m'kay by now this is old but if anything I should just get it off my computer and onto here. More angsty Marvel, what a surprise.
"Loki! Loki!"
The cry tumbled through the air towards him, but Loki wasn't listening—only seeing, feeling his knife bite through the air, gleaming with red edges as it swung among the enemy.
The Chitauri died, and he wanted them to, because he hated them. They didn't belong here.
While ignoring Thordottir, his ears almost automatically registered the sound of more Chitauri, but he ignored them for now, knocking one's rifle out of the way, slitting another's throat with a quick, calculating swipe, swinging and stabbing until the bodies fall at his feet and stain the cobblestones. He was almost blind in his intense focus, the feeling burning his chest.
I hate them. They hurt him, and now they are hurting, and he is the one with the skill, the control, the power—
It all happened too quickly.
He almost felt rather than heard the Chitauri behind him and turned, cursing, the sudden realization of his danger flashing across his mind—he was surrounded, and perhaps just one—moment—from—death—
—just as a sudden scuffle and blaze of heat burned his side; he stumbled, disoriented, then reflexively finished his swing and felled the nearest Chitauri. The others, however, were already dead.
And Thordottir collapsed to her knees in the street.
For one instant, everything froze, and time stopped; he couldn't register—why wasn't she fighting?
Then her eyes met his, and he saw the blank horror and the way her lips still mouthed his name, but even more than that, he saw the blood beginning to spread across the front of her shirt.
Then she crumpled on the cobblestones.
No. No no no!
"Frera!"
Killing the rest of the Chitauri in a few short seconds was a forgotten memory as he ran forward, scrambling over the flagstones to reach her. Stunned disbelief wiped away almost everything as he dropped by her side, staring down at her, shaking her.
His breath felt like ice in his lungs, and his stomach turned over.
The wound was just beneath her collarbone, frighteningly close to her heart. Blood, too much blood for so little time—the bullet must have hit something important. Frera gasped, jerking under his shaking fingers, and blood trickled from her mouth. No!
She had taken the bullet meant for him, killed the Chitauri...the realization couldn't seem to penetrate his mind, like the rest of his thoughts.
All he knew was that Thordottir could not die for him—she could not die for a worthless Frost Giant, a failed king, a lying murderer—she just couldn't.
"Frera—Frera—" Ripping off his cloak, he pressed it to her injury with shaking fingers, but he knew that wouldn't stop anything—it wouldn't save her. It wouldn't keep her from dying. His mind screamed at him to use magic, to heal her, but he couldn't replace the blood staining the cobblestones, and he'd already stretched himself more than he should have on the battlefield, trying to sustain injuries and exhaustion and to destroy the Chitauri.
Now it wasn't enough. He couldn't save her.
She can't die!
He didn't know what he was saying anymore, or if he even was saying anything, or if he was screaming—all he knew was that Frera needed help.
Without thinking, he grabbed her hand and picked her up; blood stained his fingers, but she felt light—too light, and too vulnerable. Like a doll, cracking apart.
Then he ran.
He ran and he ran until the wind drowned out her faint, labored breathing; he didn't know if he would hear it stop if it did, but he thought he could feel the most faint of tenuous connections to the body in his arms, and he clung to that.
She saved me...why.
Why. Whywhywhy.
She shouldn't save him, no one should—he was unsavable, he didn't deserve saving, it was his fault if she died—his fault—his fault—
Everything else became a blur, his own breathing forgotten; he almost tripped over Chitauri corpses, until he saw the makeshift tent behind the battlelines and burst in.
There was probably enough blood on him to make him look injured at first, and he saw Sigyn almost drop the bandages she was holding.
Then she saw Frera.
"Help her," Loki begged, gasping; he couldn't control the trembling in his voice anymore—he felt like a child plaintively holding out a broken toy past repair. "Help her, please help her, help..."
Sigyn's eyes flashed with alarm and shock, but fortunately, she steeled herself to the panic and chaos enveloping them. Almost instantly, she grabbed his arm and forced Frera down onto a nearby cot—already bloodstained from somebody else, probably, Loki's mind registered blankly. This was a hospital, and the sounds and the smells of the living and dead hit him in the stomach as he deposited Frera onto the bed.
"What happened?" Sigyn snapped, eyes widening at the injury, already grabbing for bandages and hot water.
Loki couldn't reply. He was too numb, his knees barely feeling the hard stone as he knelt next to Frera, panic welling inside at the blood staining her robes. He had seen these kinds of wounds before—on corpses. She couldn't die. She shouldn't die.
"Chitauri—Chitauri—she—I—" he swallowed, glancing up wildly. "There was a fight..."
She tried to stop me. He wanted to scream.
