than it would in those of a Frost Giant.

Loki rolls over, burying his face in his pillow. "I want to go home," he mumbles. "I can't do this. I want to go home."

But he can't go home.

Because Natasha told him to stay in bed, and he has no choice but to listen.