When Thanos stepped onto the Statesman, Loki knew that his life was almost certainly coming to an end.
The Mad Titan would not be eager to let the god slip through his fingers again.
Thanos had predicted his ploy, easily grabbing ahold of Loki's neck and lifting him from his feet, his neck burning and his lungs screaming for air. Loki could see Thor, his brother's remaining eye - he only had one now, Hela had taken so much from them, the universe had taken so much - wide with pain (both physical and emotional) as the last blood descendent of Odin watched Thanos hold his adoptive brother aloft as if the mischievous god weighed no more than a blade of grass.
Loki was unsure what would follow after his death - and he would certainly die this day, in this place. It was becoming clear that it was... Inevitable.
Would he be allowed into the great halls of Valhalla? He was a Jötunn - the son of Laufey, no less, the king of the Frost Giants- and a traitor, a betrayer, was he worthy to linger in the majestic halls of which his adoptive mother and the king who he had once called father most certainly resided? Where the many Asgardians whose deaths he had caused roamed?
He was scared.
Was he doomed to Hel?
Was he doomed to nothing? To an existence similar to his experiences in the void?
He had hurt so many, he had done so much that would surely make him unworthy of the comfort of Valhalla.
He would never see Frigga or Thor again.
"You..." He choked out, unwilling to die without standing against Thanos's message one last time, "Will never be..."
Thanos's grip tightened around his neck.
"A god." Loki finished, his lungs emptied of air and sweat dripping down his skin.
The only warning Loki received was a slight twist in Thanos's expression before the Titan tightened his grip.
Loki heard the snaps of his neck giving way to the gauntlet, of complex structures of bone and muscles being crushed in an instant, and he was gone.
He was gone, for just a moment, before he opened his eyes once more.
He was standing now, his neck free of pain and whole, his feet planted on a grassy hill surrounded by flowers, a soft breeze swirling the refreshingly fresh air around his previously bleeding nose.
Looking up, what he presumed to be the magnificent hall of Valhalla towered above him, set into a great mountain.
It was just like the tales.
But, unlike the tales which told of the afterlife that awaited many Asgardians, there was no sound of shouting and cheering, of great parties and feasts.
In fact, there was not a single soul in sight.
Nobody was waiting to greet Loki into the afterlife which he perhaps did not deserve.
He hadn't expected Odin to wait for him at the entrance to Valhalla, he and his adoptive father had not parted on the best of terms (although their relationship had been... better?), but he had hoped to see Frigga again.
There was so much left unsaid between them, so much he regretted not saying before her untimely death.
Squaring his shoulders for whatever - whoever - he may bump into, Loki made his way to the towering doors of Valhalla. Valhalla was shining and golden, the great hall rising tall in front of him, its great doors wide open to welcome him to the place he was never sure he would see.
He slipped in, quietly and subtly.
He saw the reason he did not hear any commotion, of perhaps why there was nobody to greet him. The great hall of Valhalla was not filled with boisterous crowds cheering and partying, no, instead the gathered crowds were solemn, sitting quietly along the long benches that lined the hall, discussing in small groups, looks of horror and grief upon each face.
They had no doubt been receiving Asgardians in significant numbers, and no doubt the tale of Thanos, the tale of Ragnarok and the destruction of Asgard, the tale of the extinction of their people, no doubt it had all reached the ears of those who called Valhalla home.
And Loki found himself to blame for so much of what caused them grief.
Staying in the shadows, Loki spotted a dark staircase that traveled up to the rafters, and quickly made his way to it. He climbed up to the safety of the rafters, the safety of the solitude of offered from those who might - rightfully - point to him as the one to blame for the tragedy that faced the Asgardian people, their alive population now teetering the brink of extinction.
Loki didn't even know if Thor, if his brother, had survived after Thanos killed him.
He made his way to the top of Valhalla, scouting the crowds as he climbed, but he did not see any persons resembling his adoptive parents, of anyone held close in his heart.
He wove between the spear shafts that decorated the rafters, weaving between the supporting features as he continued to climb higher and higher. Eventually, he came upon a slanted door set in line with the tilted angle of the roof, presumably allowing access to the outside of the structure. The door screeched as he pushed it open, catching for a brief moment before giving way to his strength. While Valhalla would never allow dust or cobwebs to mar the beauty of its majestic halls, it was clear that this door was not one used often.
