I am a Frost Giant.
The burning words etched themselves into Loki's reeling mind like a searing brand. A Frost Giant. A Jotun. A monster.
The armory was dark and cool; no trace remained of the attack earlier that day. Loki strode inside, slamming the doors behind him. He had to be alone. He had to think.
Loki closed his eyes, his breath quickening as the too fresh memory of the ill-fated trip to Jotunheim flashed through his head. He could almost feel the icy grip of the Frost Giant on his hand, the spreading sensation of tingling cold that had spread through his body as his skin darkened to that horrible blue...
He raised his hand before his face. It was its normal wan color, no different, if not a little paler, than the hand of any other Asgardian. Loki clenched his fingers as he saw, in his mind's eye, the Frost Giant gripping his arm, the armor flying away as his skin donned that awful hue...
Loki remembered, painfully now, the words of the child Thor: "When I'm king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!" Odin had barely rebuked him for that remark, and he had known - Loki tightened his jaw at the thought - he had known even then what Loki was, that Thor was unwittingly pledging to kill his brother.
Monster... Thor had never desisted in his verbal abuse of the Frost Giants and had continuously vowed that, under his reign, they would either die or live in complete subservience to him. Loki had readily joined in with Thor and the others, cursing the Jotuns because it gave Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three someone to look down upon besides Loki. Now every insult they had levelled at that hated race, every belittling description fixed itself on Loki as well - for he was a monster, hiding behind a thin facade that, as he had seen today, could so easily fade.
So much made sense now. No wonder Odin had favored Thor; who could expect him ever to place a Jotun on equal terms with his own son? All those years Odin had pretended that the throne could go to either of his sons - the boys he called his sons - but Loki had never had a chance, because he was of a foul race, a monster parents told their children about at night.
Loki slowly walked forward, hardly seeing the room around him. His moist green eyes stared with determination at the ancient relic centrally displayed in the armory: the casket taken from Jotunheim. I belong with these relics, Loki though bitterly. I was stolen from my home and taken here to rot, to sit in silence while others take all the glory.
Trembling with the knowledge of what was about to happen, Loki took the casket in both hands, lifting it from the pedestal. Almost instantly he felt the chill spreading through his fingers, over his wrists, up his arms, followed by that sickly blue...
A monster.