A/N:For those of you who do not know, in Guardians of the Galaxy, Sanctuary was referred to as the Domain of Thanos.
Please enjoy:)
A subtle and ironic twist of a word and which once meant:
a place of refuge and safety
became a single word:
nightmare
(Sanctuary)
It did not matter the fact that he had a family, it did not matter that somewhere he had a brother and somewhere he had a father and somewhere he had a mother or that they were all pretend, it did not matter that there was a throne and it was not his, it did not matter that Odin lied and Frigga pretended and Thor let him go, it did not matter that there was a Nine Realms and thousands would die and billions could die, and it did not matter that there could somewhere exist a place without torture and pain, it did not matter that flesh was not meant to melt and blood not meant to spill, and it did not matter that he was alive and it did not matter that he could die and it did not matter that he could not remember his name.
The fear turned to pain turned to agony turned to nightmare turned to oblivion. It did not matter that He would come back for him when he failed.
(you think you know pain?)
And all Loki thought was that if every living being in the universe could live what he lived and see what he saw and feel what he felt, there would never again be any hope.
Loki wakes up and it is so dark in the Healing Room that he believes he cannot open his eyes at all. He panics with the idea of blindness for one long moment, cold sweat plastering his hair to the back of his neck, heart clanging like a bell to remind him he is still alive. He's still alive. He's alive.
He falls back into the pillow, chest heaving, and slowly the room comes into dim focus. There should be a Healer somewhere but Loki hears nothing. He can barely keep his eyes open, much less sit up on his own. Eventually, his breathing calms. His hands stop shaking. Small details come into focus.
His arms feel heavier than they should. His brain is slow to process but eventually it dawns on him that he is heavily bandaged. Not just his arms but his legs too. His throat feels hoarse, like he's been screaming for hours. He's so cold he cannot even shiver, and just feels his body grow steadily colder. The blankets on top of him feel crushing and do nothing to make him feel warm. It is either nearing dawn outside or long into the night.
He cannot shake off the feeling that someone is watching him.
He wants to sit up but his body won't let him. His eyes droop closed and snap open again. Because there is a disconnect between what his mind wants his body to do and his body carrying out the order, along with the acrid taste in his mouth, he believes they are running medicinal herb remedies through his bloodstream or seidr or otherwise-
Seidr. His seidr. His eyes snap open and gaze at the black space above him in semi-shocked terror. Panic rises.
Is that why he feels so wrong? He quickly attempts to call up a simple light conjuring spell, a simple ball of light in front of him that even rudimentary seidr-practicing children can accomplish and finds… nothing. He reaches for the deep cesspool that is so ingrained in his very cellular makeup. Nothing. He tries to find the inner cloak of warmth that is his seidr (everything, it's all that he has) Nothing. It's gone. He's gone. They've bound him.
He lets out a cry like a wounded animal. And struggles with bindings that aren't visible but which constrict so heavily around something so profoundly his that it shoots blinding shocks of pain up and down his spine when the bindings do not lift. They do not even budge. He lets out a cry somewhere between a shout and a sob.
"Shhh, Loki."
The voice comes to his left and he jumps, then turns towards the voice in the dim light. He can see absolutely nothing.
He tries to speak but all that comes out is a weak whimper. Either from the shock of being an inane, seidrless carcass or the medicine they are running through him is stronger than he had originally anticipated. The silhouette of the voice moves closer to his bed and Loki cannot say a word to make it go away.
A pale, withered hand looms over his face and it is all he can see clearly in the dim.
(not unfamiliar)
The forefinger and thumb rest on the bridge of Loki's slim nose and gives a gentle, squeezing pressure.
"Sleep now, my boy."
Immediately, warmth extends from the contact to wrap around his brain, coaxing sleepiness and draping it over his aching head like a blanket, moving to spread all over his body with the feeling of sinking into a warm bath. Loki manages a shaky exhale before succumbing to oblivion.
Asgard is underwater.
Empty, not one single soul underneath the waves. The light of the stars are somewhere above because he can see the light streaking through, sending ribbons weaving through the blue hues.
He knows he's dreaming as soon as he opens his eyes. He looks at the smooth skin in the inside of his arms and cannot find the raised skin. He sees the curtain of black haloing his head and cannot feel his fingers running though the strands. The water feels like air and he cannot feel the weight of it. He walks as if he's not underwater at all, all loose limbs and fluidity. He breathes easily, no strain in his lungs.
