Spinoff of my own story, lol. It's on Archive of Our Own but I never really got the hang of that site, especially since it's hard to link things from my documents, so it's easier to just put it up on FFnet.

Originally, I wasn't going to write one, but I was looking through my old original short stories and found one I haven't released to the public that I wrote about two years ago. It deals HEAVILY with the death of a sibling and I decided to use that as my foundation to write this story. It shares a LOT of the same themes and even lines as the short story, so if there are pronoun mistakes (as the main character of the original story was female), I thoroughly apologize. I did not read through this very perfectly.

Loki was playing by the river.

Thor didn't recall how he got there. Through the brightly lit trees into a small clearing, he found himself wading in the river. The water was warm, not at all cold like the autumn that tinged the leaves. He didn't know where or why he was, but he was happy—bursting with joy that just bloomed out of nowhere in his heart because here he was on a beautiful autumn day and Loki was playing by the river and nothing hurt.

Thor ran to his little brother. He clapped a hand on Loki's small shoulder, grinning so wide he felt his face burst. Loki turned toward Thor with a ready beam. Undoubtedly he had expected Thor to come.

"Hey," Thor breathed.

There Loki was before him, his face shining and smooth. His green eyes were as bright as his smile. His clothes were wet from the river's caress, his dark hair sticking to his face like dark cracks along moonlight porcelain.

"Took you long enough, brother," Loki laughed. Just that laughter, as soft as the river's gurgle, made Thor wrap his arms around Loki. He was so light in Thor's embrace that Thor thought he could easily crush Loki.

"What are you doing here?" Thor said, but he didn't care for the reason. All he wanted was Loki's words to brush against his.

"I've got something to show you," said Loki. "Follow me."

He took Thor's wrist before Thor even had a chance to let the eager 'yes' fall from his lips. They ran along the riverside so quickly that their bare feet did not even slip on the mud. The sun perched higher in the sky and dried the water from their clothes until they were as soft as feathers. They were fully grown, adults, and yet Thor was a child inside, running after his brother like chasing a shooting star.

"Where are we going?" he said.

"You'll see, you'll see!" Loki said without looking back.

Thor wildly searched for something he could say that would turn Loki's face toward him. He could recall the last time Loki was so jubilant, so excited just to be with him. It made him want to fly even without the help of Mjölnir.

Look at me, he whispered in his mind. Look at me.

In a burst of energy Thor sprinted ahead of Loki in desperate need to face him. He reached out to touch Loki, to pull him closer, to even say, 'Slow down!' into his ears just so he could be a little closer for a little longer. Thor reached to hold Loki, his calloused fingers nearly to Loki's cheeks—

Thor jolts into darkness and falls conscious.

Blink.

Take a breath.

He feels the itchy covers against his skin and the stiff mattress under his bones. Hears the buzz of silence in his aching ears. His heart thrusts itself against his ribs; it is beating its fists in crazed grief upon a door that wouldn't open. It nearly chokes him.

Take a breath.

Thor closes his eyes again, squeezing them tight until his eyelashes burn. He gropes in the dark for the dream set loose in his mind. In his dreams, Loki is waiting for him.

In Thor's dreams, Loki breathes.

(This is not the first night)

You haven't been eating, have you?

Sif eyes Thor, her dark gaze scouring him until honesty bleeds from him. Instead, Thor only shrugs, dressing the wound that Sif had given him in their training session.

If you continue to treat yourself like this, says Sif, then you're going to fall ill.

Thor shakes his head. He is never the one to fall ill. He hadn't had so much as the sniffles since his adolescence. It was always Loki who fell to fevers, who fought like a king but still was as fragile as gossamer glass, flushed in his bedchambers while Thor had no comforts to offer him—no books, no conversation, nothing.

Sif sits down on the bench before Thor. Thor wraps his arm slowly so he wouldn't have to look at her.

Will you say nothing, she says.

Please do not worry about me, Thor says.

Sif takes the bandages from Thor's clumsy fingers and wraps his wound herself. Thor turns his head and pretends he is not ashamed.

Your mind is not into your training, said Sif. It is better that you rest for the day.

I don't want rest, says Thor. I want my mind cleared.

Except he can't clear his mind, not when he is serving his duties as prince, not when he is hurling his hammer into targets that fall too definitely at his touch, not when he drives his fists again and again into shields, and especially not when he lies in bed waiting for tomorrow with sleepless eyes. Loki's face, his voice, his echoes—they rattle in Thor's skull like a jar with too few marbles that garble loudly and shatter when shaken, and there's nothing that Thor could put inside to muffle them.

