Loki wandered for nearly 200 years, never staying more than a few years in one place. This was more through necessity than choice, because he still wasn't aging as he should. It wasn't that he did not age at all – he could track how his height changed and his body grew more muscular – it was just that he was aging so slowly it was almost unnoticeable.
Each time he left another life he had carved out for himself he felt a little more alone, and he wondered every day if Leif could have told him what he was.
Sometimes he would try to imagine Leif was there with him to answer his questions, but the all the imaginary father would say to him was "You are my son, and oh how beloved," or some such other of his father's stock phrases. Recalling his father's voice telling him how much he loved him always made Loki ache with how much he missed him, so he would go to the nearest tavern and distract himself inside the first warm, willing body that he found.
He did not necessarily live a good life. Drifters like him rarely found themselves a comfortable home, so he delved into the underworld of each town he visited, earning coin through shady deals and petty theft. His skills as a pickpocket were unparalleled, and he could find his way into any home no matter how well locked, blend in seamlessly with any crowd. One of his favourite tricks was to sneak into some grand party and prey on the upper crust woman, charming then thoroughly then swiping their precious jewels as they swooned into his arms on the ballroom floor.
The first time he killed a man was when he looked about 17, though in reality he was closer to 170. The man had reacted with repulsion when Loki had subtly propositioned him in a small tavern known for attracting a certain 'kind' of customer. At first Loki merely brushed him aside, but the man had waited for him in the alley outside the tavern and attacked him, striking violently from behind and grabbing Loki's throat. Almost without thinking, Loki had pulled out his knife and slid it cleanly in-between the man's ribs, killing him almost instantly.
The blood on his hands had frightened him so much that he ran, his father's voice ringing in his ears, shame in every syllable at the thought of his son as a murderer. Loki ran until he reached a land where he had never been, where they spoke his father's tongue and lived through winters colder than he had ever experienced before.
He avoided other people, preferring to spend his time in self-inflicted isolation, the memory of that man's last breath still heavy on his mind.
The second time he killed someone was not long after. He was asleep in the park when the first snow fell. He woke up to the morning light covered by a blanket of snow. Oddly, he felt no cold, nor had the snow melted into his clothes. He sat up and opened his eyes, blearily looking around at the pristine snow, sparkling gently under the rising sun. In the corner of his eye, something unfamiliar moved and he turned his head to see what it was.
Suddenly he was wide awake. It was him. The skin of his bare hands was a deep blue, raised lines running up his fingers and over his wrists, disappearing into is sleeves.
Loki panicked.
Unfortunately, his body's natural reaction was that of fight or flight, and for some reason his instincts took him towards fight. To his horror, ice crept down his arms, appearing from nowhere and shaping itself into two vicious blades. Terrified, Loki bashed the ice against a tree trying to smash it off his arm, but it was too strong, and any chips or cracks he made only froze quickly back over.
"What devil are you?" A voice cried behind him. Loki had not noticed the man's approach, too distressed by the alien body he wore.
"I…" he stuttered. "I know not."
"Back, demon!" The man shouted, picking up a rock from the ground and throwing it at him. "Get ye back to Hell."
Loki backed away as the man continued to throw rocks and pinecones at him, shouting all the while that he must be some demon. A rock hit Loki on the head and his hands flew up protectively, surprised when the onslaught suddenly stopped. Lowering his hands, his heart jumped into his mouth as he saw the reason the man's attacks had ceased. A shard of ice was embedded in the man's neck, and he slumped slowly to the floor as Loki watched with wide eyes. Red blood stained the snow and Loki backed away from the scene, finally turning to run when the light left the man's eyes.
He did not run far this time. He hid himself in the forest just outside the town, only coming out on nights when it snowed, or when it was so bitterly cold that no-one else would be outside. He was still seen though, wandering around the town as he searched for food. The townspeople gave a name to this mysterious creature that wandered the streets on cold nights, leaving a trail of ice behind him. They named him Jack Frost, and ran screaming from him, crying a warning to others that Jack Frost was on the prowl tonight.
It took Loki several months to work out how to escape the blue skin. When the snow began to thaw, and the days grew warm he somehow managed to slip back into human form. The memory of his father helped him, he found. He had avoided thinking of his father those last few months, still ashamed that he had killed two men and unable to bear thinking about his father's disappointed face.
