Thor lets out a melancholy sigh as he kneels down in the soft grass of the meadow. Often, when he and his brother were children, they would come out into the grassy field and play. Now it only serves as a distant memory - a glimpse of a past life that can't be reached again.
A raven calls out somewhere in the distance, it's haunting cry carried by the gentle breeze. Thor looks up, expecting to see Hugin, but no bird is there. Perhaps it was an imagined noise.
He plops down informally, undoubtedly rubbing grass stains into his trousers that will take effort to remove. It all seems trivial, he thinks. Why would he waste time doing something he didn't enjoy? He had but one life, and while he was blessed with a long one, he still didn't wish to waste a moment.
And are you not wasting time now, sitting here in the grass? A voice asks from inside of his head.
"Perhaps I am." He replies aloud, as if there were anyone within miles to hear him. A slight smile appears on his face as the breeze picks up, making the tall grass rustle and tremble around him. Memories of rolling around on the plush ground, smiling and laughing flood back. But they're gone just as quickly as they appeared.
Why are you here? The voice inquires, and Thor merely returns a shrug. The smell of sweet berries in the far end of the field tempt him, but he stays still. Just a while longer, he thinks, and perhaps he won't miss him anymore.
It's a large request. One that fate itself isn't sure it can fill. That aching, longing sensation deep in Thor's chest will never fully heal. It can only be repaired, held back for a temporary time. Eight decades have passed since his brother's death, and still he mourns as if the accident were yesterday.
"You didn't listen." He mutters fondly, twirling a long strand of dried grass between his calloused fingers. It bends and snaps with the strain. As the pieces fall to the ground, he begins to stand up. There's still much he needs to accomplish. He walks forward until he's nearly at the edge of the mountain, overlooking all of Asgard. It's no wonder his brother always felt drawn to this place. The view is truly breathtaking.
The precipice is dangerously close. It's a steep fall to the bottom of the mountain, and a tall one, too - thousands of feet. Thor doesn't worry because he knows that, even if he were stupid enough to fall, he could easily use Mjölnir and fly away from danger.
He sits down once more, thick legs dangling over the cliff's edge, and smooths a heavy hand over the ground beside him. "I'm glad you have this view." He whispers, barely audible, as a solitary tear escapes his misty eye. It rolls slowly down his face before dropping to the ground. Moments later, a small, pink flower's head peeks up from the soil. Life, where Thor only sees death.
He looks over to the stone that marks his brother's grave, heavy and rough. Engraved on it in shaky handwriting is Loki. No last name, because Thor could not decide which his brother would want. Perhaps one day he'll bring his chisel to the mountaintop and choose one, but today is not that day.
Today is Loki's birthday, and after eighty years, no one remembers. Thor himself is the last æsir with any regard left towards the dead prince, but he cares as much as an army of men could. Of this he has no doubt.
He leans back, head resting against the cold stone. A warm breeze comes through again, and Thor can imagine that it's been sent by his brother. A message of thanks, for remembering. But that's the silly dreaming of a boy.
You're a fool, you know that. The voice says with the tiniest hint of affection.
"I know." He whispers, stretching his arms above his head. The grass whistles in the warm breeze as it washes over him like a comforting embrace. The smell of ice and fire, the smell of Loki hangs on the wind, although it's probably another of Thor's imagined slights. Wishful thinking has always been one of his biggest flaws.
He lies there, watching the clouds as they float by for what seems like hours, enjoying his brother's company. When the sun finally begins to wane over the horizon, he reluctantly stands up, turning to look at the marker once more before he leaves. "I miss you." He whispers as he pulls something out of his pocket - a Jötun winter lily, perfectly preserved with a bit of magic that Thor himself learned in the past eighty years. Loki always did love flowers. Thor brings it to his lips with shaky hands and plants a soft kiss on its petals before placing it on the stone, right among the other eighty blooms.
With that, and a final longing glance, Thor turns to leave. His hair is flowing softly in the wind as he stands tall on the edge, looking down at the ground below. He steps off with a sad smile.
Perhaps this time he won't save himself. Perhaps this time he'll let himself hit the ground, let some unlucky guard find Asgard's golden prince splattered among the rocky outcrops. He's got a letter in his pocket with his dying wish written on it, as he has for the past eighty years. Sloppy handwriting explains how he stole Loki's body right before the funeral, because he couldn't stand to see his brother being burned, and how he carried him to the mountaintop he loved as a child. It tells of how he buried him, tears rolling down his face, underneath a patch of his favorite flowers, and how when the last shovelful of dirt was set and the stone was placed, the plants bloomed more beautifully than they ever had before. It tells of how he wants to be buried next to Loki, looking out over that mountaintop for eternity, by his brother's side one last time.
And, as he looks down at the rapidly approaching ground, Thor thinks that it doesn't sound too bad.