Thor stalked merrily forward, his jolly nature clear to the comrades no longer watching. His footsteps thudded strangely loud in the hollow space leading to his temporary quarters, almost as if the vibrations kept his teeth pearly, kept his eye wrinkles curved, kept his laugh boisterous. A hand confidently draped over the lock panel, and his door swished open.

The god was meticulous in his postering, thoughts of victory potent, bolstering his cheer, even as his muscles ached after only one nights passage from battle. Soon, he would have to wear this grin at all times, for his people. For his people's futures.

But for now, he did not. So Thor's infectious grin slipped slowly, almost disbelievingly, into the stoicism assumed of a king. He gently settled himself over his bed, and it wasn't long before his meaty hands, scarred and rough, with star dust chafe a mere echo of the past in light of his more recent injuries, came up to cradle his face. His worn, warriors face.

It didn't take long for him to start shaking.

Tearless sobs wracked his frame, his mouth mawing open in wails of confusion and his quiet moment of grief. There was much he grieved over. An image of golden light rays, hair the colour of spun gold, that of which he thought himself too spoiled to claim as his inheritance, flickered in his minds eye. The majestic, flowing robes that didn't even begin to speak of its wearers elegance shimmered.

And it was in this moment, where Thor felt terror and indecision, the throes of so many tragedies hitting so close so quickly, with so little time to mourn, that Thor thought to visit an older pain. "Mother," he cried. "It is your hand that I wish could stay me."

His back hunched over, bringing his forehead to his knees as he so keenly remembered. He remembered her whisper soft touch, cool to his burning face, brushing at the wisps she had cultivated in her creation of him. He remembered her embrace of the things he loved, no matter how unorthodox or unallowed. He remembered her smile, soft as down and the magic that lit her eyes.

Another sob wracked his body, convulsing his form fiercely one last time before he slid his hand over his mouth, not allowing the tears threatening the corner of his one eye to release, stilling his body. His heart aches and aches, and the feeling of isolation creeps ever still as he recalls his family and how much his mother cradled them all.

"You are gone," he croaks miserably, "And now it is my memory alone that shall continue your love."

His fake eye burned suspiciously, and he wonders how sad she would be to see her golden boy so battered. After all, for all he is a god, he is not infallible. And for all he is Loki's brother, he is also Frigga's son.