Chapter Text
Five days of feasting left Valhalla quiet afterwards. A respite from celebration for his arrival, a show of solemnity for the end of his mortality. Thor found it quite amusing but didn’t say as much.
The blissful haze of beginning days has all but gone, leaving a low undercurrent of anger and sorrow. He’s missing Earth more than ever, he had come to appreciate the rapid change. Old wounds and feelings were now laid at his feet, registering exactly what he is facing.
Loki, for the most part, is an exception.
Most of what he regretted was brought up when he first saw Loki in the gothic library, those two days in his company. There were things he’s forgotten at this point that he worries may be dredged up farther down the road at inopportune times but he doesn’t think it will be as serious as the ones he openly cried over his first night in Valhalla.
Everything else became a little less daunting at that notion. Loki would be there to help him if need be.
He hid the turmoil well but it didn’t mean it wasn’t felt.
His friends look at him with startled, taken aback expressions when he first sees them again, hardly knowing how to act around him as if he is some strange anomaly they’ve never seen before. His parents, likewise, hide their unsettled feelings over his aged appearance remarkably well but the staring is hard not to notice.
Everyone stares.
Sure, he’s not shocked. They all perished without ever seeing his hair gradually whiten, without seeing his silky beard grow in and his methodical braiding each morning, without seeing the devastating wars he’s witnessed and lost and won in equal measure. He is so different and it’s hard not to feel inadequate over it.
They search for his adolescence. Scrutinize each move he makes like a juvenile to find just a smidge of similarity. Whatever they recognize, Thor is far removed. One quarter of his life they lived through and it was at his brashest. He could dedicate the rest of his time in Valhalla spinning the weave of his last three quarters and he doesn’t think they’d ever fully understand.
Not that it matters. Because Thor doesn’t really talk about it.
If they query, he doesn’t mind sharing, but mostly he keeps it to himself. Like his own private safety net of history that wells up whenever he catches their uncertain gazes. It makes him miss mortals dearly, they lived for such a short timespan and becoming a living legend had had its benefits.
The blatant unease was stripping his nerves to frayed points. Enough so he could feel a hum beneath his skin of a malevolent storm approaching.
Valhalla’s atmosphere—whatever it was—didn’t quite respond to him as naturally as Earth’s. The storm lay brewing in his gut, bubbling unleashed anxiety and minor frustrations. The static of the air around him remained thick and choking, buzzing against his hair and leaving a stinging sensation.
The stench of ozone burned his nose and Thor knew at that point he had to let go of his hold on the turmoil. There was no way he could continue walking around casually with his powers oozing out of him like a tube of toothpaste on its last home stretch.
He didn’t know why their uncertainty angered him so. He knew he changed—he was an old man for Norns sake, older than even his father at the time of his passing—but he didn’t think it was so severely to leave his friends hesitant to get close and say the wrong thing. Whatever was holding their tongues, Thor didn’t like it at all.
Valhalla listened to his internalized emotions like its very own radio, his steps leading to a vast open field of rolling hills that held high grass and delicate sprigs of lavender. Each tromp left the plains flattened and almost immediately the sky began to shade with inky black clouds, ripping open on a flash of lightning, rain sleeting down in desperate wresting.
The raucous sound of screeching thunder rings in his ears, wave after wave of water pounding down deafening the wildlife that had been so prominent mere moments before.
Thor inhaled deeply and dropped his head back, already soaked to the bone. Behind his eyelids flashing strike after strike of lightning, the storm only growing in size the more he relaxed and released the pent up emotions.
The magnitude was like none Thor has ever seen before. He’s never been given the opportunity to unleash himself at full. Hela was a close competitor but Thor had just realized his true potential at that point, and he had gotten a lot better with practice in later years.
Something about breaking himself open for the sky to vent his woes was the most soothing thing Thor’s experienced in times past. The lashing rain on his face was a mix of tears and he couldn’t separate himself from the booming thunder around him, trembling in his own skin as one with the dismal weather.
The further he sunk into the storm, the more he could sense Valhalla around him. So far away was everyone else, completely oblivious to the inherent danger they would be in if he lost control. Thor thrived in storm and, at the epicenter, he remained untouched by the severity.
Thor cried and the sky cried with him.
