Let me just say that I have been cooking this up for a while. I started writing this about a year ago, before I saw Ragnarok or Infinity War. It got to the point where I became obsessed with finishing it...so much so that I realized I needed to stop messing with it and just start posting it already. I am planning at least 50k words total. Hopefully there will be more.

I also want to point out that I write fan-fiction in order to soothe my own frustration with the canon narrative. So while this is by no means a masterpiece, it is a labor of love. Please regard it as such.

February 26, 2024

You enter the hospital lobby a little earlier than usual, at about 7:40 in the morning. Typically, you prefer to arrive around eight-thirty so you're sure to miss breakfast, as well as the bustle of nurses making their first medication rounds of the day. It snowed fiercely for the past few months. The winters here are somewhat unforgiving...the streets oft shrouded either with a dreary blend of dirt and slush or a thick layer of solid ice. Summer, in contrast, strives to suffocate every cell of your body with its soggy, sweltering heat. How you long for the subtle seasons of Asgard, the gentle breezes and soothing showers. But spring came prematurely this year, bringing with it blue skies and clear roads. And even on Earth's most traffic laden thoroughfares, ideal weather conditions make for a much speedier commute.

The receptionist at the front desk dons a medical tunic of a light pink hue, adorned with tiny, red hearts. You're sure that you've seen her before, at least three or four times. She normally wears her hair loose around her shoulders. But the way it has been divided into two long braids makes her appear incredibly young. The relative aging of Midgardians continues to be something of a mystery to you. You briefly wonder how old she really is and whether the hospital would consider employing actual children.

"He's your dad?" she asks.

Her well-manicured fingers dance effortlessly across the keyboard. She pulls out a thin, touch screen tablet and passes it across the counter to you.

You nod absently. Somehow a silent affirmation feels like less of a lie. Not that you've ever wrestled much with the notion of dishonesty. Truth is subjective, even malleable to some extent. But by now the inquiry has been posed enough times that it has simply become easier just to say yes.

You scroll through the directory of names on the tablet she handed you until you find your own. You press your thumb down on the screen, allowing the device to scan your print in lieu of a digital signature.

Earth keeps careful track of its inhabitants these days. They pay closer attention to some than others, of course. The United States government knows precisely where you are right now, or so they claim. It's distinctly possible that they even know exactly what you're doing. Not that you have anything to hide for once. But you will never get used to to the fact that very little of your life is genuinely private.

"Different last name?" the young lady pries nosily, after you hand her back the tablet.

"I was adopted," you provide. Which, while not a lie, technically does not apply to this situation.

You're not in the habit of disclosing such things to absolute strangers. You generally prefer to divulge only what is absolutely necessary. It just seems like the least complicated response.

She is apparently satisfied with your explanation. She smiles, revealing the metal braces on her teeth...a primitive contraption, surely. It looks painful to wear. The individual wires are interwoven with tiny, pink rubber bands. You glance once more at the material of her scrubs, and note that the color is an exact match. You have no doubt that it is deliberate.

"It's nice of you to come so often like this," she remarks. "I swear, you're one of the only ones that does. So many people dump their family members here...and they hardly ever come. Some of them never come back at all."

"How dreadful," you mutter.

While you're well skilled in the art of small talk, you're not particularly fond of it. Midgardians, you've discovered, can prattle on for hours without saying anything at all. They have very little respect for the art of oration or the value of syntax. Their conversations are heavily seasoned with colloquialisms and obscure pop-culture references. You find that you must maintain a delicate balance in order to avoid being sucked into their meaningless banter, which you achieve by sounding just interested enough to be cordial, but not interested enough to encourage further discussion.

"You're all set," the young lady chirps.

There are two large, glass doors to the left of the check-in desk. A light above them turns from red to green and they open, long enough to allow you to pass through to the other side.

"Third level," she advises, nodding her head towards the lift. "But you know that already."

"Yes, thank you," you reply. You pass through the doorway eagerly, lest you be expected to exchange more pleasantries.

You have yet to adjust to this place and this culture. You once fancied yourself a great enthusiast of chaos. In the last six years you've developed a renewed appreciation for order and serenity. American society is disorganized, yet rapidly moving; historically speaking, a volatile combination. Everything here is so loud and bright and carried to the extreme. The air, water, flora and fauna are all horribly contaminated, a product of humanity's post-industrial shortsightedness. But the citizens seem largely indifferent to the fact that they are slowly asphyxiating in their own pollution and filth. They profess to seek truth, while taking great comfort in lies. They claim to value discretion, while willingly making even the most intimate details of their lives available to the general public. They are contradictory creatures, voluntarily supporting the adoption of laws that they do not fully understand and that are designed to benefit only a small portion of society.