As he stepped out onto the roof of Valhalla, a roof thatched with weathered shields that had seen the heat and chaos of battle, Loki took in the sight of the tree Læraðr which stood at the top of Valhalla, and below it was Heiðrún. Heiðrún was the goat from which the sweet mead, a liquor beyond any compare and unreplicable anywhere except Valhalla. Eikþyrnir, the stag which was also supposed to be somewhere along the top of Valhalla with his antlers dripping the liquid of which would fall into Hvergelmir to allow all water to rise and flow forth, was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was roaming elsewhere at the moment.
"Stupid goat," Loki snorted, rolling his eyes at the beast as it lazily chewed a leaf, its rectangle pupils blankly staring at him, "You have no idea of what has occurred here, have you? Of the tragedy which causes heartbreak below?" His heart had no reason to spark with anger at Heiðrún, but the sight of the goat enjoying the foliage of Læraðr while his people sobbed and cried below angered him.
Loki sighed heavily.
He was taking his anger out on the poor goat, she didn't deserve that - and honestly, it didn't even look like she was registering that he was still there. Heiðrún was currently standing on her hind legs, propping her plump body against the trunk of Læraðr, mead flowing from her udders and falling down to be collected in a large pot of which the Einherjar would drink from when they ran out from the pot of mead that was already down below in the hall - although no souls were filling their drinking horns currently, too captured by the horrors of what was happening to the living. As he got closer, Loki could see that her coat was dirty and had leaves and sticks entangled in it, her hooves long and in desperate need of a trim.
It appeared as if she had not been cared for in a long while.
Loki's anger turned to sympathy.
Heiðrún stepped backward from Læraðr, letting herself fall back onto four legs as she carefully turned around and walked towards Loki.
She reached him and circled him - Loki turning to keep her in his sight - and when his back was to Læraðr she head-butted him, Loki stepping back as she continued to step forward. They continued this routine until Loki felt his back bump against the pot which was filled to the brim with clear mead, Heiðrún flicking her ear and drawing Loki's gaze to a drinking horn that lay abandoned beside the pot, a short distance from his foot.
"You wish me to drink?" Loki raised an eyebrow at the animal. Heiðrún was intelligent, of course, but he didn't understand why she wished him to drink of her mead.
Heiðrún bleated, headbutting the horn and knocking it against his foot.
Loki reached down and plucked the horn up, and carefully dipped it into the pot of mead. He lifted it, drops of mead trickling down the horn and trailing across his hand, and took a drink, savoring the flavor of the sweet mead.
The taste worked to temporarily take his mind off of his, and all of Asgard's, troubles and woes.
When he turned back to look at Heiðrún, she had settled down onto her side and was looking at him expectedly.
He exhaled forcefully, knowing what she expected.
Loki gently settled down at her side, between her front and hind legs, turning his back and carefully - watching and listening for any sign of discomfort or anger from the great goat - leaning against the belly of the goat.
"We are similar, no?" Loki lifted the drinking horn aloft, inspecting the vessel - faintly wondering which goat the horn came from - as he spoke to the gentle presence he was resting against, "They don't care about you. Or me, they don't care about us. They drink of your mead and wash themselves in the water from Eikþyrnir's horn, but they do not come to visit you, they do not care for your fur or your hooves," Loki snorted, before sighing heavily as he cast his eyes upwards, lost in the memories of when he was younger on Asgard, "we are forgotten about. Just like me, just like those who practice the magic of seiðr without being the 'right'," Loki rolled his eyes as he crooked his fingers into 'air quotes', a habit he had picked up during his short interactions with Midgardians, "sex for it, the product we produce can be appreciated and used but the producer remains forgotten and neglected."
Heiðrún bleated, knocking her head into Loki's (taking care to avoid knocking her solid and sharp horns into his skull) and flicking her ear, tickling the god's own ear as she did so.
"You make good company, goat," Loki smiled softly, perhaps for the first time since his death, and settled back into the softness of Heiðrún's belly.
Heiðrún bleated, knocking one of her hooves against Loki's foot as she leveled an unimpressed (somehow the expression translated to her goat features) look at the god.
"Apologies," Loki corrected himself, "Heiðrún."
Satisfied, the goat settled down to rest, curling around Loki and closing her eyes.
Loki closed his eyes as well, letting his head fall back and allowing the tendrils of sleep to pull him into blissful unawareness.