Loki is alone. Loki has always known it would end this way.
He has always known that this would be his fate—his end. Not a knowing like the inescapable certainty of foretold prophecy, or predictions from the lips of an oracle—but knowing in a logical way. It makes sense that one who has always been alone—alone in a crowd, alone in a false family—Loki is Loki only, and he is alone—would also die alone. Loki must find this amusing, because he hears himself laugh, a low, gurgling sound that builds into hysteria and breaks off with a cry.
The building is dank—reeking of mold, mildew, and rotting death. He doesn't know where he is, but he knows that he has been here before. An abandoned wear-house somewhere on Midgard—the only place he could think of to teleport to in that moment of sick, twisted surprise when his supposed allies had turned on him, stabbing him through the chest during a thrilling fight with the Avengers. He supposes that his fate is fitting in that way, too, that he, the God of Lies and betrayal, should be betrayed. But oh, the looks on their faces—Thor and his precious mortals—when the blade had pierced his body. Thor's shout of rage and sorrow, his ferocity in battle, plowing through, trying to reach him. Loki relishes in his triumph.
But his enemies will not find him here. Thor will not find him here, even if he tries, if he bothers. Thor will not come.
Loki reaches out, slender fingers splayed and grasping, and drags himself across the filthy floor, past a dead, crumpled bird that has fallen. He does not know where he is going, and to what purpose, but he can feel the primal instinct of survival urging him onward, to hide from his traitorous army, should they seek him out. He leaves smears of dark crimson in his wake. His armor of leather and metal weigh heavy on him, soaking up the sweltering Midgardian sun, damp with sweat and blood. Too weak to carry on, Loki laboriously crawls to a sitting position and lets his body slump against the wall, head lolling back, ebony hair sticking in damp strands to his face. He closes his eyes, clenching fists against the tremors. He is almost too weak to use his sorcery.
"Brother—"
Loki's lids flutter, a growl instantly rising in his throat at Thor's voice. Cannot that great blundering oaf even allow him peace in his dying moments? Thor's shadow envelops him, shielding him from the obtrusive light as the lumbering figure walks towards him. His golden hair reflects the bright sunlight that shines down from holes in the rotting ceiling, a halo. "Have you come to finish me off—to boast in my defeat?" He laughs, bitter and hollow.
"You are hurt, brother—you must let me help—"
"Leave me be, Thor." Loki turns his face away, pressing his cheek against the cool cement wall, breathing hitching. He can sense Thor beside him, kneeling down next to him. He has but one dagger left, and no strength to use it.
"We must get you to a healer at once, brother," He feels pressure on his chest. "There is still time—"
"Do not touch me." Loki's eyelids snap open, his teeth bared in a snarl. He means to push Thor away, but the buffoon is not even touching him. Thor's clear blue eyes lack the warmth—the shine that is always present—that spark of life. Loki's hands scrabble over his chest, flinching when his hands come into contact with soaking fabric and the gapping, profusely bleeding wound. His hands come away red. He sneers, but the amusement does not reach his eyes. "It's too late, Thor. You're too late."
"I will not let you die, brother."
"I am dying, Thor. You cannot stop it—not even you, with your strength and your mighty hammer." This is his one victory, his final trick. For Thor cannot save him. Thor has lost. And so the boy he once was, the deluded Asgardian prince, should feel this victory also—free from Thor's shadow—dark, consuming. Thor's shadow. Trapped in it, drowning in the black pool of it, the accomplishments, the pride. It had choked him until he had shrunken back, recoiled, retreated into a new shadow, a new darkness. This darkness was his own. Thor was not capable of such darkness, and so it was something to be relished in and nursed. Loki had made a thrown of shadows to rule from out of spite. But that part of him feels nothing—no triumph, no manic glee.
"I will not let you die alone." Thor's hand cradles Loki's neck, clasping gently. Loki does not meet his gaze.
Loki recoils angrily, but as another wave of faintness—of panic seeps in, he does not pull away. He laughs, a choked sound, a sick parody. "I always thought you would be the one to end me, or I you…" his words trail off, leaving a bitter, metallic taste.
"Be still, brother. Be at peace." Thor presses his forehead against Loki's. Loki closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, but finds no warmth or comfort in it. Desperate, he clasps Thor's shoulders with trembling hands. He starts at the sound of a sob, unaware that the sound had come from him. He scoffs at his own weakness, but does not pull away.
It is futile. The hastily conjured illusion—brought to life with the last vestiges of Loki's magic—shudders and flickers tiredly. Loki has never been able to perfect the clone of Thor—for the images always lacked the certain light that Thor alone possessed—a kind of life force that could never be mimicked or copied. Pure love.
"I am sorry, brother." Loki whispers.
Thor vanishes.
Loki is alone.