Thanks so much for returning for a fourth chapter! This chapter, I am very eager to show you guys, and hopefully you will come back for more :). Any confusion that might arise, fear not; it shall be addressed later in the story.
"I don't know why you insist on doing this," Sif says.
Thor smiles wryly, still not looking at her. He cuts a sliver off an apple with a paring knife and puts it in his mouth. The juice is warm and plentiful—he thinks of autumn.
"I am not surprised," he says.
Sif opens her mouth, then closes it. She watches him carefully, hand still gripping the bough of the willow tree. They are in Frigga's old gardens; the servants must still take care of it because the leaves are cleanly swept, the weeds perfectly absent. The flowers still in full bloom.
It smells like Frigga. Thor takes in a breath.
"I wonder," says Sif, "if you think I disagree because I do not also mourn."
Thor turns to her. Her dark eyes scrutinize him, challenging him to contradict. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
"Do you?" says Thor.
Sif's jaw tenses. Thor slices off another wedge and chews on it slowly. No sound comes between him and Sif except the soft trickle of the fountain, and the young birdsongs. Sif looks out toward the flowerbeds. The hyacinths sway; their violet heads are so heavy that they almost droop to the ground.
His journey to Asgard will be a brief one. He misses home, but he cannot stand it. Once he heard from Heimdall that the disturbance in the skies was what seemed like the effects of a tussle of galactic forces beyond Yggdrasil, though interestingly enough involving familiar names such as Amora and Nebula, he tells himself not to try any more. He is a prince, but all he has the energy for now is to be a fool who doesn't know how to stop grieving.
"What can I say?" she says. "I thought him dead once already. And now you say it again, and again we have no body to place in the frigate."
"Death does not have to have a body," Thor says.
"I know that," says Sif.
She stalks off, rubbing her forearm as if her skin stings. She stops by the small stone fountain, shoulders thrown back and braced as if she is walking to her public execution, and yet she holds her chin high to hide how they tremble.
Thor drives the paring knife into the tree. He tosses the apple to her—she catches it over her shoulder without even looking at him. He cannot help but smile.
"You have been well trained," he says.
"Your brother made sure of that after years of tricks," she says.
Thor doesn't know why he is so soft, that the thought of Loki still bruises him even after months. He kneels by Frigga's flowers, running a calloused finger over the delicate stems. He remembers Loki hiding in them when they used to play here—sometimes Loki would jump out at Thor when Thor passed unknowingly, and they would tumble through the grasses and shriek with laughter. Amazing that Loki was once so small that he could crouch unseen here—he must have once been so, so small.
"I feel numb," Sif says.
Thor looks to her. She still has not taken her eyes off of the gurgling waters. Her fingernails dig into the ruddy skin of the apple.
"We find out that he is alive after a year of thinking him dead," says Sif, "and a year later he is dead again." She smiles wryly. "Of all the people in the world, it would be him who would frustrate us like this about something that should be so damn simple."
"He died to save my life," says Thor.
"You do not have to defend him to me, Thor," says Sif. "I know."
Thor squeezes the stem between his finger and thumb. It snaps easily, and the hyacinth curves to the ground. He catches it before any petals shake.
"Was I the one who told you what had happened?" Thor says. The week after Malekith, after Frigga, after Loki, are blurred.
"The All-Father did," says Sif. "After he released us from our arrest. About Loki—and Kurse."
Thor tries to remember if he had relayed all that to his father before going to Midgard to catch his breath. He can't exactly remember. He plucks another hyacinth from the bed, and another. They are downy like bird feathers; he expects them to flutter out of his reach.
"And how did you feel?" says Thor.
Sif closes her eyes, then opens them again.
"I told him that if he betrayed you I would kill him," she says.
"So did I," says Thor.
"Now I feel like a fool," she says.
Thor smiles wryly. He cups his hand so that the hyacinths can rest their heads in his palm.
"How long has Father been in the Odinsleep?" says Thor. He reaches to pluck the lilies into his hands as well—a quiet, butter yellow that reminds him of Frigga's hair.
"Since a month after you left for Midgard," says Sif. "It was very sudden. He must have known it was coming—he prepared for the sleep before anyone knew."
Thor nods. "I'm not surprised. He has done many changes in Asgard since I left." He faces the sky. "I felt it the moment I stepped out of the Observatory. As if a new heart's blood pumps life through her veins."
