Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel, but I mean if they're willing to give me the rights, I'll gladly take them off their hands. Maybe change a couple things in Infinity War :)

A/N: Sorry for the delay! These past 2 weeks have been extremely busy, and I haven't been able to find the time to get a good flow of writing in. I'll be honest, I'm not super satisfied with the overall chapter, but there's definitely a section I absolutely adored writing. And I am so excited to write the next chapter! Thank you to all that left a comment! Each one really brightened my day and motivated me to get just a bit more of this fic written. Feel free to leave some more ;) Side note, also just rewatched Thor 1—can someone please save Hemsworth's eyebrows.

Warnings: Mild profanity, violence, and my continued disregard of mcu canon/ actualᶵ™ Norse mythology. Forgive me.

The hallway is a structure of all glass; wires of twisting bronze gild the large windows that frame the length of the corridor. Light streams in from the outside, in slants of honeyed gold made starker and more saturated by the dark, rain-swollen clouds above them. Below, the palace garden is a large square of vivid green. Vines twist around an old statue of Odin, circling around his neck and wrists in splurts of crimson roses—bright like fresh blood against the grey pallor of the stone.

Thor wishes he has time to admire it all, to appreciate that it's still here. That all of Asgard is here and not some mirage or figment or cruel cosmic deception. He wants to sneak open the window pane, recall the memories of his youth, tilt his head to the sun as a flower would thirst for its warmth after a flood.

Unfortunately, as evidenced by his entire life, Thor does not often get what he wishes. Especially not when he's doing his best to escape one particularly murderous god.

Loki is hot on his heels; the books clutched in Thor's arms slip from his grasp as he rounds past every corner. Many a palace wall is now scorched with the force of Loki's magic, a concoction of fire, acid, and undiluted hatred.

"THOR!" His brother's irritation is evident, practically rattles the windows of the glass hallway as he marches forward. His pale hands are fisted at his sides, and noxious green wisps swirl around them. The air crackles in sharp, ominous warning as the pressure of magic expands in front of his brother like an approaching storm.

"Now, Loki," Thor says, one hand thrust forward placantly, his eyes desperately searching for a way out. Alas, there is only the remainder of the long corridor and the windows as escape, and Thor doubts that he will be quick enough to flee his brother's wrath. "Let us be civil."

"Civil?" Loki hisses. He clenches his fists tighter, and green sparks ricochet from his hands, splintering the delicate glass upon landing—and why haven't any guards come to Thor's rescue? Damn the security of the palace. "You say something as—as blasphemous as that and have the gall to tell me to be civil?"

"Blasphemous? It is truth, brother."

Loki's nostrils flare, his steps pointed and loud against the glass floor, leaving smudges of ash and soot in their wake. "Truth? You must forgive me, lies come with mischief after all. It becomes hard to differentiate your words from complete bullshit."

"I am serious."

"No," He shakes his head, his jaw set. "It is impossible. This is a cruel joke you are playing, Thor. Taunting me with what I could never be."

"We were both raised to be kings."

"There is only one throne, and only one of us trained to sit upon it."

Thor smiles. "Then it's a good thing I told father I no longer deserve to be king."

A pause.

"You did what?" There's a look of uncomprehending horror slashed across his brother's face. Thor pushes down the urge to snort.

Your ambition blinds you, brother—is it really so hard to believe? If only you knew even the Thor Odinson of old would have given up the throne had he known the cost.

"I told father I was not ready for the throne. Someone else should be king until then, and I, being the smart one of the family, nominated you."

Loki only stares. The magic fizzles out of his hands, and the air lessens as the pressure of his sorcery dissipates. His mouth goes slack in disbelief. Thor gives himself a mental pat on the back for rendering Silvertongue himself speechless.

"Odin, help me. You aren't kidding."

"I never have been one to 'kid,' Brother. That's always been more your domain."

"You're an idiot."

"You wound me with your eloquence."

His brother frowns. "You're also being awfully mature about all this. How unlike you to think of more than just the glory of kingdom or battle." Loki stops for a moment, considering. "She must be one hell of a dead soul."

Thor winces, suppresses a groan of irritation. "Ah...yes. The best of them."

