Prologue
The sudden chill of the void that was space pierced Loki's heart like a dagger, constricting his chest in a vice grip. He stared at his fingers as they stretched out in front of him, a numb haze beginning to set in around the outer edges of his vision. He watched as a newly-familiar shade of blue began to creep over his skin. Even his true Jotun form did nothing to abate the frigidity of the nothingness surrounding him.
He did not know how long he had fallen. The sensation of movement was becoming less noticeable by the second. He felt weightless—as if he were a feather suspended in time, floating forever in a sea of liquid. He saw nothing but darkness, nothing but the rapidly-fading pinprick of light that emanated from the shattered edge of the Bifrost—from his home. He imagined briefly that he could still see his Father—no, not his father, not ever his father—and Thor standing on the edge. Reaching for him. Calling to him.
But then he remembered what he had done—what they had done, and the ghostly echoes of their phantom cries were forcefully cast from his mind.
The feeble light disappeared, and a stab of fear shook him despite his thoughts. Darkness and Silence seemed to take on forms then; becoming physical beings that touched and pressed and smothered him. He struggled to retain conscious thought. He would not die, that his knew-At least not in this empty void. No; the remnants of the Bifrost's pathway would remain and he would live. His destination, however, he did not know. If the Bifrost had remained locked onto its previous coordinates, he could be headed towards two different places: Jotunhiem or Midgard, and unless he was killed in the impact with the surface of whatever planet he was now hurtling towards, he would survive. Loki focused his energy into repeating that within his head like a mantra. Over and over, until the coldness and the numb haze crept into his vision, buried itself deep within his bones and he knew no more.
He need not fear.
He would live.
He would have his revenge.