"Hold this," Sigyn said, meaning the bandage she had already pressed onto Frera's wound, while her hands flew to Frera's neck, feeling for her pulse, trying to inspect the damage, her eyes hard and intense with determination and anger, a look he saw so rarely. Sigyn was so brave—and meanwhile, he couldn't think beyond Frera's pale face in front of him. All that blood. He felt her magic flicker weakly beneath this fingers and increased his own, numb to his own injuries that begged for relief.
Sigyn cursed slightly under her breath as she ripped off the rest of Frera's armor. Loki's stomach lurched. Like Loki, Frera had been using most of her magic to sustain herself during the battle, and the old blood from minor cuts and bruises—probably even a stab wound or two—made his head spin. Damn fool girl. I underestimated her...
Sigyn ran her hand over the bandage, eyes closed, presumably trying some sort of healing spell; however, there was absolutely no change in Frera's still face. In fact, her breathing only seemed to diminish, her chest barely rising and falling anymore. Loki suddenly realized his fingers were white with the force with which he holds down the bandage, as though he childishly hoped to hold in Frera's soul with a flimsy cloth. He closed his eyes and increased his magic, drawing it off for her until he was gritting his teeth against the agony of his own wounds. A mortal in her place would probably already have died on the streets—and any second now, she could die.
For him.
No. No, no, no—and he didn't realize that he was saying it until he was, magic still seeping between his fingertips over the lifeless girl he had once scorned. Frera, you can't die, you can't die for me, PLEASE, don't you dare die on me now, not for me, please no.
This was wrong, it wasn't meant to be—
Sigyn's words jerked him back to attention.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit—" It had been years (ages?) since Loki had heard her voice so shaky. "There's a lot of bleeding, but the bullet is—keeping something open, or cursed, or something—" Her eyes widened as he felt his heart suddenly lurch horribly within him.
Between them, Frera had stopped breathing.
(no no no this cannot be happening)
Loki felt his insides almost melt and scream as he gripped her wrist so hard he was afraid it would snap like that of a delicate doll, almost digging into her injuries with his own magic. He could feel her fading breath shake tremulously in her throat as he reached out and caught the surging ebb of magic within her.
Her breath caught within her in a shudder, and her chest quivered again. Through the blurry haze of his mind felt the sudden obstruction in his own breathing, the burning in her lungs lighting his own ribs on fire.
It would be so easy not to breathe, but he hauled in gasps of air, and Frera's breath held.
And held. Delicate as a breath of smoke before a breeze.
(please)
He was drenched in sweat, breath shaking almost as badly as hers, and he realized how ironic it was that he, the one who had surely deserved more than ever simply to expire, was burning for her, begging the Norns because it wasn't fair.
Yet it would be just like them to snatch another person away in his place, that the Chitauri should inflict more torture yet again until he was nothing and finally broken-
no no no
And held.
The connection between them was as tenuous as a spider's web, a thin, bobbing string, but her magic held, his magic held, and the breath still whispered in her lungs.
Dimly, he felt Sigyn beside him again, her face white yet resolute as she knelt down on the other side of Frera.
"I can't heal wherever that bullet is, but I think I can get it out..."
Loki knew—even Chitauri bullets were cruel, barbed or poisoned or otherwise painful. The bullet meant for his head...
(no no no)
Somehow Sigyn had grabbed some more hot water and bandages from a passing healer. No one paid her much attention—around them, cries and moans and calls emanated from the mass of healers and patients. The pain in the air was suffocating, sickening him.
He realized that he was shaking, giving up all pretense of indifference—not that he cared right now. Nothing mattered, except that Frera stay alive.
When did I become like this? he thought numbly, wanting to slap himself for caring about Thordottir, but he can't stop.
All that mattered was that she not die.
"Loki, I need you to keep feeling for her pulse," Sigyn said, turning Frera onto her side again and hurriedly cutting open the back of Frera's shirt. "If anything changes, tell me."
How will that help? Loki thought numbly, automatically putting his fingers on Frera's neck. Sigyn couldn't do anything to save Frera if her heart stopped. What if this just kills Frera instead of helping her?
He didn't have time for panic—Norns, whom was he fooling, he was already panicking. He was a fool.
Frera's pulse was weak and much too fast, erratically pattering away beneath his fingers. Her hair was disheveled and bedraggled, spread over the fabric of a cot already slightly blood-stained. Still keeping his thumb on her neck, Loki held her head in his hands and tried to reach into himself, raking his fingers for more magic, trying to connect to her own magic in order to stabilize her and to dampen the pain, because somehow the thought of her waking up to scream like some of the other voices in the background was unbearable.
