Many thanks to my lovely beta athalara, who helped me a great deal in fixing this up and really putting the emotion into it. For some reason it's taken me two months to actually post it once it was complete, but better late than never.

It's nearing sunset on the second day of bloodshed, and Loki feels relief stirring in him as he thinks they can go back to their tents, soon, and rest until the day breaks again. His bones are starting to ache, but the promise of respite is so sweet that he fights with renewed vigor. He's lost even an approximate count of how many enemies have fallen beneath his blade, and he knows that he'll thank the Norns when this whole ordeal is over. It shouldn't last longer than a few extra days. He wouldn't even have come on this trip, normally; it had been such a minute threat that they had no need of him, and surely no one would acknowledge him once they had won. But something had told him, whispered in the back of his mind that disaster would fall. So when Thor had brushed off his urgent reminders to be careful, he knew he had to accompany them, if only to keep an eye on his entirely too reckless brother.

But they had lasted this long with barely more than a few scratches having gotten through, and Loki was beginning to think he had just been a worrying fool. Centuries of wars had barely scratched Thor's armor, let alone earned him any serious injuries.

So the splintering crack that comes from behind him can't possibly be what it sounds like.

Loki whirls around to whip a dagger into the heart of an elf that has drawn too close to Thor, watches only long enough to see it collapse before he moves his gaze to his brother, who has the hilt of a blade protruding from his chest, the armor that should have deflected it crumpled in as if it had provided no more protection than a sheet of paper.

It only clicks in Loki's mind what has just happened when Thor falls to his knees, eyes wide as he gasps.

Loki is at his side in a second, supporting him the rest of the way down, already frantically muttering a transportation spell that will bring them back to Asgard. Thor doesn't seem to register his brother's presence at all, nor the circle that starts to glow around them as the incantation is finished. But moving two people is much harder than just moving himself, his magic isn't tied to Thor, the spell for multiple transports has to warm up. But Thor is strong, surely he can hold on just that long?

Loki kneels, limbs growing heavy with dread as he supports his brother's weight against his own chest and the golden prince looks around blindly. Slowly, blue eyes focus on green, and lips part to whisper his name like a prayer.

"Loki."

"Yes, Thor, I'm here." He attempts to control his voice, to put on a brave face for Thor and not allow the panic welling up in his chest to show through and betray him. He won't allow himself to give over to emotion. Not yet. Not while Thor still breathes, however shallow it may be. And it is shallow, he can't help but note. After so many nights falling asleep to that strong, steady breathing, it sounds so terribly weak now. "It's going to be alright." But the desperation bubbling in the back of his throat makes it sound as if he is trying to convince himself more than the man bleeding out in his arms. Maybe he is. Tears sting his nose and threaten to spill when he hears the hollowness ringing in his own words; though they seem to do something for his brother, who relaxes just a bit at the assurance, however wrong it may be.

Thor tries to lift his arm, but the wound has already taken a great toll, and it falls limply back into place after a feeble attempt that makes Loki's heart sink another few inches. Loki lifts it instead, to press Thor's palm against his face, and he doesn't know who he's trying to comfort with the action. It does little to ease the dread, only serves to amplify the sorrow starting to take hold as it become clearer with each shallow intake of air just how serious the wound is.

The corners of Thor's mouth twitch, as if that's what he had wanted to do anyway, making Loki choke out a breath that he refuses to admit is a sob, and he forces himself to smile. Because every single time Thor has told him he wishes he could see that smile more often is ringing in his mind, and he can't for the life of him say why. A small part of him wants to bargain, that if Thor could hold on a little longer, Loki would smile for him every day. Not that such a thing even remotely matters in the value of Thor's life, but the regret coursing through him makes it seem so important in these crucial moments. It's enough for Thor to exert enough energy to mirror the grin, though, and that squeezes another sob from Loki.

"I love you." He tries to speak again, but it's barely above a whisper, and Loki can't even hear it over the clamor of battle around them; he just manages to make it out by the brush of Thor's lips he's known a thousand times. The fact that those could be his brother's last words sends a wave of love through him, regardless of how quickly it is washed away again.

