A/N: This fic is for Nako13yeh, based on a time-travel plot bunny of hers 8). I hope you like it!

I want to go home.

My bones ached. My belly was in revolt again, refusing to accept the meagre nutrients that had been injected into it, and my throat was sore from dry-heaving. I longed for a clean, unpolluted drink to rinse out my mouth and cleanse my system, but even that was denied me – there was no water on this barren rock. All I could do was curl up, moaning, and wait for the sickness to pass.

I'd fallen. Through darkness and light, through freezing colds and scorching heats, through turbulent vapours and suffocating voids, I'd fallen – and somehow, I'd survived. Driven not by any meaningful design, but by hunger and fear, I'd wandered from one world to the next, past suns and moons, past oceans of fire and cryovolcanic geysers of ice. The universe in all its terrifying hostility and incalculable vastness had swallowed me whole – and now here I was, curled up on the stony ground of an alien world, shivering and retching.

I want to go home.

It felt like an eternity since I'd been stranded on this rock. Despite its desolation, it crawled with alien life. Foul, hideously misshapen creatures of dubious intelligence, spat from the robotic belly of a mothership, but life nonetheless. The Chitauri, they called themselves. They were my caregivers, my saviours, my only friends. I detested them.

They'd promised to nurse me back to health, but instead I could feel my strength draining from me. Sometimes I lost consciousness and didn't regain it for hours. Sometimes I coughed up blood. Headaches and dizziness were persistent. Worst was the cold: a gnawing, penetrating chill that seeped into my marrow, leaving me feeble. Slowly but surely, this place was killing me.

As I grew weaker and weaker, the golden sceptre grew brighter and brighter. The blue gem nestled in its heart called to me, inviting my fingertips to caress its every contour, to drink in its deadly design, to feel its power pulsing as if it were a living thing. Touch. Feel. Hold. I craved it…yet I also feared it. It was an object to admire from a safe distance, but not to wield. Its magic was beyond me – a weapon that even I couldn't understand, let alone control.

And slowly but surely, it was consuming me.

Yet what could I do? I had nowhere to go – nowhere but home, and that was out of the question. All of Asgard was my enemy. To go crawling back to my not-father and my idiot brother, begging their forgiveness and help…My pride forbade me. Better to reject than to be rejected. There was no point in entertaining vain hopes of love and acceptance.

But…still…I want to go home.

My stomach settled somewhat. Drawing my green rags tighter around myself for warmth, I tried my hardest to numb myself to my misery and push my surroundings out of my head. It was impossible.

I wondered bitterly if they even cared that I was dead. If they'd bothered to give funeral rites to their lost not-son. If my books, my clothes, the sediment of my failed life had been preserved as keepsakes, and statues erected in my honour. Or had my library been burned, my bed-chambers emptied out, all evidence of my existence erased and all recollections of me swept under the carpet? A shameful blot on an otherwise pristine family portrait?

Who would've mourned me? Thor? Oafish and insensitive he may have been, but he at least had always loved me. Whenever we'd quarrelled in the past, he'd always been the first one to cave in and apologise, unable to bear being at odds with me. My death would've broken his heart. But aside from him…Asgard's populace would've been indifferent to my loss. My so-called "friends" would've celebrated my death. Mother would've been deeply disappointed in me. Father…no, not Father, Odin would've been secretly relieved that he no longer had to put up with me.

Just Thor, then.

Would Thor's love alone be enough to spare me the axe? If he demanded (or begged for) my life, would I be shown leniency? Perhaps. Was it really a risk I was willing to take? But on the other hand, what would I gain by staying here and suffering? An army, they'd promised me, but I hardly believed them. I didn't know who to trust any more…in fact, I could barely remember how to trust…

Thor's love. Thor's selfish, futile, idiotic love. I can always trust that.

I dry-heaved again, and this time I coughed up blood. Lowering my hands from my mouth, I saw red spots on them.

And with that, my mind was made up. I would take my chances with the Asgardians.

I managed to slip by the first few Chitauri without being noticed, but in the end it was necessary to use violence. Thirst makes you desperate – I fought like a wild thing. The first sentry who tried to stop me, I hacked down with my dagger. His patrol-mates weren't far away. One of them landed on me from behind, and we fell in a tangle of limbs. His claws raked through my hair, leaving a searing pain across my scalp. Pinning me down, he attempted to tear my throat open.

Suddenly, a cell on Asgard looked remarkably attractive. It would have a roof, at least. Regular meals. Perhaps even a change of clothes, if I was lucky. And, most importantly, no fucking Chitauri.

Twisting around and gaining leverage, I drove my elbow into his face and felt his cranium collapse. I made short work of the others, and was soon left panting over a pile of their corpses. My neck was scored with gashes, but no serious injury had been done to me.

