A/N - warning for Ragnarok spoilers at the end!

.

.

.

There are no men like me.

It's raining outside, so for once, Thor doesn't mind staying inside, even if he wants to go out and splash in the puddles.

"Do you want to play Hide and Seek?" he asks his brother earnestly. Loki looks up at him from his picture book and smiles.

"Okay," he agrees happily.

"I'll seek," declares Thor, "You can hide."

Loki nods. "Thirty seconds, at least okay?"

So Thor turns his back and faces the wall, covers his eyes with his hands and begins to count. 1… 2… 3… 4… He can hear Loki shuffling his things away, and hears his scrambling footsteps against the floor. 9… 10… 11… He listens as the door of his bedchamber swings on its hinges out to his common room and slams shut behind.

16… 17… 18…

It's very tempting to just go seeking now, and say he just counted very fast, but Loki is very good at telling when people are lying, and Thor is not very good at lying. Besides, he did promise.

26… 27… 28... 29... 30…

And if Thor speeds up in counting the rest of the numbers, well, nobody has to know. It's not like he's actually cheating.

He opens his eyes and scans the room. Usually, he'd say it's obvious Loki has left the room, but Thor wouldn't put it past him to have used the sound of the door as a ruse. Still, nothing else except Loki's books on the floor seem to have shifted. He checks under the bed, inside his closet, in each of his drawers, behind each object in his room, before he concludes that, no, Loki is not in his room. Then, he ventures out.

The room outside his room is his common room, where he brings his other friends like Fandral and Hogun. It's relatively big, with lots of large furniture like his two plush couches, Loki's favourite armchair for reading in, lots of bookshelves and cupboards and desks and bigger toys like his wooden horses, his push-trolley and his hide-out-tent-fort which Father helped him build three winters ago. So, it's really an ideal room for hiding places. Lots of nooks and crannies.

Which means, he frowns, contemplating, that Loki could be absolutely anywhere.

He decides to make his way through from the far end back, starting with the cupboards.

He checks each and every one, some which have not been opened in quite some time and let out clouds of smoke, some which he knows quite well and are filled to overflowing with his toys and books.

He checks behind each shelf… between that impossibly tight gap behind the backs of the shelves and the walls. There are cobwebs and Thor screws his face in disgust when he thinks he spots something scuttling along the wall. The cleaning servants have been terribly neglectful.

He checks under each couch and chair and desk and table and even sorts through all his toys.

He checks behind the floor length curtains, made of thick red and gold silk, and even opens the windows to peer down.

He checks in his bathroom, in the bath and shower.

He checks inside the basket with his laundry, wrinkling his nose at his own dirty garments.

He searches for a long time. A very, very, very long time.

Perhaps he should check his toys again?

By the time Thor gives up, a maid has come to usher him down for dinner.

He can't find Loki.

"In a minute," he says, and goes to check his room again, though he knows it is empty.

He checks the wardrobe again, and under the bed, pulls back the covers.

"Loki!" he calls out," Come on, Brother. It's time for dinner, and it's no fun when I can't find you."

Loki does not come out.

Well, he supposes, it is, technically, the point of the game.

It's just them alone now. Jane and him. He's taking her out for lunch. Just them.

Or well, it's supposed to be just them.

Jane's at the toilet, so Thor flips out his phone and presses it to his ear so they can talk without him getting weird looks from passers-by.

"Why do you always appear at the most inopportune moments, yet are never there when I need you?" huffs Thor. He's not really angry, just a little annoyed at the timing of it. The usual, then.

"If you want, I can go," offers Loki, looking around them at the busy street and then back at Thor. He's being studied again. Loki is always doing that—watching his expression like he's about to write a report on Thor.

Thor frowns, confused. "Do you even know how to?" Because Thor himself, after all these years, has still no clue as to how Loki works, so it's strange that Loki himself might have a clue. Or maybe that's just his mind building more to the character, making his brother seem more three-dimensional, as some on this realm would put it.

Loki hesitates for a moment before nodding slowly. "I… Yes. Yes, I do know how."

Let's see if this works.

"Well," he says, jerking his head in the direction of literally anywhere else meaningfully. "What are you waiting for? Leave."

"We need to wait for Jane to come back first," explains Loki, "Which direction is the cafe?"

"We're turning right after this street and then we're there."

He nods in understanding, his eyes drinking in the the colourful shop displays in the window, and then back at Thor. "Good luck, then. May you charm her with your good looks and—" he eyes him up and down mockingly. "—Impressive wit."

Thor is about give some sort of indignant reply when Jane returns, smiling cautiously.

"Who was that?"

"Nobody," he answers, pocketing his phone, "Just SHIELD."

He looks a little reluctant doing so, but surprisingly obediently, when they start walking, Loki turns on his heel and goes the other way, and when Thor glances behind them briefly to check, after they've turned the corner, he's gone.

"Let's play Hide and Seek," says Thor, poking his brother boredly.

"Stop it." Loki sighs, turning the page of his book.

It's raining again, and Loki does not want to go outside to jump in the puddles again. Instead he just wants to stay inside reading.

"Come on, Brother!" He whines.

Loki ignores him resolutely, his eyes continue to stare at the words on the page unwaveringly, knuckles clenched.

"I can hide and you may seek this time, if you prefer," he pleads, tugging at the sleeve.

"No," replies Loki resolutely, turning his back to face Thor.

"Why not?"

"Because I'd prefer not to." Loki pinches the bridge of his nose like Thor has seen adults do when he is testing their patience. It looks rather silly on his baby brother. He tries not to laugh. Putting his book down suddenly, Loki sighs softly. "Fine. Shall we go outside, then? Would that please you, Brother?"

It, in fact, does please Thor. Very much so.

Jumping in puddles is a lot of fun. Thor gets soaked to the skin and splashes water everywhere. Loki skips alongside him and giggles happily when Thor tries to splash him, though it seems like he never gets wet.

