In the thick of battle, the Jotun grasped his arm and Loki had looked down, perplexed as his skin washed a glacial blue. The shocked look they had shared just prior to the Jotun's death had different meanings to each of them.
To the beast, it was the realization that the man before him was not a true Asgardian, but his own kin in disguise.
To Loki, it was the revelation of a lifetime of lies.
He turned his wrist, eyes searching for that which he had never seen. And there, slashed across the pale blue skin, in jagged, black symbols, was a name.
The All Speak failed him, then, and he found himself unable to decipher the language. It seemed familiar somehow, but he lacked the time to examine it further. Tugging down his sleeve, Loki willed his skin pale and returned to the fray without even bothering to check his right wrist.
Love didn't interest him.
Knowing who his greatest enemy was, however, seemed a far more pressing bit of information to have at his disposal.
-o-
Late that night, after Thor had been banished, Loki stole into the vault and approached the Casket. The hesitation he felt as he stood before the Jotun relic was tempered with fear, but lacking the sudden appearance of a stray Jotun, he knew of no other way to replicate the events of that day.
Despite spending hours frantically pouring over the many books at his disposal, Loki had failed to break, or even identify the enchantment upon him. He'd never experienced magic like this; it had no signature, no tell-tale trace to even hint at its existence.
It was beyond his skills, and the anger he first felt quickly gave way to fear. He had gone searching for answers, yet only raised more questions.
Questions that he was certain would tear his reality apart.
Loki steeled his spine and wrapped his fingers around the handles of the Casket. His breathing grew ragged as he felt his hands growing cold, colder, frozen, and he wondered over the fact that there was no pain.
A gasp tore from his throat, and blue skin bloomed at his fingertips, spreading slowly up his forearms as the Casket washed away the enchantment. He glanced at his right wrist, seeing the scrawl of Midgardian script, half-hidden by his sleeve.
He committed the name to memory, almost against his will. Kings had no time for love, no need for anything beyond absolute power, and he would do well to remember that.
And suddenly, the vault was filled with ghosts of memories.
Child-Thor standing near to this very spot, declaring he would slay all the monsters; never knowing that the 'brother' to his left was of the monster's bloodline.
Odin turning a weary gaze upon them, and how tightly he had squeezed child-Loki's hand as he led them away from the Casket.
The eternal questions of why his wrists were blank, when all around him were marked. The evasive answers he received that stank of lies.
So many lies.
And as the glamour fell fully from him, a voice rang out from behind him.
"Stop!" Odin exclaimed, and Loki stiffened.
The time for truth had come.
-o-
On Earth, standing over Mjolnir, Loki felt a burning pain in his right wrist.
He blocked it out; marked it unimportant. He had too many schemes in play to worry about love.
And how very fitting that his one true love would end up being a mortal, with their fleeting lives, and delicate natures? One of these many scurrying Midgardians that surrounded him, yet could not sense his presence.
The pain mounted, and Loki attempted to pull Thor's hammer from its' rocky cradle. He hissed in frustration as it stood fast, unmoving, and glanced to the sky above before moving on.
So much to do, so little time.
-o-
He was falling.
The Bi-Frost above receded, and Thor's scream faded to nothing, and still he fell.
The cold surrounded him, the silence of the stars beating in his ears.
And as he fell, pain grew in his left wrist.
It swelled as he hurtled through the darkness, became a raging fire as he sensed something, someone approaching.
It was then that it occurred to him that perhaps he had made a grave error in releasing his hold on the spear. That perhaps there were worse things than being marked a traitor, a Jotun; and those things were waiting for him, here, in the dark.
-o-
Loki had defeated the majority of the forces on the other side of the portal. He had turned a small force to his side, obtained the Tesseract with less effort than he had expected and was now being whisked off to safety. Climbing into the back of the unfamiliar vehicle, he wore exhaustion like a mantle, feeling the constant pain he had endured since Thanos discovered him finally beginning to fade.
Save for his right wrist.
He frowned down at the offending appendage, willing the burning to stop, reminding himself of the tasks before him, and their importance to his master.
Sometime later, after their escape, after the vast explosion that decimated the enemy base, they arrived at their destination. Loki moved to step down from the back of the vehicle, and was met by the driver. He was the first mortal turned to his side, a worthy and skilled adversary who had cemented his place at Loki's side based on how tenaciously he had fought.
The man held out his hand to help the trembling god down from the back of the truck, and as Loki fingers wrapped around the mortal's, he felt a lightning strike to his right wrist.
He hissed in a pained breath before raising his eyes to the swirling blue of his thrall.
"You okay, boss?" the man asked.
Loki countered the question with one of his own.
"Your name," he demanded. "What is it?"
"Clint," was the answer given. "Clint Barton, at your service."
Loki uttered a small, defeated noise before briefly closing his eyes, unable to meet that bright blue gaze.
"Of course it is," he murmured. "How could it be anything else?"