At first, Thor isn't sure what saddens him most — the simple fact alone that he's once again standing in the familiar alabaster halls of the palace in which he'd grown up, or that it takes him a few long moments to remember where exactly he is in the first place.
In truth, he knows that it hasn't truly been that long. All logic would dictate that his memories of Asgard would still linger, just as freshly imprinted upon his mind, as they always had — memories of home that he could return to in the middle of the night, something to fill the emptiness when it crept up unsuspected. Still, in spite of all that, it feels as if it's been an eternity since he'd last stood there. At first, he tries to count the days, does the mental math of how long they were aboard the Statesman before the Mad Titan sent their hopes for a brighter future crumbling to the ground . . . but then realizes that he's not sure he wants to know the answer to that question. If he just pretends that it's only been a matter of days since he last breathed in that incense-heavy air, since he felt the cool breeze on his face while standing in the pristine courtyard, then perhaps those memories will hold fast just a little longer.
He doesn't think he can bear anything else leaving him anymore.
As he looks around the gilded halls, the years seem to pass by, innumerable, in the back of his mind. This had been the first place he'd ever truly called home, and in many respects, he supposes that it always will be. But in his heart, however much he hates to admit it, Thor can't help but think that he has another home now, too. Is it possible, even, for one person to feel so deeply attached to two separate places or ideas? Can he still think of Asgard as the one place to fill him with such a complete sense of belonging, when being with the Avengers on Earth gives him that same fulfillment, too? It's a befuddling situation he finds himself in, and he suddenly, desperately, wants to know what sort of answer his father would have had for him.
Even in dreams (for he knows by now he's dreaming, there's no other possible way he could be standing here on Asgard if he weren't) his heart still aches with the weight of all that loss.
What have I ever done, he often finds himself wondering, to warrant such cruelty? Surely the universe itself had to be testing him. Once upon a time, he'd dared to even believe that it was all preparation, the fates themselves building up his strength, bolstering his endurance so that he would have the will within him to at last bring Thanos' reign to an end. But that was folly — he'd done everything he could to stop the titan, and he'd failed. And because of his failure, how many more people had suffered losses at the hands of that monster? All that innocent blood still weighs so heavily upon him that at times, it seems impossible to withstand.
Is he even worthy to stand here anymore? Will there be anyone waiting for him, when the time to ascend to Valhalla himself arrives at last? Or will he ever even get that far? After all, he's not entirely convinced he deserves a hero's parting.
Perhaps that's what this dream is intended to mean — a great, enormous palace, shimmering like cut glass in the high, bright sunlight, all completely empty. Nothing to keep him company but some impressive marble statues and the sound of his own breathing cutting through the heavy silence. Maybe, Thor thinks, this is a sign of what is yet to come — what awaits him in the afterlife. Just nothing, just isolation.
It's only then that he hears a voice, one so familiar to him that it cuts him through to the very core: "It certainly took you long enough. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever deign to show up."
Hardly daring to believe it, Thor turns around, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of the man standing before him. It's his brother — Loki, right there in the flesh, not so much as even the tiniest scratch upon his skin to even hint at the gruesome fate that he'd met on the Statesman. And of course, his first thought is: an illusion? Because surely Loki cannot be here, no matter how many times he's been tricked into believing his brother had died in his arms. This time . . . this time he'd been so certain it was true. Only then does he remember, with the slightest pang of disappointment in his chest, that he's dreaming, and of course none of this is real. It's simply his mind, emulating his yearning for the family he's lost. When this ends — when Thor wakes up again — Loki will be gone forever.
"What are you doing here?" is Thor's brusque, shocked greeting, his eyes and brain still trying to drink in all the details at once, worried that he'll forget them if he doesn't concentrate hard enough.
An amused, if not somewhat rueful smirk touches the corners of Loki's thin mouth. "What a warm welcome," he quipped. "Your hospitality is truly unparalleled."
Once, Thor might have been compelled to give in to the temptation that runs through him now, the one telling him to sink into this familiar, easy banter with his brother, to enjoy the time he has with him again. But he's developed a more jaded attitude now; in some ways, he supposes he's become just as guarded as Loki himself had often been in life. Why let himself indulge in these fantasies of having his home and family restored once again? Why let himself live and dwell in these false hopes, when the real world waited for him, stark and cold, just beyond the safety of his closed eyelids? Letting himself truly delve into these moments with the joy and relief that he once might have would only hurt too much when he eventually has to wake up again. And he can't do that to himself anymore — can't keep trying to process this grief.
