After Thor's banishment, he fought.

Loki did not know with whom he fought, or for what, but his thoughts were in a constant state of disarray and his head ached, throbbed. The first few weeks passed in a haze of confusion and half-formed plans, of gnawing emptiness and nostalgia. He haunted the halls as if he were a ghost.

And then, after Thor's return, he raged.

All of his misfortunes- his loneliness and his greed and his anger and hatred- Odin's fault. Odin's fault, Frigga's fault Thor's fault. Did they ever truly care? Or was it just a ruse? A false brush of affection for their Jotün pet?

Loki had spent his entire life eclipsed in shadow by his golden (not) brother. He whispered in dark corners and lies slithered off his tongue while Thor basked in the attention and awe that his station afforded. He was a fool, a war-mongering fool, who had learnt nothing and deserved nothing and received everything.

And yet still, the raw edges of Loki's heart ached with- what? Longing? Guilt?

"No, Loki."

He left go.

Midgard would be his kingdom. He would raze it to the ground, to the very bare bones of the earth, and then build his empire amongst the ashes.

It was all he deserved, after all; a domain, a crown, a realm to rule as he pleased. He was the son of kings- of Laufey, of Odin- and he would not be treated as some common child, unwanted and unloved. He would show all of creation the beautiful, terrible, creature they had shunned.

And then they would bow on bended knee, and he would be afforded the love he yearned for.