There is the golden throne. There is beacon of light shining from the Observatory. The edge of the Bifrost cuts across the water like a spear. A constellation of stars begins to appear, just under the waves- stars under the sea.
(he thinks they could spell out Frigga)
He finds himself inside the Observatory without thinking about it.
The usual golden air is absent, replaced with an inky blue that is unnerving. The usual magnificent walls of the Observatory are cracked, overtaken by reeds. On the Bifrost- there is a crack just outside the entrance on the muted glass. Who put it there?
The edge.
In place of a void there is a water-filled chasm. The black water goes down into the plummet like a gaping hole. Instead of falling he could drown. Instead of landing he could be crushed by the weight of the water. He knows swimming up isn't an option. Once over the bridge, there is nowhere to go but down.
The abyss looms below him and can everyone feel its pull? Or just him?
I dare you, he thinks. Come and get me.
"Thor."
A nudge. "Thor."
Violent, persistent shaking.
"Thor."
"Nmmph?"
Thor raises his head, blinking gritty eyes to form a hazy picture of a grim Sif looking down at him. He wakes up quickly, straightening his awkward position on the floor. He winces at the crink in his neck, stretches out stiff limbs and jumps up to stand, tries to look dignified despite being found in such an embarrassing position.
They stare across each other for one heavy, silent moment. Sif breaks it first.
"Thor. What are you doing sleeping on the floor?"
Thor blinks gritty eyes, awkwardly clears his throat. "Waiting for Eir. She should be out any moment now."
Sif nods, purses her lips. Thor shuffles from foot to foot. In the silence they can hear the bustle and movement inside the Healing Room.
"Look-" Thor says at the same time Sif says "I-"
They break off- and smile awkwardly, despite themselves. There is a unfamiliar tenseness between them that Thor deeply hates. Until-
"It was my fault Loki was out there in the first place," Sif blurts out.
The quiet that comes after fills Thor's head like cotton and he finds himself thinking of the strangest things. Trees. Ice. Dark emerald tunics. Inky water. The sound of a blade going through the air before finding its mark.
Sif searches every inch of his face, looks for anger and for accusation that is not there.
"I had argued with him- before. I was just- I was just so angry, Thor. It's no excuse for failing my duties to you, to him, but- It's no excuse. I found him after he ran off after that incident in the Dining Hall and he was in his room and he was holding a book and pacing and I asked him what he was doing and why he was acting the way he was acting and he just- wouldn't answer me. I wouldn't let it go and he got so frustrated he threw the book at the wall and there was a dagger hidden inside, even though I had just searched everything and cleaned everything out and I just got so, so angry."
(books and daggers, Mjolnir, Uncle Vili, baggy clothes and angry voices)
"And I started shouting and he did too and then we were just standing there, screaming horrible things at each other and I told him I was tired of him, of dealing with him, of dealing with it all and I needed a break from him. And I stormed out and I did not even look back, I did not even look behind me to see his face and see if he was alright and- for Norn's sake, of course he wasn't. How could he be? I did not even look back and the next thing I know I come back and there's no sign of him and instead there's this letter that says he's gone and he's not coming back and- oh gods, how could I have left him alone-"
"Sif, stop. Stop," Thor says, cutting through her rambling. He feels a strange urge to laugh, even though nothing about this is the slightest bit funny. "My friend…none of this is your fault."
Sif says nothing, just stares at the ground with shining, blazing eyes.
"If anything, I am to blame," says Thor. "I was wrong to misplace your motives, to question your honor, and duty and loyalty. I am sorry, Sif. You are a true friend, for you to shoulder this burden with me when it is not yours to carry."
The two of them breathe deeply, infinitely harder to do so than it was seconds ago.
"Do you forgive me?"
Sif gives him a watery smile. "Thor, there is nothing to forgive."
He smiles and the unfamiliar tension between them evaporates. "And you, Sif, truly. I am glad," he laughs, "that I am not in your bad graces."
Sif cracks a smile. "You should be glad." Then her smile wanes. "But I am still sorry. It is no excuse."
"Sif, I believe my brother would have left regardless of words spoken between you or not. We had no idea… no idea, how bad things were. Are. It's worse than we imagined. Do not blame yourself for not seeing it- I did not either. It is hardly your fault for his suffering, Sif."
