I want to thank heartily, with all my heart, Alydia Rackham. Her stories, "Fallen Star" and "Lokistone" made me want to write, and changed my life. So, Alydia, if you're reading this, thank you. So much.

I'm happy, thanks to you.

"...You should love something while you have it,

Love it fully and without reservation,

Even if you know you'll lose it someday.

We lose everything.

If you're trying to avoid loss,

There's no point in taking another breath,

Or letting your heart beat one more time.

It all ends.

That's all life is.

Breathing in, breathing out.

The space between two breaths."

― Unteachable, Leah Raeder

Stupendous and substantial gold towers, whose polished and refined surface shines brightly, offer a soothing and shimmering radiance in Asgard's nightfall. Remains of glorious eras, those edifices keep on reminding every eye the prestige, dexterity and deftness of Asgardian manufacturers, sculptors and, unmistakably, of a few sorcerers. Above the antediluvian buildings, extending to the whole outer-space, unfolds a majestic, breathtaking and peerless sky, pinpricked by a million ethereal stars. Gossamer constellations, twinkling through fusions of nuanced nebulae shaded in cerulean blue, cinnamon red, orchid purple and gold, confer a sumptuous and uncommon spectacle. The atmosphere fades within the outer space. Nevertheless, and as inconceivable as it sounds, notwithstanding the cosmos' dark abyss spreading upon the Real Eternal, Asgard is granted with a solar cycle, similar yet a bit slower than Midgard's. Dawns and dusks simultaneously rouse and lull the ageless souls dwelling here.

Below the celestial roof and the gigantic towers, lies the All-Father's mythical throne room. The golden ground is engraved with multiple patterns, subtle and convoluted, crisscrossing towards lustrous stairs, surrounding an amount on top of which rises, masterfully hewn in an iridescent gold, the throne of Asgard. The cautious-fingered smiths' work is undoubtedly a masterpiece: around the polished seat spread skillfully-carved armrests, and above it symmetrically evolve two arm-like horns, on which are commonly perched Huginn and Muninn, Odin's ravens.

Yet, The Father of the World is nowhere in sight, nor are his jet-black crows. Tonight, the kingly vastness is oddly noiseless.

Though, a sharp ear could effortlessly perceive muffled, far off voices slicing through the silence. If one wanders a little, the distant voices become more and more audible. Tonight, takes place an immense feast, tables dispatched in every corner of the Giant Hall. The grand Hall, whose ancient yet cumbersome columns engraved with antique runes widen its depths and heights, glows with an unmatched resplendence. Its lengthy paths, surrounded by huge marble statues, relics of bygone times, are crowded with cheering Asgardians, relishing good victuals, giggling and laughing wholeheartedly, dancing and pacing arm in arm. The Hall is overcrowded. The merry, buoyant atmosphere testifies a long-forgotten peace newly recovered.

Amid laughter, a mild and soft tranquility reigns in the close dim light.

A massive table at the very end of the room stands out from the others. The Royal Table. Its polished mahogany surface seems to sparkle beneath abundant food trays. Roast chicken, full plates of luscious vegetables – carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, and Asgardian wine's aromas permeate the atmosphere, titillating hungry bellies and quivering nostrils. Forks and knives rattle against silver plates, hands hurry toward glasses of liquor, thunderous and warm laughs explode.

The King, from the regal reddish-brown table, gratifies his clan with a fatherly smile. But his eye is bereft of any joy. At his right side sits Frigga, her long and glowing hair hanging loose behind her back. Despite her elegant stature, she seems broken. Her eyelids blink frantically, and a bitter smile creeps over her lips. Vainly trying but failing to regain her self-control, she finds herself unable to stop her hands from shaking. The Goddess lets her weak fingers fall open, struggling hard not to burst into sobs. The All-Father's hand grabs her left one, gently squeezing it.

This is not the most painful sight.

Absentmindedly toying with a knife at the left side of Odin, Thor is beyond bored. Truth to be told, having his family and friends does not bring him any comfort or consolation whatsoever. Food isn't even tempting. He slowly turns his livid face toward his parents. Azure orbs stare at their entwined fingers. His jaw tightening, he abruptly adverts his eyes to avoid his mother's moist gaze. He brings a calloused hand up to his mouth, rubbing his rough cheek. His head is throbbing. He shuts his eyes, hoping the ground beneath his feet would open up and swallow him entirely to oblivion.