Gods above, Loki. Stop it with the dead soul romance.

Loki shakes his head, his brows furrowing. "And father is just—allowing this to happen? I don't quite believe that."

"Well, technically, no. He threw an almighty tantrum in the throne room—very dramatic, our father—but mother intervened. Spoke on your behalf."

It had surprised Thor, when in the midst of Odin's whipping rage and discontent, his mother had stepped in, soothed the Allfather with just a light brush of her fingers across his knuckles. The banners that flapped in the wild wind of Gungnir's power flopped back into place, the dark anger and frustration brewing in his father's eyes mellowed as he gazed at his beloved wife.

"Odin," his mother had started, voice lilting and pleasant, and Thor was reminded of why the All-mother had always been regarded as Asgard's true peace maker. Of course—the warrior king his father was would never have known bloodless rule otherwise. "Hear his reasons. Loki would make a fine king still. His heart is not wicked."

Odin stiffened, and Thor had to be careful to not show a reaction. Her words had been placating and kind, but her tone was sharp and bolstered with magic, betraying a fury ancient and deep set. She had smiled then, cupped her beloved's face with soft, knowing hands. But even Thor could see the edge at the corner of her smile, see who taught his brother the layered art of words.

After all, Frigga's message was one simple and pointed. And even Allfather would hesitate to insinuate otherwise.

Loki is not be Hela.

Thor's heart swelled from his mother's approving, considering glance as she looked up towards him. The soft and familiar twinkle in her eyes, the gentle ruffle of silk and gold beneath her steps, the waft of jasmine and smoke laced with her particular brand of magic. Oh, how Thor has missed his mother. Her funeral, that haunting night of fires and lanterns and the ash of stars, seemed so far away. The old grief in Thor's chest had lightened at the sight of her merciless diplomacy.

Odin consented.

Now, Loki's face flushes with joy (and embarrassment; his younger brother had never one to let others speak for him) as Thor recounts their mother's words and praise. Though there is no way his brother knows the true depth of Frigga's words, it is still makes Thor's heart squeeze to see the pleased smile emerge from beneath the god's usual facade of cold disinterest. How long has it been since he last saw Loki without all the masks?

It is a start, and it is enough to convince Thor that he has made the right decision.

It has been two weeks since he landed back in time and one week since Odin declared that Loki will take up the throne during the Odinsleep. Things aren't drastically different yet, after all Loki's coronation is not for another couple of months, but Thor has already started to take notice of what small things have changed.

The scholars and diplomats within the palace now flock to Loki to curry favor. There are more too-long touches and lingering stares from greedy maidens and men alike as Asgard's black haired prince traverses the streets. Even Odin had shown subtle attempts at dinner time to converse more with his youngest son—awkward and stilted attempts but attempts nonetheless.

Honestly. Thor is beginning to feel a bit left out.

But he's glad for the shift in attention. With the whole of the palace and even Heimdall focused on Loki, carefully evaluating his every potential move, it gives Thor far more freedom to research and sketch out the barebones of a plan.

Norns, a plan. He's beginning to sound like the Captain. Thor had never been the war general or strategist, had always operated better with lightning sparking instinct to action in his veins, the relentless flood of adrenaline and battle. Right now, his plan is mostly based around the premise of: Don't Screw Up—which sounds scarily close to Stark's brand of preparation.

He wonders how his Midgardian friends are. Have they even been conceived yet? Would he be able to call upon them when he undoubtedly must face Thanos? He misses them.

(He wonders how they fared in the timeline where he died.)

In any case, Thor has grown restless from all this time left alone to his thoughts. The buzz of electricity beneath his skin clusters into knots of frenzied energy, pools in stagnant puddles at his ankles and elbows. It's exhausting to suppress power that the Thor Odinson of this time should not have; he worries his powers will grow weak and atrophy from disuse. However, Asgard right now is in a state of peace and tranquility, and Thor would be hard pressed to find himself a decent opponent without drawing the eye of foreign ambassadors or politicians.

This forces Thor to be a bit, ah, creative.

"Heimdall."

"No, Odinson."

"Heimdall, my best friend."

"No."