The scent of death brought them all after me, and soon the jagged precipices and ravines were echoing with the harsh shrieks of Chitauri warriors, the perpetual night illuminated by bursts of energy. They were out for blood. I knew what they would do if they caught me.

So I fled. I had to get out of there. Anywhere, anything, was better than this place. Even the All-Father would be preferable to spending another moment in this Hel-hole. Reaching for my magic, I tried to concentrate, feeling outwards with an intangible touch. I had arrived in this place by means of a portal, and I could leave the same way. All I had to do was find it again…There it was. Not visible, but I could sense it.

Piercing battle-cries sounded. They'd seen me again and were closing in on me. I couldn't fight them all.

Body and mind, I flung myself over the inter-dimensional threshold, allowing myself to be swept up helplessly in the current of magic. I landed in an undignified sprawl on an unfamiliar planet, as dark and miserable as the one I had just left. There was no time to take in the scenery; the portal didn't close quickly enough, and several Chitauri were able to follow me through the gap. I was forced to run away. Amid the craters I hid, cowering like a frightened dog from every flash of light which threatened to betray my location. Eventually they passed on, searching further afield in vain, and I crept from my hiding-place.

'Heimdall!' I croaked as I emerged, hoping against hope that among the billions of voices in the universe, he would hear mine. 'Heimdall, it's me! Open the Bifröst!'

There was no response. No light in the sky. Was the Gatekeeper purposely ignoring me?

'Heimdall, please. Open the bridge. Let me through.'

Then I remembered: I was outside the Nine Realms. Even if Heimdall could hear me, what use was it? I was beyond the reach of the Bifröst bridge, beyond aid…By the time he sent help, it would be far too late.

Disheartened, I trudged on. I had cast aside my alliance with the Chitauri, my last remaining friends, and now I was alone. Alone and helpless.

No. Not helpless. I still had control over my body and command over my thoughts. I could go home, if I wanted to. I knew the ways between worlds, the forgotten passages, the untapped reservoirs of Bifröst-energy not yet dug up and extracted. Travelling would be difficult, but not impossible. Definitely not impossible.

My resolve hardened. I would go home. Whatever punishment they had in store for me, I would not cower from it. I would meet my fate head-on, like a prince. Like a king.

Portal after portal I passed through. The journey was indeterminably long. I walked through a desert where the sun beat hard on my back and vicious sandstorms threatened to flay my skin; then through a ghostly wasteland which breathed toxic fumes through cracks in the earth. Everywhere was waterless and inhospitable. Hunger gripped my belly. Exposure clawed at my bones. I spent the nights huddled in caves, unable to sleep for fear of my pursuers, and the days walking until my feet bled, searching for the next secret portal.

More than once, my courage failed me and I considered turning back, but the thought of a cooked meal, a warm bed and safe shelter drew me onwards.

Just a little further

Finally I set foot in a forest clearing. It was night-time. I listened for running water, hoping there might be a stream nearby from which I could drink, but all I heard were the cries of nocturnal wildlife and the rustling of windswept leaves. I walked forwards blindly, my hands feeling their way from tree-trunk to tree-trunk, my feet scuffing and fumbling over the uneven ground. Twigs cracked underfoot and branches scratched at my face. I emerged from the woods into a green, open vale. Starlight shone on me, and there above me rose familiar snow-capped mountains. Unmistakeably Vanaheim.

I was back in the Nine Realms.

In my relief, I collapsed. The grass was cool, damp with dew and blessedly soft. I breathed a sigh.

'Now you see me, Heimdall,' I mumbled, 'Please send someone.'

Too exhausted to move further, I lay motionless on the ground and waited.

Sure enough, they came. A column of Bifröst-energy cut a hole through the night sky, penetrating the blackness with myriad colours. Fatigued, I closed my eyes against its brilliant radiance. Don't be uncooperative, I told myself, Just roll over like a good dog. It won't earn you a pardon, but it might spare you the axe. So I lay where I was, the very picture of surrender and submission, hoping it would be enough to soften their hearts a little.

Heavy boots trod on the ground beside me, and a warm hand touched my neck. Opening my eyes feebly, I focused on my rescuer. Golden hair, the ends of which tickled my face as he bent low over me. Blue eyes, which frowned at me. I think Thor's genuine first reaction upon seeing me was concern; but once he realised I was alive, awake and uninjured, his anger returned in full-force. Roughly he grabbed me by the throat, hauled me off the ground and shoved me towards the nearest Einherjar.

'Shackle him.'

They surrounded me – a flurry of clanking armour and glinting speartips far too close to my face. My hands were shackled in front of me, metal rings locking into place around my wrists. I supposed it was to be expected. Technically I was a criminal, after all. Resigning myself to my restraints, I offered no resistance.

'I'm thirsty,' I complained, but was ignored.

'I know not how you escaped, or for what purpose you've allowed yourself to be caught,' Thor growled, 'But know this: this is the last time you will see the outside of your cell. You will never again breathe the free air.'

