Loki is chaos personified. He is not its master, its God, no, he is but a leaf caught in the hurricane that is the unstoppable force.

(and he is trapped, unable to escape its grasp, can only pray that he can survive the onslaught and not lose himself completely)

He is chaos but Asgard is order, Asgard is stagnation, and he is only young yet he feels he has seen all that it has to offer. Nothing changes, there is nothing new or exciting or interesting or chaotic. He tries, with his tricks and his lies and his learning, but nothing can quell the itch in his mind, the splinter that is growing and cracking his mind until he can barely think for the pounding in his head, the rhythmless tempo of drumbeats telling him to do something-

So he sabotages and he steals and his harmless mischief becomes cruel and messy. He accepts his punishment with a small smile through the thick threads stitching his lips together, because he can finally think again, the drumbeat fallen to barely a whisper (Dun-dun, dun-dun). He doesn't tell them, not his father or his mother or his brother, because he knows that what he is cannot be changed. It is the nature of Chaos, to destroy (and create) all that in its path, and the flickering resentment is not enough for him to ever wish this madness upon them.

When his punishments ends there is peace for a while, and he concentrates on his studies and magic without the drive to put it to use. But when he begins to hear the thundering beat that has never, ever made him think of his brother, he knows he has to do something (the scars across his mouth have faded).

So he learns the paths of Yggdrasil, all its back doors and secrets and treasures, he learns its branches with precarious leaps and a stubborn determination, until there is nothing left unknown (he thinks). He travels its roads with light feet and wary eyes, avoiding the very few creatures who still know its ways, shuddering at the caress of their power whilst he hides (he is still young). And then, when his fingers are twitching to destroy and break and burn, he runs far from Asgard-

-and ends up in Midgard. And, oh, it is beautiful. There is so much war and hatred and destruction, empires rising in a tempest of corruption and betrayal, before crashing down beneath the weight of its own treachery. The beings there, the humans, their lives are so short – but they are sharp and desperate and bright. They are supernovas, extinguished so quickly but so magnificently, so much more than the frozen images that the Asgardians paint with their eternal twilight. Their lives pass in mere blinks of an eye to an Asgardian, but how is their own perpetual torpor any better? Is it not greater to be sudden yet vivid than endless yet meaningless?

And it is not just its people that satisfies the restless beast that lurks in the recesses of its mind. The realm itself does not have anything similar to the gleaming brass cities of Asgard, the delicate arches and fine luxury of his home. But whereas Asgard is timeless and graceful in its natural beauty, almost cold, Midgard is all harsh edges and raw power. He decides that there is nothing more stunning than the utter discord of a volcano erupting, the disarray of an earthquake that brings even the most mighty of cities to its knees, the hulking mountains that rise from the ground over however many years like thick, tapering scars in the Earth's surface.

He knows that he cannot stay on Midgard forever, much as he would like to. Though his family (the word tastes strange on his tongue; he doesn't think about why) are used to his disappearances, his absence has surely been long enough to be noticed, and he would rather not they discover where he has taken refuge, lest he be forbidden. They will be suspicious of his dealings here, and though in truth he has hardly interacted with the mortals, preferring to observe and only give a nudge when needed, who would ever believe the God of Lies?

So he returns to Asgard (it should not be so difficult to think home) and listens to the tales of his brother's latest heroic escapades, whilst he closes his eyes and sees the daunting wave of a tsunami crashing down onto a large town, sees a wildfire spreading its lethal destruction, sees two armies clash and blood drench the sand. He smiles, and his fingers finally lessen in their drumming against the table (Dun-dun, dun-dun).

Centuries pass like this, and he contents himself with battles (he gets better at using his magic) and politics (and his words), which are in many ways one in the same. His brother and his friends (because they are Thor's friends, he will not delude himself into thinking otherwise) don't understand why he so prefers to use his words over actions, his magic over the strength of a forged weapon. They do not see the intricacies in both speech and magic, the pure skill it takes to succeed in either. Magic is all but a forgotten art, hidden in a few remaining books and the minds of the oldest immortals. Most of it he has to figure out himself, and that it partly what makes a successful spell or rune so rewarding. The magic itself is bound to his very essence, providing a stability he is far from used to. It is comforting, like a mother's hug or a hand holding his own tightly, and he ignores any sparks of pride that insist his no need of such things. His magic is his, solely and completely, the one thing that will never betray or hurt or leave him-

Speaking is hardly as obscure, and he makes many an ally and enemy over the years, manages to inspire a brief revolution that is unfortunately snuffed out before it can come to fruition. There is no proof of his involvement in the minor rebellion, but the power of rumours and gossip should never be underestimated. He loses interest for a while, when each word that leaves his mouth is met with suspicion. For who will listen to, never mind trust, the words of the Liesmith?

And then-

(Dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, DUN-dun, DUN-dun, DUN-dun, DUN-DUN, DUN-DUN, DUN-DUN)

He visits Midgard but it is not enough, the beast in his mind demands chaos, it will no longer be placated by the meagre squabbles of mortals (his breath catches). It wants war, the likes of which that Loki himself has never seen, it wants death and anarchy and it demands no less than the annihilation of an entire people-

Jötunheim. Already he is planning, the threads coming together like an intricate tapestry within his head, lovely yet terrible in its design. Part of him, small and insignificant feels doubt, worries of the repercussions should he fail, of the effects on those he cares for. But his emotions do not matter, not really.

Chaos needs its puppet, its host, and he has no choice but to dance to its strings.

. . .

I had a of fun writing that! It was a lot easier than I expected, just kinda let myself ramble. I might continue this into a two-shot (is that what it's called?) if anyone is interested, and I hope you liked it, leave a review to let me know :)

(It's up to you guys to decide whether there is an actual force controlling Loki, or if it's all in his head. Let me know what you think, I'm always curious about how people interpret what I write, especially with things like this.)

As always, prompts are welcome, though I struggle with romance. I'm working on a Thor-centric one, so that should be out soon :)