(red lines on flesh, metal, skin over bones, the way a person looks upward before they take the fall)
"But if I had only-"
"Sif, enough. Do you honestly believe Loki wouldn't have found a way to leave if he really wanted to leave? He could talk down the Head Councilmen from a trade embargo hardly after his eighth Naming Day."
Sif smiles at that, which is what he wanted. He reaches out to grasp her hardy shoulder, a gesture of such familiarity which she returns. Then her eyes become grim.
"So what do we do from here? If he wants to leave, he'll find a way for sure. So how can we make him want to stay?"
Thor's eyes go blurry and he sighs, feeling older than Odin, older than the universe, older than time. "Oh Sif. That is the problem."
Sif talks him into seeing his father before Eir returns with the full prognosis. It's still late, the middle of the night and Thor sits awake across from his father, who after walking in a half hour late to Thor's summons from who-knows-where, sits still and quiet on his chair as Thor thumbs through the pile of old scrolls and yellow, cracked documents on the table. Some of the ink is severely faded, but eventually Thor finds the one he is looking for.
"Here it is," Thor says. He holds up the paper, the ink looking darker and visible than the other papers, much more recent.
The paper that states the full ownership of care and legal responsibility of Loki Odinson belongs to the High King of Asgard, Odin Allfather. His elegant, looped signature stains the bottom of the page.
The small, inked letters spell it out quite clearly. Mentally incompetent and requiring direct care, pending further evaluation….and the words continued with the usual rubbish that shouldn't mean anything to anybody else but Loki's family. But the paper was required, a final humiliation for Loki and a mere formality for the courts, necessary to officially keep Loki out of one prison and into another. Stated quite clearly. Loki isn't to be trusted with himself.
Odin's voice cuts his thoughts off mid-fume. "Where are the papers proclaiming his birthright?"
Thor freezes, confused. "His… birthright?"
"Yes," Odin says, distracted. "I have a need for them. I believe…" His voice trails off.
"The adoption papers?" Thor asks, still confused. They're in here somewhere, the rights and name of Loki Odinson, accompanied by a list of his birthright, including the Odinson name, a few material objects, properties, and the throne. Identical to Thor's. He read the paper once, nearly two years ago, after a very different and very much the same, fall.
(Both Mother and Father sat Thor down, explained calmly and clearly to one son exactly what they failed to explain for the other and it was too late to take any of it back ever again)
(vicious hailstorms fell and it stormed for weeks)
"We can find them another time if you wish, Father." Thor frowns, wondering if Odin is even hearing him. "This is the one we need, right now."
Odin frowns. "To relinquish full care ownership to…"
"Eir," Thor reminds him. "Head Healer. Temporarily. Do you remember?"
"Yes, Thor," Odin snaps. Thor fists one hand behind the desk where Odin cannot see. Breathe, Odinson, breathe…
"Eir. Right," Thor says. "And perhaps later… to Midgard."
Odin deflates suddenly, shoulders hunching and he looks towards the window.
"It is an idea," Thor says, weakly. "There is still time to come to an absolute decision."
"Midgard," Odin repeats, blandly.
"During my time there, I witnessed their Healers. The Midgardians call them doctors. And they are refined in their practice with invisible wounds, mental blocks. My good friend, Dr. Erik Selvig…. He is being helped. He improves a little more every day. Nothing ails him physically, but their Healers that practice illnesses of the mind have helped him greatly. They are experts in their care."
(please do not ask, please do not ask….)
"Midgard," Odin repeats.
"It is an idea," Thor repeats.
His father says nothing else on the matter, merely continues to look out the window. He looks surprised, a little dazed. His mind far afield.
"I would like to see those papers," Odin says again, distractedly. "Of his birthright."
"Yes, Father. Later, perhaps."
Odin continues to stare out the window.
He wakes up with the full intention of being in an as terrible mood as possible, but honestly, what the fuck do they expect?
"Loki Odinson, you are under my care for the time being." Eir looks down on him sternly.
"Do not call me that," he hisses.
"That is your name, Loki."
He laughs, hysterically and bitterly and harsh.
"But surely, you must know by now. No- I can't imagine how you wouldn't. Tell me, did Odin bring me back in my monstrous visage all those years ago, when I was a pathetic wailing babe?"