The disappearance of the mysterious Jack Frost with the approach of the summer months only reinforced his legend. When Loki visited the town again in human form townspeople told him stories of the monster that had prowled their streets, freezing everything he touched.
The word stuck with Loki. Monster. Frightened of his own body, the word grew in his mind like thorns, hardening him to the world around him. If he was a monster, why should he not behave as such?
For a few decades he made a lucrative living as a highwayman. By this point he was tall and well-built enough to intimidate the bravest of souls, and his silken voice wove threats so prettily men would fearfully hand over weighty purses of gold at barely more than a commanding twitch of Loki's fingers. He only very rarely had to resort to violence, but when he did he did so efficiently and without emotion or mercy. He killed again, but never quite felt the same remorse. Or if he did it was buried deep inside him beneath that word, monster, until it festered from remorse into bitter self-loathing.
The only joy he found was in study. When he crept into houses to steal people's valuables, his first stop was always the library, where he would seek out any new treasure to read. He had now established himself a permanent home, an isolated lodge in the Scottish mountains where few would stumble across him, and that house had an ever growing library.
It was this habit of literary theft that led to the moment which, perhaps changed his life more than any other.
In the course of burglarising a wealthy lord he discovered an ancient treatise hidden away on the subject of magic. Magic was something Loki had only ever heard whispers of before, something he had thought mere superstition. Curious, and knowing the lord would not be arriving back until late that evening, he sat down on the luxurious bear skin rug and began to read. He only meant to read for five minutes, to decide if it was worth taking that treatise home with him, but the pages turned beneath his eager fingers and five minutes, then ten came and went entirely outside of Loki's notice. Time had dropped sharply out of his consideration with the revelation of an entire new world to explore.
When Lord Merton came home that night he found a strange sight indeed. Lounging on the rug of his library, deeply fascinated by an ancient tome was a young man, so absorbed in his reading he had not even noticed the lord's approach.
Safe in the knowledge that he could do so unnoticed, he stopped to observe the man. He was young. Certainly no more than 25, likely younger. His face though, was arranged in a manner that gave him the air of one older by far. A bag of Lord Merton's valuables lay beside him. A burglar then, caught in the act. To be a burglar meant an uneasy lot in life – which would perhaps explain his air of maturity – if he had lived through more than a man his age ought. He was evidently highly skilled in his craft, given that he had found his way into one of the better guarded homes of the kingdom, and appeared to have done so without significant difficulty, given the pristine state of his clothes. The clothes themselves seemed to be of rather greater quality than his occupation would suggest, as did the fact that he seemed to be reading – those engaged in petty theft were not commonly educated enough to appreciate such literature. Then again, magic tended to find ways to make itself known to those with the talent.
"Boy. Can you read that?" Lord Merton barked.
The man's head shot up and he scrambled to his feet, alarm filling his eyes.
"Of course." His chin lifted haughtily. "I should hardly be so intrigued as to allow myself to be caught had I not been able to read it."
His voice was deep and refined, words well-formed and eloquently spoken. His manner and voice spoke more of entitlement than they did of the underworld. Perhaps this was a man who stole more for personal amusement than necessity. Either way, an interesting creature to be sure.
"Ah, excellent. I see then that magic herself has led me a new apprentice."
The man's eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected response.
"I do beg your pardon?"
"Do tell me your name lad, we must get better acquainted if I am to teach you."
"Teach me what, exactly?"
"Magic of course. Only those with a gift for the arcane arts are even capable of reading that text."
Lord Merton raised his hand and Loki jumped and swore violently as every valuable item he had taken flew from the carpet beside him and returned to their places in the house. His vernacular was another piece of the puzzle Lord Merton sought to resolve. Such language was rarely heard outside of the underworld, so certainly there was a connection of some variety. Perhaps a fallen aristocrat? The man recovered himself quickly and watched the silverware re-arranging itself in the cupboard.
"So, it would appear this treatise speaks true and magic is more than petty superstition." It was almost a statement, but the hint of uncertainty turned his words into a question.
"Well how else do you propose I might have done that?"
"I know not." The man frowned. "You say you wish to teach me? Why?"
"If magic is not passed on to the next generation of those gifted, the art will die out. What better reason can there be?"
"And my burglary?"
"Incomplete, and therefore entirely forgettable."
The boy – man's eyes narrowed in suspicion, searching for the lie within his words. "As you say."
"So you will stay?"
The man's mouth gaped slightly.
"Surely you are not so naïve as to allow a petty criminal under your roof?"