Yes, this is a lot more fun than Hide and Seek.

Later, when they are tucked into bed, Thor shifts his head on the pillow to face Loki, since he knows he will be awake—Loki doesn't like sleeping. He asks him why he didn't want to play Hide and Seek, even though it was more fun to jump around in the puddles.

His brother just shrugs and squeezes his eyes shut. He shrugs. "I just… I don't like it," he replies quietly, subdued and tense. "Can we go to sleep now?"

You must be truly desperate to come to me for help.

"A wise king never seeks out war, but he must always be ready for it."

Odin speaks this quietly, firmly, tiredly. Like he has already said this many a time before. Thor knows he has not.

At their side, in their shadow, he sees Loki watching and listening attentively, drinking them in like water, as he does with all Father's words, so Thor does the same.

"And you must never forget that, my son," says Odin, and Thor nods.

He won't.

They're about three hours into the battle, swarms of Chitauri soldiers still crashing through in waves, when the heavens open up again. Not as a gaping yawning chasm in the sky, parting the clouds to the black abyss in it's terrifying infinity, but instead as the familiar roar of the bright rainbow of splintering colours, concentrated and powerful, which Thor has not seen in over a year.

Asgard has assembled it's forces finally, he sees. Though they might be too late.

Around them, concrete pillars of the buildings around them have cracked and crumbled, crushing everything beneath. And New York is such a very densely populated area, that a single building might crush several dozen. And there are many buildings.

The smell of thick smoke from fires clogs his nostrils and makes his throat dry, and when he inhales, the dust from collapsed buildings fills his throat and lungs.

Still, he swings his hammer.

There are the sounds of blasters and cannons and guns firing, and now the war cry of his people. But these are not the sounds of the war, but the sounds of the battle.

Down below are the shouts of people in those big red vehicles and fluorescent yellow jackets, climbing into buildings and carrying out children and those unable to walk, though they are at just as much risk as them.

Down below are the screams of the people. Wailing and crying, for help and to mourn.

Down below is the silence.

The silence of the dead and those whose pleas and screams are muffled.

It is an elegy.

Thor feels sick and remembers he used to like war.

The fires around the city are spreading rapidly now, and Thor can smell the smoke and the scent of charred, burning remains, and his Aesir blood recognises the funeral it symbolises, like it is one mass pyre.

Asgard has not assembled their whole cavalry, but he sees their best amongst them. He sees General Tyr, with his single hand holding a broadsword; spots the mighty force of the Eijanhar, never once bested, in their impeccable formations; catches his friends, Sif with her aura blazing with fire and furious slashes, Volstagg with his strong shield arm battering his opponents, Fandral with his confident feet and elaborate movements, and Hogun with his sharp accuracy and speed, cutting through everything with practiced ease.

Thor feels the rush in his blood to join them or to call them, but the giant mechanical serpent in the sky is heading straight for a building of high-rise apartments and Thor is the closest.

"What the fuck?" he hears Stark yelp over the comms, "We have more company?!"

"Leave them!" Thor yells back, pointing his aim towards the serpent, "Asgard has finally joined the fight, and you must not appear as the enemy."

"But they aren't, right? They aren't enemies?" Captain Rogers asks, unsure. For the first time Thor has known him, he sounds out of breath, panting heavily.

"No," he assures them, and himself too. "They are allies."

Lighting sparks and crackles over his skin, and Thor tells himself again he is the God of Thunder. He repeats it in his head like a mantra and plunges towards it, crashing in.

Now up, Thor! A voice yells in his ear, There are people on the streets but none in the sky. Up!

He does not have time to hesitate, jerking his hammer sharply up.

It is heavy, the heaviest thing Thor has ever had to lift, except maybe Mjolnir. And from his hands, Mjolnir rains a tempest, and explosion of electrical energy in rapid jagged blue lines, ringing and surging throughout the whole organism of this beast of destruction.

Yes! You are the God of Thunder, and you will strike down with your justice, smite your foes.

The air around him gets thicker, more charged, as they ascend. And something in Thor tugs loose, like the unstoppering of a spirit.

The serpent shatters. Shards and gravel streak the sky landing anywhere, everywhere, out of sight.

For a brief moment, Thor allows himself to fall, knowing that if he lands he may walk away. But Mjolnir stops him mid-way down, and he remembers that below him, they will not.

The battle below still rages. The corner of the building he just saved has crumpled inwards from likely something else. There is another mechanical serpent and though Stark and Dr. Banner seem to be doing a good job at taking it down. Looking into the portal above them, there may be more.

"Fuck," Stark curses again, "Fuck fuck fuckity fuck."

"What is it?" growls Agent Barton, the most human of them all—one of the agents Thor remembers from both the facility and New Mexico, and Agent Romanoff's friend, the one she owes.

"Just got some intel from Fury. Said the Council's sending a fucking nuke."

Thor almost laughs. All this death and destruction, and it is not enough?

"Shit." Agent Romanoff, stunned. "Anyone know how to stop a missile?"

Thor lands on the balls of his feet, looking around at the chaos of it, searching for...something.

There must be something they can do.

They fight side by side, the Avengers. Hulk beating them off tens at a time, sometimes with his fists, some times with only a loud roar, some semblance of amusement on his face like a lion playing with its food. Captain America looks solemn and angry, so damned angry and it sends a shiver down Thor's spine, the way he hurls his shield at his enemies. He spies Hawkeye jumping from building to building, nimble, shooting a hail of accurately pinpointed explosive arrows, piercing Chitauri whilst wrestling them with his bow, merciless and unforgiving. Iron-man is hardly visible behind his wall of lights, blasts from his repulsors beaming out and cutting through them like lasers. The Black Widow looks cold, and strung tighter and tighter, stabbing and striking ruthlessly, like the army they face are just her partners in an unwilling dance of death.