Frera was drifting on the burning orange fringes of a black hole. Darkness throbbed on the edges of her consciousness, and the floating sensation would have been peaceful, except for the heat washing over her. That didn't make sense—wasn't space supposed to be cold, freezingly cold, deathly cold?
It didn't matter. Perhaps, if she could just float here and rest among the stars...
Another flare of heat hit her, the burning sensation increasing again, but then the dark center of the black hole drew her back, drowning her in darkness.
How can I be breathing in space? Frera thought vaguely, opening her eyes again after a while, then feeling them drift shut again. As long as she could just float…
However, she drifted back into the burning fringe, and the heat increased until her back and neck burned with pain; caught between the fire and the darkness, Frera cried out, gasping for breath, but any breath from her lungs froze and vanished in the dead air.
The heat was unbearable, like melting wax burning through her skin; Frera tried to flail, but suddenly she couldn't move either—she was paralyzed, a terrifying feeling.
She just felt fear as she strained wildly to break free—of what?—the heat burning into her eyes, making them tear up, and the more she tried to move the more solid the air around her felt, hard against her skin, almost like...a surface...?
"I have it," Sigyn said, gingerly holding up an almost inch-long spike of barbed metal, her finger slightly bloody. Depositing it nearby, she reached for needle and thread. If healers spent all their magic on knitting skin together, they would have probably collapsed by now—extended (and effective) healing required incredible effort, concentration, and time. And they had run out of healing stones yesterday already.
Loki shuddered slightly, then glanced down at Frera, too focused on his healing magic to concentrate on much else.
Suddenly, an internal lurch inside, almost making him gasp out loud. Something wet on his finger—what?
Then he saw Frera's open eyes.
The hurt.
The pain.
The fear. She looked bewildered and feverish, her eyes staring blankly into space before slowly coming to rest on him.
Help me.
Staring, Loki met her gaze for a moment, suddenly feeling more tears running down her face, into her hair and onto his hand.
"Frera?" he stammered tentatively, his head nearly on level with hers; her pulse was suddenly quickening under his hand. "Frera, it's alright—"
"Lok-k-ki," Frera's high, cracked whisper barely reached him, her eyes wide and almost unseeing—except when they focused on him in a helpless plea. There was no recognition in her voice there—only begging, as of a final mercy. A cry for help, because she hurt. She hurt.
It should have been his pain. Suddenly he didn't know what to do or say; his silver tongue was tied, because sickly lies wouldn't help Frera feel better right now, and it was his fault, and he couldn't do this—it should have been Aron, or Thor, or someone she deserved. Not him. He was shaking, muscles taut with exhaustion.
"Just—just a little bit longer, Frera," he pleaded desperately (liar, his mind chided, because he had no idea what he was saying), renewing his magic, but her magic was stronger now, kept acting against his, pushing him out. Also, using his magic made darkness swirl on the edges of his vision, and he needed to stay awake. For Frera. "Just stay still..."
Despite his words—or maybe because of them, he couldn't tell anymore—panic and terror started dawning in her eyes, and he felt her try to move under his fingers. Try. She was very weak now. Despite this, he realized that his knuckles were turning white with the force of gripping her wrists with one hand and still trying to keep his other hand on her neck.
Frera was scared now—he could feel it emanating from her magic in frightened ripples—yet his tongue cleaved to the roof his mouth. Sigyn shot him a concerned, almost panicky, glance, and Loki swallowed hard, his insides twisting sickenly.
Tears dripped down Frera's face, and her breathing was a ragged, shallow gasping as the panic of being restrained and confused set in. She breathed out a moan between rigidly-set teeth, and Loki suddenly realized that the needle jerking through the lacerated skin of the cut on her back must be far from comfortable, despite the shock. That, or just everything hurt her.
"Shhh, Frera, just—stay calm, it's alright," he rambled, internally screaming at himself for being a lying, raving lunatic because nothing is alright. He tried to think of what Frigga used to say to soothe him, but his mind refused to work. Frera just whimpered, a low, hurt sound in the back of her throat, blood cracking on her lips. "I know it hurts—I know—I know," he said, mere inches from her face in his attempt to keep her still and as if trying to shelter her from horrible reality; he saw Sigyn quickly tie off another stitch, and he felt Frera's hand tremble within his own.
He was the god of lies—why could he not spin his own when they were needed most? He might banish himself from the title now if he could not think of something.
"Shhh. I know," he murmured, flaring his magic in time with Sigyn's work, but Frera stayed tense under his touch, her eyes glassy and distant. He realized that his knees ached, and he was sweating with effort and trembling with exhaustion, all sense of time gone. It must be mere minutes, but it felt like an eternity—and he knew how that felt.
Frera's lips were moving, but he had to lean almost to her lips to catch the soft, cracked whisper.
