Cold.
Everything was cold.
Exhaling, he watched with deep scarlet eyes as his breath wafted up as fog into the impossibly frigid air. The vapor almost instantly shivered and contracted as steam transformed into minuscule shards of frost. It rained back down upon him, lightening his azure skin to a shade of sky-blue under the fine, icy dust.
Odd, that he should have ever wandered back to these frozen doldrums again. Though it had been his birthplace, Loki had no love for this once-kingdom of dusk and hoarfrost. Moreover, he had greater reason than most to hate the land and its people.
But then, since the last great war and especially since the death of its king, Laufey, it could hardly be counted as a great kingdom these days. The jotun had scattered, probably skulking and rotting in the far corners of their broken world. There were certainly none to be found in the ruins of the old fortress.
He lay upon his back in the snow. The slate-grey clouds above set loose their burden of white. Soon a howling wind kicked up a blizzard about him, blanketing the jotun's form in a skin-numbing embrace. Loki let it cover him, let the endless winter clasp him to its chest. One last misty breath escaped his lips as his eyes fell shut and he yielded finally to sleep.
Jotunheim held its prince and heir closely as he slumbered. It hummed wordless, lilting lullabies of eternally cold nights and endless white-capped mountain ranges. Dreams of ice and shadows ran sweet circles through his mind. Everything whispered "home, home at last," though he would have forever denied the sentiment.
Cold.
Everything was cold.