It started one morning like a seed at the base of his neck, a bothering lump that shifted little when lithe hands played with the area. It hid underneath his black hair, underneath his skin, seemingly so far away from his magic that he couldn't grasp it and pull it out. It grew to an egg, slipping down to his collar bone, nesting there as he went about his Manhattan apartment. It hatched little by little as the day wore on into days, grasping all of his attention in every activity he performed.
It grew painful on this morning, sending a spasm through his body. It gripped his gut, but slithered further up as the day progressed. Like a snake it twirled through him and coiled around his stomach as he fixed a small meal. His magic snapped and crackled around it, only to be bounced off. It was a curious feeling. Something Loki had never quite experienced. It nipped its way in between his lungs, its huge girth beginning to overtake his heart. All then was pain and a tugging, a magical calling. Something else spoke in the back of his mind, that he had heard of a plot happening today of Doom's construct. He felt the weight shift in his chest cavity, tugging at his heart and every knitted muscle that it was made up of. That same thought accused Doom of planting this seed, yet another worded that it wasn't the metal man's magic. It felt like something that preceded humanity, outdated even the greatest of god and men. It had the feel of old parchment and the texture of sand paper at the same time, gentle and soft to one inch of skin and unforgiving to the next. Even as pain racked his body, scrapping its yellowed nails down his back to his ankles, he began to feel the pulling ease up. It was like a lost child, whose fit was coming to a close as the mother approached, reproachful yet enthralled that her babe was fine. Loki felt his mind reach for the answer—it scared him to feel his mind so detached, so not a part of his physical make up—and return with nothing.
Loki felt the shrouded hands of fright lay down on his shoulders, and the air began to catch in his throat and tempt him into a fit. Yet he remained—as much as he could—struggling his way out of the panic that threatened to engulf. It was unlike the myths and legends, this raw emotion, as the snake began to move again. Loki startled, his mind lashing out with his magic as the snake seemed to transmit the picture of a man he knew too well, lying stilled on the pavement without the glitter of life that his lightened blue eyes conveyed. The tugging continued, urging him to teleport, to take up his magic in the art of transportation and act upon these events. Agony touched him again, his body quaking from hurt and his head becoming light. If it continued, it would only get worse. Loki's magic wrapped around him like a shawl, forming his simple black armor to the wisps of his frame before reaching outwards to the feelings of the man he once called a brother. The snake slipped out of him silently between the realms of reality and the unknown.
It pulled him onto the battlefield, doombots smashed and automobiles wrecked. It was like all the weight was ripped out of him, and Loki stumbled, unaccustomed to his normal stature. The snake was gone, but now a voice was urging him, 'Find Thor, Find Thor, Find Thor.' He weaved through the scrap metal, ducking when a blast came to close. His pace quickened when he saw the Doctor and Thunder God locked in heated combat. Magic gathered around his fist, a protection rune ready to run from his lips and brand the golden god. It died quickly in his hand as the battle turned—Thor looks up just as a doombot smashes into his side. With a bestial howl, the God of Thunder knocks Doom aside, leaving his back unguarded from his enemy. The Trickster casts his eyes up as lightening struck the metal robot from his side. He hears the whir of the Man of Iron, the twang of the one he once controlled, the vibrations as the Captain's shield knocks another bot away. There's the roar of their green creature charging through the destroyed streets. They're all rushing the epicenter. Green mist engulfs his hand as another spell leaves his lips, the quick flash striking a metal monstrosity out from behind his adopted brother. The smell of cedar and snow filled the air, sickingly sweet to his turning stomach. His head went back under a dizzy spell, his eyes widened as he saw the Man of Iron launch a beam at his incoming enemy, then as an arrow flew to hit the one behind him. Loki refocused, everything coming back into sharpened focus. Was it not a spectre or a sign that granted him with the image? Why was he caring so much? Loki felt something twist in him, and he almost cried out for the snake had left, yet there was still feeling! His eyes flew about with quick flickers, like a flame leaping from patch to patch.