The Head Healer is obviously in no mood for hysterics. Even when he was a child, she remained utterly unfazed in the face of her most frequent, most irritable patient. His attempts of sneaking out of the Hall by hiding underneath a food cart, dramatically pretending to die the morning after his nightly stays. All met with no more than a stern glance and impressive silent patience and it is no different now, being in the other's company. She's as relentless as Loki is stubborn. They're practically related at this point.
He completely disregards the fact that the lids of her eyes are slightly swollen. He fumes. How dare she? It only makes him hate her more.
"Lie still," is all she says.
Her papery creased fingers move to project Loki's lying form above him, the Soul Forge lifting away to create a long, skinny body outlined in gold. He hopes she doesn't see him flinch.
(Fool. Imbecile.)
His heart races and pounds and tries to punch a hole through his rib cage. He tenses and waits for some hidden alarm to ring and blare to the entirety of Asgard that the enemy is here, deep in the belly of the beast. She knows. He knows it, she knows it, then why bother playing Healer instead of executioner?
Anger is easier than despair.
"The lot of you are cowards," he says, and laughs. "Did you examine me to make certain no Jotun pestilence would find its way into Asgard's golden halls? Did you cringe at my skin? All these years you have treated me- how could you not?" Loki fists at the sheet. Strange. What is this tunic doing here when it should be in the closet in his chambers? He hasn't even worn this one in years.
Eir clears her throat, fiddling with the programmed Soul Forge, but other than that, ignores Loki's sour mood impressively.
"You are part of the lie." he goads. "And they call me liar." He smirks as hard as he can even though his neck hurts and his head hurts and his voice hurts and everything hurts.
"Loki," Eir says, finally turning her nose down to look at him. Her voice is soft, quiet- and he doesn't like it at all. "I must say, you have got it all wrong."
Breathing hurts. Everything screams to contradict her, but what can he say? Nobody ever thought to explain it to him.
"You must have known- you along with Odin and- and Frigga-"
"Of course I knew, Loki." She says, resuming her graceful movements in the air. "Does that change anything? All these years I have treated you, and have never seen no less than the clever, respectable boy that your parents raised you to be. A fine prince of Asgard" she says, a shadow of a smile on her face as she continues her fiddling. "Although you toed the line at times." There is a twinkle in her eye and he thinks it might be a tear.
After one long moment, she whispers, "Do not call your mother that." He almost doesn't hear her.
(You're not.)
(How fast does someone die? Time is relative. When Loki was a boy he read volumes and volumes of dusty books off shelves higher than twenty Odins stacked on top of each other (he measured length in his father because he thought Father was the tallest person he can remember looking up to and even then there must have been length to spare, there were books, so many books) and he would climb without second thought of how they could topple over any second and reach for the ones he wasn't allowed to read yet because he was too young, they all said he was too young but he didn't care, there was so much he didn't know, so much they all said he wasn't allowed to know (not yet, they all said, but Time is relative, that was how he managed to convince himself of anything and everything, Time is relative, Time is relative, time is different from where you're standing and where he was standing was in Asgard where he was easily a hundred years older than any Midgardian child and where he was standing was as the smartest boy his age and in his classes with private tutors and even smarter than Thor and the usual rules didn't apply to him and he read that one particular volume, the one with the cracked pages and the golden runes inscribed on the front that spelled out the Calligraphy, Art, Weaponry, and Ways of the Dark Elves prior to the Age of Bor, and Loki read and read with wide eyes and a horror-filled child-heart, fascination at that one phrase that burned into his memory and burned to hurt hundreds of years later when he lied on the floor of a cell after tearing holes and tearing scars into the walls and skin, the books and their words that he hated because they had hurt them and lay on the floor looking at nothing and everything, at his wrecked prison cell Odin locked him in for being the mentally incompetent bastard of an enemy child he was until he was finally deemed "stable" but until then he lied on the floor utterly gutted out from inside out but all he remembered were the words- blades of the Dark Elves were embedded with curses in the form of coated venom, which when cut through the skin of an enemy would cause a slow, prolonged, painful death, long surpassing the death rate of any other Aesir weapon. The words hurt him, he never should have read that book, never should have-)
"-the ultimate truth of your deception- The fact that you hold the enemy deep in the heart of the kingdom and they call me liar?! That I am not- not- you are all liars, you and the wretched lot of them, all of you-"
Eir slaps Loki's face so hard his head recoils to smack the bar of the bad behind him. He freezes at the sting, mouth open and rage suspended, only capable of feeling surprised of the strength behind the old Healer's swing. Eir merely grasps his bony wrist, all clinical stern patience and measures his pulse. She leans down to look into his eyes, measuring the size of his dilated pupils- concern creasing her brow. He is too stunned to do anything other than breathe.
