He was small, for a giant. It kept him from being noticed much. Except maybe to get kicked out of annoyance every now and then.

Loki stayed clear of the others, as much as possible. He had arrived in Jotunheim already shifted to his natural form, thanks to Odin's powers suppressing his own. Knowing it was suicide to stay at the Bifrost site, he had fled, shedding clothing as he went. Frost giants typically wore little more than a kilt type covering, and he did not want to call attention to himself. The cold did not bother him. He was, after all, a frost giant.

He had thought that Odin's punishment was sure death, which was unlike his father. It was not until he accidentally encountered the first frost giants that he understood the genius of his father's plan. The Jotuns had no idea who he was. The betrayer they had experienced was Asgardian, the son of Odin. He was a runt frost giant that had been allowed to live.

The Jotuns he encountered were not kind. He frequently heard comments about 'misbegotten offspring' and speculation as to why natural selection had been circumvented in his case. Why had he been allowed to live? Those that commented were not shy about doing so.

In a way, it was just like being back in Asgard. He had not belonged there either. In both realms, his appearance was not enough to guarantee his acceptance. The peoples of both realms knew he was different from them, and both shunned him. Loki wasn't sure if he should feel grateful that he was not recognized, or bitter. He did not like to think of himself as insignificant, because he'd felt that way for centuries. Primarily due to Thor and his ego.

Still, rather insignificant than dead.

Loki felt horribly exposed, physically. Asgardians were modest, and he was uncomfortable seeing so much of his own skin while around others. Especially in its hated blue color. He had grown up with stories of the frost giants as the evil monsters. It was a part of him. Being able to accept that he was one of these creatures was eluding him.

Still, he needed to learn to become comfortable in this skin, since he feared he would be stuck here for some time. Without access to his magic, he could not open the secret pathways between the worlds. He could not leave Jotunheim.

Time had never traveled so slowly before. He had no access to his magic, so had to beg food from wherever he could get it. Typically this included menial tasks for arrogant frost giants who would throw 'scraps at the runt' once completed. Loki had never felt so utterly demeaned in his life. Here he was, begging again. Not for physical pleasure this time, but for his very survival through sustenance.

He was not welcomed anywhere. Others of his kind looked down at him, scorning his small frame. That felt startlingly familiar. He had had the same reaction from Asgardians who did not understand or appreciate a lean, non-warrior type in their midst.

But he had found a place where he fit, sort of. Midgard, Earth, was full of diversity, with the wonderful madness of mortals. They lived in an ever fluctuating medium that demanded adaptability. They could appreciate differences and the uniqueness of an individual. He had felt more at ease there than he had ever felt in Asgard. Strange how things worked out. At one point in his life, not so long ago, he had scorned the very idea of mortals. He had scoffed at his brother's affection for one. Strange that what he had considered his brother's weakness would now become his own strength.

It was surprisingly easy to pick up information when he was often not seen. The giants did not wish to see one so frail, so they purposely overlooked him. It was as if he did not exist to them. Loki didn't care, of course. It was much more beneficial that he not be noticed. He lingered at the very edges of their gatherings, listening and learning.

He heard pieces of conversation about the death of Laufey. There was reluctant admiration for the deception practiced by the younger son of Odin. It had been a well played game that Laufey had not won. The frost giants appreciated such trickery.

He learned the nature of the life essence draining that had nearly killed Darcy. It was a survival technique that had been actively bred into the males of the species. The females were unimportant in frost giant society, so if a male was in a state of near death, it only made sense that a mate should give her life for his. Loki was able to uncover rumors of a deal with a Svartalfar sorcerer centuries ago who had first bespelled the males. The spell required mating. Had Loki not become intimate with her, Darcy would have been safe from him. He would have recovered at a normal rate, or died from overextending himself. It was ironic that his vodka induced moment of weakness had kicked off such a cascading series of events, leading to this.

As he spent time among them, Loki found himself surprised at the frost giants' coldness. It extended to their emotions. He did not believe that they had the capacity for love, or even fondness. But was that a product of environment? He had the ability to love. He did love his parents and his brother. It was a complex emotion, and often disturbing, but it was there nonetheless. He could not deny it. Was his capacity for love because of his 'misbegotton' nature, or because of the way he'd been raised?

Time was a heavy weight around his very soul. How did beings survive like this? He was adrift, with no purpose to his life. The only goal was immediate: survival. He kept his eyes trained to the ground, as befitted a runt that did not wish to call attention to himself. He begged for his scraps of food, and listened for his scraps of information.

He wondered how much time was truly passing. It seemed an eternity. He thought that time passed differently on Earth, and hoped that Darcy was fully recovered. She brought a brightness with her that should not be dimmed. He found that he missed that brightness. He missed a lot of things that he had become accustomed to while on Earth.

