Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“One time, when we were younger—“

It dawns on Bruce that Thor often told many tales that started with those words. Bruce almost felt as if he knew Loki, and not just because of the events of Manhattan. He knew Loki because he took up such a broad space when Thor began to speak and gesture with his hands. Loki was present at Avengers meetings via Thor’s bittersweet grin.

Manhattan didn’t prevent Thor from telling stories that featured his brother, and not even Clint would bother trying to cloud Thor’s perspective with the obvious protests. Perhaps that was for the best, considering where they are now.

When Bruce turns his head to the side, he can see Thor fiddling with a loose string—back to the fingerless gloves, and Bruce still doesn’t know why he wears them.

The Avengers linger at Tony’s cottage, milling about the property and making mild conversation. All of them, save for Thor, who sits at the edge of the water with his legs crossed. Tony sidles up beside Bruce, Morgan slung against his hip with his arm holding her steady.

“He doesn’t wanna come eat?” Tony asks mildly, nodding in Thor’s general direction. Most of the Avengers and their affiliates agreed to have a get-together in order to decompress somewhat. Thanos still rings clearly in all of their minds, but the misery that accompanied him doesn’t compare to the euphoria of being able to see the Vanished alive and well.

Bruce shakes his head ‘no’ at Tony’s question. Tony’s brow creases.

“Half of Asgard is back in Norway, I think that’s cause for celebration,” Tony remarks. Bruce winces and rubs at his bad arm.

“Yeah, but that half of Asgard is only a fraction of the people that Thanos killed before the snap. And that half only consists of the survivors of Ragnarok.” Not that Tony knows much about Sakaar and all that happened afterward. That journey still feels like a secret kept among the Revengers…all three of them. Bruce and Valkyrie still share amused glances, but it feels like Thor is slipping out of the loop. His once-determined grin is something that Bruce can only picture in his mind’s eye.

“Tony,” Bruce starts again, his voice gaining that unsure lilt that it sometimes has. “I think most of us got what we wanted.” Bruce is quiet; he almost doesn’t want to speak about such a fragile concept. He thinks of how Nat and Clint have been inseparable for the past few days, and about how Tony got to keep one kid and regain another. Bruce shakes his head and looks away. “But I think I screwed up.”

Tony gives Bruce a puzzled look and pats a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Bud, you took one for the team. You did all you could.” Bruce doesn’t say anything beyond that, and after a moment, Tony sighs and walks away. Bruce frowns. It’s not like he didn’t question whether or not Thor should have worn the glove for that initial snap. Thor is smart—stupidly smart—but Thor’s world is currently…singular. It’s been singular ever since the Statesman went up in flames. Bruce wonders if the stones would have picked up on that.

Bruce steels himself and makes his way over to sit down beside Thor. His friend doesn’t budge, his gazed fixed on the lake.

“…One time, when we were younger, he and I spent an entire week on the shore of a beach. We were on a foreign planet, small, with light pink waters and pastel sands.” Thor doesn’t have to say his name. Bruce just listens. “I had many other friends with us, and we reveled in drink and music and dance. After three days; however, our salted meats grew thin, and there were no forest creatures to eat. He and I managed to catch a fish, the size of which you could never imagine, Banner.” Thor smiles wanly, though his eyes are blank. “Humongous, really, the size of a bus. It flailed and struggled, and threatened to swallow my friend Fandral whole. My br—he cast a spell that moved the waves with such a force, and the fish rolled onto the shore.”

“You should have seen us all; shouting and struggling to stand. He was tripping in the tide, hair sticking to his face, but he was determined to keep it from getting back into the water. Its tail knocked an Asgardian unconscious. What a beast!” Bruce’s expression bears genuine intrigue.

“Finally, I summoned Mjolnir, and everyone ran up the hill to get away before I struck the fish with lightning. It was thoroughly cooked, just like that! Sizzling, and it smelled so wonderful, and we were all so hungry. But that fish kept us fed for days, and we continued to celebrate. And though he was never very social, he laughed like he would never know tragedy.”

Silence sits between them for a moment or two.

“Thor, I’m…” Sorry, he almost says. Bruce is vaguely surprised that it hasn’t started raining. “I hope you think of me as your friend.” That seems to break Thor out of his reverie; he looks at Bruce with confusion clear on his face.

“Bruce, of course you’re my friend,” Thor says with a degree of intimate fierceness. Thor is a lot to handle, as a person. The focus that he chooses to donate to people continues to stun Bruce. Bruce shakes his head.

“I let you down, man. With the stones.” Bruce’s voice wavers a bit, and Thor shifts in the grass. Eyes, gold and blue, meet Bruce’s.

“…Stark told you to bring back everyone that Thanos eliminated with the stones. You did what you should have done, really, it’s not your fault that he…” Thor trails off, and Bruce isn’t sure if he was going to refer to Thanos or Loki.

“But I didn’t listen to Tony,” Bruce protests, desperation briefly making an appearance when he breaks eye contact with his friend. “When I snapped my fingers, I thought about you. I thought about Sakaar—the Hulk knew, we saw Loki show up on the bridge. To hell with everyone else; Clint and Steve get to act like they never did anything wrong, so I knew you didn’t deserve what happened on the Statesman.” Bruce knows that he’s rambling, and he feels a headache coming on when Thor pins him with a look that may as well be begging him to stop.

“What are you talking about?” Thor asks. He looks a little green around the gills, but maybe that’s just Bruce’s vision.

“I tried to bring Loki back!” Bruce exclaims, though thankfully not loud enough to draw the attention of their nearest companions. Thor freezes completely, and he may be ready to punch the Hulk through the nearest brick wall, but Bruce couldn’t keep this on his conscience any longer.