…
“King Bor!” Thor nearly took a step back in his bafflement, having opened the door of the library—seemingly Loki’s permanent residence—to the god.
The king smiled warmly, a ray of sunshine gleaming off his teeth. Thor wondered if it was a god of creation thing.
“Thor. I see you’ve been doing some reading.”
Thor looks up at the towering double doors and shrugs, “Sort of. Loki’s pretty much always in here. Are you coming in?”
“I am. Would you like to accompany me?” Bor didn’t seem inclined either which way and Thor paused. He was planning on a walk but this topic veered more interesting.
“I would, where to?” Thor holds the door for his grandfather, stepping into pace next to him as he traverses the winding, floating shelves.
It’s odd to meet the guy you idolized as a child. Especially when that guy is his father’s father. He imagines Bor hadn’t been any better a dad than Odin was.
“Your mother was just telling me she wrote many tomes for Old Asgard’s library and she has quite a knack for story-telling. I wished to read some of her penmanship.” Bor was around the same height as Odin but his tone didn’t hold weight like the other Allfathers. It was more airy and careless, like a jittery flame.
Thor couldn’t help his flattery of his grandfather’s word configuration of Old Asgard. Recognition from the Architect of Asgard is no small achievement.
“Ah, yes. I remember sitting aside her, exaggerating a few details to make my journeys sound more perilous.” Thor laughed, “She always saw through my deceit, not that I was the best liar.”
“I imagine it became quite easy to see the difference between truth and falsehood with the god of lies for a son.” The next corner they turned spun shelves in a swift loop before settling on a specific array of yellow-gold books.
While his mother had never been particular about the color of covers, Thor knew innately that these were all her own. He would be fascinated by the innermost workings of this place had he not been able to feel the very land, even while lacking clear understanding of the intricacies.
“Tell me, Thor,” Bor starts, methodically selecting three novels that he could carry in one hand. He stopped when he turned to face Thor, eyeing him with barely disguised interest. “Would you write your own tomes of the travels we’ve all missed?”
Thor’s brows furrowed in confusion but he answered all the same. “Maybe… at a later date.”
“I would love to read them if you ever do. I always thought the Denisovans would have come out at the top of mortals’ evolution.” Bor’s eyes shimmered, an abyss of stars in their slate color. He focused once more on Thor. “I noticed a raging tempest the other day and I found myself admiring the sheer magnitude.”
Thor blinked dumbly but Bor didn’t seem to notice. “We don’t oft see dreary weather and I appreciated the turnaround. I do hope you come to speak with me again some time.”
“Some time,” Thor responded distantly. His grandfather was already walking away.
…
Feasts were plentiful and ale bountiful, flowing endlessly among the general populous. It was hard to find a day when Valhalla wasn’t celebrating, no matter the occasion. Of course, none of these required attendance and Thor often avoided the hubbub. Loki was never privy to the big events Asgard hosted way back when and it hadn’t changed since he’d been up here so Thor never felt too bad about keeping away.
He saw his parents very little and, if so, at his own behest or obligation, a sudden hankering for his mother’s arms around him and his father’s smooth, familiar tone. Loki joined him about half the time.
His friends… not so simple. Sif was another story, seeing as she was the only one off-planet during Surtur’s destruction. But the Warriors Three left much to be desired, and not because they were bad friends. Truly, Volstagg had his wife and someday his daughters would arrive. Fandral went to nearly every party, boisterous and fun-loving as ever. Hogun had his betrothed and has always been more reserved than the rest of them.
And, again, Thor wasn’t the same god he used to be. They did their best to connect with him but he is far removed from that time and he struggles to find a commonality so quickly. To be honest, it makes him feel like a bad friend. Even so, Thor is in Loki’s presence the most and, while spending millennia (though it was extremely difficult to register the passage of time in the mortal plane) up here has softened ragged edges, their relationship with his brother hasn’t much changed.
Thor’s walks of solitude have gotten longer and longer. He’s shocked how much time he spends alone in Valhalla but he supposes it isn’t unprecedented.
But, despite all of this, or maybe in spite of it, Thor finds himself smiling more and more. His stomach twists less and his brain stops reverting to past hurts and mistakes at every mention of the past itself. He still thinks about it, he doesn’t think he’ll ever really be over it, but he’s healing.
That’s when his age begins to fluctuate.
