There are many paths between the worlds, ones not visible to Heimdall, or to anyone else who may be looking. He is skilled enough at hiding himself, and knows the paths he needs - he can travel to Midgard at will, without even leaving, if he chooses; Jotunheim accepts him like a lost son, and isn't that just perfect he thinks, now that he knows. He would never presume to know all Yggdrasil's secrets, though he feels that perhaps he has stumbled on one that he was not supposed to know. Or, perhaps, there are plans he still yet plays a part in, and this is fate's way of preserving him, until he is needed in Asgard once more.
He chose to let go of the sceptre; it was not his, anyway, for it still hearkened to the Allfather and it felt wrong in his hands, twisting his magic beyond what he meant it for. As he falls, amid shards of the Bifrost, he fancies he sees into the other realms, as if the Bifrost itself was a doorway to each of them. He hits one, and then another, as he gains momentum on his way down; he feels pain as if he lands solidly on each one, as if the shards pierce him and tear at his soul rather than his cloak. For a moment, he doesn't register that he has landed, for the pain fills him and spreads through his body like the warming of potent liquor, until it becomes too much.
The place he has landed is a forest, sparse and varied, near a path worn into the dirt by travellers and not by design. Around him, eyes gleam in the shadows, like a children's book come alive and yet twisted by some tangible menace. Loki does not fear them, not yet, but he has an urgent desire to leave which his body does not want to cooperate with. He tries to stand, but the strain on his shoulders as he pushes his chest off the ground is immense; for once, Loki allows it to defeat him, here in this new place where he will not be seen.
Loki hears a voice, just when he has struggled to a sit, leaning on a rather uncomfortable rock. "And what are you, then?" it says. It is a man's voice, soft but with a chesty rumble, and Loki cannot tell if he is laughing or merely curious.
"I am an Asgardian," Loki says, opting for the safest half-truth. The man's expression doesn't change, as if the word means nothing to him, but his eyes flicker, as if he is assessing Loki as a threat. Loki holds his hands up and out, and holds them there even as pain rips into his shoulders.
"You look human. Doesn't mean much," the man says, his eyes briefly gold as the sun briefly shines through the clouds and foliage.
"You look human," Loki says, "but you're different." It's in the way the man stands, effortlessly balanced on uneven ground, and how he'd approached so silently, and in how his shoulders and arms are so wide though his waist is narrow. There are signs, too, in how his hair is white though his skin shows little sign of aging, even where scars would tend to show he has lived rough.
This time the man does laugh, though it is short and more of an acknowledgement. "You can live, for now," he says. "You've bled enough."
What that means, Loki isn't sure, but he takes the man's hand and allows himself to be pulled upwards; even through thick, leathery gloves, the man has a solid and forceful grip that reminds him, briefly and painfully, of his brother.
"Geralt," the man says.
"Loki," he replies, as he blinks several times and wobbles while he adjusts to the different pull of gravity; not much stronger than he's used to, but enough to be a discomfort. "I don't intend to stay long, I think; pressing business to attend to, you know," he says. Finally balanced, he has to almost run to keep up with Geralt, who clearly did not feel like waiting around. He does fall behind, but when Geralt reaches a horse, covered in just as many straps and weapons as he is, Loki has time to stumble the last few steps.
"It's best you don't, if you've places to be," Geralt says. "This place isn't for the likes of you."
"I can see that," Loki says. Though the path is much wider here, and the sun, though pale, can easily reach through, the forest lacks warmth; it feels unwelcoming, closed off. "I do prefer castles, myself, or a five star hotel, if they exist here."
Geralt turns to him, again expressionless, but Loki can understand the look nevertheless. "I take it they don't," he says. "Never mind then." Geralt returns to adjusting straps and checking weapons until he retrieves a small satchel from behind the saddle. It's one that hangs within reaching distance if mounted, and apparently contains small vials, because Geralt throws him one.
Loki holds it up to the sun, where the light catches the runes on the label. They are not so different to the ones he knows, either his own or the ones of Midgard, and he finds himself almost comforted. He drinks the potion without testing it; the vial is only small, and he would rather not insult Geralt by indicating any further distrust. Despite his apparent kindness, Loki is fairly sure that Geralt would have no trouble actually killing him, and he might not even see it coming.
The potion hits hard; though Loki can feel his skin itching as it knits back together and there's an uncomfortable ache as his shoulder shifts back into something like its proper place, he feels hyperaware, as if his senses are falsely heightened. The light is suddenly warm and bright, the sapless trees are a rich brown-grey, and one of them is alive, scuttling over twigs and dead leaves. Loki spins, wishing for his sceptre as he lands in a crouch, facing the noise as it grows louder. He knows Geralt has heard it too; he can hear the dull scrape of a sword being drawn, and footfalls as Geralt settles into a battle stance, weight forward and centre for an initial, single strike. It won't be necessary though; Loki focuses on nauthiz and draws a fireball from the sunlight, from the core of the earth, and forms it between his hands. The leshi has little chance; Loki identifies it from the horns that are the last thing to burn as Geralt's sword lands cleanly in the ground.
Well, that was interesting, he thinks, as Geralt passes him and kneels to the ground. He traces the ground with his fingertips, and Loki imagines that he's closed his eyes, listening for another. Loki wouldn't know; using the rune had exhausted the strength the potion had worked in him, though he remains, thankfully, healed.
Geralt stands, turns back to Loki. "How did you do that?" he says. "The leshii are not easily killed, in these parts." Geralt pulls his sword from the ground by the hilt; it barely glints in the sun, now rapidly dimming, and Loki can tell that the metal is scarred from use.
"I will tell you," he says, with his hands out, since that worked last time. "But I want something in return."
Geralt nods, once. It is not an agreement, Loki knows, for men like him do not bargain easily. He will listen, and Loki has not much time.
I need to find a portal, a place with magic there, where I can leave this world." He doesn't say he intends to go back to his own, for he's not sure where that is, and he can hurt his brother more in Midgard. Here, there is nothing for him
I can't take you," Geralt says. "My business is not urgent, but delay would be unwise. There is a place not far from here, and I will show you the path. You can teach me your tricks as we walk."
Loki has had enough of horses that he inclines his head as he brings his fingertips together and bows, just enough that is an assent and not obeisance. As Geralt whispers to the horse, takes the reins and settles into position at its withers as he begins down the path, Loki begins to feel, somehow, that he can't belong here. Geralt sets a pace that is just too fast for Loki to keep up with easily, and it is not by accident. However, Loki is not one to let a bargain slide when he has not gained from it all that he can, and though he has to breathe in between words, he explains about drawing power from the world and focusing it through runes. Geralt doesn't ask questions, and when they stop, Loki isn't sure that he's quite made it clear.
But Geralt mounts, then points to a rock, visible from the path but higher up the hill, where no path can reach and even the trees do not seem to want to grow.
"I thank you," Loki says, but he rises from a bow to see only the back of Geralt's horse and his silhouette, disappearing into the trees.
"Right then," he says, and begins to climb.