Then speak with me, says Sif. A mind is cleared if you let your thoughts go, not drown them out.

But he hasn't drowned them out. He's only drowned them, drowned the memories of his little brother until they bob on the surface of his consciousness, sick and bloated, taking up space and letting them rot until his entire being is nothing but a dead past.

Loki never did like training with me, he says. His voice is faint. I always jeered at him when he used his knives, or his magic.

Sif's fingers stiffen but do not cease.

But, says Thor. He was so talented in both. He saved our hides countless times with them. Did I ever tell him that? Sif, did I ever tell him he fought well?

Thor, says Sif, and nothing more.

I nearly died on Muspelheim once, had it not been for him, says Thor.

He remembers the day clearly. Could still feel the skin on his back peeling from the vicious burns. Still feel Loki's hands, chilled with magic, upon his back as they healed the nearly festering wounds. Thor couldn't remember ever thanking Loki.

It isn't your fault, Thor, says Sif.

Thor meets Sif's eyes for only a second. They are dark, like unreachable islands.

Surely he wouldn't blame you, she says.

Ask him yourself, Thor thinks. Ask him, and when you do, tell me. Tell me everything he says to you. Tell me anything that crosses his mind.

To think that Loki's mind—his beautiful, magical, fathomless mind—cannot conjure another idea is a broken bottle shard to the stomach. Thor's thoughts have always been so blunt and shapeless, like stones; they could never create what Loki could think.

Loki is at rest now, Sif says. He is at rest and at peace.

A place with gentle rivers and trees splattered with vibrant color, where the sunlight is always warm and the mud never trips you, and laughter and running and flying—this is where Thor locks Loki in, and this is where Thor knows Loki does not exist.

He catches sight of his reflection in the pail of water by his side. He thinks for a moment he sees Loki staring back at him, but he knows that it is only his reflection and knows that nowhere on his face, in his entire being, is Loki. Not his cunning, not his mischief, not those dark green eyes and black hair, not a wisp of wit or wisdom in him.

I only ever wanted to be your equal. And now Thor wishes it true.

Thor, says Sif.

Thor's reverie snaps from his mind and reality stares at him with unwelcomed eyes.

Let it go, she says. Let him go.

(I already have)

Thor tries to remember if Loki ever told him that he was upset with him, if he was hurt by him or sad or anything that would lead to jumping to his death.

Thor tries to remember if he ever truly knew Loki at all.

Thor thinks he hears Loki crying, except Loki hasn't cried since their adolescence, when he and Thor got into such a terrible fight that Loki couldn't hold back his tears and Thor's voice was hoarse from shouting. At least, Loki hasn't cried in front of him since.

But when Thor wanders through the empty halls of Asgard, when he turns a corner and half expects a surprise to come out of the shadows like the old days, Thor thinks he hears Loki crying, in his mind.

And it hurts, because Thor is convinced that they are Loki's tears, his cries that he hid from Thor, from the world because he thought no one cared, and Loki's sorrow still lives on longer than he as they echo in Asgard's gild. To Thor, every one of Loki's tears is a waterfall. Every sob is a hurricane.

Thor stops, every several paces, so that his footsteps would not echo. He thinks he hears Loki crying, but that is impossible. Because Loki is dead, and so are all his thoughts and fears and pain. Except it feels as if instead of falling with Loki, they latch onto Thor like a parasite until he feels every stitch he should have healed for Loki, ever biting ache that he should have mended. And now it doesn't matter, because Loki is dead and even if bones could protest, they would not be here for Thor to listen to.

It is long past midnight, and only the night guards are sparingly placed throughout the castle. Thor cannot sleep tonight; he had drifted off in his bed, after an hour of tossing and turning, and woke up numbed.

He still remembers the dream, even though most fade from memory ten minutes upon waking and he would remember feeling scared, feeling sad, feeling angry, and yet remember nothing else. But he remembers his dream, how in his mind Loki threw mirrors against a bare wall. The glass shattered and rained upon him, and he bled. He yelled with each throw, each cut, until it was all Thor could hear.

Thor had asked what was wrong. Loki did not answer, only throwing another mirror into the corner. Their reflections splayed across the wall.

Thor had asked, why couldn't you have told me you were hurting?

And Loki had said, why did you not listen?

