After the events of Infinity War, a battered Asgardian refugee arrives at Wakanda's gates, someone who Thor would recognize in any shape, in any guise.

Chapter 1 of 2

In Any Form, In Any Guise

The sagas talked about the drive for vengeance as a burning thirst, a humming rage, but Thor now recognized that as a bard's tale. Revenge wasn't a sustainable form of energy.

He'd buried himself in work, tried to drown out his thoughts with the rhythm of carry-set down-return as he carried the numerous dead from the battlefield. (Only the honorable dead; the Chitauri creatures were piled and incinerated in a way that not even their charred smoke stained the air.) He'd embraced every one of his surviving teammates, but couldn't stay and speak for long with anyone. To be fair, it seemed as if they would also break with one misplaced word; the grief in their grey faces mirrored the lurking chasm in his own gut that he wished to forget.

Perhaps it was weakness to try to push aside any reminders of his losses (his people deserved years of mourning, fleets of burning boats, remembrance through the ages—) Perhaps his thirst for revenge was weak, because he felt sick and tired and as if he would very much like to cry but couldn't.

(His friends and his family—)

He both wanted to have his friends'company and thought he couldn't stand it. If any of them expressed their own grief, or even their sympathy, he wasn't sure that he could respond appropriately.

None knew of his losses. It wasn't immediately relevant. Midgard mourned half of her children, and how could he add to their burden by telling them Asgard had lost nearly her all?

A noise behind him had him turn with a start—on the roof of Wakanda's palace, he had not expected any visitors. Steve was panting slightly and had an odd expression on his face.

"Thor," he said, "there's an Asgardian downstairs who just got here. She's asking for King Thor."

Thor stared at him for a moment, feeling slightly numb. He stood up.

"I'm sorry about your father," Steve said.

It seemed a non sequitur. "I—what?"

Steve laid a hand on his shoulder, briefly, and released. "Your father. If you're king, I assumed…"

That loss seemed like years ago, rather than scant weeks. "Thank you, my friend."

Steven gave him a smile that didn't reach his eyes, but Thor appreciated the effort this man was making. "Help me down and I'll show you where she is," Steve said, gesturing to the ground below.

A few other Avengers had gathered: Natasha, Banner, and a dark-skinned man whose steady gaze reminded Thor of Heimdall. Perhaps they were there to guard against unfamiliar guests; perhaps they were there to watch a happy reunion after all of their bitter farewells.

Seated to the side with a glass of water in hand was the Asgardian.

His first impression was of singed dark hair and ragged clothes, but the woman turned and her eyes were green and Thor knew.

"My king," she said, rising. She fisted a hand over her heart and bowed slightly—the traditional greeting of a warrior to a commander—but there was a small, rebellious tweak to the side of her mouth that seemed unintentional, a permanent fixture to her face. Her hand dropped, and she looked up with large, full eyes. Her composure crumbled, and she put a hand over her mouth at the sight of him.

Thor felt his own tears gather in his one eye. "Please tell me this isn't an illusion."

She let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "I'm here."