He couldn't see; he couldn't feel. Wind tunneled around his skin, caressed and numbed every inch. He felt the ultimate pleasure of being unfeeling, of never touching another soul, but also the curse of never feeling, of never touching another soul.
His eyes shot open to blue around him.
What was he? The blackness consumed him, blue trailing farther and farther above him, until it disappeared, too. He knew he was simply Loki. It was his name. What that meant, who he was, he didn't know right now. In the weightlessness of black, nothing mattered except his name.
Loki.
A silver tear, the only color in the black void, fell up off of his face. Normally he didn't care for that water that came from your eyes—it was a sign of weakness. Yet that one lone tear, trailing down his face and gently lifting from his skin, had changed his world. The blackness didn't seem so suffocating. He didn't seem as weightless. Maybe, just maybe, he was a color, too. He was colorful. Someone who had a personality. Someone who deserved to proudly carry his name. Someone who wasn't gray in a world of color. He—he was green. A glorious green that even he couldn't describe with his silver tongue. He wasn't the black of his brother's shadow or the blue of a Joten. He wasn't even the gold of Odin's son.
Loki was a rich, vibrant green. It was him. He was it.
He felt himself slowing in the air. The blackness slowly faded back to the blue of the sky, and the green grass approached. His pale hand reached out to touch it, and it reached out to cradle him. He turned and smelled the fresh smell of the grass. Not too far away, nature ended, and pavement began. But, the concrete was surrounded by grass on both sides. It was a strip of different in the middle of familiarity.
He glanced over at it, but was contented to stay in his grassy area. Sometimes, he mused as he looked up at the blue sky, it was all right to fall. To lose yourself into the blackness. To have your wings removed and fall down to the Earth. As long as you can catch yourself before hitting.
A/N: I don't own Loki. Like I don't have an explanation for this brain-child.