He kept his profile low for decades to where his history was left on a menacing note: where did he go? Why hadn't he appeared? S.H.E.I.L.D. and even Thor writhed uncomfortably in the weeks and months after he did not make any appearances on Midigard, or even in Asgard. He made no appearance, his green magic did not grace the earth in ways for signals to zero in on where he was, or what he was doing. He made himself untouchable and invisible. He grew tired of fighting for the same reasons and living through vengeance of his brother, his father, humans, earth, and his true origin.
He did not grow tired, that is a lie, yet he grew bored. When he had fallen from the bifrost he had traveled through worlds between the universe, fallen upon worlds which either welcomed him or he forced them to welcome him after much magic, wit, and many heroic on his part, kills. He endured many beatings, many threats, bolts of magic in weak spots. He could not control earth because of those who protect it. Whether they be immortal or heavily trained or heavily armored. Thoughts to comply with the Avengers had crossed his mind, but the Norse God found himself tired of finding ways for betrayal and truce. He could not be caught and brought back to Asgard for trial and his tongue could not muster up the lies of sorrow and plead for forgiveness from the Allfather. He could not care enough to achieve the vengeance he so deserved.
Loki vanished easily as Clint Barton's arrow was just a muscle reflex away from going through his skull. The arrow fired anyway- he supposed Clint may think he still be there even though invisible. Loki was smarter than to stay in the same spot with five angered Avengers staring him down. He quickly left stark power to flee from what he had created for himself: A dark hole with powerfully angry men and women as well as his own brother. With that he was gone from the radar for very long.
So long he watched the news of the dear Tony Stark die from simply old age. Watched the Hulk lose control in a elementary school setting. S.H.E.I.L.D., he guessed, had the wits to lock Banner up for good. Most likely in a similar cage that he had tricked Thor into that fell from the skies to smash into bits in a big explosion. Banner, very much alive, was probably going insane in a cell somewhere. Agents Romanoff and Baron grew too old and feebil, Fury killed in an alien battle. For Loki, the Avengers and S.H.E.I.L.D. were slowly dying off- which would make one who still thought of the God of Mischief and Magic think it was Loki's new entrance act. All of these opening spots of those he once knew were now gone, or compromised. He did not make a move, on the contrary, for him to do that he would need to think of a plan. Step back into the game. He would need to search the universe, the deep and dark edges of the universe, and bring the snake on his tongue back to life. He invisibly still lingered through the stars and galaxies, it was a vacation to something he once knew and will know of one day in the future.
The Norse God has been… compromised to humanity and society mannerisms. He still spoke in olden tongue. Hearing him say 'y'all' once and he swore if he said it ever again it was time to become mischief once again. His words never were connected by apostrophes and he held himself proper and traditional. He did not possess a job, of course. Why would he do that? He had tried working in what humans called a café´. Once spilling hot coffee on himself he cursed in foreign languages and shot a spurt of magic at the machine, his eyes glowing green, before he remembered where he was. Customers and employees stared at him all the same: terrified and in shock. It gave him a taste of what he always wanted- power, fear, followers. He simply smirked, teleported his dear metal and leather suit onto himself, gave an earth-ending speech while he watched people swallow hard, begin to weep, plea, and look sick. In a state of humor he vanished his apporpiate god dressings and began laughing- that Loki laugh all the avengers, Thor, and the Allfather knew all too well. He simply left the coffee shop in a wave of teleportation, leaving nothing but a blur of green magic behind before it vanished just like him from the shop then the city. Wonderfully enough, no one had gotten on that taste of a lead. Or no one had cared. Perhaps S.H.E.I.L.D. was off his back for good, perhaps the new leader no longer thinking he a threat. He did not care, not now, to find out.
In the present day he went by Tom. It was a common enough name. He wore his hair in the same long-black fashion. In Germany, he found himself rich in large mansions decorated in historic décor. He became known very well there. Rich, mysterious, cunning, sly. No one knew why he had such fortune. He did not say. Telling people he made money vanish from thin air never went well. He would lean in close to them and whisper, 'I kill fools like you who pester those like me.' They'd whiten in the face and proceed to tell those they knew he was insane. In the end, no one knew where his fortune came from or who he was. Everyone knew him in the town, if not in the country. They knew his name, at least. Tom Hiddleston. Some loved him for how private and powerful he seemed to be, some hated him for being rich and crazy. In the immediate town while he walked along the sidewalks with intimidating grace people moved from his way. It made him think his demanding force to be followed had been the wrong way to go about his destiny for Kingship. He still played upon the thoughts as he lay in bed late at night, or as he invisibly walked through Asgard stealing apples and contemplating killing Odinson to create madness and justice for his ego. It was not time.
