Disclaimer: I don't own Thor, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

Chapter 22: Old Man

It was like nothing he'd ever felt, soaring above and beyond the fire that surged through his skin and threatened to tear him apart. As though he'd been violently electrocuted, shot through with his brother's damned current, and Loki dropped, didn't even register in his mind that he was soaked, not only in the blood of the giants, but his own, in sweat and anxiety. What hideous phantasm was this, that which forced a bright stream of crimson to move through the cracks in the now broken bricks, slip through his fingers and stain the knees of his pants? What nightmare had he been caught up in, to feel his heart speed up and then stop dead in his chest, crumbling with his bones as Thor tilted his head back, stared at him with empty blue eyes?

He shuddered, felt that unpleasant tang on his lips, recognizing his body's vicious reaction to the sight. Her hands fell on him then as he teetered to his feet, mouth open and sucking in what breath he could, though none of it was even close to enough. Sif's words were garbled, as though his head were underwater, and he pulled away from her, ignored her obvious cries for him to cease and be still. But who was she, who were any of them, to command him, prince of Asgard and Son of Odin Allfather?

What kind of animals were they, he thought, ramming his shoulder against the giant, forcing him out of the way, to crave war, blood, violence? Was it tradition, pounded so deeply into the bones of the first Aesir that it had become a part of their genetic makeup, or had it always been, always bubbled beneath the surface, caused the warriors of Asgard to raise their glasses to toast the beating of the bloodied war drums? The beast did not respond as Loki found himself making that detestable sound, whimpering, simply standing off to the side as his hands framed Thor's face.

"Thor! Thor!"

He looked so pathetic, this man, his brother, who had always stood tall, even as a boy, parading about as if he owned the world. The most irritating of the kingdom's inhabitants, likely the most stuck up, obnoxious, haughty bastard in the whole of the Nine Realms, and here he was, lying on the ground in a land of giants, savages, as though he were a quivering old man, choking on his own blood and spit.

Loki cast his eyes upward, stared at the others one at a time, bit his lip and waited, hoping that one of them would have it.

"What are you waiting for?!" he hissed, frantic. Why the hell weren't they doing anything, moving? At least one of them should have carried it, the Healing Stone. They were all idiots, Loki knew, but they couldn't all be so foolish as to not carry such a necessity.

But not a one of them uttered a word, not a one moved, stood still and daft among the ripped up bricks, broken bodies and flame.

Thor had asked him once, in recent months, on the very morn he'd decided that they'd run off to hunt bilge snipe, why he couldn't heal the wounds of others. Loki had never known, had never actually tried with any of the Aesir. There had been one instance, he recalled, where he'd made the mistake of pinning a squirrel to a tree by its tail during a bit of archery practice, and had done his best to keep the poor thing from bleeding. Needless to say, it hadn't worked. But looking at his brother now, it seemed there was no other choice.

With one hand laid flat against the breastplate of the armor, now cracked in many places as a testament to the Fire Giants' strength, his fingers closed around the shaft of the spear, and pulled. Thor flinched, moved his head across the ground and groaned, making all of this a hell of a lot worse. Loki looked to the others, not having a damn clue as to what he was supposed to be doing. He'd broken his fingers before, cut himself sharpening knives, and hurt himself in numerous other ways. But with those injuries, being relatively minor as well as his own, had been a cinch, for he had only waved a hand over the affected area and waited for the skin to mend itself.

So, he supposed, that was what he ought to be doing. And he did.

His teeth chattered, trembling as Thor began to writhe, shift beneath him, making gentle sounds at the back of his throat. Loki shook his head and leaned forward, throwing his weight onto Thor's chest in an attempt to keep him still. This wasn't going to work if Thor kept moving. But the thunderer was stubborn, even standing on the threshold of death, and shoved back, sent Loki toppling backwards as the Fire Giant laughed.

The trickster turned on the beast, hands clenched into fists before they relaxed, opened, fashioned thin knives out of the dust on the ground, in the air. He hated that look, the one they all seemed to wear in his presence. They all thought him to be a coward, far below any of them. Even the monsters of the other worlds believed themselves to be above him, a prince of Asgard, a future king. They thought him only clever enough to perform petty little magic tricks, pulling rabbits out of pitchers of ale and water, producing a series of butterflies from beneath a napkin or a tablecloth. They thought him a child, and it burned.

He forced himself to shudder, scramble back a ways as he peered over the giant's shoulder, eyes wide as though the cosmos were about to come crashing down upon them.

But the giant only laughed, did not fall for the trick, did not turn his head or even move so that the trickster could end him. He just smiled, leered at Loki, mocking him.

Loki glanced to his brother, blue eyes cracked open enough to look at him as Sif and the others knelt beside them, and Thor stretched out his hand, pushed the knives from his fingers and held on tight. They had used to run around like this, each holding fast to the other, as though there were nothing in the world that could tear them apart. Of course, those had been simpler times, before Thor had learned to wield a sword and kill, and before Loki had ever deigned to immerse himself in the vast knowledge of his mother's library. They had not known fully of death then, had only ever heard of it in passing, easily dismissing it as a subject fit for the adults at the dinner table.

But being here, sucked dry and scorched by flame, bleeding and wondering just how, if at all, they would get home, death was very much a part of their lives, and upon Muspelheim the brothers now faced it.

A crash came from the sky, from the structure behind the giant, and the great, flaming archway of the palace came crashing down, the weight breaking through the steps, scattering the rows of torches and causing all eyes to grow wide as light flashed, illuminating the eight-legged figure within the pillar of smoke.

The giants howled at one another in the ancient tongues, rushed past them and down the narrow passageways between the buildings, screaming and sounding an alarm for the others to stay away.

Loki sighed, fell backwards next to Thor as Odin and Sleipnir descended the broken steps. The horse marched around them in a circle and reared as the Allfather looked down at them. It was certain that he would have their heads once the damage was repaired, at least, that which could be repaired, but, for now, there was a distinct gleam of relief in Odin's one eye, and Loki could do nothing but smile.

Who would have thought that, after all their fighting, he'd be so bloody grateful to the old man?