The known universe, in comparison to the actual breadth of infinity, is a shallow puddle. And sometimes even having a basic grasp on this fact is enough to feel as though you're treading water in an ocean, and to carry the metaphor further, Loki has, in his lifetime, done exactly that. And learned the value of sink or swim.

By the time Midgard is in sight, he's slipped into the next current.

And doesn't remember anything of the journey until it's abruptly at an end with a flash of light. Green light.

He falls fifteen feet into wet grass, the shock of it knocking the air out of his lungs as bright sunlight sears his eyes. Above him, the open rift shivers and pulses and warps the air around it. Roars and human cries fill the air.

On his feet in a stumble, until he is confronted with someone in armor, raising a sword to him, and grace possesses him for long enough to twist the weapon out of the human's grasp and slam his own shield back into his face. Wild-haired and bright-eyed, dressed in armor of black and green, Loki bares his teeth at the next man, knives materialising in his hands, until something -- what he will learn later to be a lesser terror -- catches his shoulder in a swipe and knocks him off his feet.

The tree he slams into splinters.