Thor controls the storm. It does not control him. It used to, he thinks, but not anymore. For Thor is the God of Thunder; and Thunder is not the God of Thor. He channels it like a fuel, sparking out from his core and releasing in a static rage. It is alive within Thor, one with him, like the water in his body and the blood in his veins.

They fight side by side, the Avengers.

They fight side by side, back to back, all different and violent, and none of this is even a little bit graceful, not even the Widow, but they coexist somehow and it works.

All of them, combined with the other agents, the lended might of Asgard, push the enemy back.

"Guys," says Stark, voice rough from exertion, "ETA for the nuke is approximately eight minutes."

It's hard to swallow this because this is not something Thor can strike down with his hammer, or even his thunder. And because he is already exhausted and more waves of them will come and it all seems never-ending.

Thor used to like war. He used to revel in the battle and bloodlust. He used to seek it, court it like one would a lover.

A shadow falls beside him, and Thor allows himself to look away from the action and glance momentarily.

"Send it up to the portal," says Loki quietly, standing still yet frantic as everything fights around and through him. "The Chitauri have a hive mind, I think. If you send it up there, the battle should be over."

"What do you mean?" Thor yells back, too tired for subtlety.

Agent Romanoff turns to him sharply, "Who are you talking to?"

"Just trust me," insists Loki, "Do it."

And Thor does trust him, ironically perhaps more than he might trust himself.

"We need to send the missile into the portal," he repeats dutifully, keeping one eye on his brother and the other on the battle. "The Chitauri have a hive mind, and—" He pummels another soldier into the pavement.

"—And their mothership is beyond in the portal. If they are destroyed, the rest of the army will collapse," Loki says, slowly for Thor to repeat the words.

"It's incoming in less than two minutes," warns Stark. "It's either me, you or both of us, Point Break."

It should be Thor. Thor is the one who will most likely survive it. He is the God amongst these mortals, and they are so mortal.

But so is he.

And if being mortal these past months has taught him anything, it is that he fears death.

Of being one moment and then just stopping the next.

It's inevitable, of course, but even when they know it intellectually, everybody thinks they can live forever if they try hard enough.

"Let him do it," says Loki, eyes cold and desperate. "You don't know what's up there. You don't know what you'll find."

"No," Thor hears his voice saying, "He's too weak to survive it."

"He has armour! He… what about you?!"

"Thor!" he hears one of the others say, he can't tell which one. "Who are you talking to? It's coming in fast. We've got to make a decision."

Thor takes one last look at his brother, eyes wide with panic— an expression he has worn more times this one year than his entire life. Loki is scared.

He grits his teeth and twirls his hammer, listening for the incoming missile and—

"Right, time's up. See you on the other side, I gu…"

Stark's comms rattle out just as the red and gold streak disappears into the blackness, swallowed whole.

The night has become muted now. The feasting has stilled Anyone who talks whispers in hushed tones, sipping their drinks, relaxed but attentive. It's the part of the night where Thor thinks he'd rather be in bed.

Everyone is listening to the voice in the middle of the room. An old bard weaving a tale of old or of now or of tomorrows yet to come—nobody quite knows.

It's a sad tale, silver and mellow and strikes something into Thor's heart that feels like a warning.

The tapestry is woven and hung up and there are a few threads loose and, in the end, the hero dies and fails at their quest. They do not get to save anyone. Even the monster dies.

And perhaps that part is the saddest of all. Nobody wins.

"What do you think death feels like?" Thor asks his little brother, resting his head against the oak of the table.

His brother copies him the way younger siblings often do, resting his own head beside his. He scrunches up his face.

"I don't know why you would ask me that," he replies, "Even if I did know, it's not like I could describe it to you anyways. I've got nothing to compare it to."

"What do you mean?"

Loki's face freezes for a second before his tiny shoulders shrug.

"How would you describe the wind to someone who cannot feel it? Or the rain? Or even the heat of a roaring fire? The taste of the peach juice you are drinking? How can you describe those things to people who have never experienced them, and who cannot and will not?"

That's a lot of questions, and Thor is not sure how to answer them or why they are relevant and why it seems like Loki has more.

But then, his little brother has always been the inquisitive sort.

"I don't know," he admits, "But then everyone knows what those things feel like, so it doesn't matter."

Loki just shrugs again, not meeting his eyes. "I suppose."

Thor laughs at that, elbowing him teasingly. "You know, I think that this might be the first time I've proven to be right, against you," he says.

His brother merely rolls his eyes at that. "Yes, well," he retorts snarkily, cheeky little thing that he is. "You know what they say. A broken clock is at least right twice a day."

Silly Loki.

Oh Norns. Oh Hel.

Literally.

Steve rips the golden mask off of Tony's face, the shell supposed to protect him so easily torn away.

His face is still.

Eyes sealed shut, mouth closed.

Thor cannot watch, but he cannot look away either, rapt.

The entire face is so relaxed that the only reason he could not possibly be asleep is that Thor knows sleep is not so peaceful.

The body is limp and too heavy and too light all at the same time. The skin is too cold. What was once a power source in his chest, is dull, unlit, as lifeless as what occupies it.

There was a person in there, before. And now just a husk.

Around them, the dust clears. The buildings still creak, groaning under the weight of themselves.

It's over. It's all over.

And there are still fires to put out, civilians to rescue, homes and schools and hospitals that have been demolished by some alien executioner.

"Kneel," the Other had said, "I am your righteous leader—your King, your ruler. I am burdened with glorious purpose."

("I cannot believe Father would do this to me. His son. I could die here! And I was well within my rights as a warrior of Asgard, no less a prince, to defend my honour!")

All this death and destruction and all for nothing.

There is much to be restored, rebuilding that will take time, and losses that can never be recovered.

Loss of brothers, sisters, siblings, friends. And mothers, fathers, parents and children and people that are relied upon.

Like a well-dressed, mild mannered agent who, of all things, had conviction.

Fallen comrades like the man at his feet.

"C'mon, Stark," he hears Natasha muttering under her breath.