It goes up and down on a whim, for the most part sticking to the way he looked as he died, old and decrepit. One time had he reverted to adolescence, with cropped blond hair at his shoulders and a haughty walk of posturing that felt too natural then. Besides the singular anomaly, he typically goes between elderly and middle-aged.
He’s always amused by the different looks he’d get, especially from a time his family nor friends had known him.
All of these distractions did not keep his mind from straying to Bor’s words. A type of autobiography of his tales.
It was a nice thought, but Thor would refuse to spare any of the gruesome and sordid details like his father would have and he doubted anyone would wish to read such destitute. The drivel he’d vomit would have to start at the beginning and probably take a long time to explicate. And he didn’t know if he wanted to revisit those fifteen years. Or have it on display for the whole of Valhalla.
Up here, he could see these distant memories in technicolor, as clear as the day it happened, and that made it hard to remove himself from the crumb trail of failure. In olden age, he’d left that all behind and, after dredging them up on initial sights of family and friends, he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it again.
This leaves his wandering aimless and consistently interrupted by his own tumultuous thoughts.
He’s been cycling through his life alive like an endless replay, reeling at the craving for understanding but also the fear of it being laid out. Five thick novels to encompass five generous millennia, leather covers a burgundy of blood to commemorate his stylistic choice of a red cape masking imbedded stains. Ink dripping with built-up pressure, blotting pages full of desolation and despair intertwined with love and compassion, spilled over his blood, sweat, and tears. A fresco of the truth that Thor hardly stands the remembrance.
Aesir love the maudlin, dreariness of battle and the camaraderie of brothers in arms. Thor had stopped seeing war that way long ago.
…
Fluttery beats of wings resided firmly in his gut ever since Thor’s arrival to paradise. An elation of the constancy of his brother’s presence and the waning of age, slowly but surely.
Thor’s hair was a shimmery bronze, darkened by years with silver streaks interwoven. Wrinkles marred his skin and, if Loki were to guess, he’d say Thor is around four thousand or so. Admittedly, Loki probably spent too much time just staring at the elder.
Thor was a lot like Frigga than ever before. Something to do with his journey in life that Loki wishes to hear so much more of but refuses to push on. He ached recalling their first two days together, of snot, tears, and choked apologies.
He doesn’t want his brother to ever feel like that again.
Loki remains patient. He’s always been good at biding his time.
There was something to be said about a switch-up of roles. Loki found he liked hugging and comforting Thor, easing bouts of trauma that were diminishing over time. The once where Thor had reverted to adolescence was not two hours Loki ever wished to repeat. He hated to say it but the self-deprecation had been frightening.
Bearing witness to his brother’s healing gave Loki a sense of security. While he’d always seen Thor as impenetrable, breaking him down to his raw, bleeding wounds he grew out of was more than enough to kick off Loki’s protective side, not that Thor even needed it in such a state.
It always bemused Loki how quickly Thor bounced back.
Maybe that’s why they were laughing so crazily.
He knew they looked insane. Sprawled next to each other with large, decadent wildflowers casting moving shadows in a cool breeze. The leaves and branches above were laughing with them, creating an oceanic sound in the wind. Both of them crying tears of mirth.
He couldn’t quite remember what set off the bouts of ecstasy but Loki couldn’t care less. Something to do with a couple novels Thor was attempting to write.
Loki absentmindedly noted the way the flowers around them were growing denser, blooming and sprouting an each breathless exhale of amusement Thor made.
“You’ll have to include your impromptu wedding!” Loki burst into another fit, turning on his side and clutching his aching stomach at the joyful memory.
Thor joined him too, slapping a hand against his thigh in a poor bid to calm down with how fast he was losing air. “That was mostly your doing!”
“‘Mostly’ being the descriptor,” Loki cried, shoving at Thor’s shoulder. Thor shoving him back with his own diminishing snickers, eyes warm and bright and loving.
Loki doesn’t know how he ever doubted Thor’s feelings for him.
“So you will help me?”
Loki couldn’t keep the broad grin off his face even if he tried. “Of course, brother. I would never subject anyone to your horrendous writing.”
Thor only grinned back, “I’ll have to show you how I’ve improved.”
Loki’s shoulders were still shaking from the residual laughter so he merely shook his head and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply the delicate scent of fresh flora. He felt like a kid again.