1958, Northern Europe

Crashlanding, Loki decided, was not the way of arrival he prefered. Especially not into a huge block of ice and snow.

Although he had only himself to blame. Since he didn't use the path for a long time, he forgot to re-calculate the distance, the changing odds and the energy needed to teleport. Whatever.

He had been playing around with the idea of leaving Asgard forever, but this evening was what gave him the final push.

Those ungrateful bastards.

It had already not been a good day;in themorning he had to drag with himself a half-dead Thor and Fandrall, while healing them the best he could while Volstagg leaning onto Sif and Hogun for support.

Being as depleted of energy as he was, all he could care about was his ruined shirt when they got back to the Realm Eternal. It didn't matter that this could've been solved by magic later on.

And after Thor had just been healed, the All-Father had arranged a feast in celebration of their "victory".

"And then," Fandrall laughed, tears flowing from his face, "And then he got on his knees and begged like a woman..."

"What do you mean by that, Fandrall?" asked Sif with an edge in her tone.

"Nothing, fair lady. Merely a turn of speech."

"Keep them to yourself." Loki's knuckles turned white, forcing down the urge to turn the chicken leg in Fandrall's hand into something with eight legs, sharp teeth and a lot of hair. Preferably poisonous.

"I do not understand why are you so surprised," spoke up Volstagg, after having regained his ability to speak, "someone who relies this much on tricks..."

The torches blazed up with green light as the two warriors were thrown back by an invisible force. The guests immediately fell silent; good. Serves them right.

Loki stood up, trembling with anger, but still managed a stiff bow to the All-Father.

"With your leave," he said, then left the Hall and left Asgard, after he put all his belongings into a pocket dimension.

The lot of them would have been sitting at the feast headless if it wasn't for him, and him alone!

Yet, he should have known better than teleporting while upset. Magic is sensitive to the users emotions; making hasty decisions led to more then one good sorcerer's death.

And it would have led to his, if it wasn't for that mortal. Well. Mortals.

"Are you all right?" the man asked, while helping him to sit up. The woman clicked her tongue.

"I'm not sure you should move him."

"Yes, well, he isn't screaming in pain, right? That means no damage is done."

"He is lying in a crater."

"No big damage. Happy?"

"We should call a doctor or somebody."

Doctor. Midgardian healer.

He wasn't sure, but last he checked Midgardians have evolved enough to recognise he was not one of them.

"No doctor. Please."

The man eyed him carefully.

"Your arm is broken and there is a deep gash in your shoulder."

"They will heal. The..." he coughed, "The greatest danger I was in was drowning, was the snow to melt. Now everything is all right."

"All right? I don't know. Is it? You come out of nowhere like some meteor, crash into this piece of ice, yet you are not bothered by the fact that your arm is broken, you're bleeding and that it is well below zero. Hey, are you even listening to me?"

"No, in fact, I do not," he said struggling to stand up, regretting the decision as nausea hit him.

"I don't think that it's the wisest..." He fell, the world darkening rapidly before him. The last thing he heard was "Suicidal brat".

A suicidal brat of three-thousand nineteen-hundred and one years.

Yes, we jumped back a few years. Sorry. That's just how this story goes.