Steve is on his knees beside him.

Clint drops his bow, arms limp by his side.

"C'mon," he hears Loki muttering, stepping out to stand by his side. "C'mon."

Hulk lets out a roar, jolting, brittle and loud and angry. He's in pain. He smashes his fists on the ground and falls to lie back onto his bed of rubble.

Why does everybody need to die?

A gasp.

A cough, a splutter. Tony Stark's chest heaves through the plates of his armour, the heart of his machine glows, bright and vital, and all their breaths lift.

He can hear his beating heart, weak and faint, barely there. But it is there.

Tony Stark lives.

(Though others do not.)

Asgard suffer no great losses during the battle. There are some wounded, yes, but they will certainly heal. They return first, spirited and satisfied with battle, for they are a warrior nation with no war.

"I should go with them," Thor says, as they are preparing to leave, shaking hands with those they may consider brothers in arms, their Avengers, the SHIELD agents, the New York Fire Department (who nod and wave but do not stop to chat. They still have jobs to do.)

"Surely they can deal without you for a little while longer?" grins Tony, "A year and a bit is not that much."

Thor shakes his head, no. Truly, it is not. And he will miss this realm.

"I can always visit," he offers.

Tony ignores him. "C'mon," he says, "There's this really good shawarma place and I want to see if its still alive. Maybe they'll give us free food, since we're heroes and all now."

Natasha rolls her eyes, "You're literally a billionaire."

But it's funny he should say that. Before arriving here on Midgard, Thor would have said without question that he was a hero. That he was The Hero. Look at the big strong muscles he has, his golden locks, his royal blood! Look at the way he wields Mjolnir, who only chooses the worthy, and commands the heaven's rage above. It had all seemed so clear then that Thor was the hero, all without doing anything heroic.

But now… perhaps he can accept the title, Hero of New York, or even Midgard, but he knows now that it is not who he is but what he does.

So, Hero of New York. Huh.

"Perhaps I might stay a little longer," Thor indulges, a smile fighting it's way to the surface. Plus, he has to say goodbye to Jane. And Lady Darcy. And check on Erik. And perhaps check in on SHIELD, maybe.

"That's the spirit!" Tony claps him on the back, leading him away over to the rest of the team.

Before they go, Thor catches up with Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. They beam at him with matching grins and bright faces, ask how he is doing, and he asks about them, and the welfare of his family and his people.

Lady Sif grimaces a little and Fandral winces. "Tension between Jotunheim and Asgard is still strung high. War may still be on the table, but no side has taken any action yet. It's only been a year after all," she says.

"We shall tell you more once you have returned," Fandral adds.

"All right, my good friends. I shall see you then."

The Other is chained, gagged and dragged away by the Eijanhar, but his eyes smile and glint at the edges, and Thor can't help but think about the remains of this city and what remains in the ashes (and what does not). He shudders and remembers his own home.

"The Other will be judged by the AllFather," explains Lord Tyr to the Director Fury, as though he is explaining it to a child. "As protector and King of the Nine Realms, that burden falls to him. Besides," he continues, smiling amicably, "Midgard does not have the means to hold him, I should think."

And though the Director grits his teeth, he cannot argue with that logic. Not when these people seem to have mastered space travel, the strength of their armies, and, well, just look at Thor.

"We'll be taking the Tesseract, too, of course," adds the general, "It was always ours, anyhow."

Perhaps it is unfair, but he knows Fury will not start conflict with Asgard. He has to keep peace.

"Perhaps we can come to some sort of compromise," he suggests, and Lord Tyr allows him an indulgent smile which really just makes it worse.

It makes Thor sigh in relief that he is not the one responsible for those kinds of affairs. Not anymore. It comes as a sudden shock but also as an obvious conclusion to it all. Thor doesn't want to be king. He didn't understand what it meant before and he still does not now, though he might be closer to it.

This is where Father sent Thor to learn his great lesson, and what a great many lessons he has learnt!

As it turns out, the shawarma place is open. Well, not open, but it is unharmed, and the owners are still there, hiding under their counters. The bell above the entrance rings when the door opens, and the rich, sweet smell of spices fills Thor and warms him a little.

"How is it?" asks Loki, slipping in beside him, eying the contents on the table greedily.

Thor has never had shawarma before but it does not disappoint. They are delightful pockets of delicious meat and filling wrapped in blankets of some sort of flat bread. Really, though they may be a little nonsensical in some places, Midgardians have mastered the craft of food.

"Delicious," he replies. The others take no note of it, or else assume he is talking to himself—which he is.

He's always wondered why Loki never knows things like what Thor is thinking or how food tastes, even though Thor knows they are the same.

It's probably just the way Thor has imagined him—makes him more life-like, character development. All that jazz.

Yeah.

Your birthright—

"This is a bad idea, Thor," says Loki, twisting his hands nervously. "Father has forbidden us."

"Father has grown old," Thor replies lowly, practically growling. "It is my right. And in any case, we must show the Jotuns their place: below us.

And Loki is speaking about rules and treaties and ancient wars from history. His friends, though they are unaware of it, are agreeing with his brother and Thor is not listening. Norns, he thinks frustratedly. If Asgard is a nation of warriors, they should not fear war. They should seek it. Thor's hands curl around Mjolnir's handle, channelling his desire to smite something.

This was his birthright and now… now he has nothing. It all means nothing.

It is as though some berserker rage has possessed him when he thrashes the banquet hall, blood flowing hot through his veins. The solid wood of the tables have splintered, and crystal chalices and plates lay in cutting shards on the ground.

His friends look at him in fear. And so does his brother.

Thor visits Erik in the SHIELD medical bay, propped up in bed, scanners running over him, a bandage around his head and over his ribs, a glazed look passing through his grey eyes. Grey eyes, not blue.

He coughs awkwardly, as to not startle the man, and approaches him.

"Hey," he says, turning his head to look at him. A thin smile stretching his lips in greeting.