But you cannot deny that humans are an inventive species. And thus, they are not without their merits. For all their faults, there is something oddly inspiring about their ability to find beauty in their despair. Although the vast majority of them are content to succumb to mediocrity and complacency, there are always a few among them who manage to use their tragedy as a catalyst for growth and change.

After the war, the United States government was essentially overthrown...not by some foreign power, but by its own working class. The few surviving officials were stripped of their titles and replaced by young idealists and visionaries. The capitalist system was abandoned in favor of a more socialized economy. Most were thrilled by the development. Yet some regarded it as preposterous that a nation with the means should be obligated to invest in the survival of its own citizens. In spite of these changes, most Midgardians remain pleasantly oblivious to their own irrationality and bent upon self destruction. Even now, a vocal minority of humans continue to assert that some lives are worth more than others.

Asgard was not without its absurdities, of course. They possessed their own social hierarchy. There were those who were born into positions of privilege. Some dwelt in the palace, while others spent their days laboring in the fields or in the service of others. Yet the same degree of value was placed on the health and safety of everyone, regardless of their station, including the prisoners in the dungeons. Even those who had erred greatly enough to earn themselves a flogging were treated for their wounds immediately afterwards. Their suffering was intended to be temporary and not to linger on once their sentence had been carried out. It was not compassion that drove these practices, but pragmatism. Crimes against the throne were taken seriously. And the Aesir were hardly opposed to imprisoning their own, or even subjecting them to great physical pain as a penalty for their crimes. But loyalty was unwavering, even among the condemned. For better or for worse, everyone recognized the fact that Asgard could only be as strong as its people.

When you reach the third floor, you exit the lift. You turn right and enter a long corridor. It's still early, so nearly every person you encounter is hospital staff of some sort. By now, most of them know you. But a few do not. They all regard you with varying shades of courtesy. Still, you can sense the vigilance that is lurking behind their careful words and deliberate gestures. Should the mood strike you, you could level this edifice and lay waste to every soul within it. You wouldn't, of course. Your intentions are honorable for the most part, or at least as honorable as they've ever been. But they have no way of knowing that. And therefore, you take some degree of pleasure in their uncertainty. For at the moment, little else remains of your once mischievous spirit.

You make a concerted effort to maintain a low profile. You may be required to endure some degree of scrutiny from those in authority. But you refuse to reinvent yourself for the general populace, which unapologetically derives entertainment from the anguish of others. Reality television the Midgardians call it. Not a far cry from the gladiator matches of their ancient Roman Empire, although it's unlikely that they would appreciate the comparison. Whether they are aware of it or not, they have always possessed a disconcerting level of interest in the finer details of one another's misfortunes. Not that the people of Asgard didn't spread their fair share of gossip. They just did so with far more discretion. Either way, the citizens of Earth already know far more about you than you would like. Therefore, you see no reason why you should be expected to make your personal business available for their consumption.

Most of the doors you pass are closed, bearing signs that read do not disturb. Without any natural light coming in from the outside, the interior of the building is illuminated only by dull, fluorescent bulbs. They cast an eerie glow on the walls and ceiling. There's a kind of stale lifelessness to it...which is fitting, you suppose, since everyone on the third floor is dying. An increased interest in what Americans refer to as quality of life led to the development of facilities like this one, which specialize in the treatment of terminal illnesses. Humans are so fragile and so vulnerable to disease. Considering how fleetingly they exist, it might be appropriate to say that they are all dying. You wrinkle your nose at the overwhelming stench of death, lamenting your extraordinarily heightened senses. The staff is pleasantly oblivious. But the collective suffering of the residents is ringing in your ears, like a scream that only you can hear.

You've been to the hospital many times. But you will never grow accustomed to the sight of people who have become feeble with age. It is a concept that was once entirely foreign to you. On Asgard, the elderly did not surrender to physical frailties. The most fortunate died upon the battle field, with weapon in hand. Those who lived long enough expired with grace and dignity. Illnesses of any kind were uncommon. Maladies of the mind even more so. There was nothing dignified about their end, however. You occasionally hear rumors that some refugees might be scattered throughout surrounding galaxies. You have no way to confirm them. But even if you did...you doubt that you would bother. Thor could not be among them. As far as you know, you are the last Asgardian, if you can truly be considered one in the first place.

You stop in front of room 371 to find the door already slightly ajar. You can hear the television blaring from within. The telltale noises of explosions and gunfire imply an adventure film of some sort. Even though you know that your presence is anticipated, you still rap politely on the door frame before entering.

Erik is sitting up in his bed, his body supported by an excessive arrangement of pillows. His eyes are glazed over, his mouth agape. He is frozen in place, save his eyeballs, which are tracking the movement of the figures on the screen. Your first course of action is to lower the volume on the television set to a more reasonable level, so you aren't forced to speak over it.

"Good morning," you begin, hopefully.