"T-Thor." Her eyes looked past him, distant and anguished, but demanding; her eyes filled with tears of vague pain and panic, sliding down her face and mixing with the blood on her lips. Where is my father?
Loki felt accused by those green eyes, but he swallowed and managed softly, "He'll come. Just wait"—while flaring his magic again almost angrily. Frera could not die now, not when he has promised her this. And if he has just lied to Thordottir, and she never speaks to Thor (or me) again, he feels that this will be one lie he cannot forgive himself for. Frera's pulse was still weak and erratic under his fingers, but it had to keep going.
Thor Thor Thor oh Norns how was he going to tell Thor—
Gritting his teeth again, he summoned an extra burst of healing magic; eventually, her consciousness already weakened, Frera's eyes, still distant and glassy, flickered shut, but he thought she brushed her finger slightly against the inside of his palm before her eyes closed. Slightly frightened, he felt for her pulse again, but it held steady. Finally, shaking slightly, he let go of her arm, and realized his fingers were cramping from being so tense for so long.
Thor might be so angry at Loki.
Thor might be so broken.
He realized somehow realized which one he might prefer.
He felt numb.
Sigyn put a final bandage in place, and the absent part of Loki's mind that wasn't numb noticed that her fingers were trembling; she looked exhausted, and not just physically. He wanted to say something to comfort her, to reassure her, but if Sigyn, so strong and brave, was weakening, what was he?
Instead, he thought he managed a thank you, or something else sentimental and pathetic, glancing down at Frera, and he thought Sigyn told him to rest, to let her know if anything changes (not that she won't know anyway, the absent part of his mind added again), or something else weak and sentimental, and then she was whisking away again, somehow, miraculously, still going, like a tree bending before the wind, but never breaking.
He glanced down at Frera again, realizing how frighteningly similar to a corpse she looked—bloodless face, closed eyes, her hair disheveled, and with blood staining the white bandages. For now, Frera was alive. He knew that could change at any moment, and for now it was all he could wish for. Yes, please, please, please yes. She would get better; she had to; it was only fair. Yet the Norns were cruel to him. Maybe he simply killed everything he touched, made it worse.
(no one can touch a monster unharmed)
Biting his lip, he looked down at her and wondered when exactly he had started caring so much for Frera Thordottir.
Frera did not get better.
She got worse.
Loki could feel it in his own chest, a dull, blurred throbbing that intensified when he focused on it, as every shallow breath sounded weakly in her lungs. Aron could only stagger up to her bed, white-faced and wincing in pain. It only made sense; they had known each other far longer; he was not jealous (of pain that should be his?).
Only in a few hours infection had set in, and Frera drifted through delirium, shaking with cold or sweating with heat. She would have tossed and turned if every movement didn't make her nearly cry out in pain. He would have done something to help heal her wounds further, but nothing could allay the fever, and Frera was not the only one. The wounded sickened and died like those who had perished gloriously on the battlefield; but here, there was no glory, only the slow gasping of pain and the whispered agonies.
He didn't know whether he wanted her awake or asleep; at times, she opened her eyes, but they were bright with fever and a wild longing as though she were seeking something she could not find, stretching out her hands and whispering brokenly for Thor, always Thor, where is father, where is my father, please...
Sometimes she would cry out for Aron or Loki in her delirium, but stare past them with glazed eyes; sometimes she would merely struggle to sit up, disheveled, tears starting in her eyes, unable even to scream because it would hurt so much. Her painful breathes would make Loki want to go mad, to pull out his hair or run away and throw himself into the Void until her gasping just stopped because it was unbearable, it shouldn't be this way, it shouldn't be...
But when she drifted into unconsciousness, she looked worse, like one of the dead, save for her shallow, labored breathing.
Thor never blamed him, not even once, didn't even ask how Frera just happened to get hurt around Loki, and that was possibly the worst pain of all. The way Thor simply sat tiredly for an hour with Frera, gently running his hand through her hair until she stopped shuddering, while every indication of guilt was positively screaming at him, was just too damn much.
Finally, he spoke.
"Why torment yourself?"
"You call this torment?" Thor replied finally, quietly, heavily, glancing down at Frera. "I do not see it that way."
"I thought you would have realized by now the innate fragility of these mortals," Loki replied sharply, his face suddenly darkening, looking sharper, sunken. He felt an internal thrill at letting the words slide off his tongue so glibly, but not enough to cover the entirely different twist he felt inside at Frera's lifeless form.
"Stop," Thor replied, closing his eyes and sighing heavily. "Just stop."
"Here one day, gone the next," Loki pursued viciously, the internal heaving feeling growing, anticipation building for when Thor would just turn around and hit him off the bed.
Thor, however, seemed too tired to move.