"Hey," Thor replies and sits down in the chair next to the bed. It's one if those hospital visitor ones with the firm but lumpy padding and the plastic-y cover in a soft salmon pink. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," he says instantly, and then frowns, mostly at himself. "Actually, if I'm being completely honest, Thor…"

"Go on."

"Well," he chuckles a little, almost as though this is some kind of big cosmic joke and he cannot believe it has happened to him. Which makes sense, actually.

Thor has seen Erik cry before. At least a few times. Once about Jane, the incident in late September when she'd been mugged, and several times watching a few particularly sad Midgardian films.

But not once has he seen Erik cry for himself.

There's a first time for everything, apparently.

"Let's see. My head just got fucked over by an alien, my work opened a portal releasing an army of other aliens which destroyed half of New York, and now I'm here. Have I missed anything? Like, what about the fact that I can't trust my head anymore because my most trusted asset, my mind, was tossed around like a ragdoll? Or, how about how when I was under… under it I didn't even realise? It all felt so right. So clear." He's breathing heavily now, rough and furious, but Thor is more grateful for the anger than what could be the alternative.

Anger means there is fight, and Erik is strong—strong enough to beat this.

(But he's so sad too, so overwhelmed and tired because how could something like this happen to him?!)

"I'm sorry," Thor says uselessly.

Erik shakes his head, and rubs at his eyes harshly with his forearms. "Don't be. I'm glad there are at least some benevolent aliens out there."

"They are as alien to us as they are to you."

He nods, smiling bitterly in disbelief, "Yeah, and isn't that a thought?"

"You will be all right" And it's less of a reassurance (because what right has Thor to make that claim?) and more of a command, because he must be okay, in the end.

For a minute or so, Erik does not reply, just allowing the silence to linger for a little while longer, the mood stagnant. Not comfortable but not uncomfortable.

He shifts on the chair, a little unsure of what to do with this moment.

"Yeah, maybe."

Thor sits there for the rest of the afternoon, arms folded, leant back on the chair, listening to Erik breathe. Every so often, a medic will come to check in or take another scan of Erik's brain. Erik just lays there without a complaint, not really seeming to care.

"Take care, Thor," says Erik at last, when it is finally time to leave. "We'll miss you. And don't forget about us."

Thor smiles sadly, happily, anguished and relieved. "And so will we."

"So you're returning to Asgard now, I guess," says Jane through the screen. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and Thor's fingers itch because he cannot do it himself.

He swallows, wets his lips, ducks his head a little. He does not meet her eyes. This is the right thing to do, of course.

"I—Yes. I must," he replies reluctantly.

Don't, he wants her to say, Don't go. Stay. I want you to stay.

"Yeah. I understand. You're a prince and all. I get that."

She probably doesn't. To be honest, Thor himself does not quite know what it means to be a prince, and he was born one.

Who knows though—she is a genius, after all.

"I can always return," he says, his eyes flickering to her face. "I can visit if you… if you'd like."

"Yeah. That'd be nice."

Except the last time anyone from Asgard visited was yesterday, and before that a year ago, and before that over a thousand.

And mortals have such short lifetimes, it's a wonder Thor is able to return at all.

"It''ll be good," Jane continues, chuckling nervously, "You can finally see your family again. I'm sure they miss you a lot. You can see your brother again."

"Hm. Yes. My brother," Thor echoes.

Loki is not present at the moment, but he can hear him chuckling at that statement in his head, at the irony if it. He'd probably say hi or something like that.

("Yes. His name is Loki. I think he'd like you."

She smiles kindly but it also looks as though she does not particularly care.

"Thank you," she says, nonetheless.)

Thor is pretty sure Loki likes Jane. He's said so, or close enough. Says she has a brilliant mind and a good heart.

Once, Loki had remarked, "You love the same."

It was a rather strange observation for himself to make, but it's not a bad one. It's nice, if a bit vain.

"You will come back, won't you?" She asks, somehow meeting his eyes through the screen.

"Yes," he says, intently, hopefully. "Yes, I will."

They smile at each other, hands hovering over the button to end the call.

And it's fine. Everything is okay. They're all right.

"I promise."

Cause I want to be forever

Like smoke in the air

Float like a feather going nowhere

Lost in the silence

I don't need to be free

Kill me with kindness

When Thor wakes up, neither Mama nor Papa are by his side.

The winter sun streams warm slivers of light through the window, through the slits in the curtains like yellow ribbons. The fire in the hearth burns brightly, spitting glowy red embers and grey soot into the air, dancing in and out, twirling. And the bed around him is cold and empty.

Where are they?

Thor tugs the covers around himself tighter, shivering and burrowing his head beneath the layers and squeezing his eyes shut.

The room is quiet apart from the crackling from the fire, logs of chopped wood popping and kindling in the flames, and he can hear the quiet huff of his own breath. Where are they? This isn't how it was supposed to be.

Under the sheets the air feels stuffy, sticky and second hand. It makes the strands of his hair curl and cling to his face and the back of his neck. He should probably get up soon. Doubtless, there will be much to do for today, people to welcome and greet, feasts to prepare for.

Perhaps he can just wait until they return.

And Papa did promise to tell him his battle stories, and maybe Mama will let him play with his new brother!

His new brother!

Thor grins giddily at the thought, envisioning already all the fun they will have. Sure, he's not stupid, he knows his brother will be just a babe, but still, even such a tiny little thing is better than none at all! All he has to do is wait till Mother and Father return. He has to exercise patience, as Mother always says.

Right, patience. Thor can do that. He can have patience.

Where are they?

Thor lasts about five minutes under the covers, air getting thicker and hotter and stickier, before he finally pokes his head out to breathe, freshness hitting him with a cool breeze. He just lies there, staring listlessly at the mosaics on the ceiling.

Waiting is just so...boring. Pointless. And where are they, anyway? They promised they'd be here when he woke up, and he's woken up now. And where's his brother?

