Well look at that, I wrote another IW fic already. Ah well, knew it would happen.

This fic can be seen as an extension of "Legacy of the Trickster."

Spoiler Warning: My guess is that if you clicked on this link then you have already seen IW. If that is not the case, then I strongly suggest going to view the movie first before beginning to read this fic.

This should go without saying, but I own no part of Marvel.

Summary: Balance can only be rent asunder by one thing: chaos.
***

Sharp pain ignited his every nerve.

A low buzzing drilled through his ears, drumming harsly on his overtaxed mind. His eyes felt far too heavy to crack open, so he continued to lie on whatever surface was beneath him. In his dissociated state, he was unable to tell whether the surface was soft or hard, dry or wet, earth or space.

Even the fleeting thought of floating aimlessly in space did not register enough in his mind to cause concern. If he was in space, then he was in space. Nothing could change his situation.

Still, a soft voice - a woman's graceful tenor - continued to whisper gentle commands across the desolate battlefield that was his consciousness.

You must awaken now.

He needs you.

He cannot fight this threat alone.

Wake up, dear heart.

How much easier it was to simply exist! To not heed the commanding voice but rather to allow pain to break over him in pounding waves. To ignore whatever responsibilities he may have had in a past life.

What the voice wanted was action. And action was out of the question.

Darkness hovered at the fringes of his mind, slowly creeping forward and dragging him back down into a blissful state of being in which he could only barely be considered "alive." Except that every time the darkness crept too close, a soft golden glow washed over him, stubbornly keeping the darkness at bay.

There was nothing he could do to stop either force as the chill blackness of death and the persistent warmth of life battled to lay claim over his soul. As a largely disinterested viewer, all he could do was wait to see which force would win in the end.

Death tried lulling him into a false sense of security by saying, "You have an infinite supply of time." Death repeated this mantra over and over, to his mild annoyance.

Life continued to insist, "They have need of you still. Your time has not yet come. You must get up and continue the fight." Life's passionnant pleading for him to continue drawing breath had hardly any more effect on his decision to remain neutral and allow Fate to work itself out than did Death's mantra.

Either he would soon forever succumb to the wishes of Death, or he would regain his strength and carry on his life until Death eventually caught up with him.

Will this be your legacy? The woman's voice questioned. He supposed the woman must have held a rather firm stake in this battle between Life and Death if Life was allowing her to speak for it.

Will you abandon him now when he needs you most?

The question nagged at him, threatening to dredge up memories to support itself. Memories sounded painful, and he was already suffering so much agony.

"Just make up your mind and be done with it!" He wanted to scream now, to insist that none of this back-and-forth pulling at his soul was fair.

Fair.

Why did the concept of the universe being unfair ring so achingly true and familiar?

His physical pain was steadily becoming more pronounced. Instead of sharp pains piercing his every inch of self, he was slowly beginning to pinpoint certain places on his body that flared in anger due to some sort of mistreatment.

What had happened?

Memories pounded against his mental blocks, held back now only by the darkness of Death that refused to flee. The answer seemed important but he could not reach it.

Where was he?

As the pain grew more intense, the feeling of laying on something cold and hard, the sensation of a cold wind whipping across his body grew more noticable.

Who was he?

Of all the answers, he felt he should intrinsically know that one. Yet the question itself seemed to be wrapped in layers upon layers of betrayal and self-doubt and lies. The question of who he was demanded deep and soul-searching answers that he certainly could not provide at this time.

His senses were returning in full force now. Life was winning. Somehow.

An annoyed groan escaped his lips as the realization that Fate had decided he was not yet fit for death fully struck him. Apparently there was still something that needed his attention. Something that needed his help.

Or rather, someone. If only he could recall who that someone was!

You cannot rest here for long, dear one.

Death was giving into defeat, sulking off further and further from the edges of his consciousness.

"Why am I not permitted to rest?" He asked the woman, not expecting a response.

The war is not yet finished. She responded. The golden glow of Life grew stronger, seemingly satisfied that he was communicating. Your knowledge and your abilities are necessary if the universe has any chance of surviving this catastrophe.

For reasons he could not fully understand, the thought of a catastrophe did not cause him much concern. Perhaps he had lived through such things before.

The woman's tone turned dire, This place is collapsing around you.

Wake up.

Waking felt impossible. Acknowledging that he was not the only being in the universe was an exhausting thought. What if he woke and discovered that other sentient beings were far less intelligent than himself?

...Was he intelligent? The word sounded right, fit like one small piece of a puzzle. Though the longer he dwelled on the word, the more he decided that he much preferred "clever" or "cunning" over "intelligent."

Perhaps the word itself was unimportant in the grand scheme of things, as the woman's slightly frustrated sigh echoing through his mind seemed to convey, but he felt strongly that deciding which words best fit his character would help him to regain a sense of himself. Maybe then he would understand who he was.

Something beneath him shifted violently and he suddenly recalled the voice's warning that wherever he was could not hold up for much longer.

And yet something he chose to label "fear" kept him from opening his eyes. Some small part of him, some intuition, warned that the moment he opened his eyes, everything would come pouring back. His memories, his sense of self, his responsibilities, everything.

Somehow he knew that once all of those key aspects of himself were regained, he would be set on a path of destruction and violence. War and catastrophe would be unavoidable. Was this mysterious person whom the voice kept referring to worth enough to risk more of his own suffering?

Yes.

The answer rung clearly through his mind, provided by his own consciousness. Though he could not remember the person for himself, though he remembered nothing about his life, an invisible connection amplified by time and a multitude of indescribable emotions insisted that "yes," this person was worth all impending agony.

Warily, he embraced the warmth Life offered and opened his eyes.

Immediately, he recalled precisely who he was. All of the terrible deeds he had committed, all of the times he had fallen and failed, all of the promises he had sworn to uphold only to later break, these parts of himself and more swept across his mind.

He was called Loki, and the weight of his name and all the titles it implied was a burden he would carry forever.

Recent events rushed back to the forefront of his memory, all clamoring for his attention. Had his plan succeeded? Were the remaining Asgardians still safe? Had Thanos already won?

Through the haze of memories - handing over the space stone in exchange for Thor's life, costing Heimdall his life, definitely standing before the Mad Titan - only one question truly mattered.

Where was Thor?