He doesn't think he can stand much more of this.
All around the screams of battle rage, cries of victory and triumph and defeat and the final gurgling death throes of some forgotten warrior lying in the blood of his brothers.
He will not admit that he is worried.
Somewhere he can hear the Lady Sif let out a battle cry as she charges into the fray. He catches sight of familiar faces he might have known once, a lifetime or two ago, nameless faces who no longer hold any meaning. One of the elves rushes at him, but the brief skirmish ends with the creature's throat being slit by an iron knife. How... unfortunate for them, that they were cursed with such a weakness to the metal.
He is not worried.
The mortal Thor has so foolishly taken from Midgard in some fit of sentimentality is safely out of the way of the worst of the fighting, as far as he knows. He had needed to scare sense into her before she convinced Thor to let her assist him in the fight. Told her the elves ran faster than any mortal and wielded far better weaponry, and if they found a weak target it would be a long and gruesome death that followed. Thor had stopped him before he went into detail. No fun there.
The others can take care of themselves. While next to none suspect, Frigga is the mightiest of warriors, well-versed in weaponry and magic, and the Dark Elves had made the mistake of underestimating her earlier on. The last time he saw her she was single-handedly destroying an entire legion. Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg are fighting back to back somewhere, a whirlwind of unstoppable force. They know each other so well that they fight as a single unit.
He is not worried!
He has heard no thunder, has seen no lightning, and there has been no glimpse of that infernal red cape for a long while now.
Thor is too thick-headed to fall in battle. Quite literally, his skull can probably withstand a hit from the hammer and come out with only minimal damage.
It does not worry him that he has not seen any sign of his- of Thor. It does not worry him that nobody else has seemed to notice the warrior's lack of attendance. It does not worry him that Malekith is conspicuously absent from the front lines.
He swats aside three more elves, his clothes torn and ragged and blood covering nearly half of his face. He doesn't remember if it is his own blood or the blood of someone else, but no matter.
"Sif!"
The female fighter, as suspected, is standing in the middle of a circle of fallen elves, taunting and daring others to come and attack.
She turns and glares, lips thinning and eyes burning with anger, probably contemplating whether or not she should run him through with her dagger. No one will suspect her if she does, anyway, not in the middle of a battle. Or perhaps she will gloat, and Asgard will feast in celebration.
"What?" she spits out.
He steps aside and bashes in an elf's head with a nearby rock, magic enhancing the blow to fatality. "Where is Thor?"
She laughs bitterly. "I thought you cared nothing for your brother, Odinson."
"Do not call me that," he snarls, but the words are old and dull and they feel like lead in his gut instead of glorious, furious fire. Everyone, Odin, Asgard, Thor, they aim their words like sharpened silver knives, but only his words are silver and none of them seem to realize that there is nothing left for them to break. "I have not seen him for some time, Sif. I am merely curious as to his whereabouts."
They halt the conversation, if such a thing can be called that, to fight off half a dozen more enemies taking advantage of their distracted state. When they finish, he sports a long, deep gash in his side that bleeds copiously and will almost inevitably prove to be problematic later on. He ignores it.
"You worry for nothing, Odinson," she replies, although he can see faint worry etched into her brow and wonders why she does not act when it is plain something is not right. "Unlike yourself, I am sure that he is fine."
With a growl at the implied slight, he leaves her to fend for herself, calling down fire from the sky to wipe out ten of the foul creatures attempting to break through the walls of the castle.
Odinson.
"I never wanted the throne, I only ever wanted to be your equal!"
It is Laufeyson, and yet nobody seems to realize. They tell him they care when they clearly wish him gone, dead. What more is he than a bargaining chip to them? What else is he but a toy for the gods and a toy for Thanos, to be used and then discarded when his purpose is fulfilled?
He is incredibly worried.
"Brother?"
"Hm?"
"Have you read anything about Frost Giants in the library?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Father said they were all horrible beasts that we went to war against. I wanted to know if that was true."
"I can show you some of the books, if you like..."
…
"Brother?"
"Yeah?"
"I read that book you lent to me."
"You actually picked up a book? Willingly? I'm shocked, Thor."
"Oh, hush, you. But father was right, he always is! They truly are mindless beats, and their faces... have you seen them, brother? They're hideous! One day I hope to fight them just as Father did, and you can come into battle alongside me, and we will win!"
"We aren't even allowed to leave the castle without Mother, Thor."
"But when we grow up! We can kill all of them, together!"
It takes ten minutes to move out of the heat of the fighting, and then it takes another five to numb his injuries as he collapses against a pile of dead bodies that had been dragged out of the way during a brief respite. He is having trouble standing, but there is no time to heal.
The blank eyes of the man whose arm he is clutching for support make him nauseous.
It takes twenty minutes to track down his brother, and by that point he is nearing a state of what a lesser man might call panic. He is barely willing to call it for what it is (concern) because there is no reason for him to be concerned and so therefore he is most certainly not.
"When I am king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! Just like you did, Father."
He catches a glimpse of that crimson cape, and for the briefest of moments he doesn't see the blood mixing in with the fibers so perfectly.