While there are still moments when Erik appears perfectly lucid, they are becoming increasingly rare. He exhibits frequent periods of unresponsiveness, and sometimes stares into space for hours at a time.

But he turns to you and smiles, from which you conclude that he must have slept particularly well the night before. Recent fits of insomnia and nocturnal restlessness were leaving him extremely agitated the morning after. His doctors supposedly prescribed him something for it. Though you are kept apprised of Erik's mental status and treatment plan, you deliberately gloss over the finer details. You don't pretend to understand why Erik would entrust himself to these charlatans. You find Midgardian medicine to be primitive, at best; barbaric at worst.

"What's on the agenda for today, hmm?"

"Today?" he repeats, drowsily.

He glances at the television once more, before turning his attention back to you.

You move closer to the bed. He may be well rested, but you can tell from the clutter that he's been awake for quite some time. Various magazines and scientific journals are spread out across the blankets, arranged in random piles. Specific pages have been marked with torn strips of tissue or pieces of paper. Erik watches as you gather them all up and set them on the bedside table.

"Last...night?" he inquires, cryptically.

He sounds a bit more alert. Due to his recent tendency to simplify phrases by omitting prepositions and pronouns, communicating with him has become a bit of a challenge. Erik is prone to visual hallucinations, which usually take the form of people. It's not uncommon for him to accuse you of being in two places at once. Which isn't entirely unreasonable. You are technically capable of duplicating yourself...though you have not done so in quite some time.

"I wasn't here last night," you say, shaking your head.

He takes a few seconds to digest your response.

"Where?"

"I was at home," you supply. "Just as I was the night before that, and the night before that. Not very exciting, I'm afraid."

He scowls a bit, as he often does when he's attempting to make sense of something.

"Sleep?"

"Of course," you answer automatically. "What else would I be doing?"

You wonder if he can tell you're lying, or if he even has the presence of mind to care. You've never slept well, not really, not even as a child. During the first few months after the war, you sometimes stayed awake for weeks at a time. When you did manage to rest, your dreams were dark and frightening, and thick with the stench of death. You were often unable to spring free from their grasp. Night terrors, Erik called them. You vaguely recalled experiencing something similar in your youth. Whatever they were, they eventually subsided...only to return, upon Erik's relocation to the hospital.

He eyes you, briefly. He looks worried.

"Thor?"

Your burst of laughter is completely involuntarily. As is the awkward smile that fades quickly from your lips. You're a bit startled by your own reaction, and you don't know what to make of it. You don't dwell much upon Thor these days. Or at least, you try not to. You're not necessarily averse to the subject. Buried deep within the layers of acrimony are countless lovely memories. But the brutality of his death still haunts you. And you've come to the conclusion that sometimes the best way to deal with disagreeable things is to avoid them like a plague.

"Not possible," you remind him, hoping he will drop the matter. "Remember?"

He blinks a few times and then issues a stiff nod.

You sit on the edge of the bed, facing him. It's only been three days since you saw him last, and he already appears thinner. The plaid pajamas he once filled out so nicely now hang loosely on his diminished frame. Erik has a fondness for breads and fattening desserts, neither of which he ever consumed with any moderation. But in the hospital, his diet is closely monitored.

The buttons on his shirt are improperly fastened, and a few of them aren't fastened at all. Much to your dismay, the hospital staff frets very little over such details. But you firmly believe that the manner in which one presents themselves is tied directly to both their self-respect and that which they command from others. It's not acceptable to you, to allow a man who was once held in great esteem by his people to be relegated to object of pity. You lean forward and go to work, diligently unbuttoning and re-buttoning until everything is in the right place.

Erik's bangs are hanging in his face. As long as you have known him, he has never allowed his hair to reach this length. Were he more cognizant, he would likely insist on having it trimmed. While you do sometimes ponder cutting it, you have yet to follow through. You know it's what he would want. But where you come from, long hair is considered dignified, even regal in some respects. It's symbolic of the passing of time, and evidence of a life that was lived.

You open the drawer by his bed and locate a comb. Erik sits quietly, as you drag its teeth across his scalp. You delicately part the strands, pulling the bulk of it to the left, and tucking it behind his ear. Then you do the same on the right. Your hand brushes up against his cheek, and you note that his usual layer of sandy-grey stubble is beginning to evolve into a full-fledged beard.

"I think it may be time for a shave," you suggest.

Though most Midgardian men utilize electric shavers, Erik prefers the more outmoded method of a straight razor and a brush. Due to his rapidly diminishing motor skills, he is no longer capable of performing such tasks. Facial hair maintenance is yet another service the hospital apparently does not provide. You are no stranger to knives, however. And centuries of practice allow you to wield any blade with machine-like precision.

Erik makes some small noise to express his agreement.

You study him, momentarily. You resist the urge to probe or attempt to evaluate his mental state, as doing so has only proven pointless in the past. You have learned from experience that subjecting Erik to unnecessary interrogation accomplishes nothing and only serves to upset him.