"All the more reason for me to have kept her closer," he said hollowly, holding one of her cold hands in his own.
Loki stood up.
"You're being an idiot," he snapped. "As was she. Maybe if she had been more careful about looking where she was going—"
(if I had just not been a fool, fool, fool, always a fool—)
His voice was rising angrily now, and he broke off abruptly, heart pounding quickly, trying to regain his control. None of this was working how he wanted it to.
Thor simply looked at him as though trying to read him—him, the god of lies, while he wore his own expression all too clearly, crumbling in his eyes—and behind the raw, tired disbelief Loki could feel with a thrill that he was possibly closer to being beaten into a wall than he had been in a long time.
Finally—
"If that is all," Thor replied huskily, "then please—leave."
And for once, Loki did, because when Thor spoke quietly, it shook him more than all the empty thunder combined—for once, it was not Loki who was screaming at him to leave, leave, leave—
If he had just tried to ease Thor's guilt by making Thor angry at him, he had failed horribly. If anything, it was only his own anger that was assuaged—
(everything I touch is sure to die)
As he stumbled out of the tent, Loki realized that he had rarely felt more crushed in his life.
Loki didn't want to see Frera anymore.
Or, more accurately, he didn't want to see her die.
Yet he couldn't help hearing the low murmurs and whispers that trickled out as the rest of the day progressed. He clenched his jaw. It was incredible, really, how people could already be planning one's funeral before one was dead. An honor, really, to be more cared for in death than in life—
But he didn't want Frera to die, and he bit his lip as he felt her positively burning up underneath his fingers.
"She just needs time," Sigyn said tremulously, replacing the damp cloth on her head that did absolutely nothing. Loki gritted his teeth and pushed his magic harder. "She has no time."
"I'm trying—"
"Then you aren't trying enough!" he finally exploded, his voice snapping out like hot acid. "I don't see you over here."
Sigyn blinked, and for a moment she looked dangerously close to tears, her eyes gleaming, rimmed by dark tiredness.
Loki felt as if someone had stabbed him again.
"What do you think I'm doing?" Sigyn whispered, her voice trembling. "But no magic will help anymore, her wounds are as healed as they will be, it's the infection and fever that need to go...but no, try...go ahead, if you want..."
Loki bit his lip and looked away, feeling wretched and sick in the pit of his stomach. It was enough that he was ruining Frera without breaking Sigyn as well. For a moment, he was tempted merely to admit defeat and slink away, leave Sigyn off to herself and infinitely better off than when he was there, but he caught the tiredness in her eyes and decided that would be the easier way out right now.
"My apologies, Lady Sigyn," he replied, nodding his head slightly in concession, the formal term sounding obtrusive and chill in the flat air, but he let it hang. "You're tired. Rest," he added shortly, glancing back down at Frera. "I'm sure I can handle things for a while."
Lying came much easier than the truth, he thought, as Sigyn turned away.
He watched Frera as she lay, but Sigyn had spoken rightly, whatever he wanted to tiredly accept. Frera's magic was more than adequate-but her body was not, and he bit his lip.
With no one else there, he could finally eye her as intensely as he wished, but no change came over her face.
If she died, would he weep?
All he knew was that Thor would. Or wouldn't. Thor hid it all away in his tireless actions and buried it beneath his armor, but his griefs were not too hard to read. Not for nothing had he been made the god of the storms.
Loki gritted his teeth slightly.
If she died, would there be a funeral?
(if she died, would she die for nothing?)
Frera's breath was very shallow.
"Thordottir, you really are being most exasperating," he said aloud. But no one answered.
A shredded gasp made him sit straight up again from where he had been keeping his vigil; barely an hour had passed.
"Frera?" he asked, crossing over to the bed. Her eyes were open, and she was shuddering; he felt an undesired lurch of panic as he saw the gleaming light in her eyes and the way she choked as though unable to breathe; what if she expired on him here, now?
He wanted to call for Thor or Sigyn or Aron or anyone, but no breath suddenly existed in his lungs; instead, he lowered bent down to Frera's level, grabbing her hands as they crept forward on the covers, trying to stop her shaking. "What's wrong? What's happening?"
Frera didn't respond; her eyes were wide-open and scared, as though searching for something beyond him.
Loki grabbed her arms and pushed her against the pillows; he felt her suddenly quiver in his arms as her panic increased, as did his. Almost automatically he let some of his magic escape in tired, fraying threads, but they were still strong enough to slowly lessen the shaking in Frera's icy fingers as she leaned back against the pillows again. Her breath came fast and shallow as her short burst of energy died away and she slowly relaxed, her eyes glassy.
"Frera? Are you alright?" he asked tremulously, but if she heard, she did not answer. She seemed too tired to even shift her head anymore.
