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This is an answer to a prompt on Norsekink and a cannon!AU:
"Scourge; 1. a whip or lash, especially for the infliction of punishment and torture. 2. a person or thing that applies or administers punishment or severe criticism. 3. a cause or affliction or calamity (disease and famine are scourges of humanity)
Loki is the Scourge of Odin and the most powerful sorcerer in the Nine Realms. When someone truly angers him, Odin sends Loki to met out punishment. The position has given Loki great power, but he hates it. It isn't the magic he dreamed of performing for Asgard when he started learning spells. Odin also commanded him to secrecy (a misguided attempt to prevent Loki being feared by the Asgardians).
Loki can create plagues that wipe out entire populations, famines that starve entire planets, extinctions or overpopulations (locusts ect) that devastate entire ecosystems, and calamity's that change the very shape of the land (wars and natural disasters). Odin keeps the Nine Realms in check with the threat of these.
When Loki called himself a "monster" he really meant it - the revelation of his Jotun heritage enough to finally push him to say what he's thought of himself and the horrible things he's committed across the Nine Realms in Odin's name. It's also why he tried to destroy Jotunheim, along with destroying a part of himself he hated he was acting out a punishment he truly thought would please Odin.
When Odin has need of his services, he goes to Midgard to give Loki orders - in front of the Avengers. Thor is horrified to learn Loki is the Scourge all in the Nine Realms live in terror of.
The pain continues as he falls and it escalates when he lands. It's a shattering impact that leaves him in pieces. He has no magic left. The wards he had woven into his skin are useless without anything to power them. His bones snap. His skin tears. His nerves set themselves alight. He can't even scream - he remembers stitches.
Why is he still alive?
Nothing makes sense. Nothing registers but the blazing heat spreading throughout his body at impossible speeds and levels. Loki tries to move, but abandons the futile mission when he realizes that he can't feel anything. Nothing but fire at least.
He doesn't know where he is or why he is there, but he knows that he is no longer home.
Home.
Something wet strikes his cheek and he thinks it odd as sand engulfs his body and the searing sun beats down on him.
When next he wakes, the shift in light is the first thing he understands. The sun had set. How long had he been unconscious?
Loki waves the sounds of the oppressing silence off, holding it at bay for a little while. Enough time for him to assess his injuries, at least. Physical wounds are the first to be examined.
Lacerations a plenty carve designs into his skin, dried blood crusting at the edges and openings, feeling uncomfortable as his clothes brush against the wounds below them. He moans, but carefully and gently lifts a mostly mended hand - his magic is returning to him, Loki sighs, it is not entirely lost to him - and prods his chest. Hisses escape through clenched teeth. His hand drops, energy spent and exhausted from the effort.
He is so tired. The Fall should have killed him when he hadn't any magic to heal himself. But he is alive, for what purpose? Do the Realms still have a use for its pet monster?
He closes his eyes and listens to the faint sounds of his wards humming weakly with power. He pulls at the strings of magic connected to his core, pleased with how they shiver at his touch, chanting soft phrases and incantations into his ears, drowning out the white noise. His magic is weak, but it is growing stronger. Restoring itself is a tedious process especially with a core as large as his. But he can wait, he always has.
He lets the energy flow through his body before succumbing to sleep.
Days of lying in this sea of sand pass by before he is finally able to move enough to sit up at least. It is a painfully slow process, but as soon as he is able to sit upright without swaying dangerously, he knows that the accomplishment is worth the wait. He basks in the sun for a moment, his pale skin soaking in the warm rays. It is a bit too hot for his tastes, actually almost boiling, but it is nice after such a storm of ice in the Void.
He doesn't know why he is still alive or how, but it annoys him. His head tips back to look at the seas and rolling golden hills. Such beauty he, as a monster, is not worthy to see.
He is in a desert, he had figured one of the nights afterwards when his mind was coherent enough to register a frequency beyond that of high-pitched pain. It still courses through his body, but it dulls with every drop of magic that drips back into his blood vessels. For now, it remains somewhere in the back of his mind, pressing and wanting of attention, but of no immediate concern.
Considering his actual physiology, the fact that he is not dead yet or in excruciating pain because of the heat means that he is not in Muspelheim. Nor is he in Alfheim, Vanaheim or Svartalfaheim because of how dead the land feels under him, almost no traces of magic thrumming in the soil. It feels different from all the times he had visited those places, when he called out to the magic that ran within them and used its infatuation with his sorcery against its own people. Niflheim and Jotunheim are a definite no. Helheim as well. So is Asgard.
Which left Midgard.
Loki barks out a hoarse laugh. Oh how the Norns smile upon him so, to send him to the place where his not-brother gained redemption. There is no such thing for Loki so it is fitting to send him here to rot. To melt under the shunning presence of a star or perhaps drown in its shadow. Like always.
Oh how will the Trickster die if he cannot take his own life the proper way? Or is he condemned to a life of wandering listlessly, haunting the places of Midgard because his body requires no water nor food really to sustain life - which he knew about through a 'harmless experiment'.
Stitches fill his mind and the scent of salty tears mingling with copper-filled blood fill his lungs until he's drowning on the inside.
Enough.
He congers one of his throwing knives from his pocket in void-space, holding it weakly between whipcord thin fingers. He holds it over his throat and breathes.
You must not forget.
Startled, Loki drops his knife, accidentally cutting his palm open as he tries and fails to catch it. Blood drips down from the wound and he has enough sense to keep it elevated, away from the sand.
Green eyes grow sharper, clearer and wider as they flicker around the barren desert. Who...?
Throat still damaged from screaming and hysterical laughter, Loki can not find it in him to respond to the voice. It is probably a figment of his imagination anyway. Something made up. He is going insane.