"I love you too, Thor. So much." Loki practically whimpers. It's no use telling the blonde to save his breath, because even if Thor would listen it would be no use. The spell is taking too long to warm up, and it's looking more and more like they won't have enough time. Loki doesn't want the last thing he says to his brother to be a reprimand. If this really is it, Loki isn't ready. He still has millenias worth of love for his brother, and he knows Thor has even more of his own to give. It isn't fair, to cut that off so soon. Not when they were so happy.

Panic starts to override distress and Loki clutches at the hand still held to his cheek as his mind starts to race, searching for any way out of this. Any possible thing that could stave off the inevitable just a little longer so Thor can be healed. All of his resources, his magical knowledge, but he can't think of anything. As he keeps coming up empty his panic intensifies and his thoughts starts to muddle, the only thing he can think about becoming Thor and how powerless he is to save the man he loves. All the times he's gotten himself out of a pinch, all the times Thor has saved his life in some way or another, and he's useless now. The way Thor's eyes are glazing over and the time between spasmodic breaths are clear signs that there is nothing, not a single thing Loki can do in this instant.

Thor's eyes close moments before his head falls back and Loki's heart stops.

Green light engulfs them in the next instant, and then they are kneeling in the golden halls they know so well, but there isn't a shred of anything close to relief in Loki's heart.

"No." Loki whispers. This can't be happening. The world is silent and still around him, serving to emphasize how limp Thor has fallen beneath him. It's a few moments before the flood of emotion overtakes Loki. Loss, pain, sorrow, all with such intensity and mixed into the worst thing Loki could possibly imagine feeling. "No." He sobs, over and over, a quiet plea that he knows not a soul can hear as he turns his face into the lifeless palm still clutched to his cheek.

At some point, Loki's sobs unknowingly turn to screams and shouts of anguish, loud and ringing through the golden halls, alerting those who have stayed behind that they've appeared. He barely notices the crowd of people, all gasping as they round the corner and see what's happened. All he knows is that hands are prying at him, pulling at the body in his arms, and he lashes out. He swings at them, pushing them away, and if he cared he might notice the ones who cradle their injured arms as they step back, but he only knows that their efforts end as quickly as they had begun. Their attempts to separate him have only served to make him scream louder; he screams in the face of those who come near him; he screams at the sky in anger at this unthinkable event; he screams in the unresponsive face of a corpse because how could his brother leave him?

But after all that subsides, and his voice becomes hoarse, he is left murmuring unintelligible denials and affirmations of love, wishing with all of his being that Thor was still here so he could hear them. As if such a meaningless words could actually have any effect. As if whispering them makes them more absolute than screaming them until his lungs give out; as if such tiny, misbelieving words whispered on a breath could breathe life back into that beloved body, because after all the breaths they've shared, shouldn't it count for something? His voice becomes emotionless and he stops being aware that he's even still saying anything, as the only thing in his world becomes the face he now cradles in his lap. Dirt and grime have long since been washed away by tears, and nimble fingers have combed through the knots in golden hair expertly; and if not for the grief coursing through every particle of his being Loki might believe his brother had just fallen asleep.

It is the last thought in his mind before he does just that, hunching over Thor's dead body and tears still streaming long after he has fallen unconscious.

When he wakes, the first thing he notices is scratchy material against his face where he should still be feeling Thor's handprint.

Grief rushes back into his body and physically knocks the breath from him, but he bolts upright the moment he is able. Women dressed in healers garb stare at him in concern and as he opens his mouth to speak, to demand to know what they had done with Thor, he is almost unable to produce more than a gravelly whisper.

Five minutes later and Loki is being sedated and transported to his chambers due to his threats of death (and much worse) toward the women for having dared take his brother away. He counted them lucky that they had taken his weapons; else they surely would have met an untimely end.

They lay him on the bed, and as the door slams shut behind them on their way out, Loki believes that he truly wishes to die as well, if only for the sake of being free of this pain. If Thor ends up in Valhalla and he is sent straight to Hel, he would care not, because it could not possibly be worse than having to live on without Thor. Sedatives have taken the fight out of him, leaving the anger to subside into wave after wave of crippling grief. He can't be allowed even the luxury of numbness to see him through the night. He is almost delirious as he looks around the room, memories rushing back as he recognizes something in everything.