Why didn't he listen?

When Thor reaches the door to Loki's bedchambers, he wonders why he hasn't yet disappeared.

This is not the first time he finds himself here.

His hand curls around the doorknob and the cold metal bites his skin. His first instinct is to raise his fist and knock, but memories are too weak to answer the door.

It almost surprises him that the moon is shining, pouring its whole heart through the dusty glass window and curling in the corners. His shadow is braver than he and enters first.

It is so quiet he forgets he exists.

Thor drinks in the books on the wobbly shelf above the desk, the notebooks and elegant, ink-stained quills on the carved desktop, the leather armor still slung over one of the bedposts. He reaches over and fingers its velvety insides. The moonlight has warmed it, but he imagines that it is because Loki has just slipped it off. Loki's somewhere in this room still, curled in his chair with his favorite book or writing in his journals, and he'll sling on the armor in another hour.

Thor presses his hand against the musty window. Nothing changes in this room, not even the dust. Everything is a mausoleum, preserved in the past and any disturbance could ruin the authenticity that he—Loki, his little brother, his best friend—ever existed and called this space his bedroom and this lifeless place his home.

Thor breathes heavily on the glass until a patch of fog covers the window. Before the film can disappear, he quickly lifts a finger and paws the glass.

I miss you.

The moment it is scrawled, it disappears. Thor imagines Loki's hand wiping the message away because he's read it, and he'll turn to face Thor and grin.

Thor slowly allows himself to sit on Loki's stiff bed. It's now cold and unfamiliar as a stranger's handshake. He suddenly remembers the times that they crawled under the quilts in the dead of night and read legends to one another, about dragons and trolls, and that moment when Thor lay so still and so quietly underneath the covers that when Loki came in, he never knew Thor's presence until Thor jumped out of the bed and Loki yelled so loudly that even Thor was screaming out of fear.

Thor cracks a blind smile before he can even think about it.

Stop, he chides. Stop, what are you smiling about?

But he can't. His muscles are frozen and he can't stop grinning because all of it was true—he had jumped out of the nest of blankets and scared Loki until he fell backwards into his chair and they were both screaming like maidens until Sif ran in with a sword aloft, ready to defend her princes from a would-be assassin.

And Thor laughs.

It begins like a shiver. The laugh swells and grows until it bursts out of his mouth and nearly wrenches out his lungs. He's lying on top of his brother's bed, laughing until he is crying, or crying until he is laughing. All he can see is Loki's face, his eyes practically bugging out at the sight of Thor pouncing at him from the bed, his mouth in a perfect O before he fell over the top of his chair and nearly hit the desk, and it's almost like Loki is tickling him even though he's long gone, because Thor is screaming with mirth.

His little brother is dead and Thor cannot stop laughing.

Thor waits for the day for Heimdall to come to him, because he knows he does not have to ask.

He waits for the day a guard will come to Thor in a quiet morning, telling him the gatekeeper wants to see him. Thor would follow, already knowing in his heart what Heimdall had to say, and yet his insides would itch.

He would approach Heimdall at the shattered end of the rainbow bridge, taking in deep breaths and smelling the cold, slippery air.

Heimdall wouldn't even turn to him when he would speak, and Thor would look into the eyes of the stars and ache.

Because Heimdall would tell him, I found his body.

I found his body.

"Do you see it, brother?"

Loki sat at the shore, dressed only in a loose tunic and pants. The ocean brushed against his toes shyly. Thor sat beside him, breathing in the sunlight.

"See what?" said Thor.

"Valhalla," said Loki. He pointed to the sun-drenched sky. "I can see it. It's practically there. Do you think they can see us?"

Thor knew that Loki pointed only to a star, not Valhalla, but he said nothing.

"Perhaps so," said Thor. "It is still leagues and leagues away."

"Maybe at this very moment," said Loki, "Grandfather looks upon us as well. Imagine that!"

"Yes," said Thor. "Imagine that."

He reached to place a hand upon the back of Loki's neck, but Loki leaned forward at that very moment to pick up something from the sand. It was a smooth sand dollar, pale like cream and the imprint of a star pressed deep into it like the palm lines of a hand. He pressed it into Thor's hand. It looked exactly like the one Loki had given to him a long time ago, when they were children.

"It's lovely," said Thor.

Thor turned to Loki. Loki smiled softly. He looked much younger than Thor remembered.

"What are you doing here, Loki?" said Thor.