"Drastic new policies," says Sif. "New approaches to rebuilding. Though, Asgard hasn't been attacked at home before. It puts things into perspective." She smiles wryly. "Hopefully Tyr can keep up as regent."
"I'm glad you are no longer in prison, then," Thor says.
"It would have been worth it, if it helped you," says Sif.
The flowers are heavy in his hands. He looks to Sif, who takes a smarting bite of his apple. It is always hard to tell how her heart beats when she tries to smother it with armor.
"Do you think these are fine enough?" Thor says.
He holds up the flowers. Sif kneels beside him, running a finger over the dark violet petals.
"Loki always liked these best," Sif says. "And your mother would love these lilies. You've picked the finest of them all."
Whether or not he actually did, Thor doesn't know. Still, he smiles, holding them gingerly, afraid that a tight grip will suffocate them.
When he rises to his feet, Sif looks up to him.
"Will you be alone?" she says.
"Yes," he says.
She nods. When she rises, she puts a ginger hand on Thor's arm.
"I can feel the weight of your guilt just standing next to you," she says.
Thor does not take his eyes off of the flowers. Her hand makes his skin itch, and he wishes he was alone.
"Oh, Thor," Sif says. "You carry so many burdens. You needn't carry the dead."
"You do not understand," Thor says.
Frigga was Thor's mother. Loki was Thor's little brother. And they were both killed because Thor couldn't protect them.
"Do not break your own heart even more," Sif says.
Her hand lingers, but she hesitates and lets it fall away. Thor turns away because for a moment he just doesn't know what to say.
"You are kind to me, Sif," says Thor.
"This isn't kindness," says Sif.
Thor tries not to clench his hand into a fist. He almost crushes the downy heads of those lilies.
When Thor leaves the gardens, Sif does not follow. He pulls the hood of his cloak over his head and climbs onto his horse to ride toward the shores. No one bothers him or tries to stop him. Thor knows that he is still a prince of Asgard even if he has denied the throne, knows that he still has duties to his people, but he wishes nothing more than to be left alone and away from Asgard. He doesn't even want to see his slumbering father. He just wants to sleep.
The ride to the shores is a lonely one. Thor used to always hate riding alone—he would drag anyone to come riding with it, let it be Loki or Hogun or even the stable boy. Now this solitude is commonplace.
He is careful not to let the flowers jostle too much in his hand.
When he reaches the shore, it is nearly sundown. The sun is bleeding onto the water, her red blood dyeing the horizon. Clouds are edging forward, ready to swallow Asgard whole. It will be a starless night; still, Thor hopes that his well-wishes will make it to Valhalla.
He slides off his horse and takes off his boots. The sand is soft under his feet; he feels like he is sinking with each step. He remembers in his youth how he begged Odin to let him play in the beaches—it would be so much fun and it is so hot, please, Father—but Odin refused him. These are the shores for the dead, son, he had said. Do not dishonor our warriors with your horseplay.
Thor is glad now that he did not disobey.
The waters are cold, slipping between his toes. He feels their gentle pull drag along the sands, making him sink softly, slowly, as if it is quicksand under his feet and the only way to not drown is to stay absolutely still—to give up.
(Come with me, Thor, Loki once said, and he pulled on Thor's hand, dragging him as his little legs ran. Come where, Thor asked, and Loki kept pulling him forward until Thor nearly tripped over his own feet, and he laughed and said, You'll see, it's a surprise, you'll see—)
Thor smiles wryly as the shoreline ebbs and flows, trying to pull him into its body. Loki's grip is ever present, even now.
He bends down and places the flowers on the waters. For the most part, they float, skimming the tired waves. Some petals are already askew, sprinkling the ocean like purple foam. The lilies spin, like a world on its axle.
Thor imagines Frigga pinning the lily in her golden hair. He imagines Loki reaching down from Valhalla and plucking the flower from the ocean. They are not alone—Loki is not afraid.
Thor's nose stings.
He doesn't know how long he stands there, waiting for the ocean to finally tug him forward until he falls face-first into the water and drowns. He is so tired he can sleep right here, and if the ocean takes him, then he can't stop it.
