Thud.
Mjolnir fells another Jotun.
Thud. Thud.
Two more.
He sees his arm, a blur of red and harsh metal against the blinding white of fresh snow, strike out, again and again.
He remembers his lessons as a boy. He remembers how to throw knives with enough force to bring down a Jotun. He remembers how to dodge and counter Jotun attacks. He even remembers their susceptibility to the heat and how to exploit it.
He remembers all of this, but he has no use for those lessons anymore.
Thud.
How many? He's lost count. Mjolnir continues to strike down anything that moves, friend or foe, human or Jotun or Aesir.
It does not matter.
They're all the same now. Water was spilt upon the canvas and now all the colours bleed into one. The result is a violent green streak that mars the purity of the fresh snow, crimson flecks spreading as quickly as fresh wounds bleed.
The painting is ruined, unable to be saved.
Why should he try?
Thud. Thud.
It doesn't stop, the repetitive thudding as broken bodies hit the ground after Mjolnir crumples and discards them like scraps of paper with burnt out ideas scribbled upon them. Because that's what they are, he decrees. Ideas that never came to fruition, left to fester and grow stunted from neglect.
The thing about ideas is that they all start off bright and blinding as the dying star in its final moments, promising new beginnings, new purpose for the beholder.
But then they fade after a while. They come to a standstill. They start to scatter and leave behind fragments of the brilliance for anyone who has the will to put them back together and see the idea through.
The lucky few.
Some are not so fortunate.
For some, their fragments are their own to pick up and sort through and unintentionally cut themselves upon a jagged edge every once in a while. Eventually though, they'll have made enough of a mess to spark some piteous life back into them. Just enough.
In doing so, he regrets that they lose parts of themselves that perhaps they once cherished.
He knows one would-be King who did.
He also knows that it changes them. Often for the worse.
"Thor, the battle is done!" he hears someone cry. It doesn't quite register, and another blow from Mjolnir pushes it out of his mind.
Thud.
The distinct noise of bodies hitting the ground settles in his mind like a steady rhythm upon which he balances, dodging and killing one after another after another and another. It becomes something he slowly, but surely, begins to fall back on when his vision is tinged with blurry uncertainty, like looking through frosted glass.
They're still coming. They're still attacking. How can this fight be over?
Something hits him. Hard. He reels back, his eyes catching a flash of earthly green and bright gold. The rhythm is shattered and he feels Mjolnir fall to the ground. He hears the sharp crack of ice as the hammer hits home and a memory of Jotunheim reaches him. He knows where he is.
"Thor, stop and listen." he hears another voice, but this time it lingers just besides him, as though the owner was speaking into his ear. The voice is so familiar, so close. He knows it. He remembers it. He remembers the accented tones, a strange mix of low, Jotun inflictions and clear Asgardian resonance in between strings of Svartalfheimian intonation. It belonged to only one person in the entire Nine realms. A person he knew all too well for his own good.
"Loki." he breathes, shoulders dipping with relief but he doesn't quite know why. All thoughts of battle have long since dissipated. He wants only to listen now.
"You're not doing as I told you. As I taught you. Listen." Loki speaks again, but he seems further away now. Thor doesn't like the sudden, gaping distance between them, and makes to move closer, but his feet seem frozen solid to the very ground he stands upon.
He opens his mouth to protest, but stops himself. Listen. To what? He strains to hear past the din of battle before he realises that there is silence.
"Loki? What's happened?" Thor sounds like a lost child.
"Sh! Listen carefully. Can't you hear?"
"I hear nothing! Loki!"
"Then look, you fool."
Thor stills, the bite to Loki's words fills him with a heavy dread. But he does as he is told. The blurry uncertainty seeps away, and is replaced with crystalline sight.
oOoOo
He now stands upon a ship's bow, one hand clasped firmly around a seldom-used flagpole. The ship is of typical Asgardian make, with a curved stern and bowsprit that recoils back on itself. The ship itself is full almost to the brim with gold trinkets and rubies and emeralds and sapphires atop a heap of firewood.
The sight is familiar to Thor, as young as he is. It's a funeral. Warriors who die in battle are laid to rest in a wooden ship filled with their belongings and gifts that will see them through to the doors of Valhalla. So why, then, is he standing here?
Here, and not with Loki on Jotunheim?
Ever searching, his gaze moves from a cluster of emeralds and serpentine stones to the centre of the hollowed out vessel.
He thinks he should've expected the sight that greeted his eyes.
Pale hands, spidery fingers clasped around the sword Lævateinn, are folded atop a still chest, partially obscuring a gold-wrought chestpiece that Thor had seen many times before, along with the rich green Vanaheim cotton that is worn as a tunic under thick, black leather and gold plated armour, engraved with the World Serpent, Jormungandr upon his right shoulder and the Fenris Wolf upon the upper arm. His vambraces have been polished, and in the dying light of the day Thor can read runes that he knows enough about to translate them into 'Byleistr', whom he knows as the fallen's beloved brother.
A pang of jealously strikes Thor, it's a sharp, unwelcome heat above his chest that lingers for too long.
His eyes continue to drift upon the lifeless form of Loki Silvertongue, whether he wants them to or not.
It's too much and not enough all at once.
Death does not suit Loki. The pale, gaunt look upon his face makes him look more like an unfortunate victim of a famine as opposed to the glory of death in a bloody and violent battle that usually became the end of a great warrior.
Which Loki was, for all his faults.
oOoOo
A few moments pass, and something on the darkening horizon has caught Thor's attention. It's growing bigger and bigger, and Thor never really sees what it is until it hits him.
oOoOo
He's blinded and numbed, his senses trapped in oblivion.
He hears muffled shouting. He can feel steady weights on his shoulders, and every so often they move in rapid, jerky movements. It's irritating and he wants to stop it, but he can't bring himself to move.
Instead, he wills himself to open his eyes, and he finds himself staring into bright blue. The Captain.
"Alright, we got him back. Bruce? You wanna check him out? He looks kind of dazed."
"Hey, Pointbreak, welcome back!" Thor turns his head a little, and sees the familiar face and impressive facial hair of the metalcrafter, Stark. Thor feels his lips twitch slightly in a half-grin that feels lopsided in his current position, flat on his back.
"What happened?" Thor finds his voice, although croaky and sounding rather strained.
"You got hit by.. something. I gotta be honest, I don't even know what happened. One minute you were there and the next.. poof." Tony made an exploding motion with his hand and sat back.
"Whatever it was, it was fast, green and dangerous and definitely not the Hulk." Steve crouches back down next to Thor after conversing with Banner, looking concerned for the most part.
"And who's 'Loki'?" a new voice joined in the chatter, and Thor can see the archer approaching. "You were shouting for him or something."
Green. Fast. Dangerous. Thor repeated the words in his head, feeling his half-grin turn into a lazy smile as he looked back up skywards, forgetting to grace the archer with an answer as he muttered to himself.
"Dead for centuries and still teaching me how to fight. Devious bastard."
"Aye, although you are getting a little rusty, Odinson."