"Well, what else am I to say to you?" Thor answers, folding his arms resolutely across his chest. "You aren't my brother. This isn't Asgard. It's only a dream."
To his surprise — well, he supposes he's actually not all that surprised, considering who he's talking to — Loki gives a somewhat derisive snort as a response. "An astoundingly narrow-minded stance from which to view it," he says, his voice oozing that trademark Loki disdain. "Then again, that's hardly surprising; critical thinking was scarcely ever your forte, was it?"
Who could ever have thought that something as simple as Loki's insults could have gotten Thor to feel a thousand things, all entangled within one another, all at once? Unraveling that complicated knot of emotion would take time and careful attention, to be sure. In his heart of hearts, he's simply overjoyed to hear his brother's voice again, in spite of the stinging pain that each syllable sends to the fresh wounds grief has left on his heart. What he wouldn't give to be able to bicker with Loki one last time, and now here the opportunity is, even if it isn't real at the end of the day. And yet, somehow all the happiness makes it hurt more than ever. Losing Frigga had made him grapple with the permanence of death enough on its own, but when you add Odin and Loki to the mix too, it all just becomes too much for him to handle on his own.
And most of all? It's painful because of the guilt. He can't look Loki in the eyes, not without thinking of his last dying breaths being robbed from him by Thanos' tight fists, or thinking of the bodies of innocent Asgardian refugees littering the wreckage around them. He sees in his younger brother's eyes all the people that he, son of Odin, failed to keep safe.
"I can't be here anymore," he admits at last, more willing as always to be the more vulnerable of the two of them. "I do not want to see any more of this. Why are you torturing me so?"
"Much as I would relish the privilege," replies Loki, and in spite of the icy lilt to his voice, they know each other well enough to understand that he's simply joking, "in this particular instance there's no torture involved. This is your dream, Brother, and you may leave this place whenever you like."
The unspoken truth passes between them, clear as day — if Thor had truly wanted to leave by now, he would have. His mind would have rescued him from this place, jolted him awake in the dead of night. But he's still here . . . still home.
And with that realization, Thor takes a deep, shuddering breath, dimly aware in that distant sort of way one has in dreams, that there are unshed tears prickling at his eyes. His throat suddenly feels far too tight — swallowing feels like moving his Adam's apple past a sea of sharp, jagged rocks. Though both of the siblings had, in their more recent years, adopted a somewhat guarded, prideful attitude towards one another, Thor has always been the more emotionally forward of the two. When Loki cries, it's because he's kept it all inside for so long, bottled it all up until he reaches a breaking point and simply has to exhaust the energy somewhere; Thor's crying is something subtler, something handled with greater care. Thor handles his sadness in the loving, tender sort of way one might treat a beloved family pet. He nurtures it, doesn't deny it the chance to flourish when it needs to — he's only frightened that it might grow too strong under all that nursing, and one day rise up too strong for him to regain power over, swallowing him whole with it.
"I am sorry, Brother," he finds himself saying at last — though, sorry for what, he's not sure. For letting Loki die at Thanos' hands? For letting all of Asgard get blown to smithereens? For the half of all human life that was now extinguished from the universe? His voice shakes, even after clearing his throat, weighted down with the thickness of tears as he murmurs, "We lost. He was too strong for us. Too strong for me. I had the chance to kill him once and for all, and I — I — " coward that he is, he can't even make himself finish that sentence.
He's not sure what exactly is reflected in Loki's eyes. Much as Thor likes to consider himself something of an expert where figuring out his brother is concerned, at the moment Loki's expression is nigh unreadable. But he thinks — perhaps it's wishful thinking at that — he sees a grim sort of understanding settling in there in those matching pools of clever green.
The silence between them seems to span for a painful eternity before at last, Loki says with an almost anti-climatic straightforwardness, "And that's that, is it? You've nothing more to say for yourself?"
Thor flinches back from the harshness in his brother's tone, though he can't say he's necessarily surprised by it. As close as he and Loki had started to become before he'd passed away — as close as two people whose relationship had been so damaged for so long ever could hope to be — his younger brother had always been something of the "tough love" sort. He supposes in his own dream, he'd expected there to be a bit more kindness between the two of them, but . . . well, he has to admit, there's something comforting about how closely this apparition version of Loki matches the personality of the real thing. Ironic as it is, given their history, Thor realizes with a wave of emotion so bittersweet it threatens to topple him over that he wouldn't have it any other way.