"Thor!" Loki bellowed, his hands rushing down to push against the ground, his legs awkward beneath him as he began regaining his wits, his hands flashing to his sides as another robot round on him. With a swirl, the head mechanism was skittering away and the trickster turned again with a flourish just to see the Doctor pull out an insidious little thing, hardly the size of a quill. The tiny weapon glowed an unearthly yellow in his outstretched hand. At that point, Loki swore that everything slowed down. Thor's eyebrows went up, following the Trickster's gaze over his shoulder. He registers the way his breath catches in his throat for the kin he had constantly casted off. He hears the Widow's voice through the transmitter hooked around the other god's ear, how she's speaking quickly. A beam charging up in a suit flying up above. The distant sounds of cars—SHIELD, most likely—moving through traffic to reach the scene. Lastly, Loki could feel the way that everything that was power was being sucked into that device. Then there's screaming and Loki's not sure if it's him or the device but Thor goes flying past him, landing about nine steps away and Loki feels destruction at his fingertips. Like the magic before, the blast filled everything with the smell of cedar, but a woodfire scent danced in the air as Doom was blown away by the strike. The Trickster God doesn't linger, running to Thor's side. A mixture of languages is pouring from his lips, some human and others inhuman. Some of it is just blubbering, as he pushes his magic towards the gaping, glowering wound. The tanned skin is no longer its golden hue, and the younger is sobbing at him to get up.
The Avengers all approach, removing masks and dropping weapons, watching the fallen god scream at the one meant to stand tall. SHIELD is soon on scene, and yet Loki grips Thor's breastplate, begging the god to once again breath, blink. Fury's at Steve's shoulder, and they all remain silent as the tendrils of green leaving the Chaos God's hands begin to thin, like a hose emptying out after one disconnects the later. A flash of light cause the heroes to turn, a blonde woman dressed regally stepping between them, past them. Only seconds later Loki is down, his crying silenced, and she's turning to the one-eyed director.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? You're not authorized to be here." Fury barked, watching as the woman's face contorted from stricken to pure rage. Her blue eyes flared as she stepped toe to toe with the one-eyed man.
"I am the queen of Asgard, and I will do as I damn well please. That is my son lying dead on the pavement. That is my other son grieving. If you don't arrange for transportation to a comfortable location, then I will finish what the Chitauri could not." Frigga hissed, getting close enough to glare into the Director's one eye. When Frigga stepped back, Maria Hill was at his shoulder, whispering. He nodded for a moment, and then turned to Stark. Tony began to throw his hands up in protest, but the one-eyed mortal cut him off.
"Stark, I don't want any of your bullshit today. Take Loki—and Asgard's Queen—and get back to your tower. It'll be the best place in the motherfucking meantime. We know you have enough damn room." Fury asserted, looking between them all firmly. Tony looked between Steve and Fury as the latter walk off, Hill in step. Already, there were operatives picking up the unconscious trickster god and tending to the moving of—Thor. Tony knew he wasn't the only one who was coming to the realization that Thor was gone. Like a flash of lightning, just gone. Tony licked his lips, his throat almost suddenly dry and his eyes itchy, like wool. His face felt almost as numb as it did when he went to the dentist a few weeks back. Thor had laughed when he returned, slapping the side of his face with a hand as big and warm as a bear's paw. 'Only time I'd be able to take one of your hits, huh?' Tony had said, Thor laughing in reply. 'Perhaps, my friend.' It was loud, as if he was reliving the memory. Tony blinked and found stray tears running down his face. He glanced again at the time to see he wasn't the only one—Steve's head was bowed, a hand wiping clumsily at his face. Clint was holding Natasha tightly against his chest, speaking quietly into her bright red hair. They had probably calmed Bruce down by now, and were trying to break it as softly as they could to the brown-haired doctor. Despite the fact that Thor wasn't anywhere near him—or any of them—in mortality, he died. He was dead. Nothing could fix that, and nothing ever would. They had all lost something. The Avengers had lost a friend, his family had lost a child, and the human kind had lost a comrade in the ever impending clash of alien races.
For the first time, Tony was completely quiet after a mission.
Everything had been situated. Thor was to have a proper Asgardian funeral, and the Queen had made it very clear that they were welcome in Asgard from here until their own passing. She was bustling about, checking Loki over every few minutes, pressing to shining fingertips to his head. Tony managed to catch her in the kitchen. He was still upset—they all were—but he had already picked up the bottle for a few rounds. He leans against the counter, feeling surprisingly sober in her presence. She turned to him after opening a cabinet, eying him down for a moment. "Do you have anything of a sweet variety?" Frigga questioned, her hands moving around in the shelves, looking for nothing in particular. Tony felt himself wondering offhandedly if she could read English as the goddess pulled a cereal down. "Anything that's warm and a liquid will do fine."