"Frera. Frera. Frera. Listen to me," he said, afraid she might not be able to hear him anymore. "You listen well. You need to get better. You will get better. You are stronger than these mortals. You have assuredly inherited too much of that idiot father of yours to die so easily, and you are not getting to get away with it," he added scathingly. Frera's fingers felt like ice in his, but she breathed, propped up against the pillows, her hair scattered and disheveled. She breathed.
He breathed. It felt tiring. So tiring. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to bury his head in his hands and let himself go for once, the heaving feeling growing in his chest.
Oh Norns, oh please, oh pleaseohpleaseohpleaseplease.
"Frera," he said raggedly. "Frera."
As her eyes slowly slipped shut he saw again their brilliant hue, but there wasn't even a ray of recognition in them. As though she saw right through him.
Past him.
Despite him.
Despising him?
He leaned forward slightly and reached out for her face, trembling, his breath suddenly so, so heavy.
"Oh Frera," he said quietly. "Be at peace."
He withdrew his hand from her cheek, his fingers as cold as hers, and felt numb as he buried his hands in his hair and shook uncontrollably.
When Thor returned (perhaps merely half an hour later, but it felt ages—where had the idiot been?) all was quiet for a moment. Loki sat beside the bedside with his back determinedly to the door, but his shoulders were heavy with exhaustion.
Perhaps Thor interpreted his posture as more than weariness, because Loki could almost feel the tension in the air quiver.
Is she...?
"No," Loki snapped, perhaps more sharply than he had intended when he saw Thor's face, but he could not care anymore as he swept past him and strode away. For once, Thor did not follow.
His eyes were rimmed with shadows, and Loki had rarely felt more in need of something, anything to burn—cities be damned—until all the growing heaviness and pain was gone from his lungs, but he was too tired.
He was tired.
His throat was hoarse with speaking.
(his eyes were red with weeping.)
The rest of the night was a growing blur of healers and whispers and people Loki didn't care to see. Thor no longer left Frera's side for a moment, but Loki merely left the healers to their devices and restlessly prowled the hallways, unable to stay, but unable to leave, because the aching in his chest never left. He was almost glad to face the inquiries for Thor instead.
"No, he cannot just 'come'," Loki replied icily, his voice rising dangerously, almost glad to be able to be angry at some hapless messengers for once. "The battle was won hours ago. You can survive perfectly well for a few hours without your king. What are you even useful for?"
They scattered beneath his scorching gaze. He leaned heavily against a tent pole and cursed himself already because he was not doing this for Thor, he was not, and lies and truth felt even less discernible than ever now to his aching mind.
He was losing his touch.
"Please come."
"No," he said. "Let healers work whatever they still want. I see no necessity in my presence. What good would I do?"
Sigyn looked back at him with eyes beyond reproach for a moment, but he glanced away. Inwardly, he felt nearly sick with the pain it cost him to stand, and he wanted her to leave, leave him alone, leave him alone.
She might have gotten angry, but now the sustaining determination of the past few days had left her only with the same brittle, brimming-eyed tiredness he felt.
"You will regret it."
His breath seared.
He felt like yelling, but he could not.
"Regret will help no one," he bit back, his voice brittle but controlled.
"You brought her in here nearly breaking down!" Sigyn shouted suddenly, and something much deeper than his lungs burned sickly. Her eyes flashed, but her voice was high and shattering too quickly for the anger to last. "You—you will regret it if something happens, you will—" the air ached "—just come. You care for her."
"How do you know?" he retorted, his voice slipping slightly despite himself.
Sigyn stood for a moment, perfectly still, her tears still sliding down her face, but her eyes burning into him intently. He watched tiredly. Tiredly.
"Your breathing," she said.
Loki closed his eyes.
"Come," she said, quietly. "Please."
"I will not," he said, and turned away, his face impassive, praying that Sigyn would please just leave, leave, leave, his ears strained over the background noise and bustling of the hospital tent. The noises grated his mind till he wanted to snap it in two, but he merely stood and waited.
He heard her leave, and, shuddering slightly, he finally released his breath. It burned on his tongue.
What would he do if he felt it jerk and falter and slide from him?
It ached to stand.
He gritted his teeth and curled his fists slightly, and inwardly felt like he was clinging so hard to something it burned his fingers, but he needed it to burn. It was all he had.
(Your breathing.)
Couldn't she see how he needed this in case all the facades blew over? The shock had already gone, all his tears were wept, what he needed now was to ossify his soul because if Thor could not maintain this, Loki could not be reduced to groveling. Thor could be the dramatic one for once. He would not. Mortals died. It was their way. If there was a blow coming, he would rather be protecting himself than be shredding his heart into pieces repeatedly like Thor's paper feelings.