Still, he finds himself desperately searching for words, an explanation — for something that won't disappoint the brother who had given his life to ensure they stopped Thanos for good. When that effort flounders, he can only stammer, now stripped of that bravado he'd once worn so well, "I wish there were more. I wish I could have done more. I tried — we all did — but I . . . right when it mattered, when I had the chance to do something right, I — I failed, Loki."
The fact that there's no surprise whatsoever on Loki's face at these words is a surprise in itself. Thor blinks, astounded by his brother's nonchalance.
"I said from the start we had little hope of any other outcome," Loki concludes at last, in that very same above-it-all tone of voice that had once upon a time vexed Thor so. "You forget I'd experienced the power Thanos possesses firsthand, myself, all those years ago. Don't think for a moment that I didn't realize what it was we were walking into."
Thor certainly believes it; somehow, he's under the impression that all of them knew, deep down, that they were more or less doomed from the outset. But he hadn't wanted to accept it, hadn't dared even consider it, because when you're supposed to be a hero . . . when you have all that responsibility . . . how could he have brought himself to think such things?
And for the first time since he plunged Stormbreaker deep into Thanos' chest, for the first time since he watched his companions turn to ash around him, Thor admits the one thing that's been weighing on his mind: "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."
The smirk returns to Loki's pale, angular features as its own rueful ghost. "And when have you ever taken stock in asking for my advice on anything?" The quip is achingly familiar— how he wishes that this could just be real, not a dream from which he'd eventually wake.
With a soft, sad chuckle, Thor replies, "I suppose now would be just as good a time as any to start."
Loki certainly doesn't need any more encouraging than that. With a thoughtful sigh, he begins to speak, pacing slowly back and forth as he does. "As I see it, there are two options for you to take into consideration. The first — and I suppose, the easiest — is to let it lie. Go back, start whatever semblance of a normal life you can salvage for yourself, and accept matters as they are."
"So — give up?"
Loki shrugs, looking for all the world completely apathetic. "As I said, an option. Your second choice is to keep going. You decide whether or not this is truly over. You very nearly stopped him the last time — and what could one last try hurt? Even if you should fail again, you've little else to lose." A short pause, and then: "I told you one day the sun would shine upon us again."
Thor is surprised at the hesitation that he finds settling into the pit of his stomach. Just how many more attempts at heroism did he have left in him? Much as he hated to admit to it, he was beginning to grow immensely tired, a weariness that sank deep into his bones. Not just physical, but on a mental and emotional level, as well. Tired of always losing that which he loved most; he'd already had to say goodbye to his brother, his father, his mother, and even the very home planet on which he'd been raised. Asking himself what more he could possibly lose was what had gotten him into this situation in the first place, and now he had an answer to show for it. What more could he lose? Though Loki might think otherwise, the answer isn't always as simple or as selfish as that. The fact remains that even if Thor Odinson has lost everything, there are others out there who haven't, who are only now experiencing real grief. And if there's even a slight chance that another failure could possibly make it even worse for them . . . then he's not sure he can bring himself to try.
He wants to say all this, and when he draws breath and begins to form words, he thinks he just might. But instead, the syllables falter on their way out; they're too vulnerable, too raw for him to say out loud. They threaten to strangle him, so it's all he can do to choke out instead, "I can't. Not again. Not this time, Brother."
Loki fixes him with a long, level stare. For the first time since they've arrived here in his dream, Thor sees some of that familiar iciness in his brother's gaze that had once made him such a formidable foe. He wants to turn away from the judgment there, his guilt weighing too heavily on his shoulders, but he wills himself to keep his gaze from wavering. If he's going to turn down his brother's encouragement, then he needs to at least give him the dignity of making eye contact as he did.
"If you truly are just going to run back with your tail between your legs," said Loki, his voice flat and even, that same veiled attempt at calm as always, "and let that monster win, all to your pride . . . then you really are the fool I always took you for."
And it's with that damning sentence that the dream begins to fade, the world around him melting, like water thrown onto a fresh oil painting. His vision blurs and spins, and a scream tears itself from the back of Thor's throat, raw and painful, as he jolts awake in the middle of the night — no longer in Asgard, but a tiny fishing village in a secluded part of Norway. The same place where he'd once watched as his father had died.
Heart pounding, entire body racked with shakes and chills, he stumbles from his tiny makeshift cot, fumbling about in the darkness.
And drowns his remorse in another drink.