The crack in the door. Thor had been away for months in battle, with barely a word sent home to say he was still alive and well. Loki had been so overjoyed at the news that his brother was returning, he'd spent hours pacing in front of the entrance to their room. When the blonde finally walked back through that door, he didn't even wait for it to close before slamming Thor against it. The wood splintered with the force of his enthusiasm as it banged shut, creating a Thor-sized dent despite the reinforced finish. They would set the wood straight again later, but Loki hadn't seen fit to erase the memory. He was now glad for it, even if it was just one more item adding to the weight of his grief.

Their couch in front of the fireplace. It was so worn, unlike the rest of the furniture; but it's the best place to curl up with a book and a blanket. It's where those rare moments would come that he allowed sentiment outside those times in the wee hours of the morning, when they had finished making love. He loved Thor holding him close more than anything else, all the while bestowing sweet words and soft caresses as the fire crackled and created a tender mood one simply couldn't ignore. He'd never voiced that to Thor, how much it really meant to him. The sentiment he claimed to so despise. Loki wished he had allowed it every day of their lives.

The bed he laid on now, where they'd had their first intimate moments. Loki had tried to do it in a minute of rushed passion, but Thor made him wait; insisted they do it properly, with all the tenderness he deserved. Loki grudgingly agreed, and had come back the next night to the most romantic setting; soft light, wine. Cliché perhaps, but he wouldn't change any of it. It turned out perfect, slow; they'd stayed up until sunrise just reveling in each other's presence. So many whispered words in the darkness against each other's skin; so many glancing touches just to feel and be certain it was real. He'd never appreciated Thor's soft ideas more than that night, and it had turned into something truly beautiful that even he looked back upon with fondness.

The realization comes crushing down on him that he will never, ever have any of that again. The chambers where they had spent so much time together would now forever lay empty for him. He will never lean into Thor's side while reading his books, or ruin a fresh bath with a passionate encounter, or even just sleep next to that massive, warm form again. And he can't really wrap his head around that.

A fresh wave of tears overtakes him and he curls up on his side, breathing in the scent still lingering on Thor's side of the bed and wishing he didn't have to live on.

Loki can't say what time it is when someone finally comes to fetch him, nor if he had slept during the time elapsed. All he feels is hollow loss, and the soreness in his eyes and limbs.

"The prince's body has been prepared, if you would like to see him."

The voice is emotionless, forced, and he wonders blankly who had even cared to extend this courtesy. Perhaps they only fear his wrath if they would neglect to alert him. As if he would have the energy to bother. He doesn't even have enough to be offended that they deny even the familial relationship, let alone what actually matters. For them, Thor is just "the prince" to him.

He straightens himself and stands rather stiffly, turning to follow the messenger once he ascertains that he can, in fact, move properly after laying still for so long. He is led to a room that he knows has been unused for years, and at this he is almost offended. Thor's body should have been in his room. That's how it is always done. Nevermind the offense of shunning him, it is disrespectful to Thor. Belying tradition to one of their most beloved because of a scandalous relationship he had in life. It's abhorrent.

Oh, but just imagine the shame if the mourners found out their golden prince shared a bed with their greatest disappointment.

It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he pushes the door open to reveal the small room. Shamefully small. Loki is actually shocked that they would make such little accommodation for the warrior they all revered so much.

He whispers a dismissal to the servants standing at attention, and they shuffle out as soon as the words leave his mouth, no doubt eager to escape his presence as everyone always is. He hardly notices. The body on the dais has his full attention. He steps up to the side and thinks what a shame it is that they lay the body like this. Loki doesn't believe he has ever seen his brother wear plainer clothes than the white tunic in which he has been dressed, and it is washed out by the brilliant red his brother had always favored; the whole of his body below shoulders is covered in it. It's what draws Loki's focus, not the sallow mockery of Thor's face, lusterless and pallid next to the colorless fabric. The only piece of his brother in this room is the shining warmth of the cape, sucking up all the candlelight and seeming to give off its own glow. As Thor always had. It's what finally incites his first emotional reaction since entering the room, a bittersweet burst of love that blooms suddenly in his chest.

