This story was inspired by the song 'Life After You' by Daughtry, which just made think so much about Loki *all of the feels* You might have noticed I used it for the summary... Actually think that fits more from Thor's POV though, not Loki's. Just to confuse you.

'The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters' is a painting by Goya ;)

Please Read and Review, I love feedback!

Warnings: Character Death. If you don't feel a little bit sad, I'm obviously not doing very well -_-;

No Slash.

Loki's fingers trembled as they clasped the door frame, holding his damaged body up. He took slow steps into the room, judging each time whether his legs would hold his weight or whether he would simply collapse in an undignified heap on the floor. The Trickster took a moment to close the door behind him. Ordinarily he would achieve this with his magic, however, tonight he would need his remaining magical energy for a less mundane purpose. The room was cold and sparsely furnished; a bedroom that included the kitchen, and an adjoining bathroom. The kitchen did not hold any food, the only furnishings in the room were a chair and a bare bed. The light fixture held no light bulb and the floor-to-ceiling windows were curtain-less. Loki rarely visited his safe-house. It was not often that he had been injured enough to seek shelter in a place that was already protected with his magic. He would ordinarily complete only what was necessary for his home of the night, and remove the spells the following day. But today was not a usual day. Today Loki was in need of a safety that he could not provide for himself in his current state. He found himself grateful for the foresight he had shown in anticipating the possibility of this night. Some would think he was too arrogant, perhaps, to even consider that he might fail. But time had taught him harsh lessons from when he was but a child, and Loki was not ignorant in his arrogance. Loki was not a fool.

The battle had been a bloody one, and there had been serious damage done on both sides. Loki remembered the powerful hits he had taken, shredding through his armour as though he wore nothing. He remembered retaliating with everything he had, and seeing them fall. But there had been six of them, and only one of him, and the strain on his magic had left him weary. Eventually it had become a singular battle between himself and Thor, and both had left with an arsenal of injuries. Somewhere along the way they had unanimously decided that the battle was over, and crawled off to their separate homes to lick their wounds.

He sucked in small, painful breaths, taking each step as a small victory, pausing to gather his strength and calm the dizziness that threatened to hit him in the face with the ground. Sighing tightly in relief, he lowered himself painfully onto his bare mattress, forcing his legs and upper body to follow suit. Waving his hand in a small arc, Loki magicked his armour away, the brief flash of light hurting his eyes, blinding him in his otherwise pitch-dark room. There was not even a glimmer of street-light to sneak in through the windows, for this room was positioned on the outskirts of the city, his window facing outwards to oversee the ocean. With his armour removed, a chill began to settle over Loki. His garments, heavy with blood and sweat, stuck to his skin and seemed to draw the emptiness of the room into him. His aloneness seemed all the more stark, empty, and pointless in the inky blackness. Loki subconsciously ignored all of these things, only momentarily cursing the inconvenient lack of light. He found himself unable to sit up again, for his arms were too weak and his midriff too broken, and so he once again pulled at strands of his battle-weakened magic, removing each item of clothing, and wishing silently for a blanket or a heating system within the bare, impersonal room.

Loki wound the magic strands around his fingertips, and ran them over each wound, assessing the extensive damage; its depth, width, and an estimated recovery time. He came to the conclusion that it would be necessary to relinquish himself to sleep in order to obtain even a partial recovery. The damage was deep, and his magic was so weak now. He concentrated his exhausted mind on a healing spell, but the runes in his head kept slipping out of place and getting muddled. Eventually he managed to set in motion a healing spell over his body, trying to relax as he felt the uncomfortable prickle of magic begin to tingle, the feeling spreading from his fingertips and up through his arms. His tired eyes drifted shut, but his strained mind pulled them open. This repeated cycle was anti-productive, Loki told himself. The healing spell would need to put him into a deep sleep to be successful. Without sleep, he would surely not have the strength to fix himself, yet if something went wrong while he was asleep - if the spell broke… he would surely die. Dismissing his insecurities, Loki steeled himself for the only real option. What was it these humans said? "The sleep of reason produces monsters". He allowed his eyes to close, and his mind to fall away into a heavy slumber.