"I just wanted to see the beach," said Loki.

"No," said Thor. "That is not what I meant."

Loki traced circles upon the sand. It almost resembled Yggdrasil.

"If either of us dies in battle, we will still see each other this way," said Loki.

"Is that true?" said Thor.

"Perhaps," said Loki. "Wouldn't it?"

"Do you see me, Loki?" said Thor.

"Why do you ask me?" said Loki.

"Because," said Thor. "You are dead."

Thor felt cold all of a sudden. Loki looked down, looked away.

"Aren't you?" said Thor. "And am I dead too?"

"Don't talk silliness," said Loki.

He was quiet, but neither angry nor sad. Thor edged back, as if Loki was an intruder or a nightmare. He almost wanted to run away; this face that he hasn't seen for months and this voice that nearly slipped from his grasp, but Thor couldn't bear to, because his eyes were so hungry and his ears were dying to hear more, but he starved and stabbed himself for the truth. For a stable reality.

"You're dead," he repeated as if this would let everything make sense.

Because he can't—can't—keep on living his life and think he can see Loki in the shadows under the tree, or in the midst of a crowded street as everyone passed, or even in the hallways of his own home, and then only break his heart until all that is left is grit. But he only smiled, as if he had brought up a happy memory and he was washed over with nostalgia.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Loki said and he returned to collecting sand dollars.

"Aren't you dead?" Thor said, a little less certain than before. What if this was really reality, and what he thought was real was actually nothingness?

Thor looked up, and saw that Loki was gone.

Just like that.

"Wait," he whispered.

Suddenly fear gripped Thor and he rose from the spot, trying to find Loki in the midst of nothingness. This was the shore of their childhood, that they frequented in all their youth, but Thor couldn't recognize this. Not the sand dunes or the forest behind them or the glassy ocean—he could see everything but he couldn't understand them.

It was his own words—Thor knew it—his words that banished Loki. His doubt and disbelief and accusation—they stabbed Loki until he uttered his last breath of betrayed indignation before leaving Thor behind.

"Where are you?" Thor tried to say, but his mouth would not even open.

Wait, come back. Wait, I didn't mean any of that. You're alive, you're alive, you're breathing and I need you here.

I want you every day of my life, every time I wake up, every time I take a breath, I still need you.

I always need you.

He gripped his fist to feel the sand dollar that Loki had given him. He grasped at his palm—suddenly, frantically—only to find nothing in his hands. He looked down at his feet, thinking he dropped it, but there is nothing, nothing at all, nothing that could prove that Loki had ever been here with him.

When Thor wakes up, he is whimpering.

Frigga stands at the edge of the Bifröst almost every day. Some days she has letters for her youngest son, some days with flowers from her garden, others with his childhood favorites—favorite sweets, favorite playthings, favorite poems—and she would let them drift from her fingertips and into the Void, watching them spin into the nothingness to follow her fallen son. Thor waits for the day that she will jump in herself.

Come and speak with Loki, son, Frigga once said to him. He would love to hear from you too.

But his ears don't work anymore, say his dry eyes. Or do you mean to say he's only traveling?

"How could you?" gasped Loki.

Loki was curled upon the ground, his hand buried in his hair. His eyes were wild, feral and glazed with tears, and he screamed. Thor's heart shattered in his chest and he would have run out from the bed he lay on, run toward Loki and wrap his arms around him, if only he could just move.

"How could you do this to me, brother?" said Loki. His chest heaved; he sounded like he was drowning. "How could you betray me so?"

"Loki, please," said Thor. His voice shook. He couldn't understand what was going on—he did not remember how Loki came here, and yet everything made too much sense. "Loki—brother—forgive me. I never want to hurt you. I never want to let anything bad happen to you."

"You let me fall," said Loki. Breath ripped his throat and he raised his splintering gaze to Thor. "All I wanted was to be your equal, and you shoved me away. Thor, you threw me away!"

Thor let out a sob and he tried to sit up, but he couldn't even lift a finger. Loki was writhing on the floor, just a reach away, and yet he couldn't hold him.

"What wrong have I done to you?" Loki said. Tears fell from his face and Thor wanted to scream. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Nothing," said Thor, and he was sobbing at this point. "Nothing at all, Loki, you deserved none of this. I deserve everything. I let you hurt, I let you feel unloved, I let you grieve, I let you die."