A sudden thought occurs to him and he scrambles off the bed quickly, throwing back the covers and planting his feet on the ground. Perhaps, he thinks furiously, it is a test. Some sort of game, and in order for him to win it, he'll have to find them!

The room, despite the fire, is still a little chilly, enough for little goose-bumps to form on his skin. He shrugs on his robe, laid out beside the bed probably by some servant, and pulls on a thick pair of socks.

"Mama?" He calls out tentatively, tiptoeing across the floor. "Papa?"

There's no response, so he allows himself to venture out a little further towards the doorway of the room. He gives it a little push, mustering his strength enough for the heavy oak to open just a slit. Well, he is pretty strong—he's going to be a warrior after all. He pokes his head out through the gap, peering into the lounge room, where he waited for Papa to return last night. He frowns.

It looks just as they left it yesterday. No servant has been called to clean the room or fold up the blanket he was using or clear up the jug of juice left on the centre-table. Untouched.

"Mama? Papa?" he calls again, "Where are you?"

They aren't there, he can tell that much. And when he tries for the handle of the next door, the giant main ones which usually open with just a touch from the magic weaved into them, they don't budge. They hold strong and fast, solid, like they are not doors at all but decorative walls.

Thor isn't sure how long he waits there, pacing. Walking back and forth between each wall, occasionally pressing against the doors uselessly. Sometimes he sits by the door, other times he lies on his tummy on one of the couches, face down on a velvet cushion. He even kicks the door a few times, which doesn't do anything except make his feet start to ache, but it relieves a bit of the restlessness.

Where are they?

It must be hours, at least, and it feels like days, when the door finally clicks open. Well, he amends, not really. Thor rubs at his eyes blearily, looking up. It's not Mother or Father which enter the room, just a maid. She walks in, hurried and frantic, wispy strands of dirty blond hair falling out of what should be an impeccably braided bun, and she looks just as startled as he is at actually seeing another human being in the room.

"Where's Mama and Papa?"

She gives him a strained sort of smile, and starts to rummage around Father's old bookshelves, looking for something. "Busy. Shall I tell them you are seeking their presence?" Her fingers run along the spines of the books at her eye level before stopping.

"No, thanks," he answers, "I shall find them myself."

She frowns, turning to look at him before plucking a blue and silver, leather bound book off the shelf. "They are very busy right now, my Prince. That would not be advisable."

And because the servants are not allowed to tell Thor what to do, he knows that means no.

"Can I have some breakfast, then? I'm hungry."

The maid hurries away with the book and promises that she will certainly tell Mama and Papa that he is seeking them. They promised. A few minutes later another servant comes knocking with a cart of food: slices of seasonal winter melon which glisten like gems, and frozen berries, tart and sweet on his tongue, warm honey folded into oatmeal. And Thor's so hungry, it must be the best meal he's ever tasted. If only he could share it with someone.

It's an hour after that, when Thor has eaten his fill and he's only arranging the leftover food on his plate into a some sort of face, that Mother comes bursting through the doors, instantly finding him in her arms and hugging him tight, clinging, stroking his hair and rocking them back and forth gently. Thor wants to yell, scream and whine and stomp his feet. Throw some sort of tantrum because where have they been?! And Father isn't even here yet!

But he doesn't, because his mama's arms are shaking around him and her lips are pursed into a thin line. He pulls her closer and buries his neck into her deeper.

It's a while before he finally registers what she says. "I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry…"

Why? Why is she sorry? Other than for leaving him and breaking their promise, of course.

"Where's Papa?" He asks her, when he feels her shaking has become less intense. "Why isn't he here? He promised to tell me stories."

And you both promised to be here when I woke.

"He's…" She stills, her arms still wrapped around him but weak and limp. "He just needs a little time alone now, okay? He can read to you later."

"Why?"

Those aren't the stories he wants Father to tell though. Father promised him battle tales! Tales of victory and fearsome warriors. Tales from the battlefield in Jotunheim! But he does not say all this.

Mama rubs her cheek against his softly. "He's mourning."

He does not see Father still, for the rest of the evening and Mother sends for an announcement to be made that celebration feasts will be hosted in the banquet halls in a week's time, to allow Asgard's warriors to rest up, and reunite properly with family. It's not the normal process for such things, but he does not question it. Mother is quiet for the rest of the day, subdued, twisting her hands and gazing out at the window to Asgard's winter, light but still with a slight blanket of snow glittering the ground. Occasionally, she looks up, her eyes searching for his before smiling, though it does not quite meet her eyes.

"I love you, Thor," she says after their servants have delivered a dinner of parsnip soup and potatoes and rich, fatty goose, "I love you so much."

"I love you, too!" he says, offering her one of those nice big beams he knows she loves so much. And she seems to drink it in and savour it.

At night, when they go to sleep, just them, just like during the war, Mother holds onto Thor's hand. Holds tight.

Things are very much the same, the few days following. He sees Father at breakfast and then dinner, of course, but not really. He answers in single worded replies and dismisses Thor when he asks about the tales he'd been promised.

And Mother's eyes burn so, so quietly but all the more.

Once, Thor asks about his brother. The one he was promised ("What do you think, Thor? What should we name your brother?"), whom he has not seen since the night Father returned.

Mother's already cracked smile freezes on her face, and her shoulders tense even more.

"What brother?" She asks, and Thor wonders if she knows how her voice quivers.

They don't talk, Thor's mama and papa. Just greet each other good morning cold enough that it makes him shiver. At the dining table, their forks scrape against their plates, the sound scratching the insides of Thor's ears, and it is silent. On the third day, Thor moves back to his room because he prefers it to laying between his mother and father like a wall instead of a bridge.

It's quiet in his room. The sheets are clean but not nearly creased enough, bed cold from disuse. Still, he clambers in and tugs the covers up to his chin, tucking the ends under his feet.