Let them come.

. .

Loki couldn't even remember why they were fighting. All he knew was the rage bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, the hatred he felt burning behind his eyes, fueling his actions. He threw a magic bolt at Thor, then lunged in to take advantage of the moment of confusion, only to realise too late that his spell had been dodged. He pulled back frantically, but was unable to stay out of range completely; Mjölnir struck him across his chest, spinning him through the air to crash into the side of a building. Loki felt himself slipping down before he began frantically scrabbling for a hold with bloodied fingers. In frustration, he pushed himself away from the wall, projecting his body into the air and casting yet another levitation spell. Breathing heavily, he faced his not-brother. Thor regarded him with sad, hardened eyes. He too was injured, his hands slick with his own blood, his flesh as battered and bruised as Loki's own. He lowered himself to the ground, standing amongst a scenery of rubble and broken metal, never breaking eye contact with the God of Mischief. Loki lowered himself also - to prevent a neck cramp from looking down at Thor the whole time, he told himself, though really he felt as exhausted as Thor looked.

"Finished already, Son of Odin?" he sneered from a safe distance. He could see how much it hurt Thor that he no longer called him 'brother', and so he continued to do so. To cause Thor pain. Why not? He reasoned, when he himself had felt so much pain and resentment towards him for so very long. He had borne that crushing feeling of unworthiness even whilst he still loved Thor as a brother. Only once he had learned of his true heritage did he finally understand why he could never be as good as Thor, why he could never be as loved. Odin had defeated Jötunheimr and its inhabitants and stolen the abandoned son of their king. Loki could never be anything other than a spoil of war in Odin's eye. A bargaining chip. A defeated playmate for his only son. Still though, he demanded that he had the right to punish Loki for his crimes. Still Thor called him 'brother', though all his life Loki had lived in his shadow, never to be a true son of Odin, never to amount to anything other than what was allowed for him. He had lived his life in a gilded cage without even realising it. He had never been allowed true freedom. He had never been loved.

"Brother," Thor sighed. "Please, let us stop this senseless fighting." Loki stared at him, tight-lipped, most of his concentration dedicated to not moving his hands to hold his stinging wounds. He refused to show weakness in front of this man. Loki made a show of turning his back to Thor and picking up his long-forgotten staff. The God of Thunder raised Mjölnir slightly, shifting his feet tiredly as he steeled himself for more fighting. "Loki," Thor once more attempted. "Let us stop!" The Tricksters head bowed as he felt, crawling over and settling within him, a defeat such as he hadn't suffered in years. His grip on the staff tightened momentarily, then loosened till it hung between his fingers. He sighed unsteadily and refused eye contact. Thor shifted uncertainly. "Brother?" he started, taking one step forwards and then stopping. "I will go now," he sighed after a moment. He hesitated for a moment, then added; "You know where I will be, should you need me." He stood and watched as Loki blinked tiredly and turned away.

"As if I would need you for anything," he snarled loudly. "And do not call me 'brother'," he muttered under his breath, as he took unsteady steps away from the battleground.

. .

So this is what death feels like. Loki shifted slightly and bit his lip to restrain a strangled cry of pain. Agonizing fire raced violently through his veins, burning every part of him, magnified by his failed magic. Dawn leaked through his window, reaching out with golden fingers to snatch at him, but always falling short. He was so cold. Always so cold. For a moment his delirious mind imagined Thor embracing him, giving him some of that warmth that never seemed to leave him. He dismissed it immediately, but longed for it. He felt more tired than he ever had before, a certain stillness creeping over him that he couldn't shake off. Soon, he thought, he would be still forever. It was a strange thing, death. The mortals thought he and his kind immortal, yet he knew for a fact that they could die. He himself had caused the untimely death of Baldr, and had suffered greatly for it. He had killed his own father in cold blood - Laufey of Jötunheimr - as he stood in preparation to kill Odin. Loki had wondered what it felt like, to slip away from life into the clutches of Hel. Was it a relief? He certainly felt that it would be a relief now, to fall away in sweet nothingness. But it scared him, too, that he should be leaving, never to return. Loki was struck by the sudden, terrible realisation that he did not want to die like this, alone and afraid, pain defining his every breath. He didn't want to die at all. He wasn't ready. He hadn't achieved anything yet, hadn't subjugated the earth, hadn't taken revenge on Odin, hadn't said goodbye to his once-family. Hadn't said goodbye to his once-home.

