There is nothing but blue, Loki thinks as he takes another step toward the heart of Jotunheim. In the cool, unforgiving light of the moon he can just make out the stiff, dark spires of the palace; they rise proud and mean into the midnight-coloured sky and cast languorous, snaking shadows over the fallen snow. More snow falls still, coming in little gusts and flurries and sprinkling itself over his shoulder-guards, his black hair, his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose. He breathes in slowly, the icy air invading his nostrils and filling his lungs. It feels like his chest is full of broken glass; and yet the sensation is not unfamiliar, or even uncomfortable. He brings a hand up and examines it as the skin begins to bruise – no – it begins to blacken, like gangrene – but no, no – his fingers shade themselves deep blue.
His eyes widen a little. Odin really wasn't lying. His chest tightens a little, and his jaw clenches. I still can't believe it. He won't believe that – that he is one of these, one of these blood-eyed monsters, the ones he was taught to fear and hate, to despise, to loathe. His eyes are still locked on his fingers when they fade back to the creamy porcelain he is so used to.
Lowering his hand shakily, Loki turns around and scans the far-flung horizon of Jotunheim for that glimmer – the gateway. I need to get home. It is nowhere to be found. He squints a little, and steps slowly forward, away from the citadel walls and the palace in the distance. Surely Heimdall has not left him here, with no way to return home?
"Heimdall! I must return to Asgard!" he yells into the air. Nothing but hollow echoes answers him, his voice thrown back by the ice and rock around him. He pauses. The thick silence rings in his ears. I am all alone.
"Welcome home," a voice rasps harshly at his left. He whips around. There is no one there.
"Are you not my son, Loki?" the voice continues, coming now from the other side. Loki feels a sharp chill shoot down between his shoulder-blades. Laufey. He inhales sharply and squeezes his eyes shut. I am not.
"I am not," he replies, his voice wavering. I am not.
"Is this not your true origin, your true parentage? Do you not feel...at home?" Laufey growls. "Your power would increase tenfold if only you embraced your true form."
Loki's eyes fly open, but still no one can be seen. Laufey conceals himself yet.
"Asgard is my home," he says, forcing the words through gritted teeth. He stares straight ahead.
"Asgard? None are your kin there. You are alone there."
Loki moves his lips to speak. No sound comes out.
"You recall, do you not, the court's derision at your sorcery? Their calls of 'Parlour tricks! Children's games!' and their drunken guffaws?"
He shakes his head slowly, mutely, backing away from the sound of Laufey's voice.
"It is, I am sure, fresh in your mind, how quick they were to dismiss your suggestions at the winter council, how eager they were to fault your every breath."
Loki's eyes scrunch tightly closed once more. He turns, walking, almost breaking into a run; all he wants is to go home. But the voice is still there.
"You are not one of them. You are not Asgardian. Never shall you be, Loki Laufeyson."
Loki does not stop running, not until he feels his foot fall too far through the air, and suddenly the rest of his body follows, flying helplessly off the edge of the cliff that marks the edge of Jotunheim. His scream is silent as he looks back up at the cliff and sees him, sees Laufey standing there finally, face twisted in a bitter smile as he gazes down at his own son, falling...
Loki wakens with a shuddering breath. He feels warm, and the weak morning light seeping through the gap under his chamber door is comforting. It was only a puerile imagination, he reassures himself, lifting a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes.
His breath hitches in his throat when he sees that his fingers are still blue.