(You care for her.)
He stood, his face impassive, but inwardly he cursed Sigyn for breaking one of his last crumbling innards.
It was getting so hard to breathe.
Or maybe he was just imagining it as he avoided people, avoided the sick, avoided the tired, avoided the dead, avoided everyone. Maybe if he could just step outside, away from the buzz of noise and stench, and run far away enough for one moment the air might flow freely again and he would not have this sticking, heavy pain tugging at his lungs, or if he could just find Chitauri to fight again, anything to blow up or hack into a hundred pieces, he might feel his throat loosen again with the rush of blissful numbness.
But there were no more battles. Only the deaths and the ceaseless noise grinding into his skull.
In the darkest, furthest corner he could find, he focused on his own internal magic instead, but nothing felt stable anymore. He was not stable. But he had to be, he had to be, he could not hurt himself more.
Some part of him shriveled in disgust at the thought that he would even use the justification of not hurting Thor to avoid him, but he was too gifted at lying to refuse the insubstantial sweetness of ignorance now.
(-something as sweet as pain—)
The nausea of memory, however, was entirely eclipsed by a fresher wave of real pain in his chest that made him stagger. He pressed his face into a tent pole and gripped it with white fingers, trying to control his breathing.
His breathing.
How was hers?
As soon as he felt like the worst of it had passed he slipped down to the floor and buried his hands in his hair again, closing his eyes into black numbness, trying to wipe out everything, but it was hard when each lungful of air was stabbing him, jabbing his side, jabbing his heart...
The tension in his chest only grew every hour. He had no more concept of time anymore, it just was, and it was slowing painfully now. Every minute the fear of not knowing yet knowing wholly invaded on his mind's eye. How would she look now? Was Sigyn trying something more, the cause of those dyings down of his burning? If so, she was wasting her time.
Was Thor there?
The golden prince, he could never be anywhere else.
(Where am I? Where am I?)
A deathbed suited Thor more than Thor might suppose. He had all the credentials.
Loki, on the other hand, made the deathbeds happen, and if he did not, he would not even dream of besmirching them with his presence. He was a monster. He was alone. He lived alone.
And he would not always throw himself on ice for other people.
Selfish, selfish, screamed his mind, but his mind was always screaming now. What was he? Selfish? Proud? Talented? Refraining? Well, it had gotten him through so far.
He hated himself.
Himself, himself, but it was Frera dying over there, but there was a wall between them, and he could not break it now. His fault, but her choice, and he was as far from her kin as Thor was to him.
His breath ached, his heart ached, it was all the same now.
He was shaking, and he suddenly realized he wasn't ready yet.
He wasn't ready.
There was nothing fair about any of it, but there was also nothing he could do, except get up and finally start pacing because staying still was impossible now, with his heart beating so swiftly now as if it wanted to break out. He felt like he had run a hundred miles though he stayed in one closet, and his palms were sweaty and chill.
He wasn't ready.
A fresh wave of hacking pain burned up his ribs, however, and his thoughts vanished as he stumbled and had to lean against a support again. His breath was fire, and he cursed between his teeth as he shook.
Damn it, damn it, damn it, couldn't Thordottir just please expire and leave his breath to himself, couldn't she just die and leave him alone, leave him, leave...
A gasp of laughter somehow escaped between the curses because it must have been so amusing to see himself doubled over in that closet, if Thor was there, but Thor was not there, Thor was with Frera, Thor was noble, and Loki was somehow weeping without knowing how, because the laughter ripped his lungs so, but nothing could soften the bitter burning of the thought.
Finally, he slid back down to the floor and gripped his hair in his hands, trying to breathe quietly through the pain. He would sit this one out. He could.
He breathed and breathed and breathed until he had felt the hitching in his ribs hundreds of times.
Slowly, the burning in his lungs increased and increased, until he felt like he was inhaling liquid fire and the smoke was getting into his eyes. He would try breathing less, but it would not abate anymore.
Curse them all, if it was this bad, wouldn't they just send for him? He would have laughed at his patheticness if he could, however, because it surely only meant that he was not needed.
Not needed.
It felt like the ends of his nerves were slowly curling up and dying; his fingers felt numb as he gasped.
He was familiar enough with the sensation of torture to ignore it.
It was no longer just his lungs, it was spreading to his fast-beating heart. Not painful in and of itself, but twisting, and his stomach weighed like a stone in his chest.
He was familiar enough with the sensation of fear to spend a few minutes recognizing it.
Horribly, achingly, throbbingly familiar, like he wanted to tear his heart out from his chest. He knew that feeling.
It was his heart breaking into a hundred pieces and reforming, because he felt like the anger and hate holding him together right now was seeping through his hands like sand, because
no loki
Because
i trusted you
Because
where were you
where are you?
where are you?
