Story inspired by this video: [you tube dot com slash] watch?v=-BFeAY-eTD4 (The Wretched, by Wittchbllade)
Thor pushes through the gates, taller than three heads, with spires black and pointed. Around him, the revelers gather. Humanoid, most of them; though their eyes are bright with unnatural reds, oranges, glowing greens; teeth filed to sharp points; they move both slow and fast, almost languid until catching sight of a sudden form the limb has moved with unnatural swiftness; they dance, or they stand unnaturally still, only the eyes moving. All of them, all in bright finery; edgings and trimmings and painted lips open wide. There are beasts, too, in the crowd. Some chained, some free; some half-man and crouching. Thor tries to brush through without being caught, through carnival stands and the deep sky above him, blue-black; to the table where many sit at state, cloth laden with food of a million hues all rolling piled careless. There Loki sits beside the pale-faced queen, long claws resting on his arm. His own clothes are familiar armor, and yet subtly different, in a way Thor cannot place but which puts him in mind of these strange creatures' style; his hair rests long down to his shoulders, eyes lidded and smile thin. A thin golden chain is looped around his neck; his collar open; he rests his hands upon the table, fingers cased in soft leather that opens at the tips.
As he steps up to the table they turn as one; a sinuous movement of heads and accusing stares, this interloper in their nightmare realm. He tightens his grip on Mjolnir and returns it, facing the queen. She eyes him coldly, her breath exhales; she could be made of wax, all her fine brocaded skirts and jewels. With a tilt of her head, she meets Loki's eyes, and he stands; walking forward with an easy grace, a predatory litheness both open and dangerous.
"I've come for my br—"
"Peace," the queen says. "Let him speak."
Thor looks again at Loki, unwillingly. There is something of the nightmare in his eyes, and he looks so natural with it, as though he belongs here. He does not. That is why Thor had come, to take him home, to rescue him from—
A hand resting upon his shoulder, and Loki looks at him with the first hint of true emotion, a regret that slips its way between his lips. "Why have you come here?"
"To save you."
They throw their heads back and laugh, teeth flashing, sharp. His hair whips behind him, curling, and when their eyes meet again, Loki's are empty.
The fingers trace their way over warmed metal and to the seam of cloak that curves down in heavy drapes, assured. He grasps the edge, avoids Thor's confusion, his brow furrowed. He pulls, and the cloak falls; the metal falls with it, the leather and mail all fall.
Thor falls, the ground cold and wet with dew, the grass trampled, Loki kneels above him, leaning close to his ear. "We have to keep you, don't you understand?" he says, and his warm breath lingers. "You should not have come. You don't belong here. You didn't have to come. Why do you always have to save me?"
He's speaking but the words are meaningless, a rolling utterance that continues as he pushes down slowly, pressing lips to skin.
It changes sometime to "I'm sorry," but Thor doesn't know when.
When the moon rises full the cage of stone shakes with a beast's roar. Loki stands before him and screams back, desperation and fury; but the beast does not listen. He rips the chains free and leaps from the window, falling in sharp shattered glass. The beast roams through the nightmare-land, full of creaturous forms that are hollow and half-made. It can see beneath the glamour and their skin is raked with scars. They dance, pressing their blood into the earth.
The gates are shut, and though Thor rails against it, banging till his fists are stinging and his throat is raw, they will not let him back in. He does not belong there. The sun has risen and the way is lost.
Loki is lost.
.
.
.
The End
Note: this story has no plot. I have no idea what it's even supposed to be.