A small sob is forced from Loki as he draws near, and he whispers words to quickly be swallowed up by the empty room. "I don't suppose you could give me just one miracle, and not be dead?" But the words are broken, lifeless, with not even a tiny spark of hope in them. "Please."

Of course the body that used to be his brother doesn't stir. If there was even a bit of his brother left in that shell, it would spark to life and answer him. But nothing does. Thor is gone.

The finality of it sends Loki to his knees, and he stays there as if he doesn't even realize; head bowed and hands hanging limply in his lap. Tears come and go, rolling down his cheeks uninterrupted and without a sound. He mourns, grief and love the only thing he can begin to know right now. In his mind he cycles through memories, good and bad. Had he known Thor would be ripped from his like this, he might have made all the memories good. Thor had always been his rock, the constant in his life. He'd always thought they would have all the time in the universe to make up for those fights. Now they'll never get the chance.

It might be morning when someone eventually opens the door behind him and speaks, but Loki has long since been disconnected with his reality. He doesn't recognize his surroundings or the voice reaching his ears, he only knows the absence of Thor.

Slowly, he stands, and turns automatically to exit. He takes one final look behind him and his eyes soften. If it were possible, he would like to remember Thor in this image. Illuminated by soft light and peaceful expression. As Loki steps away, a slender hand tangles itself in thick folds of red fabric and drags the article away from the body. Protests to this action fall on deaf ears, and Loki trudges back to his chambers, dragging behind him the only piece of Thor he has left.

Loki wakes to the sound of shouting, and he is unsurprised to realize that it is his own. He quiets himself and uncurls his fingers from where they've tried to make a permanent home in the red sea sprawled in front of him. It still smells of Thor. And as Loki inhales reflexively he curses himself for doing this. He feels like an addict. But there's not a chance in Hel he could pass up going to sleep enveloped in the warm, heady scent of his dear brother; and for a few seconds, at least pretend that it's Thor's arm around him again, instead of the cape he stole from a dead body.

That's as close to paradise as he'll ever come again, those few seconds before sleep. But once consciousness rouses him again, there's Hel to endure.

Every night he wakes to the fresh memory of Thor's death seared in the front of his brain, the back of his eyelids, so he can't escape from reliving those last few minutes. It plays on a loop inside his head, picking up right where it left off each time he closes his eyes again. He is truly haunted.

But there's a tiny part of him, a masochistic little voice, which rejoices in the sight of his brother's face. Even covered in sweat and blood and contorted in pain, it's still the last glimpse he got of Thor's living face. And he'll hold onto that memory with his dying breath, no matter the pain it induces.

Over a week, it's been. Loki idly wonders how much longer he'll be tortured like this before burying himself again in red and resigning himself to more. Just to see that face.

Loki hears horns in the distance. They're sending him off, finally. Finally he'll be rid of the knowledge that a corpse with his brothers visage rots somewhere in the palace.

Of course, Loki has been formally invited, if only by obligation. They have no real reason to keep him away; no matter how hard they search for one, if the dirty looks and resentful stares are anything to go by.

He hasn't joined them, though. Loki refuses to sit in the spot assigned to him, silenced for the fear that he might besmirch the good name of the deceased. So he has chosen not to attend their ceremony and avoid the insult.

But this isn't right. Thor deserves to leave this world by the side of the one he loved most. And the only thing that drives Loki to follow through with the actions he is taking is that Thor would have wanted him to give the final farewell.

So with that knowledge, he strides up the aisle, uncaring for the halfhearted speech he is interrupting. Mourners turn to gawk at him, brilliant red cape of the Thunder God billowing behind him, emerald green carried in his arms. He approaches the funeral pyre and silence falls as the onlookers sit poised, prepared to tear him away should he somehow defile their precious prince.

If only they knew how precious.

Loki heaves a breath and brushes a hand over the cold, composed features, through golden hair combed down neatly and earns a few noises of indignation from the crowd. They go unnoticed as soft words fall from his lips; unheard by the protesting crowd behind him, too up in arms at his supposed disrespect to try to actually notice what Loki is doing. He is doing what he knows Thor would want; saying goodbye.

