Worthy Chapter 3, a thor fanfic

A/N: Hi everyone! This is the second last chapter of the story and I am already feeling sorry that it is coming to an end. It has been a great journey with all you lovely readers. I had to break the chapter into two as it was quite long. I hope you like this one. I had wept whilst writing this.

To PS I'm human, Dora Malena and water lily in Clearwater, a huge thank you for sticking with the story. Love you guys.

Disclaimer: All original characters of the movie Thor are the express property of Marvel. I only own the story, and the lullaby.

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Chapter Three

His throat felt raw. He could taste blood on his tongue. His eyes felt like sandpaper, itching and swollen. And red.

Loki took a shaky breath and tried to look around. Everything was gone. The chairs were upturned. The table lay on its side, three legs missing. The books were scattered all over the place. Pages flew around like dead leaves, rustling in the deafening silence. The fruits rolled about, so out of place in this cold, sterile chamber. His prison.

Loki turned his head. It hurt. He hurt all over. Why was he hurting all over?

He squinted up at the sharp light in the cell. It felt too bright. What had happened? Why was he on the floor?

He tried hard to remember. Everything felt pitch dark inside his mind. Only flashes of horrific scenes teased and tortured his brain. He groaned.

He placed his palm on the chilling floor, propelling himself to a sitting position. The hard stone wall pressed onto his back, supporting him. He took another laboring breath and wiped his mouth. His palms burnt. He looked down at them.

They were raw and bleeding. His nails were broken. His wrists ached. He ached all over. The once slicked back hair now fell around his face in grizzled matted curtains.

He had been screaming, struggling, scrambling to wake up from this bad dream, this nightmare. He had been calling for his mother. So sure she would sooth him back to sleep with her sweet voice, as she always did when he was a child.

But she had not come.

Why hadn't she come? She was supposed to come and sooth him. She had never ever neglected him like that. Even during his captivity, she had found a way to reach out to him.

Then am I not your mother?

You're not…

Then am I not your mother?

You're not…

His chest suddenly felt tight. He couldn't breathe. He tried to gulp in some air and force it down his throat. It was agony.

Then am I not your mother?

You're not…

It had all come back to him in a flash. The prison break. The riot. And at the end of the day, a cold message from the Allfather delivered by one of the guards in a clipped and precise manner. No emotions, no sympathy. Just a plain fact.

As if he meant nothing to them.

As if she meant nothing to him.

Loki grabbed his head, squeezing his eyes shut till they hurt. He was sleeping. He was sleeping. And this was all a nightmare. Please tell me it's just a nightmare.

No one answered. The silent walls stood sentinel to his grief. Big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks. His entire being shook with suppressed sobs. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.

'Mama!' he howled. The cracked, scratched sound continued to echo faintly through the cell long after he had abandoned hope of a reply – of his mother's sweet voice calling out to him, consoling him.

With jerky movements he sat up straighter, his left leg stretched out and the right folded underneath. The chamber was deathly quiet. Silence seemed to engulf his every breath and wrap it within itself, drowning any sound.

It was suffocating. It was killing him.

You might want to try the stairs to the left…

You're not…

Then am I not your mother?...

You're not…

He screamed, his hands hankering to claw at something, like it was clawing at his heart. Funny. He had imagined he had no heart left to grieve or rejoice. How wrong he was. She had died and it had been his fault. And he was feeling the pain with each breath he took, with each moment he existed.

More tears leaked. He had not the strength to wipe them. They fell, burning a path down his bruised cheeks. He took a slow breath and closed his eyes again.

He began to hum. An old, long forgotten tune that had once been his favourite. That once his mother used to sing to him to lull him to sleep. It was something that she always did when he was agitated.

Hush, sweet one. The night is here,

Dark her cloak a-creeping near.

With honey dreams and tippy-toes,

Whisp'ring, whisp'ring as she goes,

'Close thy sparkling precious eyes;

Chase thou stars and sail the skies.

Sail thy dreamboat until dawn.

Slumber on! O slumber on!'

He swallowed with difficulty, wet his chapped lips and began again.

Now that Day is long since past.