Finally, when the petals are all dispersed and the flowers waterlogged and out of sight, he wanders back to the sands. His horse is keeping itself occupied in the patches of dry grass above the dunes. When Thor approaches it, it raises his heads and gives a little huff, nuzzling its large nose against Thor's forehead. Thor runs his hand over its white mane.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go back home."
He doesn't know where that is anymore.
There had been many times in Loki's life when someone, usually Odin or Thor or one of their acquaintances, would stare at Loki long and hard before shaking their head and say, "I understand absolutely nothing about you."
Normally they meant it as a jest, or Loki had tried to take it as such at the time, but now Loki finds legitimacy in their confession because he is sitting in a tea house with Jane Foster and not understanding himself in the slightest.
His hair is as red as before, though he feels the strain of the visage on his magic that is already being enough of a bastard of keeping him breathing. He highly doubts Jane would find anything amiss, except for the fact that he clearly wants out.
Jane is stirring her coffee cup, blissfully unaware.
"So what are you most interested in, Thaniel?" she says.
Her eyes are shining and excited to share her wisdom, which is laughable considering her wisdom is merely a half a year of childhood tutoring to Loki. He smiles nonetheless, trying to ignore that aching pulse he feels in his magic. It feels like a stomachache, the kind that wishes he could lie down and curl up on his side.
"I'm interested in understanding what's beyond us," he says. It sounds vague enough. "Especially space. I think it's fascinating that there are just—so many things happening that's outside of our reach. That our world is by far not the only interesting thing in the universe."
Jane nods. "Right? It's like—wow, this universe is endless and there are so many possibilities. There could be supernovas going on right now and we can't see it, but it's still happening. There could be—life on other planets that we can't reach."
Loki's eyebrow twitches.
"Do you think so?" he says.
Jane opens her mouth, then closes it. He swallows down the urge to laugh.
"It's possible," says Jane. "Very possible. It's such a wide universe, after all." She clears her throat. "So what got you into it, out of curiosity?"
Her attempt to maneuver conversation inconspicuously is pathetic, but Loki figures he can tease that annoyance in her eventually.
"I don't know. There wasn't a specific event," Loki says. Creating personas is far from difficult. He has spent most of his life keeping up a front as practice. "I was always asking questions about how the universe worked. About the stars. How they come to be."
Jane smiles. "That's kind of the same with me. When I was little, my dad used to always tell me about the constellations instead of old bedtime stories. He'd sit me down by the bedroom window and show me the constellations and tell me those stories, and I was hooked ever since."
"Is he a scientist as well?" says Loki.
Jane's smile softens. "Well, he was. He passed away when I was younger."
Loki hadn't known that. He wonders why it is making a difference to him.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he says fluidly.
"Thanks. It's fine. I mean—I'm fine now," she says. She shakes her head. "Anyway, my dad—he helped me get started with the whole research thing. You know, it's really hard for women to come into this field, if not uncommon, but he never discouraged me. He kept supporting me all the way through. It was crazy tough, but…"
Loki's smile tastes bitter.
"But that's an old person's story," Jane says, raising the coffee cup to her lips. "This is about you. What questions do you have for me? I can tell you anything about the field, or opportunities, or how to get started—all that."
Is Thor okay, Loki wants to ask.
Where is he now?
Is he all right?
Loki tries to squelch that sentimentality in him like a slug. He isn't here to entertain an ended brotherhood. He doesn't know why he is here at all.
Does Thor still mourn, he almost asks.
He knows he cannot know the answer.
"There are so many questions," Loki says with a perfected abashed smile. "I'm not sure where to start."
Jane laughs. Loki's stomach turns again. He feels lightheaded.
He's starting to doubt that even with this situation he is in, his magic acting up is external.
"Tell me about your field in particular," he says. "What have you researched? Discovered?"
Jane blinks. Loki feels as if he is playing a game with himself—how closely can he get Jane to talk of Thor without him directly asking.
"Well, I study a lot about Einstein-Rosen bridges," says Jane. "Wormholes, in laymen's terms."
"And where has that led you?" says Loki.
"New Mexico," Jane says with a chuckle.
What a pathetic answer, thinks Loki. He wonders why she doesn't tell the world about the different realms, the Bifrost, everything she has seen. She would garner fame, acclaim, respect, and it isn't like Midgard could do any harm to any of the other realms if they knew of their existence. What secret was she trying to protect?
"And did you find anything in New Mexico?" says Loki.
