The lean dark man stretched out on the park bench began to stir; his long lashes fluttered on his cheekbones and his leaden limbs quivered. A slim hand came up to his shoulder length hair, black as the night but in some disarray. Gods above, his head throbbed. For a few brief moments Loki could not recall who he was, where he was or even why he was there. Then in a painful flash of memory, it all came screaming back to him. His furious 'father', his brother's pitying eyes and the home he had been forced to leave behind. He was in the realm of the mortals, temporarily or permanently he did not know, and only Odin could call him back.

He gingerly sat up, eyes still shut against the light, tenderly inspecting his aching body for broken bones or worse damage. Nothing serious, as far as he could discern. He could hear the hum of everyday life; the sound of footsteps as people went past, birds twittering, a breeze through the branches of trees. The human world sounded disappointing and banal to his ears. He finally opened his eyes, flinchingly at first, preferring not to do anything that might exacerbate his headache. A wave of horror washed over him. Everything was still black. He could not see. He was blind. His true punishment, he realised. Loki felt that he could weep, if he had not been so angry. Mischief and lies might be his remit, but Odin had proved he could be capable of great cruelty.

As wretched as he was, Loki knew that he could not wallow. If he didn't try to enlist help, he would starve. The thought that he would be obliged to ask a human for aid galled him, but there wasn't an alternative. His place of abandonment was unfamiliar and the loss of his eyes made survival infinitely more difficult. He caught a few words of someone's conversation as they went past; they were speaking English at least. One of the human languages he could understand. With trepidation, Loki tried to stand up. He knew he had made the attempt with too much haste and cursed himself for a fool when he overbalanced and fell to his knees. The grit of the tarmac dug into his palms and the skin came away with an intense sting. His pride boasted the greater injury.

Just at that moment, he heard light footsteps come rushing over and gentle hands clasped his thin shoulders.

'My word, are you alright? Do you need help?'

The voice was female, young. He heard the concern and the pity. It was too much to be borne.

'No, leave me be' he snapped. 'I don't need your assistance.'

The hands disappeared followed by an offended murmur

'Suit yourself.'

As he listened to the soft tread of the girl, leaving him where he crouched, his belligerence deserted him. It was no good: what was the point? He might still nurse the injustice of his fate like a viper in his breast, but his imperious attitude and his bitter words would do nothing to help him live. He would drown in his anger, or he would let it go and allow himself to be aided by any generous soul that volunteered.

'Wait', he called out. The desperation in his own voice made him wince. 'Please, come back. I do need your help.'