"You are the most valiant and disciplined of sentries in all the Nine Realms. I know I speak on behalf of my father when I say—"

"My prince," Heimdall says, one eyebrow raised. The light of Yggdrasil and the cosmos make his armor blaze glorious gold against his dark skin. "I may be all-seeing but even I cannot see why you would request to spar with me."

"Well, I have always wished to test my mettle against our Guardian."

"You should be aware that either of our victories would prove disastrous to the image of Asgard."

"No one will ever know the victor. There doesn't even need to be a victor." The bundle of energy within him builds, makes him claustrophobic in his own skin. Thor feels like his lungs are too high in his throat, power making way for itself within his ribcage. "Please."

"Thor," Heimdall says softly, looking out at the span of stars and space visible from within the Observatory. "I see all the souls in the Nine Realms. The rise and fall of kingdoms, the life and death of worlds, the tremors of the World Tree. Millions are under Asgard's protection, and thus, mine. Would you ask me to be so careless with these souls?"

Heimdall's eyes are serious, bright with the gift of his sight. Any retorts die on Thor's tongue.

Once, in another time, he saw through those eyes, witnessed the calamity of Hela. Felt the panic and loss of his people desperately fighting for survival. Felt his own uselessness. He had thought that the worst of realities. Surely, nothing would ever surpass that tragedy.

Then, then—

"Allfather, let the Dark Magic flow through me one last time…"

The light of the Bifrost.

A thrust sword and dying breath.

Rage, anguish, sorrow.

"You're going to die for that!"

Thanos.

"My prince?"

Thor snaps back into reality where Heimdall now looks at him with concern. The light of the Nine Realms still shines from within him, glows around them in the multi-colored glory of the Bifrost.

Heimdall regards him carefully. "You have changed, Odinson." He says at last, cooly and assessing. "Though I do not know what exactly has changed, I sense the magic of Yggdrasil within you. Whatever it is that you seek, I will do my best to assist."

"I told you, old friend. I seek battle. Clarity."

The guardian stares intently, and must see something in Thor's face. He nods slowly.

"Very well, my prince."

But Heimdall does not raise Hofund in preparation for battle. Instead, he slides the sword into its pedestal, and the Observatory churns around them. Spins and spins and spins. Until all Thor can see is the bright energy of Yggdrasil's branches, the dappling flickers of starlight as the world moves around them, and two gold eyes.

The stars fade until only the blackest of velvet nights exists, and Thor sleeps.

They're young, in the garden. His hands are sticky with mud; Loki's are slick with morning dew. Leaves sway in the breeze, but the stalks and stems are all empty. Clusters of flowers and bulbs litter the ground around them, but they do not stir even as Thor and his brother trample over them.

Ghosts, they must be ghosts. It's only them in the garden—them and the approaching thunder clouds, dark and full with rain.

"Thor!" His brother yells from across the garden. He's climbing the stone statue of their father. "Look at me!"

Loki climbs and climbs and climbs, never quite managing to reach past their father's crown. Small, bare feet scramble for purchase, slipping against the stone. His skin has started to bleed from the thorns scraping against his flesh; his fingertips are ruined and raw by their desperate grip. Blood drips onto the roses, and the petals drink it in thirstily. The statue begins to crack, and Loki screams as his blood transforms from the crimson of Aesir to the shimmering gold of a king before finally morphing into blue the color of Jotun ice, the color of the tesseract.

Thor does not move to save him. He is frozen in place. A large crack suddenly slants across Odin's stone face, and the sound of the break echoes in the garden as if in a cave. It's a clean, straight line stretching from his chiseled eye to jaw.

Someone is watching from above, in the glass hallway. Thor knows it, though he cannot see who it is when he glances up. He can only make out the glint of eyes like one would spot gunmetal in the dark.

They are familiar.

"Help me, Thor!" Loki's voice cries.

But he can't turn away. He's drawn to the figure above them, and his eyes refuse to move from their vigil, staring above at the inky smudge in the glass corridor. There's nothing he can do but listen to his brother's mounting cries of pain and terror. He's trapped and useless and caged just like when—

"Thor."

The spell breaks. The presence of the figure dissipates, and Thor, finally relieved of the hold over his body, turns.