Cell? What cell?

'I'm thirsty,' I repeated. 'Could I have – ?'

'Your basic needs will be seen to upon your return. Supper will be sent to your cell, along with clean clothes and bathwater, or whatever else you require within reason.'

I took some comfort from that. Even when angry, Thor wasn't cruel enough to deny me essential amenities. Clearly he wasn't entirely indifferent to the condition I was in.

'But the books Mother lavished you with will be removed, along with the extravagant furnishings,' Thor continued, 'Luxury is wasted upon a prisoner such as you.'

That confused me.

'What are you talking about?' My legs were turning to water, and it was becoming incredibly difficult to concentrate on anything.

'You know damn well! You've been indulged long enough. From now on, you will be treated as any other criminal – no more clandestine gifts from Mother, no more pampering.'

Our reunion wasn't going the way I'd hoped. I'd known better than to expect a warm welcome, but I hadn't anticipated quite this level of vehement hostility – especially from Thor. The last time we'd been face-to-face, he'd been screaming in anguish at the sight of my death. Now he glared at me as if he wanted nothing better than to strike my head from my shoulders.

'The prisoner will be escorted directly back to the dungeons. Take no chances. From now on, I want him chained up at all times. Heimdall – !'

'My lord?' one of the Einherjar interjected.

'Yes?'

'My lord, the prisoner is still in his cell.'

'He's not. He's right here in front of us.' Thor gestured towards me using Mjölnir.

The warrior bowed his head, but persisted:

'My lord, I saw him with my own eyes. Locked up, reading a book.'

'It's a replica, an illusion,' Thor cried frustratedly, 'Touch it and it will dissipate!'

'He did not, my lord. When we laid hands on him, he was there. Flesh and blood.'

Thor hesitated. He grasped my hand, squeezed it tight. Did the same to my arm. My shoulder. My jaw. He looked at me – really looked at me.

'Loki?' he asked as if seeing me for the first time.

Unexpectedly he placed both hands on my cheeks, cupping my face. Taken off-guard, I squirmed away.

'Yes,' I said wearily, 'It's me. It's Loki. I'm Loki. Who did you think I was?'

'It is,' he agreed, letting go of me and stepping back. 'It really is you. But how is this possible? You cannot be in two places at once – not even you with all your tricks. What magic have you wrought? What is your game?'

No tricks, no magic, no game. Not this time.

'…Please, Thor. Can this wait?' I said. Pleading hurt, but there were worse pains; I'd learned that much. 'I came here seeking shelter, not trouble. By all means, lock me up, but do it quickly.'

'From where have you come?' he asked me. His tone was cautious. Hesitant, almost.

I lowered my head for a moment. How could I encapsulate my experiences in a few words? The cloying murk of the Chitauri's planet, the repulsive nature of its indigenes? The subtle, mesmerising horror of the sceptre's blue light, eating its way through my eyes, into my skull, deep into my brain?

'…Believe it or not, you will get answers,' I said eventually, 'I will explain everything, but for now, I would like to rest. I've had a difficult journey – '

'From where?' he pressed me.

'From Hel,' I snapped. A momentary loss of temper which made them flinch. 'Not literally,' I amended, 'but a place similar to it, if not worse. Far beyond the Nine Realms…you wouldn't have heard of it.'

'Were you alone there?'

'…No. No, I wasn't. There were…creatures there.'

'Hostile?'

'Perhaps. I was…' I groped for the right term. Held captive? Not really. Stranded? '…I was…compelled to stay there. For a while, I did, but I fell out of love with the place. I hatched an escape plan. I fled. And now I'm home, as you see.'

He was still giving me that look – that sidelong, questioning look – and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew something I didn't. Not exactly a feeling I was accustomed to.

'I know I've been a long time,' I wheezed, 'I know my return must come as a surprise. You probably thought I was dead, and I wouldn't blame you if you did. But now I've returned. And more importantly, I'm hungry and tired and I haven't bathed in months. So if you'd be so kind, I'd like to – '

'We did think you dead,' Thor interrupted. 'You were lost to the abyss. Gone, with no hope of a body ever being found. Then a year later you reappeared on Earth with a Chitauri battle-fleet at your back, wielding an ancient weapon and leaving a trail of destruction in your wake. You attacked the humans and attempted to enslave them. In your desperation to be king and conquerer, you committed grievous crimes against the mortals, against the Nine Realms…against us.'

'I did?' I said faintly.

'Yes.' He paused. 'But that was many months ago. You are currently locked in the dungeons, serving a life sentence for your misdeeds.'

'…I am?'

For the first time, I noticed that Thor's hair was long and braided for battle. When had he last worn his hair in battle-braids? I couldn't recall. My peripheral vision was going dark. Semi-conscious at this point, I swayed, my chained hands reaching for something to lean against, a support that wasn't there.

I fell, and he didn't catch me.