Lewy body dementia, his practitioners call it...in which some type of abnormal protein attacks the neurons. Whatever it is, it's savage and ruthless, a thief of body and mind. It's not a formidable opponent, but a coward that arrived in the night, cloaked in darkness.

You recall being torn from your sleep by a sound you could not identify, and rising from your bed to investigate. Although Erik had retired hours earlier, his room was illuminated. While it wasn't terribly uncommon for you to stay awake all night, you had never known Erik to do so. Both creatures of habit, you were fairly diligent about minding one another's personal space. Up until then, you had never entered Erik's chamber. When you peeked your head inside you discovered that he was crouched on the floor, leaning against the side of his bed. Upon closer inspection you were surprised to note that he had been crying, his eyes still watery and red.

"We'll sort it," you offered, once you eyed the large, wet spot on the front of Erik's pants. You were admittedly confused. You wondered whether what you were seeing was the result of ordinary human frailty, or something else altogether. As Erik's dignity had already taken a tremendous blow, you decided it would be impolite to ask. He fought your attempts to render assistance, exhibiting some rather uncharacteristic aggression. But he eventually gave in to being lifted to his feet and guided out of his soaked pajamas. When Erik was clean and dry again, he simply went back to bed and turned out the light. And when you saw each other in the morning, he did not speak of it.

Two days later you discovered a small card that had been left out on the kitchen counter. Not a mistake...Erik had placed it right where you were sure to find it. The card belonged to a special type of practitioner called a neurologist. Which told you only that Erik suspected there may be something wrong with his brain. You did not pry or press him for details. It wasn't like him to be so evasive, or to communicate so indirectly. Thus, you decided that if he were doing so, there must be a reason.

A short time after Erik's official diagnosis, you ceased using illusions in his presence...yet another thing on which you've chosen not to dwell. You've never had any qualms about utilizing your magic, even deviously. Rarely have you given any thought to the effect it might have on others. But for reasons you have yet to ascertain, you cannot bring yourself to toy with his reality. You wonder whether Erik is even conscious of the fact that you've made no effort to alter your outward appearance. Right now you are wearing a pair of slender-fitting jeans and a long-sleeved Syracuse University t-shirt. Your hair is slicked back into a braid, which is bound inelegantly with an elastic band. It's less than ideal. But it's not as though you're trying to impress anyone. And you're confident that, were Erik coherent enough to choose, he would prefer authenticity over pageantry.

Erik tugs at his bedclothes, drawing them up to his chin.

"Are you cold?" you ask.

You slide your fingers under the blanket and find his wrist. Erik's skin feels dry. But it seems warm enough.

Erik ignores the question.

"Lars?" he says suddenly, raising his eyebrows.

You withdraw your hand, carefully.

"No," you reply, "it's just me."

Every time Erik utters the name of his son you experience a mild sting of...well you wouldn't go so far as to call it jealousy. Because that would not be appropriate. This man before you is not your kin and therefore, you lay no claim to him. And yet, there's something markedly unpleasant about being mistaken for someone else. Especially someone who perished long ago. Your understanding is that the child's death was the result of some unfortunate physiological defect. While Erik suffers from a number of persistent delusions, this one tends to gnaw at you. You've seen but one image of this Lars. Despite his poor health, he was a robust lad with fair skin and a head full of golden curls, actually not unlike Thor as a young boy. But he bears no physical resemblance to you whatsoever.

Erik sighs, frustrated perhaps. He is becoming so difficult to read these days. He wants to say more. But the words won't come to him.

"Not...even...eight," he declares, slowly.

You follow his gaze to the digital clock on the opposite side of the room and note the time.

"That's correct," you confirm. "It's only a quarter of."

"No...breakfast," Erik adds, with a sour tone.

You usually arrive at the hospital a bit later, after he's already eaten. He's been awake for a while now, and they've yet to serve him his morning meal. So you imagine that he is hungry.

"Not yet," you offer. "Probably soon, though."

Your attempt to appear hopeful is genuine. But it still feels awkward. You have very little experience with such things. Asgardian children were urged to mature beyond any need for emotional comfort, long before they reached adolescence. Females were afforded a little more flexibility, as it was socially acceptable for a woman to nurture her children or be supportive of her spouse. But apart from matters of life and death, full grown males did not typically offer one another verbal reassurances.

He reaches out and pokes you in the chest.

"You...are...early," he announces, speaking each word a bit more loudly than the one before it.

His arm trembles a bit as it hovers in the air. He cannot hold it there for long. When his strength gives out, he brings his hand to rest on top of yours.

The corners of your mouth curve upwards, ever so slightly.

"Yes," you agree. You know that these little bouts of clarity are entirely random. But you can't help being pleased by the observation. "I suppose I am."