Disclaimer: Everything recognizable belongs to Paramount Pictures, Marvel Entertainment & Marvel Studios (godsdamnit !) - though my gut tells me Loki 'n' Thor may well have their own ideas about that … No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: If this sounds vaguely familiar, it's 'cause I couldn't resist tinkering with parts of a deleted story of mine for a different fandom and thought it'd work well for short Loki/Thor one-shot.
WARNING: Very AU. Contains violence and hints towards the possible death of a major character.
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An Ill Omen
One by one they fell beneath the mighty hammer. Never to rise again. Only to lie where they were struck down. Unseeing eyes staring lifelessly up at the darkening skies. Pale skin stained a stygian black. Their life force pooling into the mud, tarnishing slippery ground with its inky hue.
Yet one by one they continued to attack. Relentlessly. Like a tidal wave. Insurmountable. And deadly. And no matter how hard he fought. How skilful he was ... in spite of all of his experience, his wisdom and his cunning on the battlefield, still they kept coming. Seemingly out of nowhere. Like a demonic army. Slowly, yet persistently, wearing him down. Draining him of his strength ... his infamous stamina. Yet he continued to fight. Consumed by blood lust, he ignored his weariness out of sheer bloody mindedness and a grim determination not to give in without a damn good fight and to take down as many of his enemies as he could in the process.
Scarlet beads ran down Mjolnir's head and handle, dripping like tiny droplets into the soil. Similar drops spattered his face and hands, along with the mud and grime; his long, thick, golden mane was slickened and dulled by the heavily falling rain. The rainfall made the conditions treacherous. Made the trampled ground slippery underfoot and he knew even the slightest distraction or lapse in concentration could easily lead to his downfall. His demise ...
The stormy weather reflected his mood. Brought out the darkness in his soul. Intensified his hatred for his enemy. Everywhere he looked, pale corpses littered the ground. All he could see was death. Destruction. And a neverending river of pain and blood. He'd never smelt so much fear and confusion in one place. The stench of death - of blood - was overwhelming. Sickly sweet and cloying, with a slight metallic tang. The air reeked of decay along with the combined odour of sweat and leather.
The only sounds which could be heard were the sounds of battle: steel blades being struck; the creak of worn leather and the chink of mail and plate often followed by the agonized cries of men as they fell. He heard the roar of blood rushing in his ears; felt his heart race and pound frantically, then suddenly ...
Nothing.
Silence.
Then he felt it. The godsawful, fucking agonizing pain at the back of his legs as cold steel wickedly and efficiently cleaved his hamstrings. He stumbled. Brought up his sword to parry off an attack to his front. Concentrating fiercely upon the Dark Elf, he was unaware of numerous adversaries closing in from behind. He continued to fight ... to defend himself, despite the excruciating pain. Cobalt eyes fixed with deadly intent on the ghostly-hued devil before him. One who teased and taunted him with his blade. He stumbled once more and as he tried to gain his equilibrium, he gave a sharp gasp. Lethal steel cut effortlessly through the weakest part of his armour, slashed deeply into the thick leather which protected his right flank. It went deep into his flesh. Burning. Stealing him of his breath. Robbing him of his essence. His strength ... and power.
He fell to his knees and immediately, determinedly, tried to rise to his feet. Icy blue eyes blazed with inner fury as his lower limbs refused to obey his command. The Elves closed in upon him, like a pack of circling wolves scenting their prey's blood. Resigned to his fate, he closed his eyes briefly, only too aware that this would be his final battle and prayed to Valhalla that when the end came, it would come quickly.
Slowly, his eyes flickered open. They shone with defiance and unconcealed hatred. There was a sharp tug as a hand painfully twisted in his thick mane, roughly drawing his head back. Exposing his throat - his vulnerability - to a mortally sharp blade which flirted with his skin. His lips curled into a cold, contempt-filled smirk. And in a final act of defiance, he raised his neatly bearded chin higher, silently taunted them ... dared them to do their worst ...
And that was when Loki suddenly woke. Her brilliant emerald eyes haunted. Fearful. She trembled violently. Uncontrollably. Distressed, Loki huddled beneath the furs, curled in a foetal position and felt mind-numbingly cold ... as if she'd never feel warm again. Silent tears coursed down her face as she screamed into the furs for the one who meant everything to her, praying desperately to the Norns that what she'd forseen would never come to pass. The loss of the one who gave her life meaning.
Thor ...
FINIS