By Yggdrasil…
Where the grounds of the palace once reflected the shimmering luminescence of the Odin-force, Loki finds himself striding across broken concrete as repulsive as Midgardian flooring.
It is however, the least of his concerns as he breathes in the aftermath of battle.
The scent of shed blood is in the air and it pleads for vengeance.
Its silvery, tangy edge hits Loki full in the face the moment he steps out of his glass cage and onto what used to be the wide boulevards that lead straight into the heart of the Realm Eternal. The shrill voices of slain Asgardians cry out incessantly to him the way the blood of pathetic mortals of Midgard can never do; it is a waterfall of rage that easily breaks through his carefully-constructed barriers, nearly sending him to his knees. By willpower alone, he holds himself upright and resists emptying the contents of his stomach out onto the hard ground, steadying himself instead with a deep breath of acrid smoke.
He abhors weakness; above all, his own.
In the air, the residue of the dark elves' magic is strong. He carefully sifts through the odours, ignoring the curious looks of Thor and the mortal. From the mix of soot and thick fog, an unmistakable smell lingers. It assaults his nostrils and points only to the seiðr of a being that time has seemingly forgotten up until now. Taking another sniff, he realises with a jolt that the bonds of Malekith's dark magic have strengthened a thousand fold.
Yet…the signature of Malekith's magic is…weakened. Or so it seems.
Confounding, indeed.
Frowning, he crouches down and lightly disturbs the dust with a finger, then tilts his hand towards the brightness of Asgard's constellations. The residue is an amalgam of black and grey with the slightest tinge of red sparkles the exact shade as the dying light of a sun. The dust slides of its own accord down his finger and back to where it came from, disappearing into a dimension that, for some inexplicable reason, seems hidden from him.
Briefly, Loki considers all the possibilities of this magical…anomaly. Whatever accounts for the sudden increase in Malekith's power is something he intends to find out, but it is precious knowledge that he will keep to himself, until he deems the time right to reveal its potential bargaining power. He is under no illusions that he's freed for a single reason – to hunt the Accursed one. As confident as he is in his abilities, he has no intention of returning to that cage of humiliation when all this is over.
"What do you see, brother?"
Thor's voice rumbles through the ruins and Loki fights not to react to that hypocritical epithet. Instead, he stays silent for long moments, then raises his head to look into Thor's serious eyes and the swirling emotions that Jane Foster lacks any ability to hide.
"Malekith grows strong," he finally says, a small smirk appearing on the sides of his lips.
"That's stating the obvious." All eyes swing to the mortal who speaks.
Thor visibly tenses at the sharpness in her tone but it wrangles a genuine chuckle out of him, though it's not without malice.
So there is more to her than meets the eye, like an ant that seeks a quarrel with a boot, Loki thinks with a sly, inward sneer.
"You have heart, Jane Foster."
His cool green gaze finds blazing, defiant amber eyes and holds them captive. It surprises him that there lies something beneath what he'd assumed to be yet another vacuous wench who so fits the entirely predictable behaviours of Thor's previous bed-warmers. Guileless and almost…insolent, Jane Foster seems almost as if-
In a flash of red and silver, Loki finds Mjolnir shoved roughly under his chin in a move that halts his musings. "You will speak to Lady Jane with respect."
He simply grins more widely at how easily Thor gets…upset. In many ways, his false brother hasn't changed, as much as his altered behaviour in Asgard has helped proclaim him worthy to be ruler in Odin's stead.
But where the mortal is concerned, Thor's affections seem to remain as constant as it had been two Midgardian years ago. Why and how exactly, had this mortal woman bewitched Thor and made him soft? Wherein lay her appeal that Odin himself had deigned to offer her sanctuary in Asgard? Surely it could not have been merely her ordinary visage that had captivated him? Or perhaps it's the spark of rebelliousness that has her small, mortal body quivering in anger…or in fear? The sheer, audacious boldness and daring that many wouldn't have in the face of gods?
These are questions which Loki has asked himself a multitude of times.
And he knows the answer is found in that small mortal who tries to be clever with her words and reaches for what is beyond her. What else would explain Thor's seemingly changed stance towards a realm he hadn't bothered about since he was a child?
Whatever secrets that are hidden within Jane Foster's person, Loki thinks he will relish finding out.
Inclining his head in a mocking show of supplication, he steps up the game of dominance that is twisted, familiar ground. "As you wish, my prince."
Wariness cuts deep lines in Thor's scowling face. "Your mischief has wrought much misery, strife and chaos in the realms. And now, you will fool no one with your nefarious schemes and war mongering ways."
Loki wants to laugh. Mischief and misery? The former is both latter's archenemy and its perfect counterbalance. There cannot be one without the other. Thor, it seems, has not learnt this precious lesson.
"And what if it were a nefarious plan of mine that would help bring about Malekith's downfall? You, of all warriors, have surely witnessed how the Asgardian ranks fell under the superior strength of the Dark Elves," he counters with a smirk, raising a deliberate hand to move Mjolnir away from his chin with a forceful tug. "The only question that remains, Odinson, is whether you place every confidence in me to lead you into Svartalfheim using mischief and trickery?"