In the weeks after all the victory feasts and even a few colourful parades in the streets, after all the festivities, things… feel much the same. If any of the palace help notice the lack of… well anything, from their King and Queen, they do not show it. They speak in soft voices, slowly, pityingly and he cannot work out why.

Thor's uncle, Prince Vili, and Thor's cousin Balder stay in the palace for a short while. Balder is a little older than Thor, but it is only by a few years. Apparently, they met when they were only babes, though, Thor does not remember.

Balder is nice, very kind, and it's nice to finally have someone to talk to who isn't a grown up. So whilst his father helps Thor's with their royal duties, Thor and Balder venture outside, splashing in large puddles and chasing each other around the courtyard. Sometimes, they sneak out just to escape the strange, somber mood which paints the palace inside. A solace, of sorts, or a balm. And when it is time to come back in, because the sky is darkening, they stay in Thor's rooms playing with all his toys until it is time for bed.

This must be what it is to have friends, he thinks to himself, quietly, hopefully.

A few times, though he is likely needed at the palace, Uncle Vili leads them outside, taking both the boys in a hand each. It's good to be outside with someone who actually seems to understand what's going on. They walk around the courtyards, and then, because Thor has been trapped inside the palace ground for too long, he takes them to the city.

It's very busy in the city, more than expected. Everyone is out on the street, laughing and talking excitedly, vendors selling their wares, some people singing. So colourful and so loud. It's a lot, but it's good, and Thor feels his own energy getting swept up with it all. It's good, refreshing, alive.

Uncle Vili grips their hands tightly as they wade through the crowds, sometimes stopping to let them watch street performers or try samples of food from market stalls. Nobody ever really recognises them—there's so much going on, after all, so they're free to slip in and out as they please within the masses.

When they return, Uncle Vili takes him aside and looks at him and smiles in a way which is probably supposed to look comforting. It's not really. Mostly, it's a little sad.

And Thor can't figure out why.

"Everything is going to be all right, Thor. You just wait."

It's then that he tells them, that war brings death, and with death, loss. He says that loss is a heavy burden for a king to bear, even with victory. Especially the loss of loyal soldiers, good warriors following a leader into a battle.

"Give him time," he says, "He will come back. Give him time."

So that is what Thor does. Gives him time.

Thor looks out at his kingdom.

His Kingdom. The mighty Asgard, highest branch of the Yggdrasil, protector of the Nine, Realm eternal. He looks out at his kingdom from his throne. A mass of frightened, desolate, hopeful people. With no home, or land, or even sky. A hunk of a spaceship headed Earthward, in the middle of nowhere, the Void, endless and beginningless.

Asgard, he tells himself, is not a place. It's a people.

Asgard is not a place, it's a people.

By the sides of this makeshift throne (still a throne, he assures himself, because all thrones are made, not just sprung from divine origins, even if this one was not originally intended to be one) stands his comrades. Hulk—or Banner—with his brutish looks yet still sharp minds; the last of the Valkyrie—Brunhilde, though they are not quite at that stage yet with her jagged edges yet unwavering, unyielding beliefs; Heimdall, loyal til the last and evermore, with his gaze AllSeeing—the true protector of the Nine; Korg, a new friend, leader of a revolution and the one who steered this ship to save their wretched hides.

He is so, so grateful.

And there are so many questions—more than Thor has the answers to, more than Odin had the answers to, perhaps. How will they feed the people, how will they get water, how will they wash? There are those in need of medicines, young children left parentless from Hela's brief reign, elderly in need of extra care. What happens if they run out of fuel? Or if the ship is damaged? And they will all look to Thor, Thor their King, and ask him "What then? What now?"

King of Asgard, how does it suit you?

Uncomfortably, he thinks. Too heavy on his shoulders.

A firm cool hand grips his left shoulder, next to his neck, thumb rubbing circles in soothingly. Thor follows the hand to its wrists to its arm and up and smiles.

The King is his people, he thinks. And the people of Asgard are strong. He will be okay. Everything will be alright, in the end.

Because perhaps they have taken a hit, perhaps they are down and not even standing, not even ready to kneel. Perhaps they are lying flat on their backs, paralysed, unable to do anything but endure what comes their way. But they will endure. And, eventually, they will get back up, even if it takes a while. They have to.

Heimdall is the last to leave their temporary throne room, giving him a meaningful nod of respect and a shallow bow to symbolise the loyalty Thor knows he already has. His golden eyes speak of magnitudes. He who has seen all worlds, all kingdoms, all places. "What kind of king will you be?" they say. "How will you sit on this throne, and command your people? And, how will your people command you?" Heimdall leaves Thor, fixes his gaze on him entirely, openly, honestly in a show of solidarity.

Everyone else has been sent away. Because, there is much to do, yes, much to plan and discuss and organise, but for now, Asgard needs to rest. Needs the time to lick the salt of their wounds, count up their losses and sing their honors as they join their ancestors in Valhalla, count up what remains and what must be held even closer and tighter, to remember and cry.

They need time to mourn.

Asgard is not a place, it's a people, yes, but even then, Asgard is still only a fraction of what it once was.

The souls of his people cry, wailing so loudly and flooding every room, every compartment on this ship. The hearts of his people bleed everywhere, seeping into every surface and pore they touch, red ink spilling onto walls and floors, a spreading stain. And it is Thor's duty to clean it up.

The air carries a soft, slow music. Sad and bittersweet like a funeral hymn.

Asgard is not a place, it's a people. And their lands, their homes and mountains and rivers and forests are not sculpted from their surroundings, but their communications and loyalty and faith and their love. They rejoice together and weep together.

When he is finally alone, on his throne, he allows himself to breathe, to look out. Out into the nothingness that blinks back. A vortex devoid of anything, sucking them in, threatening to drown them. It seems to go on forever and ever and ever.

"Be wary of the Void," Mother had once said, "For things with nothing must be eventually be occupied by something, and you do not want that to be you."