He blacked out. Not good. He cannot remember the past five minutes, or exactly what he said. Something manic, no doubt. He fights the urge to blur away from the present again. Panic nearly takes over but he's too frozen to let it take hold or do anything than just sit and think. Months. It's been months since that's happened.
"That's better," Eir says calmly, releasing his wrist that drops like dead weight and one side of her lip quirking at Loki's still stunned expression. "Sigyn-" she calls across the room, "some water if you please."
A young healer across the room jumps at being addressed. Loki snaps out of his trance to glare at her, panic rising. How long has she been standing there?
The healer quickly returns from an adjacent room with a pitcher of water placed along a tray laden with delicate, light foods. He loathes her immediately.
He pauses to gather some of his dignity. "I am not feeling particularly hungry," he informs Eir smoothly (his stomach twists) "and I would like to rest now," (lies lies he wants the food he wants all of it he wants it he wants it) "I do not require your aid." (it hurts)
Eir's expression does not shift in the slightest. "I have already informed you. The Allfather has placed you under my care for the time being. If you have any issue with the arrangement, I suggest you discuss it directly with your father."
Loki keeps his face carefully blank, holding back the disgust. So. A kingly decree for the invalid and even that does not warrant a visit?
(something inside twinges like a memory but it gets stuck, like everything else)
No. He doesn't need nor desire a visit. Pathetic. How much more shades of pathetic must he go through before he runs all out?
The smell of food (oh gods) wafts across his face (please no) and it smells disgusting (it hurts hurts hurts).
But he is strong. He is so strong he manages to gaze at the meager offerings laden on the tray enough to turn his nose up at it. The young healer watches him with wary eyes.
Loki lifts an eyebrow in Eir's general direction.
He makes to move off the bed- and finds himself stuck. Bindings materialize the minute he lifts his limbs outside of the golden sheen and close around his thighs, his torso, his ankles. A new low. He kicks his legs and the bindings tighten- not enough to cut, but enough to feel the blood flow constraining. He growls deeply in his throat, anger overriding panic.
"Loki-"
He throws his arms out with a frustrated yell and knocks the laden tray out of the healer's hands. Ouch. A particularly deep cut on the inside of his elbow reopens and he feels the bandage grow wet as bindings immediately appear around his arms. The healer cries out as soup plasters her shift and Loki feels a savage pleasure in knowing it was hot.
"Get the feeding tube," Eir snaps. "And get help."
The young healer rushes to the entrance holding her face, calls out to other healers just outside the door.
A long string of profanities makes it out of Loki's mouth, poisonous and vicious, spitting them out in one steady stream at the Head Healer, who looks wary as she weaves a complex paralyzing remedy with golden tinged seidr in the air in front of him. He says a particularly nasty phrase that makes the corner of Eir's mouth twitch down as she grabs the feeding tube from the young healer, drying soup pasted on her front and one side of her face beginning to welt. She holds up a strap he immediately nicknames the gag. It has a metal guard meant to pry open his mouth and a strap that goes around the head to keep it in place. He stops his bashing momentarily to bear his teeth at her while Eir shoots him a thoroughly unhappy look. Bad Loki.
I'll be damned if they get that anywhere near my mouth. He struggles futilely as the straps tighten around his thighs as new straps appear out of nowhere to close around his wrists. Two male healers appear on either side of him, arms up like they're approaching a rabid creature. Wretched, the lot of them. He chokes out another yell. Powerless. He is powerless.
Eir twists the paralyzing seidr in the air and infuses it into the already glowing golden shell bubbling around him. The Soul Forge hums at the same time Loki begins to feel it- the slow, chilling creep of being rendered immobile. His feet stop kicking and he watches in semi-awe as he loses feeling in his toes, then his feet, his legs, and up up up. It makes his brain foggy, his panicked heart stutter.
Poison comes to his aid, as it always has.