However, it is not Loki, but Valkyrie now trapped in the vines, bleeding over the leaves and thorns, staring at him with large, brown eyes framed by the markings of her sisters. Her blood is the pure silver of blessed warriors, a thick spill of immortality that slides down the long, green stems. She's dressed in full armor, but her sword is not in her hand.

"LET ME HAVE THIS."

Her mouth does not move, but her voice is clearer than anything else in the dream. It is then Thor realizes where her sword is—it sticks out of the large crack in Odin's statue, submerged to the hilt in something slick and glossy like ichor. The viscous liquid drips from her rapier in hissing black puddles.

"Let me have this."

The vines are now tangled in her hair, piercing through her skin. Thorns poke out from within her, and brilliant crimson red flowers blossom at her chest and neck and wrists. They swell and drip from where they emerge.

She closes her eyes.

"Let me have this."

Thor wakes.

He's back in his quarters, his windows thrown open to let in the sun and summer wind. Below, the noises of Asgardian life floats up like music. The breeze carries with it the scent of roses.

How odd, when Frigga has only ever planted jasmines on his windowsill.

"We're going to Sakaar. Now."

Loki looks up from his book as Thor hoists a travel bag onto the library table. It's obviously too full; the coarse fabric bulges with outlines of awkward angles and odd shapes. It's a wonder that the straps haven't burst from strain.

Something bright gold and curved tumbles out of it and rolls across the wooden floor, obnoxiously loud. It stops at his feet with a clatter. Loki looks down.

His helm.

Thor's arms are crossed, and his lips are pursed with dissatisfaction—the image of a petulant child. He stares outside the library windows at the dark clouds rolling in, tapping his foot impatiently.

The scholars are staring again. Insolent, nosy lot that they are.

Loki closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Sighs.

"Thor, you have got to be joking."

"Nope." His brother says, popping the 'p'.

"First you say I'll be king during the Odinsleep. Fine. I'm okay with that. Happy even, to be burdened with such glorious purpose. But now, you're saying we're taking a trip to—where again? Sakaar?"

Thor shifts his attention back to Loki, and the big oaf has the gall to nod seriously. "Yes."

"May I ask why the sudden interest in the biggest shit-hole of the Nine Realms? And why I have to come with you?"

"I have business there, and you're the best navigator for worlds between the seams of the cosmos." Thor says simply. He offers a grin. "And I know you can't resist an opportunity to cause mischief."

"True, but…" Loki hesitates.

It's a terrible decision to go. Extremely irresponsible. The exact reason why Loki believed Thor would be an incompetent king for the throne. No, he can do better. Be better. Prove to father that he is the best—not the golden child that Odin always, always favored. Loki should say no, report Thor's planned disobedience.

But Norns, Thor is looking at him expectantly, with the unabashed excitement and frenzied energy of adventure. And hasn't his brother proved himself enough by giving up the throne? Haven't they lost enough time to growing apart?

Thor stoops down to pick up his helm. It's almost small in his brother's large hands, but there's a soft fondness in his eyes that Loki can't tear himself away from. This is all that he's ever wanted. To be accepted. Noticed.

(Has Loki ever truly wanted the throne for himself or just wanted to do one above his brother?)

No, no, no. He's pathetic. Easily won over. No wonder Odin never wanted him to take the throne if his will was so weak. But does what Odin think even matter that much anymore? Does he not have what he asked for? Acknowledgment, though such a small, small thing, is enough.

The thoughts run themselves rampant in Loki's mind, in cycles of frustrating self-hatred and loathing for everyone else. What is he to do?

"So? Will you come with me?" In the cold of Loki's vexation, a warmth settles on his shoulder. He startles, brought back into the moment by Thor's reassuring clasp. There's an emotion he can't identify that's all over his brother's stupid face, and it irks Loki that he can't read the oaf as clearly as he should.

How have you changed so much, brother? This is the you I know, but it has been buried under foolish arrogance for so long. What happened?

Thor blinks at him with those insufferably wide blue eyes. Pouts. He pouts.

Fine. Damn it all.

Worst comes to worst—it was Thor's idea.

"When do we leave?"