Thor couldn't breathe; his head split and all he could see was Loki on the ground, back bowed in pain as Thor's mere presence—mere existence—tore him to pieces. His little brother, whom he had sworn to protect out of love, was dead because of him.

Thor felt like he was burning, which made no sense to him, because if Helheim was where he deserved to be for killing his brother, then he should be so very cold.

Loki fell to the ground and Thor let out a wail. He saw how empty Loki's eyes were, how dulled like mist they were with death, and Thor still couldn't move.

"By the Norns," said Thor. It hurt to live. "If there is any mercy or justice in the world, I should die with you instead. Oh, Loki, please let me die instead."

There must be no mercy or justice that existed, because Thor still lived, and Loki never spoke back.

Thor wakes up from a fever, or the remnants of one. The sweat still clings to his forehead and the hollow of his neck, but his head no longer spins and he can think clearly now.

He raises his head from the pillow; it sticks to his hair with his sweat. He wipes his brow, breathing deep. The fever could have lasted several days, or several weeks. Time had warped into something unfathomable in his illness.

Welcome back, says a voice.

He opens his eyes. In the dim candlelight, he sees Sif at the corner of the room. Shadows drag themselves underneath her eyes, but she smiles at him.

Sif, he says. You shouldn't be here. What if you get sick?

Oh, I'm not afraid of that, she says. Are you feeling better.

Much, he says. Is Eir not here?

I insisted I stay with you, says Sif.

Oh, says Thor. You needn't do that for me.

I'm your friend, says Sif.

Thor sees Sif speak carefully, shaping her words as if she is carving sculptures with her lips. Secrets trudge behind her glazed eyes.

You should rest, says Thor. You look weary.

I'm fine, says Sif. Are you?

Of course, says Thor. I am better. It was only a fever.

Sif smiles. Just looking at it already hurts.

Was I unconscious for long, says Thor.

Sif opens her mouth, then closes it.

A while, yes, she says.

Thor has grown up with a talented liar. He can tell a mediocre one accurately.

Truthfully, Sif, he says. You look as if you are grieving.

Sif closes her eyes.

It has been a long illness, she says.

Thor's mouth feels dry.

What did I do, he says.

Don't do this, says Sif.

My friend, please, what did I do?

Sif turns away. She looks so, so tired.

You had nightmares, said Sif.

Already, Thor knew everything. He sinks back into his bed, staring at the empty ceiling. He doesn't remember anything, but he could feel the grief settle in him like oil.

Thor, says Sif.

I'm sorry, says Thor. You must have been very distressed.

She hesitates.

I wish I could do something, says Sif.

Thor turns to face the opposite wall. He feels his grief catch in flames until it burns the corners of his eyes.

I miss him, Sif, says Thor. I miss him so much.

He feels Sif's hand on his shoulder. Her hand is calloused, but small—nowhere close to Loki's grasp. Loki's hand, which Thor had failed to grasp before Loki could let go. Loki's hand, which Thor would never feel again.

I could have caught him, Sif, says Thor. I could have pulled him up before he let go. I could have told him I loved him, told him that he was worth it, was worthy, I could have apologized, could have started all over, could have done anything, and I didn't and he is dead.

Thor, you cannot blame yourself, says Sif. The fault does not lie in you.

Nor does it lie in our stars, Sif, says Thor. A man does not die for no reason.

Sif strokes his fever-damp hair. He feels her shaking from her fingertips. He recalls all his wrongs as he lay there, deserving of death. And yet it is all for naught.

All for naught.

Thor realizes that should he marry, should he raise children of his own, they would never know their uncle. They would never hear Loki's stories, participate in his lighthearted mischief, envelope themselves in his small but warm embraces or hold his hand. And when Thor ages, when he is as whitened and weathered as Odin is now, there could be a day when he would wake up and realize that he does not remember Loki's face, or voice, or even Loki's stories. And yet the world would keep on turning, time in its insufferably constant pace, until all stories would erode and it would be as if Loki never existed at all.

Deep, deep, deep inside of Thor, he wishes that he would die sooner than that.

One day, a guard comes to Thor in a quiet morning, telling him the gatekeeper wants to see him.

Thor follows, hollow. Tired. He wants to sleep.

He approaches Heimdall at the shattered end of the rainbow bridge, taking in deep breaths and smelling the cold, slippery air.

Heimdall does not even turn to him when he speaks. Thor looks into the eyes of the stars and ache.

Heimdall tells him, I found him.

Your brother lives.