"You want to kill me Eir, you always have and now you've just been waiting and now you got your chance- I'm not going to wake up and you- you," He's babbling now, like an imbecile. The paralyzing drought has soaked into his brain. His sharp tongue, his only weapon, his last remaining defense reduced to nothing- "What- what more will you take, what more before it's enough, before you brutes are finally satisfied-and take- take everything-"
Eir looks down, calmer now, slightly disturbed. "Keep still now, Loki."
He can't. Can't. Not when they're getting closer with that crude instrument of torture, of pain-
(don't think don't remember)
They insert the metal bit and it's so cold it hurts his teeth. The metal adjusts itself to fit snugly against his teeth, the sharp bit pressing into his gums. He has a fleeting vision of his old horse, Mirar (who died years ago, when a young warrior-in-training shot a poorly aimed arrow in the Training Grounds when Loki and Thor were riding) Mirar and the metal bite of the reins pulling and pulling and pulling to force him where to go and where to fun and how fast. He coughs at the taste of cold metal- they only force it wider, pulling his jaw until his mouth is horribly gaping. He can already feel a pool of saliva forming and he chokes, unable to swallow.
"I need you to relax, Loki."
(don't think don't remember)
The tube goes in next. They force it deep into the back of his throat and he feels like he might gag but doesn't. They have done this before, countless times. He is critical, they said. We cannot help someone who refuses to feed himself. The Healers press in. You can get better on your own or we will force you.
Eventually his gag reflex was gone. It's been only two seasons since he was released from the Healers' care. That year was not a pleasant memory. In all that time he didn't feed himself once.
The tube presses against the back of his throat and his eyes water automatically. A tear falls in a warm trail down his temple into his ear. Someone wipes it with a warm cloth. He wants to shake his head away but very quickly he finds his head is very, very heavy and his thoughts are slow, slow, slooooow.
(it hurts)
Distinct voices and rustling, everyone wanting to touch some part of his body to keep him still, even though he cannot move. He wants to bite at them but the tube suddenly moves and water is being gushed down the tube in a steady stream. He feels the urge to swallow but the tube is so far down his throat that it is unnecessary. The water falls deep into his stomach, so cold he starts to feel himself quiver slightly despite being barely able to move. A blanket is draped over him and he can feel the weight but not the warmth.
He closes his teary eyes and waits for the wave to pass. Again. Again. Individual streams of water rush down and he feels the terrible feeling of fullness (need food) and he wants to gag (food) so he can throw up (more need more need-) everything that they managed to stuff into him.
After a while (eternity, timeless eternity, void-) the tube disappears. The tension seeps out, limb by limb, going from tight as a coil to limp weight. His head flops when the hands holding him steady disappear.
Some more voices. Distinct sighs of relief. They must think he is asleep and it works because ultimately they decide that feeding a sleeping patient has risks that far outweigh the benefits. He hears them scurry around somewhere nearby. The gag is removed too hastily and the sharp bit snags on his bottom lip and draws blood. A quiet curse and a cloth presses down hard on the cut. The pressure releases quickly but the sting remains.
Footsteps diminish.
He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to know if he can or can't open them if he decides he wants to. His arm is bent at an awkward angle and he feels a crink forming in his neck. He wants to push his hair from his face that's starting to itch. He wants to ask for another blanket. He wants to move whenever he feels like moving. He wants a sleeping drought, not this paralyzing nightmare. He wants a damn fire stoked. He wants them all dead. He wants to fucking breathe.
Somebody reads his mind because another blanket falls on top on him and his head is straightened, albeit roughly. He catches the distinct scent of salty vegetable soup. A reproachful sniff and the healer is gone.
His limbs ache. It going to be a long and uncomfortable night before he can move on his own again. He allows what remains of his hazy consciousness dream up imaginative ways of setting the Healing Hall ablaze.
Eir, Thor, and Sif stand outside the Healing Room. A few hours have passed since Odin bade Thor good night and left towards the direction of his chambers, looking grim and quiet and more than a little lost.
Eir wrings her fingers together and begins.
"Loki sleeps most of the time. It is for the best. A person can only take so much before shutting down. It is not something he can control- eventually, a body shuts down on its own. Gives itself time to heal."
Thor exhales deeply. Sif shifts from side to side, frowning deeply. "And when will he wake?"
Eir glances back towards the Healing Hall. "He should be awake now… although not in the best mood for visitors." Eir frowns. "He still has problems with feeding himself. We were forced to help him."
Anger comes sharp and quick. "So you feed him as you would an animal?" Thor nearly shouts, voice echoing in the dim hall. Early morning. Odin should be up by now.