Now thy eyelids droop at last.

Sleep thou as the gentle breeze

Murmurs through the swaying trees,

'Close thy sparkling precious eyes;

Chase thou stars and sail the skies.

Sail thy dreamboat until dawn.

Slumber on! O slumber on!'

All through, his eyes shed tears, dripping through his chins into his already soaked undershirt. His armour was gone. What need did he have with armour now? What reason did he have to stay alive? She was gone, somewhere from whence there is no return. She would no longer pester him with questions, no longer talk to him with her soothing tones, no longer walk into his illusions and tease him about them. She was, she was…

Loki gripped his hair in his hands, his chest felt like it was on fire and he was screaming inside his head, unable to go on. Oh please let me die. Please let me die so that she can come back.

But he knew that was not how it ever worked.

Taking shuddering breaths, he swallowed again and started humming the next verses…

Round thee gentle arms be prest;

Lie thou on thy mother's breast,

Softly, softly as she croons

A song of old, an ancient tune—

'Close thy sparkling precious eyes;

Chase thou stars and sail the skies!

Sail thy dreamboat until dawn,

Slumber on! O slumber on!'

He could not go on. He couldn't sing. That music was worse torture than when he had fallen into the abyss. It reminded him each second that his mother had died while he lived, while he sat in this suffocating prison, unable to do anything. While he proved his worthlessness…

Footsteps.

The spell was cast like a gag reflex. His pride was still there. He did not want anyone to see him like this, the broken remains of a former prince, like a magnificent castle in ruins.

Loki sat still, propped up against the wall, listening to the tapping of boots on the cold floor. And all this time the illusion walked about like his former self – conniving, hurtful and silver-tongued, seeking to wound with words, pacing around the periphery of Loki's vision.

The footsteps were not the measured, precise ones of the guards. These were forceful, arrogant, almost thunderous, like that of someone with authority.

Thor.

Loki would recognize his brother's steps anywhere. His lips curled upwards slightly. After all this time…

But he wouldn't let anyone, not even his brother, see his true self. So he waited. And the illusion waited too, prowling like a caged tiger, impatient and vicious enough to maul someone.

The footsteps stopped in front of his cell. And Loki heard his alter-ego mouth the words that he had longed to ask his brother.

'Thor. After all this time. And now you come to visit me. Why?' The fake Loki paused, bending to glare at his brother. 'Have you come to gloat? To mock?'

'Loki, enough,' the deep voice of his brother rang across the tomb-like dungeon. 'No more illusions.'

Loki's shock was registered on the face of his alter-ego, as the outer veneer dissipated to reveal the rubble within.

Had Thor come here to comfort him when he needed it most, even though he was too proud to admit it? Had Thor come to take his mother's place and be the big responsible brother who had wiped away tears and fought back bullies for Loki in his childhood? Had he seen through all his little brother's tantrum's and found the grieving heart within?

Loki glanced up at the rigid face, the familiar golden locks, the blue, blue eyes.

'Now you see me, Brother.'

Thor walked up to the side of the cell. Loki's eyes followed him. Would his brother offer some comforting words now? Would he perhaps engulf him in his strong arms and sooth the hurt that was burning inside him like glowing ambers? He waited for Thor to speak. But his brother kept quiet.

'Did she suffer?' the question was torn from Loki's mouth. He was shocked at himself, dreading the answer. With bated breath he waited for the last blow to fall, for Thor to nod his head and confirm his worst fear.

But Thor did no such thing.

Now that he had a good view of his brother's face, Loki noticed something different about Thor. There was a steely glare in his brother's eyes, as if he wasn't the same carefree Thor that Loki used to know. This Thor was calculating and shrewd, and unforgiving – like Odin. So Loki couldn't say he was surprised by his brother's next words.

'I did not come here to share our grief. Instead I offer you the chance of a far richer sacrament.'

Yes. Thor had changed. Gone was the soft-hearted brother of old. In his place stood a ruler, a cold, exacting leader who was not swayed by sentiment. Thor had grown up. Like his father. This should be interesting, thought Loki. A small smirk began to tug at his lips.

'Go on.'

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To be continued…

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