"That was when I developed my theory," says Jane. "The Foster Theory, if you ever heard of it. Not sure if they're teaching that in universities yet…or if it's widespread at all. Or if anyone even believes it outside of me."
Loki feels his aching fall in sync with a strange thrumming. As if the world is balanced precariously on the tampered strings of a lute. He rubs his forehead, trying to will his magic into a slow and steady flow. Whatever this is has nothing to do with the laughably cauterized wound in his chest. Something is stirring beyond him.
He takes it as a premonition, and maintains his blasé smile.
"When was this?" he says.
"Two years ago," says Jane. "So it's circulating throughout the science community, I would say. Um, not sure if you would hear about it. I've been sort of on a—what do you call it—a furlough, for the past two years."
Loki wonders if that had anything to do with Thor. If that was the case, then he hopes to the Norns that they are not similar in that aspect.
"And you're back in now?" says Loki.
"More or less," says Jane. "I haven't picked up research again yet, but I'm not retired or anything—are you all right?"
Loki stiffens.
"What do you mean?" he says.
"Sorry," says Jane. "You just looked sort of uneasy all of a sudden."
Loki smiles wider. The thrumming grows stronger. He thinks he can see the sun grow heavy.
"I'm fine," he says.
Will she see Thor after this?
If only his mind would stop wandering back to that subject.
"Okay," says Jane. "Just checking. You don't have to be nervous, if you are."
He laughs. Him, nervous? He doesn't remember the last time he felt nervous. Fear, maybe. Shame, fear, anger, distress, despair. Not nerves.
"Thank you," he says. He clenches his hand to keep it from shaking. His breath is hitching again; he wants to slap himself for not being able to contain his misfortune for one hour. "So what are your apprenticeship opportunities you were talking about?"
"Internships?" says Jane. "Well, technically right now I only have one position available, and it's filled."
Loki lets his face comically fall. Jane quickens to fix her answer.
"But—well, she isn't much of a research intern. More like a PA. She isn't even an astrophysics major. So, you know, I haven't really considered adding another intern to the mix because I'm not exactly researching right now, but you know what? Give me your contact info and if I hear of any, or if I actually open one up, I can go to you."
Loki's smile fossilizes. She digs out a pen from her pocket and takes a napkin from the dispenser, pushing them toward him. He stares at it.
"Sorry, what do you want from me?" he says.
"Your cell number. Or your email address. Either will do," says Jane.
Either of those terms flies right over Loki's head. He takes the pen uncertainly.
His chest clenches and he tries to hide a gasp of pain. His heart is failing again, and the pain makes his head spin. His magic writhes in his bones and it takes tremendous willpower not to double over. Loki bites his lip, the half-ghosts of the wound that killed him returning like a warning.
Jane immediately frowns.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she says.
Loki is sure that he is not. He sets the pen down; his hand is shaking.
"Sorry," he says. "I don't feel—"
Someone screams. Loki turns sharply toward the window. The sky darkens like a violent bruise in less than a second before flashes of light twist themselves in the air. He can barely see beyond the haze—pain makes him relive dying.
The patrons of the shop rush to the windows, jabbering uselessly and excitedly to each other. Jane too cranes her neck to look out the window. Her jaw drops.
"Oh my God," says Jane. "Oh my God—is that a supernova?"
It's the consequences of my good work.
Unwoven light bursts through the dark clouds that weren't there fifteen minutes ago. At the presence of those lights, Loki's senses are suddenly thrown into high definition. He recognizes it—Amora's magic smashing against Nebula's power crushing Ronan the Accuser's fighting against—
"Look!" Jane points toward the glass. "It's growing bigger—whatever it is is getting bigger."
The lights stretch until it is a churning ball of mass power. Loki can hear it howling.
"No, it's not," Loki says.
Jane turns to Loki, flabbergasted.
"It's getting closer," he says.
Before Jane could open her mouth, Loki wraps an arm around her shoulder and hauls her away from the window. The moment he pushes her out of the way the glass shatters. Hot, rushing air fills the shop, scorching their skin. People scream. Loki shields Jane with his body. The wound on his back protests the exposure to the magical aftermath.
Damn Amora, damn Nebula, damn them all. Perhaps it is Loki's doing, but they could just learn to keep their tantrums to themselves.
"What's going on?" Jane says. Her voice is scratched and loud above the commotion. "What's happening?"