It is infinity that stretches before (and after) them, in the end. An open clearing with no paths, just a field where the direction and route you take must be your choice alone.

Or it is space, where you are both floating and falling, with none of the up or down to guide you so that you may as well not be moving at all.

It is silence.

His father is dead—they did not even have a funeral. Could not. The tree planted in honour of his mother, what seems like eons ago, has fallen. It was supposed to last forever.

They were supposed to last forever.

Some small part of him, tiny and insignificant, mourns the sister he never knew, or only as a monster. He thinks of Hela, and how he'd wanted a sibling so badly that he'd dreamt one up—still is. He remembers how she'd looked at him, viciously, savagely, a sister to a brother, and cut his eye from its socket.

"Such a pair," she'd exclaimed mockingly. "He sounds like him and now you look like him."

And she had said, confidently, with all the knowledge as the Goddess of Death, that he couldn't kill her, that death doesn't really seem to keep if you are a child of Odin.

And it's a lonely place on a throne.

Thor is not alone, though.

Well, he is... kind of. It depends on your definition of alone. But... not really.

Loki comes down to find his place next to him, joining him at his staring out of the window to the empty vacuum before them. When he steps, his feet tap against the floor lightly. And the curls of his midnight hair flutter with the movement. The bright lights of the ship reflect off his pale white skin as though they are made of moonstone, dazzling him so that if Thor squints his eyes ever so slightly, Loki seems to glow blue—just a little.

So whole, Thor thinks to himself. So real.

His brother meets his eyes. The connection of it extends between them like a lifeline. Thor takes it.

"You know," begins Thor, eyes drawing back to the eternity surrounding them (and Thor tries not to think of it as oppressive.)

"Yes?" his brother asks, following his gaze into the beyond.

And Thor let's out an awkward chuckle, because how silly this is. "You know, if you were here, I might even hug you."

His brother releases a breath then, shifting his weight beside him.

I'm here.

.

.

.

.

A/N- Ahhh okay, so this was the last chapter WHOOOO. I really really hope everyone enjoyed it. This was a very different type of fic from my usual fic.

It's been amazing hearing everyone's theories, many I hadn't even thought of myself!

Anyways, if you'd like to see the narrative I was going for as the writer, look no further! However, one thing id like to stress is that I really wanted to create something where the reader could interpret it in different ways and all if them would be correct. So the way i wrote it does not mean the way you might have read it is wrong.

I'll tackle this chronologically.

So, the earliest scene is the one pre-end of war w/frost giants. Frigga reads Thor a story. Id say this is one of Thor's earliest memories. The reason for the story about the brother was to provide a red herring. As in, because Thor remembers this, the reader is allowed to assume his mind created Loki after being inspired by Loki.

But he didn't

The next is Odin returning from the war. He hands Frigga a bundle of *something*. And, I can reveal they were telling the truth. The bundle was Loki. However, notice Frigga didnt let Thor see him? That's because the one thing I changed in my narrative of the story was that Loki didn't shape shift. Loki didn't shape shift.

And he's a baby right? Odin finds a jotun baby in a temple in the middle of a terrible jotun winter. Of course he'd take it home. But Loki was a jotun baby and he doesn't shapeshift. He is a frost giant so he can probably handle Jotun winters just fine. shape shift

Asgard However, even in winter, is much warmer than Jotunheim. So I took that and exaggerated it. What would happen if you left a human baby in the middle if the Sahara? Likewise, what would happen if you took a jotun baby to Asgard?

So Yeah, here's the thing. Loki is dead, but not really.

It's more like he's teetering on half life half death existence. So because Loki's dead, being the really-not-perfect parents odin and Frigga are, they just decide to pretend Loki never existed at all. Odin is ashamed by his arrogance and lack of thinking, and neither of them want to explain death to Thor. Hence, the gaslighting. His half life is due to the fact that Odin also has the Casket of Ancient Winters. So by lending it's power which originates from Jotunheim he manages to keep baby Loki in this sort of perpetual dying stage.

The memory where Thor wakes up In the healers In and his head hurts and his hand is cold. This moment secretly symbolises when his connection with Loki starts. Thor and Balder really are playing hide and seek, and Thor sneaks down to the lower levels of the palace. Here's what goes down but Thor doesn't remember. (Firstly) odins vault has crappy security. So Thor find baby Loki. Is traumatized by the fact he legit just found what looks like a dead baby, even if it's a jotun. But he touches it. He faints.

He wakes up and he can sort of remember but eventually his mind takes on another explanation instead, whether it's the brain reacting to trauma by blocking it out, or Frigga's mind meddling, It's unclear. Nevertheless, he sort of has this soulconnection thing with the half dead baby.

The rest of the scenes kind of slot in nicely, both Loki and Thor think Loki really is part of Thor's imagination, and Thor's parents don't question why Thor's imaginary brother happens to be called Loki because, well, they never named the jotun baby so the name means nothing to them. Additionally, you might have noticed i interspersed quotes from various movies, from scenes with either Thor or Loki, these were basically an attempt to thinly disguise Loki's thoughts, some which were random, nd some which were connected to the scenes they juxtaposed. So yea, I had a lot of fun finding those

In the last scene, we hear a bit about Hela. She says "he sounds like him and now you look like him" notice, she refers to both of them? Hela is the Goddess of Death remember? So of course she can see Loki. (Also thanks to my beta takethatusername for suggesting I add this) Also, the past line " Im here was pinched from ragnarok obviously, but I didn't put it into italics because wanted the possibility that Loki actually was real to linger.

So Yeah, that's the fic. Im so happy that people liked it! And y'all are free to interpret it however. That was my main goal writing it, to create something that everyone might interpret differently, from the facts and opinions I have them from a single very unreliable narrator. Which I think this achieved?

Anyways, if you did like it, I'd be very very eager to hear your thoughts on the fic over all and what your theories were! Thank you all so much for reading!

-Mercia. :D