Odin's wrath was a magnificent thing to witness.

Even when it had been directed fully in his direction, even knowing he might have died any second, the thrill from seeing the All-Father's power and fury unleashed and unfettered had been awe-inspiring. It had also been bitter, fractured, and furious. For how could any still think of Loki's rage as untamed, or his actions as crimes, when so ruthless a war-god sat upon the throne of Asgard? His actions had been that of a King. Had he not proven a wise and benevolent leader during his time upon the throne? Any who gainsaid that were fools, blinded by their petty prejudice.

He hated and loved Asgard with all his heart. He wanted to watch it burn and he wanted to rule it from on high, he wanted to see his family dead at his feet and yet always seemed to stay his hand when such an ending was within his grasp. It had been so again with Odin. He should have killed the old man when he had succeeded in spelling him into imprisonment, but he had not. For he had told himself that to keep the All-Father alive was wise, it allowed him to continue to tease out details from that ancient mind in order to keep his illusion believable to all.

It had proven his downfall.

For when Odin escaped, he had come with the force of a thousand suns for the man who sat atop his throne and wore his face falsely. Any love he had once felt for his younger son was gone now, and Frigga no longer there to stay his hand against execution. An execution he had determined to carry out with his own hand and with no further delay, to give Loki no quarter or mercy this time.

How long the battle had lasted, Loki did not know. He had not often battled to his full power, he preferred tricks and illusion to outsmart his enemy and his usual weapon was his silver tongue. He had no choice in this fight. He threw all his power at the All-Father, he used all his strength, all his tricks, all his magic. And somehow, impossible though it should have been, he survived long enough to slip through one of his hidden pathways.

Loki used the last of his remaining magic to cloak himself from Heimdall's all-seeing eyes so that he would not be easily found. To be so drained, so helpless, was not an experience he enjoyed at all. Blood stained his clothing from head to foot and he could feel the sticky clotting of it all over his body. He had taken great injury, and he knew he may not yet even survive the next few days in order to begin healing, but he would not give up. He would never lay down and wait for death. He was Loki of Asgard and he would never go snivelling to the gates of Hel.

With the remaining shreds of his energy, Loki staggered into the nearest building. His consciousness only vaguely registered that this was Midgard, a realisation that sent a thread of concern through his gut. An apartment door chosen at random, a hand slippery with blood on the handle. The lock yielded to him easily, he did not even need a trickle of seiðr for that, and he stumbled within. The Norns must have a sense of humour and wish for him to suffer, for he did not know even as he collapsed onto the couch that, out of all the billions of homes upon this wretched realm, he had found himself within that of Steve Rogers.