The brightness fades out of Eir's eyes and he remembers how much time she spent around Loki, the way she absolutely adored his antics as a boy, even though he tried her patience too many times to count, the way took up the role of stern aunt secretly admiring her tumultuous storm of a nephew, the way she watched him grow and ultimately watched him fall.
"I'm sorry," he says quickly. Sif reaches out a hand to squeeze tightly around his arm. Eir nods, too much understanding in that simple gesture.
"He will not eat or drink any other way." Eir looks at nothing. "Anything that might result in his own well-being, he shuns. It is the most astounding feat of self-destruction I have ever witnessed." Eir looks up at Thor, apologetic. "The closest case I have seen of his behavior is with the younger warriors- those most inexperienced. After returning from battle, they… have problems doing the most mundane tasks. They do not eat nor sleep. Sometimes they forget to shower. Forget to live normal lives because they are mentally caught in another. Time, usually, is the best treatment."
Eir pauses and sighs. "Although, I have never seen anything as severely deteriorative as Loki."
The three stay silent for a while, Eir waiting for questions, Sif with her hold on Thor, and Thor thinking about how some do battle while others just do tricks.
Young warriors who dreamt of bloodshed, still caught in battle after coming home. Scars so deep they halted sleep, halted time, halted life.
Loki, who was lying on a hospital bed, stuck somewhere Thor cannot reach.
"Thor?" Sif's voice is quiet but it manages to cut through the dim.
He blinks. Remembers time and place. Eir leans forward, expectant.
"Can I see him?" He asks, because what else can he do?
The Healer frowns. "He might not be in the best headspace." Her eyes shift away from his, thinking something he cannot hear. "You must be prepared that he will want nothing to do with you. Or others," she adds, looking to Sif.
Sif does nothing but wait with a steady hand on his arm. "Thor?" She asks again, quietly.
Thor sighs, again. A hint of the rising dawn makes it through the high windows and the world feels quiet.
"Alright," he says. He sighs again, bracing for the pain sure to come. "Alright."
The smell of herbs and soap waft over his face before the light of the fire does. It burns softly, crackling gently in the corner of the magnificent hall. Loki, despite the obvious heat, is shivering violently.
Loki.
His little brother is lying on his back in a bed that looks too large for him, with bland clothes that look too big on him, with eyes too wide on his face, gaze too vacant, looking at nothing and managing to look terrified all at once. His eyes are glossed over, and the person who is supposed to live underneath the emerald green is vacant. Sharp, clever mind suppressed with medication and pain. Multiple pillows make him sit almost upright on the bed but his head is lolling back like he can't keep his head up on his own.
The tunic Thor brought from his room is folded neatly beside him and he cannot explain the hot rush of shame that he should have gotten him something better. His favorite book. His pendant that he's had since he was a boy, a gift from Frigga she laced with every protective enchantment she could manage to bestow upon it. (He doesn't know if Loki knows that. What he would say if he did.) Everything they packed for Loki waits for him back in chambers, until he is lucid enough to understand that he will stay in the Healing Hall for a while and they can begin to make things more comfortable for Loki. (Not even Thor believes that.)
Sif squeezes her hand tight around his bicep like a vice. Either her hand is so small or his arm is too big but her white fingers grip around barely half of him. It is the strongest her presence has ever felt beside him and he could live a thousand more years and never be able to form the words to let her know exactly how grateful he is that she's here.
Loki.
(So small. Thor told him this, occasionally, when they were younger. Why are you so small, brother? You look as thin as a branch! Joking, teasing, halfhearted jabs at pride- because they were brothers and what kind of brother would he be if he didn't say that sort of thing to his little brother? And Loki informed him in a voice befitting a grown adult that It's because of your bias. Your perception is all skewed because big brothers never see little brothers as anything other than little. That if Thor was a stranger and Loki didn't know him and had never seen him before and neither one of them had absolutely nothing to connect one to the other, Thor would see how mistaken he was, how strong Loki was, how giant (and isn't that just ironic and heartbreaking and everything in between?) but he couldn't and can't, So there, Loki added. Like he'd just won some battle, some great big thing that Thor couldn't comprehend and would never comprehend. Idiot, sometimes followed the So there. Brat sometimes followed the Idiot and they would go on and on, spin circles and endless loops and regressions with their words like one long continuous thread of golden string of their conversations and jabs and pokes and prods until somewhere down the line, the thread got tangled, so irreparably tangled and knotted and confused that the words turned into barbs, the jokes into poison and teases into sharp-tongued duels and now the thread was too far knotted to see where the first knot began, where it was too late to unravel and take back and see where it had all gone so wrong-)
"Loki."
