He remembers little of Alfheim. Though he was born in the land of the Light, he is raised in the land of the Dark, the land of Shadows. What he misses most are the songbirds, the deer and the wolves of his childhood. They exist here, in Svartalfheim, but it isn't the same. Darker colored, mottled, for hiding under the dark eaves of these forests. Everything here is dark, and the light of the Elves have dimmed to match it.

This one is known to them, as most of the Æsir are. The child of chaos, though the use of child is sparse, for few are older than the gods, if any. A man of great standing, as the stories go.

Fallen.

"Greetings, son of All-Father." Elves are good people, they say in Midgard. It makes him laugh every time he hears it. But Legolas greets Loki openly and without his hood-- he bows, even, almost mocking, before pulling himself upright. His stance is stiff, but he isn't drawing his weapons, at least.

"What brings the Lord of Chaos to our humble abode?"