Odin must be enjoying the breaking of his spirit. Loki was unsure what lesson the All-Father wanted him to take from this experience, or if there was even a lesson in mind. He was paying a penance for his betrayal to the throne of Asgard. He was serving out that penance in the company of the creatures he had been raised to fear and hate. The beings he had tried to destroy, because they had hurt his father. They had tried to kill him, an innocent baby with the simple misfortune of being born too small to fit into their society. He wanted to hate them. He had hated them. But the more time he spent in their company, the more he found, strangely, that he pitied them. There was no joy, no possibility of enjoyment, in their lives. They lived in the grey twilight of existence, as he lived it with them currently. It was a relentless weight of oppression, of deadening hopelessness.

Some days, the Jotun warriors liked a bit of sport, and if he was not careful and they caught him unawares, he became a kick-toy for them. He was pummeled, pushed, kicked and ridiculed. This too only made him pity them. Rather than have compassion for an unfortunate, they could only demean and belittle to elevate themselves. Loki would not protest their actions. He had no magic to protect himself. Nor would he call for help. He did not believe the Bifrost would open for him, no matter how loudly he called for help.

He would...endure.

Time was so slow. Like the ice around him. Caught in a moment. Preserved for the endless existence of nothingness. Emptiness. Life like the ice. Blurred edges, hazy colors.

He toyed with the idea of stretching out on the ice and allowing it to take him, as he had allowed the black void to pull him in. The ice would creep over him, blanketing his blue form like a lover. It would hold him and take him into oblivion. There would be no more concerns of belonging anywhere. The ice did not care what he looked like. It did not care what he actions he took. It was ice.

But Loki was not one to give in to despair. He was stronger than that. His capacity for positive emotion, twisted though it might be, buoyed him and kept him afloat. He would endure. Madness and despair would not claim him again.

Who knew the amount of time that passed? There was no night or day on Jotunheim. There was only the twilight, color leeched from the land. The runt, a misbegotten mistake that should have been destroyed, continued to eek out his existence, begging for his scraps. But he listened. He learned. He pitied them. They had nothing to hold on to, but he held tight to his thoughts of family, and friends.

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The Jotuns knew something had come through the Bifrost. They found Loki's discarded clothes, and the footprints leading away from the Bifrost site. But those footprints were Jotun, and the giants believed that one of their own had destroyed the intruder. They wanted to know more. Memories of Thor's visit, and Loki's own, were still fresh, and the giants did not want surprises. Anything new was a suspicion.

The fact that a misbegotten runt had suddenly appeared among them did not immediately draw suspicion. It was commonly believed that the runt had kept to itself (runts had no gender), and the arrival of yet another intruder had drawn it out. It had acted against the intruder, and now sought to convert that action into group acceptance.

The misbegotten could still be put to death. It was a runt, a sport, a mistake that did not belong. It should not have been allowed to live, yet it had. Had it survived on its own for all this time, or had others helped it? The thought was unsettling to the giants. All knew, for the benefit of the race, that misbegotten offspring must be destroyed. There was no place for them. Jotuns had no room and no tolerance for weakness.

They watched and observed the runt, wondering what it would do. It seemed only concerned with survival, begging scraps of food, performing duties that other Jotun shunned. It made itself useful, so they did not immediately destroy it when it first came to their attention. And it was useful for the taking of frustrations without a warrior or a breeding female being injured or killed.

Still, they watched it. Eventually, the determination was made to terminate it. A misbegotten should not live, and the fact that it had was a very affront to their race. A party was dispatched to hunt it down and kill it.

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Loki was not so far gone that he missed the warning signs. He felt the prickles between his blue shoulder blades, and saw the shifty eyes. It was all the warning he needed to flee from the outskirts of the community. A hunting party was hot on his heels. Apparently, their tolerance of his existence had ended. Perversely, it seemed to wake him up. He shook the despair and lethargy from his very soul, and engaged his mind. He was the God of Mischief, the trickster, and no mere race of soulless monsters was going to destroy him.

It took all of his talents to elude the hunters. Centuries in Asgard, trying to be a warrior, had given him the skills to survive. Loki found it ironic that he would actually feel gratitude toward Sif and the Warriors Three. The skills they had imparted (sometimes beaten into him) were the only thing keeping him alive currently.
He was beyond weary from lack of sleep. His  stomach was gnawing through his backbone. His feet hurt. But he was alive!

When the Bifrost activated, he felt and heard it, even from a distance. It was a shock, a balm to his wounded soul, and he fled toward it. The Jotuns were quick after him, but he was almost an afterthought. They were going after whoever had come through the Bifrost. Loki had to get there first, to warn and protect.

When he crested an ice swell and looked down on the Bifrost site, a mad laugh bubbled out of his mouth. Of all the possibilities he had expected to see....

They were all going to die here.

♾️ ♾️ ♾️

Because, who doesn't love a cliffhanger?

Writing this chapter really took me a long while and I faced a lot of writers blocks. I really wonder how Loki actually would be among his own breed.

Anywho, vote and Comment cause why not?

Love,
InfinityHaze ♾️