One day he was walking through an art gallery and found a large painting of Loki Laufeyson protected behind motion sensors with little Norse God mythology excerpts. He was stopped in his tracks when he noticed the painting of his armor, his stance, his green magic on his fingers.
"You!" he barked to a walking by employee of the gallery, "who creates such a… timeless masterpiece of the wonderful God of Mischief?"
The employee was hesitant to the old tongue hinted in this man's tone. "People say that Captain Ameirca painted this, but the artists name is anonymous. Wonderful would not be a word for this cowardly God. God is barely a word in itself to be an adjective for this… creature. A Norse God greedy for power, death, mischief, and vengeance."
Loki's eyes narrowed at the man with rage building inside of him. 'How dare you speak of a great God like that,' his thoughts were powerful, his eyes searing through the employee, 'you know nothing of my reasons!' eyes narrow and piercing as they made it back to the employee. He did not create a speech. Not because he became passive. He simply nodded and hissed something foreign under his tongue, a devil of a smirk crossing his features as the employee could no longer move. Frozen in his spot by magic. Only his mind could work as Loki approached him, lips close to his ear. "You speak of Loki in that tongue again and I will be sure your life is not lived long through searing pain," his voice low laced with poison. He pressed his fingers against the man's side, sending searing pain through his body. The employee could do nothing but let his mind feel such pain. He could not scream, wince, or protect himself. It pleased Loki to see he still had the power of heartlessness to instill fear into those who doubted him.
After the first sighting of artwork after himself he began on a gallery search through the world for more renditions of himself through the paint brush. He did not find much of himself for appraisal, always for fear and always portrayed as a villain. It angered him incredibly as he found works with him defeated under the avengers.
On a trip to a gallery in Germany, in his current residential city, he found an interesting piece. It was surprising to him he enjoyed it so much even if it was not of himself, or any sort of destruction because of himself or magic. It was just a beautiful piece of watercolor transparency. The artist of the Gallery was anonymous and these paintings were all for sale by the same anonymous painter. The room intrigued him so.
He stood in front of the painting for a long while- a full hour without a twitch of the muscle. He received odd looks, even annoyed ones that such a man was blocking the view of a beautiful piece. Of course he did not care. Though when his silence and scrutiny was disrupted by a voice, his own was soft and low.
"I am presuming you find this piece interesting," the girl mused, a sly smirk upon her lips. If it were not for the fact that he had been in such a deep state of thought, something wittier than 'but of course' would have left his lips. "You are beginning to bring worry upon the gallery go-ers, Mr. Hiddleston."
Loki barely recognized the name he was being addressed as. Humans did not speak with him willingly, most often, and they most definitely did not address him as anything. "That seems to be a misfortune for them, I suppose," his tongue remembered how to speak once more. "It is not of my fault they can not appreciate a painting to watch it closely, as if it may move to the emotions within their body."
She smiled just gently, a smile he knew all to well in himself when hearing something he didn't particularly agree with but didn't quite disagree with it in return. "Why do you feel with such passion for this piece, from all the others?"
"It reminds me of a time I once knew, very long ago." Just like this girl's scent. She smelled of leather and sweet air. Air that ravished the beautiful immortals of both genders of Asgard. A smell he had not gotten whiff of since his battle last with Thor. Since his last return home where he was surrounded by people, by near gods. "A time before betrayal," he narrowed his eyes in a sour expression. "The artist portrayed their feelings quite clearly in this, though it brings me such strong feelings of home that I do not wish to remember, yet I have no power against my mind's memory."
His poetic tongue caught her attention, much with other aspects of him. She smiled just gently, "The artist is impressed that you enjoy it so much, and she could get such a reaction from a fan."
He smirked and looked to her, "And how do you feel of this painting? Something tells me that you are the artist. You have a beautiful talent for bringing such emotion to the viewer," it was a light praise. Whether he learned it from the disgusting ways humans used to attract one another. "I am… interested to know how you feel of this artwork."
"It is about what you said, though not from my own perspective as I watch others closely and absorb how they feel, how they react, and how they handle situations beyond their control."
Her gray eyes stared to his deep green ones and he found himself asking for an outside meeting over some food and perhaps wine. Wine that would not affect either of them though she would put on a light drunken show.