"I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day. Bring about an alliance, bring about a permanent peace... through you."
"What-?"
"But those plans no longer matter!"
"So- so I am no more than another stolen relic? Locked up here until you might have use of me?!"
When he finally does notice, bile rises up in his throat and threatens to choke him. Malekith is nowhere in sight, but the chasm not far away gives him a good enough idea as to what had happened.
"Thor?"
No reply.
He has seen Thor smashed through buildings, beaten to a bloody pulp, watched as layer after layer is stripped away until there is nothing left but raw emotion and grief and goodness knows that he himself has been a part of that suffering enough times. Has caused that suffering enough times. But Thor, that stubborn fool, always gets back up. Always, always staggers back to his feet.
Thor isn't getting up.
There is too much blood, and the tattered red cape is little more than rags to clean the dishes after a feast, the armor full of holes and maybe reusable as a strainer for the cooks, if that.
Hissing from behind him snaps him out of his thoughts, and he realizes in his foolish distraction that more than a dozen of the Dark Elves have silently surrounded the pair. Thor will be of no help to him now, and he begins to mentally calculate the odds against him, stubbornly ignoring the spots flitting across his vision. Most of the elves are armed with knives, although some hold swords, and others are armed with a variety of clubs and hammers.
One elf, he notes in particular, holds a small mace that is dripping with blood. Red blood. Aesir blood. It takes a second longer to process that a blow from that mace would fit the exact wound causing blood to gush so freely down Thor's face from his skull. The creature is positively grinning in anticipation of more pray.
Something inside him snaps.
A weapon flies into his hands and he takes no time to wonder where it came from. All previous thoughts of his injuries flee from his mind, and he no longer remembers his hollow frustration with the Lady Sif or the worry that he had felt a mere instant ago. Bodies fly out of his way underneath the combined assault of his weapon and his magic, his seidr that bends the universe to his will and nothing is going to stop him because that is Thor and they are going to pay tenfold for every blow inflicted upon him-
He spins around to face the next enemy with a roar, only to find that there are none left. His breathing is heavy and ragged, the gash in his side bleeding at an alarming rate, although he did not feel it. Thor is still lying on the ground, motionless and far too pale. In his hand, Mjolnir is like a comforting weight.
He kneels down, lets the last of his reserves drain themselves as healing magic flows from him into Thor. The bleeding lessens to an extent, but the wounds do not close over and he finds himself feeling dizzy, on top of everything else.
There is no reason for his concern for his- for Thor's welfare, and yet he still manages to stand, still manages to heave Thor over his shoulders and not buckle underneath the deadweight. Still manages to walk, even as the numbing spell he had placed over his wounds begins to fade, allowing the pain to return with a vengeance. Still manages to carry his brother and the hammer back towards safety.
When he reaches the battlefield, the fighting has ended. Malekith's soldiers have been pushed back into retreat, leaving the armies of Asgard to regroup and recuperate and prepare for the next fight, if there ever is one. Healers are scurrying to and fro, checking the fallen for wounded and bringing them back to the healing tents. The dead are left until later, when they can finally be brought home and their funeral prepared, their bodies sent off on the boats to Valhalla. Everyone seems to stop and stare when he comes into sight, and he is too exhausted to attempt to decipher if they are shocked at his state, at Thor's or at the hammer in his hand. No one makes any move to help; perhaps they were all too stunned.
His legs finally give out before he can reach the closest tent. Ironically enough, Sif is the one to catch him while the Warriors Three ease Thor off his bloodied back and run their friend to the healers. Exhausted though he may be, he is still lucid enough to realize that Sif does not follow behind them, instead leading him off away from most of the people and away from the tents.
"Most of them are not of any mind to treat you nicely, Odinson," she states, helping him sit down. "I am of the same mind, but your brother would not treat me kindly if I were to let you bleed out. I am going to retrieve some healing stones, try not to die before I get back."
He only just barely manages a twisted, crooked grin, but it is still a smile nevertheless.
She comes back with the supplies, cuts away his armor before roughly pressing the stones to his body and forcing the bloody gashes to close. She is a warrior, not a healer, so the wounds will leave jagged scars, but there is no one to see him inside his cell and he is already used to being judged by appearance. When the spots clear from his vision she thrusts a spare tunic at him before going off elsewhere, presumably to Thor and the others. He is tempted to lean back against a nearby rock and sleep, but he doesn't.
He wonders if anyone would notice if he just falls asleep here and never wakes up.
Loki walks back to the castle and goes into Thor's room and falls asleep. In that whole time, he never lets go of the hammer.
OOOOO
He supposes that he is dreaming while resting on Thor's irritatingly comfortable bed – he has grown used to the stiff mattress supplied in his cell. Yes, he is dreaming, because he certainly wasn't this young a moment ago and Thor is not a child and they had not been reading in the library.
Well, he is attempting to read, at any rate. Thor is doodling on what is probably some paper meant for the tutors.
"Brother?" Thor asks, tongue sticking out from between his teeth while he frowns in concentration.
"Yes, Thor?" he replies on impulse, too confused to properly do much of anything else.
