The world went black with a muffled, rending sound. The pain was immediate and absolute, a blinding flash of agony that sprang from the moment the titan's grip tightened around his throat. It was a pressure so profound he felt every bone in his body turn to dust. The air, a precious commodity stolen, was violently expelled from his lungs, a final ragged breath that was both a surrender and a curse. The eyes of Loki, the God of Mischief and Illusion, were locked with his brother's, Thor, across the wreckage of their hopes. In that last, fleeting moment, he projected an image of defiance, a false sense of bravado that was meant to be his last act of deception. It was a lie, of course. A final piece of desperate theater to convince the universe, and himself, that he was more than just an afterthought. He had always been playing a part, a constant performance, and his death would be his final, most convincing deception. He had almost believed it himself.
But the blackness never came. Instead of the cold finality he expected, there was a void. It wasn't the crushing darkness of a tomb, but an endless, echoing silence, a state of non-existence that stretched for what felt like an eternity. For a god accustomed to the vibrant noise of Asgard's halls, the crackle of magic, and the din of war, this nothingness was a unique form of torment. He was an entity of cunning, of constant movement and noise, now a mere observer, suspended in an abyss of pure inertia. He was a disembodied consciousness in a space where time and meaning had ceased to exist. His mind, once a labyrinth of thoughts and schemes, of grudges held and plots hatched, was now empty of any new ideas, a desolate landscape where only old memories could echo. He had nothing to do but wait, and for a being who had always had control, who had always had an angle, this was the truly unbearable punishment.
He replayed the highlights of his life and his most painful failures. He saw the cold halls of Jotunheim, the face of his real father, Laufey, and the heartbreaking realization that he was a lie, a discarded child taken in by a king who saw him as nothing more than a trophy. The fall from the Bifrost into the abyss, an act of self-destruction and an escape from a truth he couldn't bear. The invasion of New York, a desperate, childish attempt to prove his worth, only to be humiliated and beaten. The fleeting moments of camaraderie with his brother, Thor, that he had always sabotaged, a testament to his own inability to accept love without a sharp, poisoned edge. The unbearable shame of his final failed assassination attempt on Thanos, a last act of pride that ended with his neck in a vice. It was a mental prison, a constant loop of regrets and "what-ifs." He was a god of lies, yet in this void, he couldn't even lie to himself. He was alone, totally and completely alone, and the emptiness of his existence was more terrifying than any death he could have imagined. He yearned for the sharp pain of reality, the taste of betrayal, the sound of his own lies, for anything but this suffocating nothingness. He was lost in a sea of his own making, drowning in a silence he never knew was possible.
Then, a light. It was a jarring, almost violent shift. A blinding white light pierced the oppressive darkness, followed by the deafening sound of piercing cries. A sense of crushing pressure overwhelmed him, a physical, brute force unlike anything he had ever known. His divine essence was violently compressed, pulled into an unknown, new vessel. The indignity of the thing was almost unbearable. Loki, a god of a thousand forms, a master of transformation, found himself in a tiny, pathetic body capable of nothing more than wailing. The sensory input was overwhelming; the air was cold, the light was harsh, and the sounds were a cacophony of noise. His hands were so small they couldn't even grasp the air, his legs so weak they couldn't support an ounce of weight. His consciousness was intact, a sharp, brilliant mind trapped in a soft, helpless shell. He was a puppet, an empty vessel, a newborn.
The first few weeks were a confusing, frustrating ordeal. He found himself in St. Jude's Orphanage, where he was simply named Loki Laufeyson by tired, emotionless matrons. The environment was bland and gray. The walls were a washed-out yellow, the floors creaked, and the backyard was nothing more than a patch of hard dirt. The matrons were fair, but not warm; they cared for the children out of duty, not love. Loki, not yet fully aware of his identity, quickly learned to observe. He watched the other children squabble over toys, get scolded, and comfort one another. He saw them lie to get out of trouble, sneak a cookie, or play a trick to get a laugh. It was here that something began to stir within him.
By the age of four, he had his first reminiscence. It wasn't a memory, but a vivid, visceral feeling of cold, of being different. He began to experiment with the latent magic within him, not by learning it, but by reclaiming it. The first signs of his "trickster" nature began to manifest, in subtle, almost involuntary ways. One day, when a larger boy stole his wooden car, Loki focused on the object. He didn't know what he was doing; he just felt a surge of frustration. The next moment, the car was back in his hand, and the larger boy was looking everywhere for it, baffled. Loki didn't understand, not yet suspecting that this was the first echo of his dormant magic at work.
He began his subtle practices early. The matrons were often mystified to find misplaced objects around the orphanage. The keys to the storeroom would show up in the cookie jar, the head matron's spoon in a flowerpot. They would laugh it off nervously, chalking it up to childish pranks, never realizing it was the nascent, unrefined work of a god-level illusionist regaining his skills. By age five, he learned to influence the other children. Without a word, he could get them to argue with each other, to start fights, to betray each other's secrets. He didn't do this for any grand purpose, but for the simple pleasure of watching their small, predictable dramas unfold. They found him strange, an unsettlingly quiet boy who always seemed to be watching them, but they never suspected he was the one pulling the strings. It gave him a deep sense of satisfaction. It was a miniature, human version of the plots he had once masterminded against the Avengers.
As the years passed, Loki Laufeyson was a strange child. He had a rare intelligence that shone in his sharp, green eyes, but a chilling distance that kept everyone at arm's length. He never truly played; he orchestrated his games from the shadows, making the other children do his bidding without them ever realizing it. He never laughed with genuine joy, but with a cynical amusement that suggested he was in on a joke no one else understood. He didn't have a warm home, endless affection, or a stable life. But he wasn't interested in what he lacked. His heart and mind were a thousand light-years away from this mundane world. He was the Fallen Prince, a king in exile in a country of peasants. He would sit in the small, neglected library of the orphanage, a place he frequented out of habit more than interest. He would pour over books on mythology and legends, looking for an echo of his old life, a hint that he was not alone. The absence of any mention of Asgard, Jotunheim, or the other realms was a bitter pill to swallow. He truly was alone. He was a myth, an old tale, in a world that had forgotten him.
Then, one day, his eyes scanned a text about a god, not of this world, but one who was known for his cunning and wit. The name jumped out at him, a name he had seen a thousand times before in the void. It was so familiar, so right. The words seemed to glow on the page: "Loki, the God of Mischief." In that instant, a dam broke within his mind. The fragmented memories of his life, his death, and the endless void slammed into him with the force of a tidal wave. He had been so lost in the confusion of his new existence that he had forgotten the most basic truth. He was Loki. Not just a name. Not just a memory. He was Loki Laufeyson, the God of Mischief, the Prince of Asgard, the rightful king of Jotunheim.
He closed the book with a silent snap, a smile spreading across his face. It wasn't a smile of joy, but of a pure, unvarnished purpose. He was no longer just a boy who knew he was a god. He was Loki, a quiet god in a world that had forgotten what it was to deal with one of them. He had a new life, a clean slate, and he would not waste it. He would make them remember. He would remind them what it was like to deal with a god.