The way the cold bit into his flesh sunk the frigidness right down to his bones. Loki had not known cold like this in his previous life, his life full of trifling battles over nothing. At least, that's what it seemed like to him now. How could he ever fancy himself a king? He was not cut from the same cloth as kings. Loki was a twisted soul, guarded, jealous and angry, and those things did not make a king worth ruling. Perhaps he might have made a king here on Jotunheim, where the lords don't hesitate to turn on each other to slit their throats. There was no order here, only ice and chaos. When they learned the pale runt prince had no intention of claiming a throne that was rightfully his, they ceased to battle with him and include them in their petty political struggles.
These were some of the memories he dreamt, asleep in the snow.
As the ice seemed to crystallise his very body, he dreamt of a life he would never have. He dreamt of Asgard, so warm and bright. The ice glittered here as the spires in Asgard, and though they could be beautiful too, they only reminded him that this was to be his kingdom. In his dreams, Loki wasn't alone. There was someone to love him, hands and smiles and words that touched him and tried to preserve his happiness. He was accepted and no one would whisper behind his back or send cold glances in his directions. He no longer needed to fight, there was no need to prove himself.
Loki never dreamed of Odin, but of Frigg. She would come to him in his slumber and would sing quiet lullabies as she had when he was just a child and would wake terrified from nightmares. He didn't know how much one could miss the sound of someone's voice until he realised that he would never hear hers again.
Through the din of his head, he heard something, a voice. It sounded like it was speaking his name, something he hadn't heard even in his dreams for a very long time. It was quiet, nearly drowned out by Loki's dreams, almost shrouded by Frigg's high, clear tones, but he heard it. It was a voice outside of his head. Someone had found him. But no one looks for the exiled prince. His eyes flew open, but saw nothing. Underneath his fingertips, he could feel the hard stone of a wind- and ice-carved cave, warmer than the snow if only because it wasn't beating against his exposed skin. He scrabbled away, so much less graceful than he ought to be, his limbs feeling frozen and nearly immovable. If the voice belonged to a Frost Giant, Loki could barely hope to escape this time. The storm raged outside and he had nowhere to go. So long as the wind whipped ice crystals into his eyes, he would never find his home and would die out there. Surely he would then die in this cave. Even if the voice belonged to an Asgardian, what could they want with him? There had been no bounty on his head; he was an exile, not a deserter, and if Odin had wished him dead, he would have done it himself. Wouldn't he?
Red eyes finally began to focus, and he turned them to the only other living, breathing being stranded in this cave. What he saw, he couldn't believe. At first his voice caught in his throat. He tried to shift back, back to the way he had looked on Asgard, but his skin wouldn't obey. It had been so long. Is it impossible now? A small sob choked him.
Thor stood before him, and Loki couldn't help but admire him. He had aged. He looked wise, something Loki could never have imagined. He was king, just has Loki always imagined he would be now. Thor looked healthy, and it killed Loki that Thor's life had continued when his had ended.