At night, Loki dreams about things he can only half remember when he wakes. He dreams of firelight and dancing shadows and songs without words that stir deep in his bones, in the pit of his stomach, in his soul. He dreams of his hands stretched out before him – fully-formed, adult hands – and of the feelings, like the ones he sometimes feels around Mayura that frighten and confuse his new body, and how they once felt right, made sense. He dreams of cold wind and trees with needles instead of leaves and groves of sharp holly under his feet. He dreams of the world he's lost, and he dreams of names.

Aesir, he dreams, and with it comes a sense of belonging. For a moment, he can see Odin's tower cutting through the air before him. He thinks he could reach out and touch if he so chose. He sees Tyr pass beside him. And Skadi. And Weiland. And Baldr.

Jotun, he dreams, and something dark stirs within him, a spark of lightning like the fireworks Mayura took him to see on Tanabata. He refuses to dwell on it, though, and the flare of light sputters, mutes, disappears – almost.

Blood-brother, he dreams, and Thor's big hand claps him on the shoulder and he sits at Odin's side and spins a story to make the other gods laugh. This dream does not fade like the others; it steals away, five steps ahead, and Loki chases but it's out of reach and abandonment – no, betrayal – fills the hollow space in his chest.

Sly One. Shape Changer. Trickster. Sky Traveller. Old names echo in his sleep during that brief interval of time when ancient mind and mortal body exist distinct for one another.

In the daylight, he becomes Loki-kun or Loki-sama, the approximations of a language that still tastes foreign on his tongue. Some days he still misses the skin of prayers and curses, of raw belief, that used to cover him and contain him. The old names – definitions, he sometimes thinks with a grimace – pull at him still. But most days he understands that the truth is as simple as it is eternal. He is Loki. That is all.