Hadn't said goodbye to his brother.

Thor.

Why should he care? he asks himself. Because, Loki answers. Thor still calls you brother, after all that you have done. Now you lie alone, afraid and in pain. Would you not call on him one more time? Would you not seek his company? Would you not wish for one last false dredge of warmth before you are forever immersed in the cold bleakness of Hel?

Would you not?

. .

"Please, Thor," he whispered, blood speckling his lips. "I wish to pretend, just this one night, that we are now as we once were, on Asgard. That I was still your brother. Would you grant me this wish?" He stretches out a hand to rest on Thor's warm arm, the effort exhausting him. "I have made many choices in my life that I regret," he admits, but never apologizes. He is too proud to apologize. "I regret driving you away from me most of all. You were a stubborn fool, always insisting that blood defined nothing. Always asking me to come home. I always said that Asgard was not my home, but it was where I grew up. I have known no other place to call home. I wish that I could go back and change everything. It seemed so right at the time, but all it has brought me is pain. All it has brought you is pain. I have… achieved nothing.

"I remember that we used to go on adventures together, diving ever-deeper into the gardens of Asgard." He chuckled, then choked on the blood in his throat and started coughing violently. His hand tightened on the arm beside him until he could breathe again. A single tear escaped his ever-dimming eyes, trickling down his blood-spattered cheek. "I remember being so happy. I wish I could be that child again, brother. I wish that I knew nothing of pain, that we could return to our happy ignorance. I wish we could've grown old together as brothers, even that I could have seen you crowned King of Asgard. You will… make a just king one day." The hand slipped off Thor's arm, his vision slowly darkening and blurring out of focus.

Above him, the constellations of Midgard glittered like stolen gems, sewn into the blanket of the night. Slowly, as the dawn further broke, the sky bled as red as Loki's own blood, seeping evermore through the above, obscuring the infinite heavens.

. .

Loki allows the tendrils of sunlight to take up his pain, leaving him so numb, unable and unwilling to move. Quietly waiting to die. He feels a movement to his side as his last magic fails him, and Thor awakens. He is quick to his broken brothers' side, quick to pick him gently off the ground and pull him into his arms, quick to cradle him and beg him and ask him why and tell him that everything will be alright.

As the sun breaks free across the blue morning sky, Loki lies in Thor's arms, and neither of them move. Neither of them speak. Neither of them saw this coming. Somehow, they had just assumed that they would go on as they had forever. Always fighting, always hatred, always sadness. Never ripped from each other like this. Never left one on their own like this. Never really had to say goodbye with such finality.

"I will take you home with me." Thor whispers, his stern face broken by tear tracks. "Mother has missed you so."

Loki's breathing grows slower and slower, his eyes flickering shut. His fingers are curled around a fold of Thor's sleeve, his face pressed against his brothers chest.

"I know," he breathes softly. "I know, my brother."

Thor holds his brother in his arms, rocking back and forth slightly, as though he were trying to comfort the other. He takes deep, steadying breaths, fat tears escaping to roll down his cheeks, and splash upon Loki's bare skin.

As Loki fades Thor stays, and speaks to him softly, reminding him of their childhood adventures, of the songs their mother used to sing for them. He stays there until his teammates come looking for him. Stays there while they take in what has happened. Stays there while they struggle with what to say, what to do.

Eventually he stands, his legs shaky from disuse. He turns to his friends, Loki lying limply in his arms, his pale face still, his emerald eyes shut forever.

"I must take my brother home," he chokes, staring at the ground. He glances up to the heavens. "Heimdall," he whispers. "Open the bifrost."

. .

*ALL OF THE EMOTIONS*

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