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It's not as if he had forgotten everything that happened between them. And it's not as if he hasn't tried—because he did—but it was more as if those happy and innocent times they had spent together, served only to highlight that anger and that feeling of betrayal he felt that day, when everything around him fell apart, and he became the monster he is today.
He survived the fall. He confirmed what had been already festering in his head, in the dismissals thrown at him for all that he was different from what was expected from an Aesir, and from an Aesir prince no less—they feared him, they didn't accept him—Loki the Silvertongue, proficient trick-doer. He learnt to not let it bother him, and if it came to get to his skin, he learnt to get revenge.
He was not a trickster—the God of Mischief—for nothing.
He learnt that he was not to be Thor's—the golden prince—equal, but he hoped he could be his right hand-man, the one to protect him, the one to help him protect the Realm. He was well aware that his brother was a fool, far from being the one Asgard needed—he was brash, arrogant, almost obsessed with the need to prove himself a man, a warrior, the one deserving of the throne. He lacked tact, could not help his temper, and more often than not let his anger blind him. Loki knew that, if Thor were ever to ascend to the throne with those traits, it would only lead to his own destruction, and of Asgard with him.
He was still willing to do anything to protect his brother, no matter how underhanded it was. He would do what his brother would not—what his sense of honor did not let him do.
And then he discovered what he truly was—and he discovered truth.
In the end, no matter what he did, it would never be enough. Odin Allfather said as much, in that place where all that he knew off was crushed. And so he fell, his—not—brother's eyes as he did so haunting him.
How dare he? How dare Thor look at him that way, with pity in his eyes, despair in his eyes, when he understood nothing, knew nothing?! Always the golden child, always loved by all of Asgard—the golden hero, the future king.
He had a long time to ponder on those thoughts, as the fall seemed to go on eternally, never-ending—time seemed inexistent, his mind going numb and overactive at the same time, festering on anger—how dare they underestimate me?—on betrayal—so it was never really enough what he accomplished, how could you permit yourself get snared by a mere mortal—on hurt—so that was the reason behind it all, why Father would always look at me that way, I can never catch it up to you.
He let his mind fester on them.
Then he met the Chitauris.
And throughout all that happened after that, till he was captured, he was not able to get those blue, blue eyes –those eyes filled with something he did not dare to name—out of his mind, leading him to more determination, to more hatred, to a desire to quench that feeling—he refused to name it—that made him weak, that made him want to destroy everything that Thor held dear here, in this puny Midgar.
And then, he failed.
He had lacked conviction, that mortal had said.
Unlike his not-brother–they weren't kin, and he would not let himself forget that—truth, he knew, was not something that Loki could brand like a golden banner.
-.-.-
What the meaning of that contraption upon his mouth was? Ah, it was meant to demean him more, a symbol meant to show how his silvertongue was against what any proud warrior of Asgard should strive for.
It was meant to show him his place.
He had lacked conviction, hadn't that mortal said that?
He refused to think any more about how that supposedly lack of conviction of his had him landed there, captured by this of a—former—brother. Cuffed as he was, bested now as he was, he forced himself his old self-taught act of patience, bidding himself time, even if the stares of those mortals bored into him, irritating him to no end. They knew nothing. Thor's eyes, though—centuries of practice was what allowed him to let his own green eyes betray nothing back, as if only waiting for the thunderer to make his move.
Both of their hands on opposite sides of the Theserat—always on opposite sides, always, now didn't they—and they were gone.
-.-.-
He was already used to the sneers behind his back. Now, without his brother's (not really his brother), without the Allfather's open protection, the sneers turned onto vicious whispers not bothered to be concealed, the whole court a mass of whispering noises and pointing fingers and stares at his direction.
Let them talk.
The whispers became more gleeful as he was forced to kneel, aided by Thor no less.
"Loki Odinson"—a dark eyebrow raised itself at that—"You have disgraced yourself and caused much destruction and death in both Asgard and Midgard, well beyond mere mischief and trickery." Odin Allfather's word boomed already, loudly, reaching to all those filling the room. He surely looked like the King he was, seated high on the Throne, the Queen by his side. Loki refused to meet her eyes.
"This time, I shall not let it pass. You shall be punished, Loki." The voice carried such finality, and Loki reminded himself that whatever thread that connected them was severed that day on the Bifrost, by those simple two words. The Trickster let nothing pass through those green eyes of him, except arrogance and mockery.
Let it be, then.
Thor's hand on his shoulder gripped harder. Foolish brother, was he still worried for him? He had no such time for that.