This is a sequal to the much shorter story, Descent. It will probably make more sense if you read that first.

There was no knowledge of coming close to an end, no rushed feeling, no encroaching ground. Just—one moment he was flying, the next he was on the ground (in the ground) shards of rock blasting up from the crater where he fell, finding himself landing in a plain of ice and snow. And snow fell, lightly, into his open mouth as he stared unseeing into the dark.

He didn't move.

He wasn't sure if he could, or if he even wanted to. Falling had not been death, yes; but it was an end—it was some sort of—if not peace, at least the absence of the requirement of purpose. And now it had ended. And he felt for the first time—

The snow melted into his clothes and landed on his eyelashes. He blinked, and water melted into shining droplets. There was pain also.

Every nerve-ending in his body was on fire with pain, but he did not mind, because pain was not coldness, it was warmth, it was life, and here he was alive after all that had happened and why?

He didn't know. He didn't care. He stared up into the sky and again it was unreachable when he had been a part of it. And he felt betrayed. Cast out, once again, by even the universe itself.

And eventually, when the pain had slowly turned to only an ache, a low, lingering ache, and he found himself realizing he was covered in snow and yet not chilled—he felt like he was curled up in a blanket of softness and comfort. And yet. He tried to sit up. Couldn't think about what that entailed. He struggled to move.

For a moment he wondered if he had forgotten how, or if the fall had damaged some part of him beyond repair, but then a finger curled, and his hand curled, his arm stiffened, moved, forced itself upward downward he used muscles he had long forgotten in the depth of space and panting, weakly, he pulled himself up, kneeling on the cold ground, and he looked around.

And he was not alone.

Standing to one side to every side watching with detached curiosity were strange beings, wearing armor that shone with strange purple lights—not all of it, most was dark and dim, and they blended into the light like pillars of stone. And he wasn't sure if they were real, or statues, or another figment of his mind, but then it moved, one of them moved.

He tried to stand up, to defend himself to show strength but he couldn't, everything reeled around him, the sky below him and the ground above, and he held onto the ground his arms trembling and stared into what may have been the face of the creature. And tried to speak, and found that he could not.

"What are you?" the creature asked. And he stared up at it, so impassive as it asked him a question with no answer and he tried to speak and his tongue was silent.

The creature moved again, its voice took on an edge of danger, and it said once more, "what are you. Speak."

And he moved his mouth opened his lips moved he swallowed he touched his tongue to his teeth they were so cold and he cleared his throat it made a sound like something long unused and strange and then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, blinked. And then he said, "I—"

The creature waited for a moment, then it leaned forward, menace entering its tone. "Do not test our patience, thing. Speak. Tell us what you are."

"I am Loki."

They turned and spoke among themselves, a strange language without words that he could not decipher. The one who had talked to him before turned back to him as he sat there and did not wonder because he was done with wondering, he had used up every thought in his mind related to wondering, he had no space left even to wish. "What is Loki?"

"I am," he said, and it was true, and he laughed.

The creature didn't seem to like that. It reached out and grabbed him by the neck, lifted him dangling above the ground, and brought his face close to it, and he could feel breath from the creature's mouth as it breathed, warm breath that made no cloud in the air for some reason but of course it was the armor and he wanted to learn how but it said, "Do not. Laugh. At us. Thing."

And the breath was going from his lungs and he wondered if these creatures were strong enough to kill a god and wondered if he wanted them to and it loosed its grip and he fell like a doll to the ground in a splay of limbs and breathed putting his hands to his neck as if to protect himself and they laughed. He stared up, eyes cold, and wheezed, trying to breathe, and he stood up, and stood even though he was swaying almost falling no he would never fall again and said in a dangerously calm voice. "My name is Loki."

"We shall inform our leader of that," said the one who had spoken to him. And with a nod of its armoured head it moved and the others followed and he thought they might leave him there and stared after them in some sort of vague bafflement and then one passed next to him, one of the last perhaps, and with one arm grabbed him up and slung him over its shoulder and kept walking even as he kicked and struggled and tried to use magic, but for some reason he couldn't until all of a sudden a huge blast of fire erupted from his hands and melted the armour and there was a scream, he jumped backward they looked at him all at once with stony faces and as one surrounded him.

And someone went up to the pitiful remain of the one that had carried him, still mewling, a horrid, blackened fireball of melted metal and the lights were out, and twisted its neck and it lay dead. Making no noise.

And then they turned to him.

"So. You work magic." Then they brought out a metal ring icy cold and shoved it around his neck, forcing him to kneel in the cold icy ground neck bared as if he were to be executed but they closed the metal around his neck and it touched him like a thousand suns as he screamed, and at once everything was gone—the world around him, only, the hands in front of him, fingers clasped loosely, one fingernail broken. And dirty. And tears came to his eyes because he felt it leaving him, being forged into a small tight place inside of him, his magic, where he could not longer use it. And then they dragging him to his feet, and he felt light, as if he would float into the sky if no one held him down. And dragging him through the darkness, the soft snow making slipping noises under his boots, and he looked at his hands but his eyes were blurred with tears though he would not cry.

And he felt so tired.

.

.

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