I cast you out.

The words still rang in Loki's mind like the toll of a great bell that allowed for no other thought. The look in Odin's one remaining eye had been of disappointment, heavy and complete, in both of his sons. Was he a true son? No-- No, he squashed that at once, he could not afford to get tangled up in what he had seen on Jotunheim until he had the opportunity to find answers. Perhaps it had been an illusion? A trick played by a desperate mind? His skin could not have turned blue where he had been touched by one of those Jotun monsters.

The Casket of Ancient Winters could have answered his questions. But it was far from his reach now, all of Asgard was far from his reach now.

Where had it gone wrong?

His plan had been flawless. None would have listened to his words should he have told them all of his doubts that Thor could be King, they would have labelled him Liesmith and jealous. It had been for the good of Asgard that he show them all, show Father, that Thor was not yet fit to rule. And oh-- oh, how perfectly his fool of a brother had played into his hands, proving himself all that Loki thought of him and more. Arrogant, cruel, warmongering, and selfish. How was he the beloved, the chosen, the worthy?

How had it gone so far out of his control? They never should have made it to Jotunheim, never should have fought there. Heimdall was to blame for opening the Bifrost to them, that guard to blame for not fetching Odin faster. With his ever discerning eye, Odin had snapped that he saw Loki's hand in Thor's actions and his manipulations across the whole situation, though thankfully he did not seem to know Loki had allowed the Frost Giants into Asgard, and had banished him.

The last thing he had heard before being snatched away in a whirl of confusion had been Thor's angry shout, and Odin's equally angry rebuttal that Thor ought to count himself lucky he was not also suffering the same fate. Blind Thor, foolish Thor, still unable to see he had been the subject of manipulation even when it was pointed out to him.

And now here he was on Midgard, mostly powerless.

But not completely. He could feel magic within him still, though he doubted he could do more than cast the most paltry of illusions. He did not understand why he had been left any magic, he could not know that stripping him of it completely risked exposing him as a Jotun beneath. For surely that had been a trick of the mind, some ice magic on the part of the monsters, anything but what it appeared to be.

The swirling vortex of the Bifrost had only just vanished, leaving him in the dusty wasteland, when Loki was already on his feet and moving away from the pattern burned into the desert sands. He did not wish to think, his head hurt from the implications of all that had transpired in the last day. He just wished to find his way back to where he belonged.

Because he did belong there. He must.

It had been many long years since he had last set foot upon Midgardian soil, he knew little of what to expect from the humans now. Yet Loki was nothing if not resourceful and intelligent, swift to learn and assimilate from the information presented to him. It helped that he threw his whole focus at it, pursuing the knowledge he needed in order to springboard himself back to Asgard with a single-minded determination that kept him from thinking on what he suspected lurked beneath his skin.

An encounter with a man in a lonely truck stop taught him about the language and style of dress, as well as the currency used and the transportation available. He bought himself water with money stolen from the till with a brief wave of his hand, a petty magic but thankfully one still within his control. He was forced to buy new clothing, unable to change his attire by will alone, though he also paid for this using stolen money. Some simple trousers of a strange, coarse blue material, and a loose fitting white shirt.

Four days passed, news headlines from abandoned papers and seen flickered on television sets in the stores of towns he walked through told him of a man called Tony Stark, the Iron Man. A mortal with wealth and technology beyond any others on this pathetic realm, also one he knew from reading these headlines who had been investigating the fluctuation in energy and strange patterns left by the Bifrost itself, therefore his best chance at constructing a device to open the Bifrost from this direction without the need for Heimdall.

Eleven days and nine hours after arriving on Earth, Loki walked into the reception of Stark Tower and smiled confidently at the receptionist, tone smooth.

"Good afternoon, I have an appointment with Mr. Stark regarding the anomaly near Puente Antiguo."

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.

Sometimes Loki could not quite remember why he had set himself down the difficult path of redeeming himself. Each punishment that he had to bear, each scornful look or insult thrown at him that had to be borne without retaliation, each bitter reminder that he was still the second son in every sense, all made him question the wisdom of his own decision.

Yet he did not turn back from it.

He had no other choice now, it had become an ultimatum between execution and redemption. The All-Father had made it clear that only the memory of Frigga's love and hope for him had motivated this last chance, and that any further acts of hostility would not be met with lenience. No more prison, no more trickery, simple execution. Even then, he might have chosen death over bending knee once more to the man who had lied to him for so long, but there had been Thor.

Stupid, bumbling, arrogant, trusting, loving. He had never given up on Loki however many times they had faced one another in battle, no matter what he had said. and, in the end, Loki had been unable to turn his back on that for the final time.

He had not apologised. Nor would he, for that would be more than his pride could bear, but he did the punishments required of him with as much grace as he could muster. It had been the All-Father's idea that he should spend some time on Midgard, serving the mortals, in order to pay restitution to them. It had been Thor's idea for that mortal to be Tony Stark, trusting in his friend (possibly foolishly) not to abuse the power given to him.

Which was how Loki of Asgard came to be once more outside Stark's home, though this time knocking on the door rather than destroying the architecture. He covered his wariness with a mask of calm nonchalance, and held himself in a proud, upright posture as he waited for the door to open.