A/N: Got a prompt on Tumblr for Thor + Wordsworth's daffodils.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
.
Later, if Thor counted, he would count it as only a few weeks before he sent pride over heart, heart over head, to Jotunheim.
Later, if Thor remembers, he will pin no lines to Loki's brow in those days, not yet.
They were only princes, and bloodshed was the province of kings.
.
They sit with their backs to the sunset, because Loki's hands are moving in the air and no glimmer of star afar is needed to warm or entertain them.
Loki flicks his wrist and flowers, like stars up close, fall around them in a gleaming shower. He used to do this when they were children; used to capture some figment of light and spread it sheer across the world around them. Thor would watch in wonderment, and Thor wonders, now, if Loki has sensed his impatience and is trying to distract him.
The flowers are trumpet-like, fanned by a ruff of golden petals. The flowers sift through Thor's hands. He cannot catch them.
He also cannot be quite sure when he will be truly king.
"Out-did the sparkling waves in glee," Loki murmurs.
"What?"
"Nothing. Mortal poetry."
Thor watches his brother's thin lips curve upwards. Loki has a smile that is all charm and all secrecy. It has always been so, though his pranks are a thing of the past.
"How much of it is real?" Thor asks, because he always, always wants to know.
Loki's brow furrows. The flowers falter and fade. "None of it," he says flatly, and turns toward the sunset, so that the light burns bright against his pale features and Thor has to turn, too.
.
I'm not your brother, I never was.
I remember a shadow.
.
There are some things that even memory cannot bring back.
In childhood, Loki tested his luck and his wits and his world by pranks and games.
Loki rules by trickery still, but also by pain.
Thor spends half a decade—a blink of Asgardian time, and yet, how many knocks at his heart?—trying to recapture the collected presence, the warning hand, the soft voice.
The Midgardians have a story. A parable, they call it. The son who was cast out by his own ambition returns on his knees, begging for forgiveness. He does so with all the bold hope of someone who knew love once, and has thrown it away.
Thor's hand and hammer fly quickly, trusting to return.
The father, the parable tells, welcome the son's return.
And the brother who remained at home grinds his teeth, to see loyalty and a collected presence forgotten.
.
Space is cold and swift around them. Loki looks weary—there is no one for whom to perform. Thor speaks, and watches his brother stiffen to a familiar pose of yearning defiance.
"How much of it is real?" Thor means the battle, and the unexpected aid, and the way Loki's eyes met his when he proved that he was no longer an illusion.
Loki flinches. The defiance fades. Quietly, he says, "Do you want it to be?"
Thor blinks. Strange to do so, with one eye. He thinks of his father, and the way Odin called them his children, as though he had not cast their sister out. In the parable, there is no sister. Of course, Asgard has no home.
"Always," Thor answers. "Always, brother."
Loki leans his slight form against the bulwark of the ship. Over his shoulder, he says, "None of it is real." Then he half-turns, so his eyes meet Thor's. "But some of it is true. There's a difference."
.
Jane showed him the flowers, once. They waved in a flurry of tiny, crowned monarchs. Thor wondered at all that gold. Midgard has its surprises.
"They're called daffodils," Jane said. Her hand was small and warm in his.
"My brother showed them to me once," Thor said. "I did not know what they meant."
Jane shrugged. "We do give flowers meaning, here. Do you do that…in…" She always stopped just short of saying Asgard, whenever she could. "Daffodils mean rebirth. Or forgiveness. Different versions."
Thor kissed her, and the air was sweet.
.
His brother is dead. The ship is crumbling about them. Thor feels the icy tug of the void, feels his fingers lose their grasp against his brother's stiff leather jerkin.
Thor will die in the hollow maw of space, and Loki will crumble to dust in this tattered vessel. Loki, who has faded almost to Jotun blue. Loki, who never trusted anyone, not even himself.
Thor's consciousness is slipping, too. There is no sun here. Likely, there are no more suns for Thor.
The sun will shine on us again.
Loki's golden tricks, his shimmering defiance, his rain of flowers and his daggers and his secret heart.
Thor's eye closes. One thought holds fast, like a dying man to a ship, like a son to the loves of a cast-off home.
Loki was many things.
Some of them were true.
.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.