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Dark space swallows him, endless. Loki falls, sweeping amongst swathes of glittering stars and swirling planets. The universe engulfs him, wraps him up like a shroud of movement and air. Warmth, the touch of Thor's hand, the autumn morning gold of his hair, fades away. Cold creeps through him, paralyzes him with its relentless grip.
He rocks in it like a cradle. It speaks to him, this icy embrace, of mother's teat and gentle voice, of deepest memory, lost long ago. Slowly the terror of the fall melts away.
He floats.
It's like sleep, but not. He sees; he watches; there's black and deepest blue, the bright flare of suns; the pale tracings of the old and dying. It dwarfs him in its majesty. His mind expands wide to consume all of it like the finest meal of Asgard.
The cold will not fail him. He comes to know this deep in his bones, frost sparking in his blood and brain. It will lead him to the proper place, the proper time for his return to triumph.
He rests and waits.