"Goodbye, dear brother. My love."

And with that farewell he throws his own emerald cape over the body, replacing the one he now wears, which he had taken from the lifeless form not two weeks ago.

Shouts are heard from behind him, the Allfather's booming above the rest, anger at his actions. How dare the great stain on the throne of Asgard send a bit of himself along with the man he loved and who so loved him. Yes, quite the outrage.

Loki cares not. He knows Thor would have wept with joy at the gesture, at having something of Loki's to take with him into the afterlife.

Steps approach from behind him, no doubt to rip the piece of fabric away from their ornamented pyre, and then to rip into him for being such a disgrace. But he gives them no chance. A small smirk, and he conjures fire in his hand to set in the designated spot before he can be stopped. It is only seconds before fire engulfs everything in front of him, a pillar of flame and smoke rising quickly and steadily to reach hundreds of feet high.

The mob freezes in shock at his having skipped to the end of the event, and he takes that time to step back and murmur one final "Farewell." Before he is gone from that place.

Back in the safety of his own room, he can look out the window, and even from here clearly see the magnificent column that burns a hole in the sky, taking with it every piece of Thor anyone else will ever see.

It is only a short while later when Odin storms his room, practically breaking through the door in his fury. Loki meets him with calm expression as he sputters out a scolding that would strike fear into the heart of any man who hasn't just lost everything.

"What gives you the right to wear his cape? What makes you think you have the right to do anything you have just done today?" The Allfather bellows out at him, face positively livid with fury.

"Your precious son did, when he gave me his heart!" Loki yells back at him, not nearly matching in volume but with such ferocity that it manages to stop Odin's tirade. And clearly, he has no retort, for denying it would prove futile; Loki has all the proof in the world. But Hel would empty before Odin would admit Thor had fallen so low.

The King leaves suddenly and in as much of a flurry as on his way in, and Loki is left feeling more okay than he has since that day on Svartalfiem. Perhaps if he can just stay strong in the conviction that he has Thor's love even in death, he can find a way to survive. And every time he passes the display showing the armor that failed to guard his life, now repaired, that unseemly hole completely buffed out; Loki will just remind himself that even in his last moments, he was the thing Thor cared most about.

He'll never move on. But someday, Loki will accept the loss ripping through him. Someday, he'll be okay as Thor would have wanted him to be.

It's been three months and Thor's still dead. Loki's managed to stop waking up believing that he can roll over and his brother will be there as if nothing had ever happened, and it's been at least a week since his dreams were haunted by his brother's memory.

But he's decided that he won't live like this anymore. Asgard has all but forgotten him, as Thor is no longer there to remind them that he exists, and he is too riddled with residual grief to remind them himself.

He'll be leaving today, one way or the other. Being a god, he has ways to access other things. Other places where Thor still lives and breathes and smiles at him, brighter than the sun. And he has no way of knowing that he'll find a time or place where any Thor exists without a Loki, but even if he is the only one to exist that has experienced such a loss, he'll search until the end of time. Because by now he knows two things for sure: Thor will always be the center of his universe, and he will never come back here again.

So, red cape in hand, he opens a tear in the space before him. The void swirls on the other side, dark and all-consuming. He steps through without a second thought. The tear closes behind him, but he doesn't look back, because in front of him looms hundreds of windows, each picturing a beautiful, thriving Thor, and it's the first time he's smiled since that day on Svartalfheim. Loki steps up to the nearest window. Through it he can see his golden brother, attempting to coax him into some whimsical activity. Another version of himself denies the plea and turns back to his reading, but he sees the little smile snuck in where Thor can't see. He can see that that Loki will give in soon, having only refused in the first place to be difficult. He can see them in the rhythms he used to take for granted, and the thought is bittersweet on his tongue. He can see the love that shines in their expressions. He can see that they are happy.

In every direction Loki can see windows depicting similar scenes, and even though he can't intrude upon those worlds, can't embrace a single one of those Thors, his heart still soars. Because here, he is surrounded by the love he's lost. Here he just has to open his eyes, and he can see his brother again. Here, he can wander forever through the nothingness around him, and he will always be home.