"What do you need it for?" Tony shot back, drumming his fingertips on the counter of the island he was perched on. He was in a AC/DC shirt a jeans now, and he was pretty sure that he'd get beat senseless for dressing as such if he was on Asgard. Thor's home. Chasing the thought away, he began to ponder if he had enough scotch to knock him out for a week. You can't do that. You can't abandon the team like that. Tony decided, despite how right that voice was, he hated it. Hated it for its reason in light—on the afternoon—of such an event. He hardly blinked when Frigga turned to him fully.
"Loki's always had a taste for sweets, but I doubt he will be capable of eating anything." Frigga evenly replied, her eyes making him feel about the size of an ant. It was like she was figuring the best way to dissect him and feed him to the dogs, and that wasn't something Tony liked feeling. At the same time, Tony cursed JARVIS for not reminding him to put the grocer list forward. They had finished the last bit of hot chocolate the last time it was below sixty degrees. With the blue eyes of the Queen—Thor's mother, he reminded himself—burning holes in him, Tony slipped off the counter and began to root around in the fridge. No chocolate or strawberry syrup, either. There was some milk, though, so he pulled that out. He was struck by an idea, and turned to Frigga.
"Would milk and honey do?" Tony queried, feeling relieved when the blonde nodded. He hadn't felt this scared of a blonde since one insisted on doing the manscaping with hot wax. It would be a great story to tell the guys, he thinks, but then it's replaced with the thought of Thor all over again. How he'd have a story about some shenanigans he or Loki pulled involving hot wax or pubic hair. Maybe both—but Tony would never know. Before he knows it, there are arms embracing him, a hand stroking his back. It's definitely Frigga, because she smells of warm vanilla and he feels the tears running down his face and similar tears staining his shirt sleeve. The hug doesn't last long, but apparently it's enough for Frigga to approve of him, because she's insisting that he should sit down and it'll all be okay. Tony's pretty sure by then that he still has a heart, or else there's a leak upstairs because this time the tears don't stop. He sinks back into a chair semi-facing the couch where Loki is finally starting to stir. His hands are knitted into his face, Tony's palms pressing into his eyes. No matter how he looks at it, he needs more alcohol. Losing a friend like him—Thor—entailed a lot of drinking. That's what they did up there, didn't they? Loki croaks, his hands slipping out of the blanket along the sides of the couch, vying for a chance to push himself up.
Tony stifles his tears, suffocating them to watch how the mother and child interact. Frigga's helping sit up, and his hand hardly lingers on her before jerking back, his eyes wide and glasses. She pushes a steaming mug into his hands, and Tony watches as so many emotions take over the features of someone so usually calm. Tears are already at the corners of his eyes, but by the time Tony blinks, they're dribbling out of the hooded eyes. The way that Loki's shoulders fall pathetically into the line speaks of someone who has given up—Thor's dead, there was no chance for hope—Tony knows all to well. It's not exact, but he's staring into a mirror. Hell, all of the Avengers are. Tony can't help but feel like he's making Loki's emotions smaller, though. For all that they care about Thor, Tony remembers that those two were brothers. They were raised together and meant to always be together. They were probably meant to die together. The Avengers were merely brothers-in-arms, knowing the blond for a little longer than a year's time.
"You are.. With child, mother." Loki says, his voice so quiet that it's almost lost in the static coming out of Tony's brain brain. Frigga's sitting closer, pulling him to her. "Do you intend to move on so quickly?" It's harsh, and Tony sees the waves of pain that radiate over Frigga. Her hand is petting his hair, playing with the longer ends. Playing—it's too happy of a word. Tony, for his entire IQ, can't think of another way to say it. He's too drawn in by the sheer interaction of the two in front of him.
"It was not planned." She murmured, her hands tangling in his curls. His face barely moves—it's still pained, grieved with loss. It's a vulnerability that almost makes Tony get up and leave, but he feels like he's glued to the seat. "Everybody dies eventually, Loki." Frigga admits, although it's clear she doesn't want to believe it either. That the golden son had fallen, sent early to the halls of Valhalla. Loki pushes away enough to look her dead in the eye.
"Gods aren't meant to die—not heroes. Not Thor!" He mourned, before dissolving into an insoluble mass of chaos, tears pouring from raven eyelashes like a heated rainstorm. Everything in Tony clenches up, the rain finding its way into his eyes as well. It's all he can do to stand up from his chair and leave the room, to give the gods space. If anything, he needs a little condolence himself in the form of amber liquid.
Hello, Quia here! This should be a quick 3-shot. I was up last night with this stuck in my head, and I decided to write it today. There will be eventually Frostiron. I want to say thanks for checking this out! I would like to take now for a few quick messages.
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