Nothing.
"Loki?"
Nothing.
(Sif inhales quietly but it's so quiet he can hear her, even though she's trying not to be loud, and Thor cannot seem to be loud enough.)
"Loki?'
Nothing.
"Loki… Please… talk to me."
(His eyes are closed.)
Thor clears his throat and blinks away moisture.
"Are you well?"
"Stupid question. Even for you."
Stupid, blind, numbing relief.
(hoarse voice, echo of a voice, his not-all there voice-)
"Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods."
(A scoff- or is it a sigh?)
Sif swallows.
"How are you feeling?"
"Marvelous. Absolutely. Peachy. However, my day did- take a- remarkable downturn all but- two minutes ago."
(Long pauses between sentences- breaks in-between words like he can't catch his breath or isn't breathing enough to begin with.)
(He can hear Sif inhale and exhale. Quiet. Steady. Sure.)
(He can't hear Loki breathe.)
(He watches the thin fabric of material of his chest move up and down. It's the only convincing factor.)
"Loki?"
"What."
(Command, not a question.)
(White knuckles fist the sheet as tight as Sif's hand on his arm.)
(What can he say?)
(His voice is raspy, hoarse. It's hard for him to talk and why is that?-)
(What is there for him to say?)
(His eyes are vacant yet manage to hold every range of emotion anyone ever must have felt, if such a spectrum even existed, one for angry and sad and pain and lost like color was red and blue and white and green-)
(Ten year old Loki would have loved to hear that, that expression)
(What can he say?)
"Thor. What."
(What is left for him to say?)
"Get better. Just please get better."
(Idiot. Fool. Moron-)
"Get. Out."
"Loki, please just listen to what he is trying to-"
"Why are- you here. With Thor it makes a- sick sort of sense but- not from-"
"We care about you, Loki. And we want to help-"
"Just get- out. Now. I want. You both out-"
"Loki-"
"What."
"Why did you jump?"
(Idiot. Fool. Moron-)
"Thor-"
"How could you do that again, Loki? Brother… please."
"What."
"Why?"
"Get- out."
"Please don't go away."
"Out."
"I'll come back. I'll do everything to make you stay. Please."
Nothing.
(What can I say to make you stay?)
"I'm not going anywhere."
Nothing.
"Loki?"
"Thor."
Nothing.
(Gone. Dead. Void-)
"Loki!"
"Thor. We should go now."
The pincer-grip pulls.
"Come on, Thor. Let him rest. We will return later."
(He can't tell is she's talking to Loki or him.)
"Come on, Thor. There you go. We will come back, it's alright."
(Loki inhales shakily in sleep.)
"Shhh. Everything's alright."
(And exhales just as insubstantially.)
(He lets himself be pulled away and somehow manages to hate himself impossibly more.)
Time has stopped working. All he knows is that Asgard is too bright, too large, and glowing. His feet walk without his bidding and only when he looks down in confusion to the spectrum running underneath his feet does he know where he is.
"Prince Thor," Heimdall says. His golden eyes cast down, regal helmet bowed in greeting.
"Heimdall," Thor manages. His mouth opens, grasps for words, for formalities, for Good mornings, but nothing comes out.
A pause.
"Midgard, I presume?" Heimdall quietly asks and says nothing else, face expressionless, and he does not ask after him or Loki or Odin or anyone or anything. The relief is so strong it aches.
Thor manages some sort of nod because Heimdall steps back into the Observatory to work as guide to the bridge between the Realms.
The Bifrost roars and flashes in its full glory, a surge of power and energy that fills Thor's head with the roar. He steps over the repaired crack in the glass beneath his feet and into the Observatory.
Heimdall bows. "Safe travels, my Prince."
A flash of a thousand colors and Asgard is gone.
A/N: I apologize. This took an unforgivably long time to update. Hopefully it was worth the wait! Please review if you can.
Stay tuned for Thor travels outside of Asgard and more feels to come! Don't be too mad at Thor, he's not abandoning Loki, he just needs to breathe. Understandably.