He was so cold.
Frigid ice lashing through his veins, piercing through his skin and chilling the marrow of his shaking, rattling bones. It had turned his lungs brittle and raw. And each breath whispered through the aching, fleshy pink wounds that remained- tangible reminders of the Jotun's wrath.
Fandral shuddered beneath the thick layers of scratchy wool blankets, his body convulsing with helpless shivers. At his bedside, Hogun's expression was unreadable and reserved, a stony countenance as he sat vigil over his best friend's side. If he was as wracked with doubts as the other warriors, it was drowned beneath necessity and loyalty; Fandral could not be left alone.
He could recover. But the scars would remain.
With a leaden sigh, Hogun gripped the sliding weight of Fandral's blankets, dragging them back over his friend's shaking body. With luck, he would sleep longer... There would be no joyous news to relay when he woke.
-
They had done all they could. Had fought, and bled, to spare the innocent Midgardians from Loki's maddened rage. The odd, modern streets bore the brunt of their battle, scorched and blackened- but buildings could be repaired, and in time the vestiges of destruction would fade. Such was the way of war.
From his chamber windows, Fandral could see the great, gleaming span of the Rainbow Bridge, severed and ragged now. The frayed edges glittering diamond-bright and fractured, an aborted path through the blackness of the star-studded nothingness.
The void that cradled Asgard, the negative space between the strong branches of the Great Tree.
And for the third night in a row, Fandral woke with his pillow clutched tight beneath his cheek; face buried in the herbal sweetness that he could almost imagine still lingered in the linen threads.
Thor grieved for his Jane, for the empty space that separated them.
And for a wretched, treacherous moment, Fandral despised him the ease of his suffering. The quiet sympathy of his companions, their gentled words in his presence. What did he know of pain?
When it was only days and distance that divided them, and Thor could cling tight to the truth that they would be together again.
And he... His...
It had never been love between them. Had never been dressed in delicate trappings and flowery promises. But it had been years of learning to fall asleep with Loki's slight weight against his chest. And knowing that, nearly every time, he would be gone by morning. Of smirked, inside jokes across the feast hall; and stolen moments with his quicksilver words scrawled across the inside of his mind, and tingling on his lips.
Heartsick and exhausted, Fandral threw the traitorous pillow across the room, ignoring the thump as it struck the wall, and slumped to the floor.
He was gone. Beyond hope and light, beyond the edges of the world, where not even Heimdall could seek out his shade. A choked, sob of laughter bubbled up on his throat, muffled between his palms as he folded them over his face.
There were rules. Heroes were never meant to mourn the villains.