What had he possibly done to deserve this? It wasn't him, it was just his heart, if he could just tear it out and tear Frera out maybe it would be alright
frera
frera
Loki took one more burning breathe and he already knew what he had to do, because Thordottir must have known from the very beginning, damn her, she must have, because if there was one thing he could not bear it was this.
Frera did not deserve this pain.
He regained his footing with shaking hands, but for once his mind felt clearer and number than it had in hours.
In many, many hours.
Loki ran, and he didn't care as he shoved through and by people and everything was a blur of faces, it was all his painful breathing and the fear that he might be too late, too late to do anything more.
He ran.
He turned the last corner, and for a split second he felt his heart freeze because what if he was too late, too late to do anything more?
He pushed through anyway and there were people, but he didn't care.
He no longer recognized anyone anymore as he pushed them out of his way to reach the bed.
Thor looked up and in that time Loki had already collapsed on his knees next to Frera's side.
She was so very still beneath his fingers.
His breath froze, burning in his lungs, burning in his insides, but it was still burning, and he touched her cheek very gently.
Her eyes opened and suddenly he felt more fear than ever, because what if she saw him and hated him, for what he had done, for how this was happening, and cursed him with her final breaths? What if she did not see him at all?
Her chest rose and fell slightly with a shudder, and slowly her eyes lighted on him, they lighted, because she saw him.
Was the he, the god of lies, so blind he felt less sightful than her?
His breath burned, and he wanted to say so many things, because he was so sorry, he was so sorry, please forgive him, but he could not be forgiven.
Least of all by himself.
Frera looked like she would say something, but only a breath whispered past her lips. Her hand was shaking under his, and he felt her fingers suddenly graze his arm as though trying to pull his sleeve.
They brushed his face instead. Her fingers were so cold he wondered if they left blue traces, but he didn't really care, he did not, and his eyesight was blurring, whether with tiredness or grief he could not tell.
This was his fault, all his fault, all his fault, he wanted to scream it to Frera over and over if either of them could breathe, but of the the two of them, only one deserved to keep breathing, because he was the one who ought to suffer, he was the worthless one, worthless—
no?
The thoughts crystallized in his mind more sharply than ice as Frera's cold fingers touched his forehead, but the foreign feelings trickling through him were surprisingly warm and rough and bright and raw, tugging pulls of what almost definitely felt like you're a stupid idiot, but jumbled in among it all something that felt distinctly like...affection. But it was only a fleeting brush, a delicate touch, not the lingering kind he could lean into.
No, he wanted to scream, but he felt too stunned to react.
Frera's hand dropped again and her gaze drifted past him again, the pain clouding her senses—his senses—and he could feel it fully now, but it was also fading.
For him, at least.
No, he wanted to scream, clinging to the last tendrils of magic because he could not let go. It wasn't enough.
Frera inhaled very shallowly now, but his breath was still frozen, burning, burning, burning.
There was still time, if he could only use it.
Frera sighed.
When he finally released his own shallow lungful of air, he had never hated the lack of pain so much.
She did not breathe again.
He suddenly realized he was shaking as his vision narrowed and dimmed. He retreated his fingers from Frera's as if contaminated.
He did not realize he was backing away before was, looking around wildly as though someone would absolve him of a crime, but no one spoke, or he did not hear.
I'm sorry, he wanted to whisper because he hadn't meant for it to happen like this, he hadn't meant to take this from Thor, he hadn't, she wasn't dead, she can't have died on him, not for him, not on him, the monster.
He didn't even want to look at Thor, but somehow his eyes could not turn away from the way he shook over Frera.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.
He backed away and felt others withdraw from him as though he was already carrying some deadly disease, his heart was hammering very fast in his chest, and he was tired. His face was as calm as one of the dead, and his mind felt just as numb. If only.
(you.)
I'm sorry, Loki wanted to say.
I regret it, Loki wanted to say.
(you. were worth it)
Let me go, Loki wanted to say.
Thor, he wanted to say. Thor. Thor. Thor.
But he can no longer speak; an entirely different kind of burning scalds his throat.
Loki left.
Once he is outside the hallway, he wishes he could finally give in to something, but he has nothing left to give, nothing left to break. Nothing has changed, except Frera is no longer mortal, and he will never see her again, never, because he can never follow where she has gone. Thor might, Sigyn might, they all might, except Loki.
(worth it worth it)
He breathes, and she does not. How he hates the sensation now.
How apt the Norns would punish his slim life even now before eternal darkness. How cold it feels already.
His hands tremble as he clenches them, and he is tired. How he misses her already.
How childish, how naive his prayers, because Frera is never, ever coming back.