"I don't really hate Frost Giants."
He nearly chokes. "You always spoke of how you would slay them all in battle."
Thor shrugs, still drawing. "Yes, well, they can't be all bad. Everything has its good parts and bad parts, so if they're all bad then they've got to be good too because otherwise there isn't anything to compare it with!" He looks pleased by this supposed feat of logic, although it makes no sense.
He raises an eyebrow. "You are being both unusually insightful and making less sense than you normally do at the same time."
Thor chuckles. "Yes, well, this is all in your head, so I don't need to make sense, do I?"
"Ah. So I am dreaming. Might I ask why we are children?"
"I dunno. It's your head and your dream. I'm just here because your subconscious is waiting for you to snap out of it and see some sense."
Now he laughs outright, and the mocking voice that follows is achingly familiar. "What, you expect me to believe that this- this delusion is actually truth? The Thor I know-"
"This is truth," Thor cuts in, growing serious. "And maybe it isn't the Thor you know, but the Thor that you chose to see." He opens his mouth to protest again, but Thor quickly continues. "They treated you unfairly, there is no denying that, and your brother helped more often than not, but what about Thor later? You say that he let threw you from the Bifrost. You let go. You let yourself fall. He tried to make you see reason when the Chitauri invaded Midgard, he tried to convince you to come home, and while he may be blind and sentimental his reasoning is nothing but sound! He wants to make up for past mistakes."
He scoffs bitterly, shaking his head. "You lie."
"Are you telling me that the God of Lies cannot detect a lie when he sees it for himself?"
"I am telling you that nobody cares!" he finally screams out, breathing shakily, trembling. "I was abandoned because the Jotuns found me worthless, and Odin, may he rot in Hel, only took me to be used to bargain. He despises me... I... I don't..."
He buries his head in his hands, unable to think, unable to reason with the shattered mess he knows he has become. Thor walks over and places a hand on his shoulder. "It is not too late, brother. Things can still be fixed."
"Did my subconscious miss what Thor said to me when this entire mess first began?" he asks softly. "'When you betray me.' When I betray him, he will kill me. Even Thor, always wearing his heart on his sleeve, has given up."
Above him, although he cannot see, Thor shakes his head. "Nay, brother. There is hope, you just need to let yourself believe it."
When he dreams again, it is of childhood laughter and pranks and a warm hand around his as they ran through a meadow.
"I want to stay brothers forever, Thor!"
"We'll always be brothers! You and me, and we can play in these fields even when we're really old!"
"Can kings play in fields?"
"Of course they can! They're kings, they can do whatever we want, so when we're both king, we can do whatever we want to!"
"Okay, Thor!"
"Ha, I bet you can't catch me, brother!"
"I can catch you any day!"
OOOOO
When he wakes up, it is to Jane frantically shaking his shoulders and telling him Thor is awake. He growls out a couple curses in some obscure dialect before storming out the door, the hammer flying into his hand as he passes by.
When he comes into the infirmary, he most certainly isn't worried and needing visual, tactile, solid proof that is brother is alive and he isn't dreaming again, because honestly, his sanity is rather questionable by this point.
When he realizes that it is just the two of them, that other visitors are absent because more than one will cause 'stress' or something he isn't relieved because he doesn't want anyone else to see him nearly breaking down.
He puts the hammer down with a bit more force than is required at the end of the bed and stands over Thor, who would look as though he really was dead if not for the faint smile that appears on his face.
"Loki," he breathes. "Help me sit up, would you brother?"
Loki doesn't bother to correct Thor this time, just goes to get some pillows for the other man to lean against. It could be accomplished with the wave of a hand, if he so desired, but... truthfully, he doesn't trust himself anymore, and his hands need something to do.
When he is finally sitting, Thor looks at him with a gaze that is abnormally intuitive.
"I asked Mother how I had gotten here," he says. "I assumed that it had been Sif or one of my other friends that had brought me back, so I was rather surprised to learn that it had been you."
"You are mine to kill," he dismisses, even though the words lack any bite and seem forced instead of aimed to injure. "I would not let some meager elf get the better of you before I had the chance."
Thor laughs. "Surely you do not mean such a thing."
He can only let out a long, weary sigh, because he really doesn't know anymore. "Most have called me heartless," he states. "I am inclined to believe them."
"Last I checked, a Jotun has a heart just like any other."
He stiffens, the words hurting more than he imagined possible, doubly shocking because he is the King of Lies and the Wordsmith and Silvertongue and he knows words better than anyone else and he doesn't understand why this pains him so.
"Fool."
Still the words have no bite, and the retort is weak.
Unexpectedly, Thor reaches over and wraps him in a hug, causing him to teeter in place and put a hand on Thor's shoulder for balance. The other man's arms are around his waist, due to him standing and Thor sitting on a bed, and his head his resting against his chest.
"You have heart, Loki," Thor whispers, and Loki closes his eyes. "I can hear it."
"My brother, my friend... Sometimes, I may be envious, but never doubt that I love you."
There might be the small chance that all hope is not lost after all.
My friend and I just feel really bad for Loki, so here you go. In preparation for the new movie this Friday!