Loki shakes broken glass off of himself. He looks over his shoulder, trying to see through his tumultuous senses. The other people are picking themselves off the ground, shaking but otherwise unharmed.
"Thor?" Jane says.
Loki's heart stops and he stands, searching. But there is no Thor—maybe he misheard. Or maybe Jane just relates anything she does not understand to his brother.
That moment of hesitation is enough for him to not notice the second wave of excess magic barrel in. It knocks him straight in the chest. His heart screams and he is slammed back against the wall. He tastes blood in the back of his throat.
"Thaniel!" says Jane.
Loki almost forgets to acknowledge that he is still alive. He pushes himself back onto his feet, breathing heavily. The screams are jarring.
"Is something attacking us?" Jane says. She scrambles onto her feet. "Is it—?"
His brother's name is on her lips. She rushes out the door before Loki can stop her, because for some reason when danger strikes running towards it is perfectly reasonable to her. Loki grits his teeth. He had tugged along the patience of Ronan from afar, twisted Amora's logic invisibly, ruffled the cohesion of anyone that could be in the league of Thanos until they warred amongst each other and broke whatever synergy they threatened to pose if Thanos wheedles them into his allegiance—but for Norn's sake they could keep their mutiny to themselves and not let the excess of their disputes fly aimlessly into other realms.
He rushes out to follow Jane. The streets are scorched, sooty black, trees and lampposts snapped in two. Automobiles are half-melted. It's almost ridiculous how easily this realm is hurt by mere accidents.
"Jane!" Loki finds himself calling for her. What he wants, why, he has no idea. "Jane!"
He doesn't know where Thor is. Doesn't know how he is doing, doesn't know how he is feeling. But Loki knows one thing, and that is if Jane gets herself into any more harm Thor will rage like a berserker.
She stands in the centre of the streets as people scramble for shelter. The skies are churning with unnatural power, sending walls of wind to nearly knock down the buildings. She still does not move, craning her neck to watch, searching.
"Jane!" says Loki.
She does not turn back. Damn her, no wonder she had the Aether inside of her if she is so stupid.
The sheer amount of excess magic from the faraway battle between all those sorcerers nearly drives Loki down to his knees. He puts a hand to his chest. He almost thinks he feels the blood flowing again.
"Get out of there!" Loki says.
It's the last remnants of magic hurling toward Midgard, but Loki can feel its power crushing his bones before it touches him. He can barely hear his own voice yell. But Jane just stands there, as if this wouldn't kill her.
It burns.
He runs forward. He doesn't know if he will reach her in time. He knows he cannot die from this, not when Kurse's blade has already claimed his death. But he doesn't know if he can get Jane out of here in time.
Jane must be realizing just how dangerous the massive wave of energy is. She is backing away, hand held up as if that is enough to protect herself from being scorched.
Loki draws the last of his magic welled up inside of him. Whatever is used to maintain his disguise flickers; darkness bleeds into his reddened hair. The emptiness is agonizing.
The moment she turns her face towards him, he runs into her. He wraps his arm around her and just before the powerful mass of energy can disintegrate them, he forces them to teleport.
Painful. Burning. Draining. He doesn't have enough energy to carry them both. It's like diving into fire. He screams. His chest feels like it is about to explode, and he wonders—really—can he not die any other way than how he has already been killed?
He only makes it halfway. He doesn't even know where he is taking them, so long as it is away. He meant to take them to the lecture hall, the only place he can recall—instead, they rematerialize in a cold, dank garage, crashing into the cement and skidding into the stone wall.
Every part of him aches; he feels his disguise flake away entirely. He can hardly see and his head and chest hurt.
Somewhere in the distance, he hears that power drill into the pavement, several more yells—and then calm.
And Jane's ragged breathing.
Loki feels blindly for her. He cannot see. He grabs desperately at his magic to pull back his disguise again, his safety, his shield. The moment he tries to tug it out of him, it feels as if he is digging a claw inside of him and pulling out his innards. It takes all of whatever strength he has left to keep his invisible cloak about him from Heimdall's view.
He claps a hand over his chest. He feels his heartbeat shudder.
He realizes he cannot hear himself breathing.
Thor—
(I'm a fool, I'm a fool—)
He hears Jane's disbelieving voice say, "Loki?" before he knows nothing more.
