Just a little something I wrote somewhat intoxicated in response to a drabble request on Tumblr. Bad writing ahoy, tread lightly.
It had been many, many weeks since the grievous loss of his nearest brother; his closest kin and dearest heart. Thor remembered not of what had transpired that bloodied night, only the sounds of the liesmith strangling on his own bile and forcibly spat fabrications, the sound of his seething having been rammed right back down his gullet again by a silencing fist. He was on the floor when it happened, dizzied and deluded with himself, wondering if perhaps it was but some blood-sodden dream he'd yet to wake up from. Of course, when the fog had lifted, when the blood had stopped pouring and when the screaming was quietened, all that was left was the unmistakable disquiet of a bereft elder brother picking up the shards of his broken kin. 'Twas indeed one foray they could have done with avoiding, that was Thor's immediate thought; the immediate thought of a man convinced that his brother was only pretending. He had to be pretending, right? Nobody could truly kill the trickster, surely… surely.
Thor had been perilously mistaken. His dear chaos weaver was as fragile and as horrifyingly mortal as the rest of them.
As the weeks rolled on, Thor's painful denial only grew in spades. He wouldn't eat, he wouldn't sleep, he wouldn't spar, and nary a smile ever crossed the Thunderer's face the whole month long. Contrary to the attempts and the fervent beliefs of his friends, this wasn't something that could be easily repaired. To lose a friend was one thing, but to lose a brother, a lover… 'twas something entirely different, something more monstrous and mangling, something that dug deep down into his core and cracked him clean through. There was no mending this broken mentality, no listless dirge that could tug the corners of his mouth out of that perpetual frown. Thor was party to nought but an empty and bereft heart, broken and useless. Even inside of his broad chest, it was a useless old thing. If you asked him? The useless thing had more or less beat its last the very second he ceased to hear Loki's screams in that bloodied hall. Now? Well… now he had nothing. Without his brother, he was nothing.
By night, distant thunder roared and rain hammered in a bittersweet symphony of rage and despair falling from the skies, throughout Asgard, even beyond yon horizon, far past the sheer edge of their world. For weeks, this dirge of lamenting love lost would ring true and herald to the rest of the realm, their would-be king was broken and breaking further, he was crumbling and he was falling away. Without his dear mischief-maker to hold him up, what crutch did he have? The Allfather? The Warriors Three? Lady Sif? Nay… nay they were all but hapless shades dancing across the edges of Thor's mind, merely watching the centrepiece where his hazy memories of Loki lay still in bright light. By night, amidst the thunder, Thor would dance with him. There alone and cold in his bed, he'd dance with him.
Some nights, he was sure he could hear the sound of his footsteps, see the love-struck light in his green eyes, smell the sunshine he brought in his wake.
Nay, he'd dance not with his brother those nights, but with silent and blissful delusion, flights of harrowing heartbreak and insanity manifested and tormenting, for Loki had long since left their world, and never was he to return to him.
"He died a noble warrior's death," The Warriors Three would argue; haplessly soothing words throughout the day to no avail. "He's in a better place now, Valhalla has him."
A better place?
What better place was there? What place could surely be better than there in Asgard with his brother? Together? Whole?
Oh, so selfish… Thor bit down on such tawdry notions, he let the bitterness continually bubble before letting go of the idea completely. Truly, if Loki was in a better place, then Thor should have been with him. Loki was not to be without his brother, no matter where he wandered, in life or in death.
One day, Thor took this thought, this ragged fragment of an idea and examined it closely, thought on it to no end. Yes, truly, if Loki was in a better place, then Thor would dutifully follow.
"Fight me."
"What?" Lady Sif, of course, was the first to take issue.
"I said fight me."
She balked by the side of the sparring ring, her eyes nigh spilling with wonder and morbid curiosity. Thor had been tarrying on the edge for so long now, not only she, but The Warriors Three, dared not ask what the Thunderer meant for fear of what he may say and imply.
A moment's silence passed. Sif subtly motioned The Warriors Three away from the hall. More silence, more soundless staring and fearful gaping. Thor said nought, neither did Sif. Rather, in one level and solemn gaze did Thor compute everything he meant, everything he longed for and everywhere he wished to go. He was to wordlessly abdicate; from his throne, from his family, from his home.
He was leaving.
"To the death?" Sif was unsure, nay, she was fearful. Her hands trembled, blades in hand chinking in tune with her soft, shaking voice.
Thor nodded.
"To the death."
And so, they fought. They fought long and hard through the day and well into the night. Never did the Lady cease in her voracity and never did her opponent cease in his pain wrought defence. Valhalla would never permit a soul so easy to fell in battle, Thor would have to prove himself, to fight tirelessly and nobly and die in a way his ancestors would be proud to hear of, and yet prouder to tell. For hours did their blades clash and clatter, hardly a sound of their pain and anguish cutting amidst their swipes and swoops. And they kept on, they would not stop until they lay lacerated and laggard in heaps, or until one of them fell prey to death's embrace. As the battle drew to a close, Thor could see tears gathering in the corners of his Lady's light blue eyes, and just as he fell, bloodied and bruised, so did they, like shards of broken glass. Indeed, she fell her Prince and watched him collapse onto the floor, into blood abated and all of that longing liquidated. In silence he laid there, those blue eyes becoming glassier and glassier by the minute.
Most would say that life was leaving him.
Riven, Sif knelt by his side, a heartbroken Lady bound by the express command of her Prince. She held his hand, shaking and watching.
Thor breathed his last, a bittersweet smile forming on his face. Life was not leaving him. He was merely moving to greener pastures. He was to be renewed – to be young, happy, and whole again.
"Valhalla, I am coming."