The universe does not want him dead yet. He does not even deserve rest or the gift of seeing his daughter again.
No, you will listen to me, child, you must not forget.
There it is again.
Do not forget.
Don't forget what?
He doesn't try again.
Loki dreams often. Sometimes they are figments of his past, before he was led through darkened halls and into that circular chamber, before he was sent to his place of origin to slaughter his targets. Back when things were simpler, where up was up and down was down. When being a mage meant that he was able to amuse Thor and his friends with simple parlour tricks and illusions.
Other times, they are simply filled with darkness. A darkness too much like the Void where he fell and fell and fell some more.
Rarely does he dream of a life that could have been his. Maybe if he had been fully Aesir and fully Odin's, he would have been like Thor. Being Loki is an awful thing to be. Being Loki means failure and monster.
Being Loki meant to live a doomed life.
Being Thor meant the opposite.
He wonders what would have happened if he were Thor and Thor was Loki. Odin and Mother would have loved him like their own child because he would have been theirs. He wouldn't be a disappointment. He would have been someone to be proud of.
He looks at the moon above him and cries. There is a sensation bubbling beneath his breast, like a liquid fire swirling endlessly inside him.
He forgives them and that makes the fire burn even more so. He forgives them because he still loves them.
And he dreams to be their son and brother once more.
A gasp cuts the silence. Loki's eyes snap open. His breaths come in short, heavy bursts as he takes greedy heaves, uncaring if he inhales sand in the process.
The air is hot and stagnant despite the desert night. Heavy, thick. Poisonous and dangerous. Loki can't see anything beyond a blue haze littering the sky. Unnatural blue. Too saturated and bright, so much so that not even Thor's electric azure can compare. Something deep within his chest cavity pulls and it pulls deeply. It feels like magic. Smells like the familiar scents of energy of life. But it's old and it doesn't feel right at all.
Loki shudders, back arched as the fog fills his brain. Whispers creep out from where they were hiding, furthering his already addled mind. Memories, crisp and sharp stream and play on his unseeing eyes. They are so fresh and vivid. Still not yet dulled by time.
A hoarse cry rings in the night and Loki hears it bounce back to him.
It pulls again and he feels compelled to obey. His curiosity overriding his sense much like the blue-tinted mist surrounding him. Where will this pull lead him? He is desperate for an ultimatum. Maybe this will grant him at least that.
Find the Tesseract.
The Tesseact. The Cosmic Cube. Loki's eyes light up. It is said that it can bring to life any wishes a creatures has; should they be able to tap into its power. Any command he issues, it will be done. It used to be in the vault when he was a young child. He can still remember the deep bass of its song, vibrating with pure energy that rocked his soul and sent it soaring when he was in its presence. Hadn't Odin sent the Tesseract to Midgard for protection because its power was too great for anyone to be in control of it?
Midgard.
Loki felt his lips quirk. Any wish the wielder wants.
He can alter reality, create his own perfect world.
You must not forget.
It doesn't take long to track down the signature of the Tesseract and follow the gentle song all the way to the twisting turns and corridors of the underground facility. He walks around the place, a simple spell to keep his presence unknown and unseen. He is on Midgard now, a realm he isn't too familiar with.
Loki finds another lost soul in the labrynth and he latches onto its presence, letting the mortal man lead him. They are heading in the same direction and if the situation with Mjolnir is anything to go by and should the Tesseract be in the hands of the Midgardians, chances are, it is being help under surveillance.
He is right.
By the time they arrive at their destination, there is another man. Loki flinches as he looks at the eyepatch warping around his hairless head, covering the left eye. His skin is dark and his beard is short. His eye, brown and the other seemed to have faint scars peaking out from beneath the black cloth. The resemblance didn't settle well with him at all.
The humans begin to talk and Loki waits patiently, biding his time and gathering his strength. When the Tesseract is finally brought out, he can barely contain his excitement and glee at seeing the familiar churning blue wisps of limitless energy confined in the small cube. He purrs as it reaches out to him. No more weak Loki. No more being mocked for being a sorcerer. Magic is a fine craft and the more his magic mingles with the Cube's the more euphoric he feels. It's better than anything else he had ever felt in his life.
Do not forget.
Right. He must retrieve it and have it, not merely admire it from a distance, drinking off of the small leaks of magic like a desperate beggar.
Loki reaches into the first man's mind and whispers words into his ear.
"Well, I guess that's worth a look."
Good. Come back, child.
Yes, there is much to do. He cannot simply pluck the Tesseract from the grubby fingers of the mortals; he must rip it from their hands in a show of who is more powerful. Of who is the true god of the universe. Midgard will be the launching point. From there, all the Realms will know and hear the words of truth as it spills from his lips.
Long live Death.
Long live Death.
The Other hurries back, his hood nearly flying off of his disfigured face in his haste.
"My lord," he says respectfully, kneeling on the ground in front of the throne. His lord waves a hand and he rises on command, all twelve fingers shaking in excitement.
"Speak."
"My lord, the experiment is a success. We have tamed Chaos and we have news of the Tesseract's location. We are ready to proceed with our plans."
His lord nods once.
"Call back our pet and begin with the preparations."
"Of course, my lord."
Orange eyes stare into the blackness of space, roaming over the galaxies and stars interspersed with life forms of every kind.
"Gatekeeper, what do you see?"
A beat.
"I see not what you seek."
I'm sorry there are a lot of waits in between chapters now...I'm just falling into a black cloud of nothingness and despair. But oh well, if I find myself falling, at least on Earth, I'll end up on the other side...unless I get burnt into a crisp because of our molten center.
Anywho! On the chapter. Can anyone smell what's on the horizon?
Happy reading!