She had Thor by the neck, dagger like a spine in her other hand, needle-tip pressed against the center of his chest. Something in him rankled, and he bared his teeth in a wolf's chilling death grin. It came without warning, creeping up from cool fingertips, the ice. Ice like fire, like metal, like a dagger. He glanced at it as he advanced on silent feet.
He played for nine sides and none at once; he picked what he favored and left when it displeased him. He hated and spat and scorned and cheated-he lied as he laughed and he loved when it ached and he realized too late. He was mischief and magic, and he snarled low in his throat as Hela spoke of being the goddess of death, mocking Banner and his cheap emerald wrath.
"No." He grinned as he grabbed her by the arm, the neck, as his frozen blade flashed and prismed like crystal in the light of the fires roaring beyond the balcony. His facade of pale skin and raven tangles fell away for an instant as his weapon sank into soft flesh and hard bone, piercing and relentless. "I'm the monster."
Wide eyes stared as death claimed Death, and the sparks of midnight in Hela's dark eyes faded and her black magic fell silent. He let her fall to blood-streaked tiles, and the shards of ice round his fingers melted to drip like demented blood-rain on her pale skin. He looked up from the sight to the Prince of Asgard, who was now her king.
He smiled, faint, fleeting; clever and harmless, both at once. Laughter and something else flashed in his eyes; a dark mirth, a wicked cunning. "I was not going to let her kill you like a dog."
Thor chuckled, weak and uncertain, as he stood to full height, tattered scarlet cape falling around his shoulders and brushing his dirty arms. Words seemed worthless and time moved at a lackluster pace.
He smirked, a sound of amusement escaping him as he turned, and his dark hair swung over his shoulder, magic restoring broken daggers he held and bringing what weapons he had lost, back.
"This is a fine mess to clean."
He was mischief and magic, and fought on nine sides and for none at all. He laughed when others cried and slipped through space and time. He cheated and lied and loved too late; he felt nothing at all, but could not hate. He was clever and foolish and vengeful at once. He smiled at silence and spoke crafty words- he was Loki, and one couldn't quite trust him but nor could they lose him.