Seconds elapse.

It is not. The corners of his lips start quivering.

Opening his eyes, water scalding his sight, it merely takes a second for his weary body to recover motion. He abruptly stands up, incessant scorching questions devouring his mind. The knife falls to the ground in a thud. Feeling first a drop of regret for being so egoistic toward people who plainly needed to decompress, it is quickly quashed by the resentment he feels boiling in his very entrails as they scrutinize him with poor empathy. But what exactly is he hoping to achieve by behaving so? When did he become so… weak? Closing his hands into white-knuckled fists, he feels a violent eruption menacingly heading toward him. He must get out.

Now.

"Thor…!" The imploring ton in Frigga's shattered call almost makes him stop. Thor's heart contracts, and, without glancing back nor uttering a single word, he starts leaving the table. Setting nervously his steps with purpose, he paces toward the doors, his crimson cape slightly wavering behind his back.

From the way Thor is half-heartedly gazing at his unspoiled plate, it isn't difficult to see how absolutely anomalous this situation is. Food is, and has always been, inherent to his nature. Sitting a dozen places from him, catching stealth glimpses, even she is apt to notice the soreness clouding his turquoise gaze. Customarily holding an exalted and candid flicker of light, his eyes do no longer assert any glee. It hurts to assimilate the fact that he might never sincerely and heartily laugh again. As his head rotates toward the All-Father and the Queen, loneliness seems creeping over him.

Finding herself unable to suppress a shred of pity for him, Sif feels a knot of shame solidify in her insides. For the first time of his lengthy life, it is obvious that he craves for company. Not a friend, nor a comrade; but a shoulder to cry upon. She keeps forgetting that, no matter how mighty he is, how untouchable he seems to be, the Prince of Asgard cannot always be zealous or fearless. Even she, valorously educated and disciplined to cope with life's disorders and pains, must confront her own flaws and weaknesses.

She can understand his woe.

Yet, anytime she tries to converse with Thor, words die on her flapping tongue. Such a pathetic friend she is. Such an impotent comrade. Such an unavailing shoulder to cry upon.

His behavior does not ease the task. Since his brother's fall, five days ago… Thor was eluding her, Volstagg, Fandral and Hogun. His father. Even his mother. Locking himself in a keyless cocoon, he was growing sore. Depressed.

But she cannot blame him.

No matter how much she despises his brother, she wishes the Trickster was still here. As unfathomable as the brothers' relation is, and despite their lack of blood ties –how disturbing, she couldn't believe it, she knows that, beneath their rivalry lies a deep affection for each other. At least, coming from Thor.

Peeking at his surly face, she feels her heart miss a beat. Several days have elapsed… Just how many pounds has he lost?

The trail of her thoughts evaporates as Thor gets up all of a sudden. Emotions flicker through his sapphire eyes, and her body stiffens as she recognizes… hatred? Sif sucks in a deep breath she has without realizing it been holding, a jerky whiff escaping her contracted lungs in a rush. Worried glances –Volstagg's, Fendral's and Hogun's, creep over her taut face, and she suddenly hates herself for being so stupid. Of course.

He is utterly alone. Far beyond aloneness.

Of course hatred would gnaw his broken heart in front of people unable to understand.

Do not misjudge him, a voice mutters in her mind. It is hard for him. He is trapped in his own misery.

She discerns his heavy footsteps behind her back, hastening toward the Grand Hall's massive entrance. With a deafening bang of shutting doors, the entire realm trembles. It is three seconds later than she recovers motion from her limbs.

Go find him.

She doesn't hesitate anymore.

Hello everyone ! I truly hope you enjoyed this first chapter. I'm rather stressed, for it is my first published story !
I decided to put this note at the end of the chapter to confess you one thing : English is not my native tongue. I feared it could make you leave, so I decided to tell you at the end of it. But now, I would very much like to know if it's awful... Be honest, because I'm trying my best to write correctly.
The 2nd chapter will come soon !
Goodnight, and thanks for reading, if you have. ~