"Ah but you wouldn't be a petty criminal, you would be my apprentice."
"That is naught but semantics. What of your safety? Men such as myself are not to be trusted."
"I am quite sure there are pitiful few men such as you." Lord Merton began to walk around the room looking at the books on his shelves as he talked. The man's eyes followed him closely and he mirrored his every step, keeping a cautious distance between them. "And I do not fear for my safety. The call of magic is far too seductive not to entrap a curious mind, you would surely not do harm to the man who will teach you. Besides which I have many means of securing my personal safety. I appear soft, I know. But rest assured." The lord's voice took on a note of warning. "I am not a man to be trifled with, and those who do find themselves considerably worse off."
The stranger held his gaze evenly, and eventually nodded.
"Very well. I will accept. I am Loki."
"Well met, Loki. I assume from your presence in my home you are aware of my identity.
Loki nodded. "Lord Merton."
"The very same."
To Lord Merton's frustration, despite Loki spending nearly a decade learning from him, he consistently refused to be introduced onto the social circuit. The only person he deigned to see with any regularity was Lord Merton himself, and even these encounters became less frequent as Loki's abilities grew and he was able to practise on his own.
Throughout this time, Loki's visage barely changed from the young man Lord Merton had found sprawled across his floor years ago. His hair grew longer and he refreshed his clothes regularly to follow the changing fashions, but his face remained ever the same.
The day after Lord Merton's curiosity finally led him to ask about this strange phenomenon, Loki was gone. The room that had become his was cleared, every book, every precariously balanced alchemical experiment gone as though he had never been there. Such was the nature of the mage, Lord Merton supposed. They were flighty creatures.
It was no surprise to him when news reached him of a new apprentice sorcerer in France. He went by a different name, but Merton was certain it was the same man. Loki was exceptionally gifted, more powerful than Merton had ever thought possible, and his unquenchable thirst for knowledge could never have been satisfied by Lord Merton's teaching alone.
He quietly followed Loki's progress throughout the years, listening out for word on the grapevine of powerful new apprentices appearing and disappearing all over Europe. Always the apprentices were described as young, though the physical characteristics began to vary – evidently Loki had discovered shapeshifting. Lord Merton followed from his home in Britain, never seeking to contact Loki, knowing such a thing would not be welcome. He followed and grew old, whilst Loki was ever young. Just before his death he was visited by a man with white blond hair and deep brown eyes. He knew straight away who this stranger was.
"Loki." He rasped. "You have grown."
The man's visage faded to reveal the young face he knew so well.
"No Lord, I remain the same."
"Your soul lives through each and every day, regardless of whether that time is shown upon your face. Your eyes show me your growth, Loki. I knew when I first saw you that you were not what you seemed."
Loki's eyes widened, glittering in the darkened room.
"You never said."
"You would have left. You did leave."
Loki looked away, eyes downcast.
"I apologise. It was ungrateful of me."
"You were scared."
There was a long pause, then Loki closed his eyes.
"Yes."
"For how long now have you been alone?" Merton asked curiously.
"I do not know the exact number. I have not kept close track. But I know it has been upwards of 400 years."
Merton's heart ached for the man before him who broadcast loneliness in his every move, but still pushed all others away.
"That is a long time to be alone."
"It is."
"Be less afraid. The world is changing and you can change with it. When you find your new family, do not be afraid to embrace them. Know that you were beloved to me. All my students are, and you are by far the greatest among them."
To his surprise, his words sparked tears in Loki's eyes, though they were quickly brushed away.
"My father would say such things to me, long, long ago." He admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Believe him." Merton urged.
"I fear I have disappointed him. I am not a good man." Loki said, his voice somehow even quieter.
"Never so. He loved you and I am sure he always would. You are neither good nor bad Loki, but you have the potential to do both. Remember the good in yourself and you will start to display it to others."
Loki did not respond, but sat quietly for several long minutes, mulling those words over.
"I… I am not sure you are right, Lord Merton. But perhaps I might try. I would appear to have a long life yet ahead of me."
"It would appear so." Merton agreed, nodding feebly. Loki stood suddenly.
"I must take my leave of you my Lord. I thank you for all you gave me, be it decades too late."
"And I thank you for coming here. Fare you well Loki."
"And you also."
And then he was gone.
Merton died a few days later. A number of his apprentices attended his funeral but Loki was not among them. The world continued on.