“…I wish it worked, Thor. I’m sorry. I don’t know why it didn’t.” After the Avengers held Tony’s arms and split the energy of the final snap amongst them, there were many groups, friends, and lovers that were reunited. When Bruce didn’t see Loki emerge from a portal with Brunnhilde, he at least expected to see him embracing Thor in the aftermath. Bruce was more confused than anything to look away from a recovering Tony and see Thor standing in the middle of debris. Alone.

“…Bruce, it’s alright.” Thor says, softer than Bruce expected. “I’m grateful to have you as a companion; not many people would attempt that.” The ‘for Loki’ was left unspoken. Thor smiles graciously, but Bruce can see his real eye well up with tears. Thor blinks hard, clears his throat, and rises to his feet.

“I appreciate your help. But let’s speak on other things!” Thor changes his tune and holds his hand out for Bruce to take. “We should feast with the others! See, when my people die, they can celebrate just like us! In Valhalla, they can fight, dance, and do as they please.” Bruce grabs Thor’s hand and allows himself to be hauled up. The two start to walk back toward the cottage. “Perhaps my brother has found a nice tome to read, and is tucked under some tree beyond the golden gates. He probably didn’t wish to return, stubborn as he is.” Thor’s voice is jovial but it feels fake. Bruce frowns, sheepish. Plenty of things could have gone wrong with Bruce’s snap, or the universe, or the stones. Thor’s suggestion, albeit idyllic, leaves a bad taste in Bruce’s mouth.

Unfortunately, it appears that Thor’s reached his limit for this conversation, and it’s not like they can continue anyway; Scott and Rhodey have welcomed the thunderer to the nearest picnic table. Bruce smiles reluctantly, feeling better but still somewhat unresolved.

He doesn’t point out that despite everything, Loki returned to Thor on that shimmering rainbow bridge.

Chapter Text

Loki’s head snaps up when something in the air…shifts. It feels like he’s had a surge of energy within his body. It feels as if something is tugging urgently at his wrist, begging him to get up and get a move on. Loki swallows, his throat inexplicably tight; he knows magic has made an appearance, but its source leaves him bemused.

Loki’s book falls to the dirt, and he pays it no mind. He’d found a courtyard and nestled away to read, for Valhalla is often noisy, and he’d still rather enjoy solitude. His hands feel somewhat clammy as his legs begin to carry him through the courtyard—his steps are his own, but he can’t resist the pull that has him walking for over a mile.

As Loki walks, his stride never breaks or hesitates. If he were asleep, he wouldn’t be able to resist this. He’d have to walk, even if he were a thousand miles away. The magic feels strong—so strong that he doesn’t want to pry where he shouldn’t and test its limits. His gut tells him not to prod at the invisible threads, despite his curious and manipulative nature; they belong to a weave as ancient as the infinity stones.

Valhalla has been Loki’s place of residence for a few years now. It’s very…tranquil. Not that Loki hasn’t enjoyed a vast library and fine wine, but the reality of the castles and fields is…boring. Uneventful. His penchant for mischief hits peaks and valleys, but he’s avoided everyone but Frigga during his stay. Sometimes Heimdall makes eye contact with him and they exchange a nod, but overall, Loki’s social life has been nonexistent.

He aches for something else. He mourns, since a chance was given to him just before Thanos stripped it away again.

The pull in Loki’s chest seems to hum like a song. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, like static electricity. Like the muggy air just before a storm.

Loki arrives at the golden gates. His brow creases with bemusement, because the pull doesn’t lead him here, but rather somewhere beyond. The two guards standing on either side of the entrance bow their heads.

“My prince,” One of them greets. She vaguely reminds Loki of Brunnhilde. “We expected you. You’re free to leave, it seems.” When she gestures with an arm, the gates open without a sound. Loki blinks at the vast whiteness beyond the gold.

“Leave?” Loki asks. “Who expects me to?” The guards just smile serenely.

“I believe the living plane is trying to right its wrongs. Balance…may still be attainable.”

Balance. The word makes Loki’s fingers twitch. Frigga told him about the fracture in the universe—the way it split tremendously after Thanos collected the stones, like a bleeding wound in a living, thrumming being. But the remaining Asgardians, the ones that vanished, never appeared in Valhalla. They didn’t die, they were simply…erased. And Thor never showed up, which meant that the brute was still fighting, still—

“He couldn’t have!” Loki exclaims, not bothering to speak with the guards anymore. He breaks into a run and passes through the gates without questioning it, and without looking back. The idea that Thor managed to undo Thanos is too tempting. He doesn’t have to say goodbye to Frigga. She can find his threads in her weaving. She’ll know that a string is pulling him back. If Thor won’t die, then Loki will leave Valhalla. Balance will never be an option while one of them breathes and the other doesn’t. Loki is selfish; he wants to see blonde hair again. He wants to hear the crack of thunder. The past five years have been terribly dull.

Loki’s breakneck run continues, but nothing appears in his surroundings. His footsteps sound out on the white surface beneath him. His cape, whipping green, is the only color left. When Loki turns around, Valhalla is gone from sight. Loki’s breath hitches, but he can still feel that magical tug leading him in a very firm direction. Loki faces forward again, but this time, he’s greeted with the perimeter of a thick, dark green forest.

It’s massive—the trees tower over him, and they stretch out for as far as the eye can see. He can hear wildlife from within. He can smell pine needles.

“Would you like to take a shortcut?” A voice asks. Loki doesn’t startle. When he blinks again, a large, feminine entity sits before him. Her legs are crossed, and her elbow sits on her knee. Thick dark hair shifts in a breeze that isn’t really there. Three eyes stare directly at Loki, though they have no pupils, and Loki feels like he’s staring into the void of multiple galaxies.

Immediately, Loki bows at the waist. He understands that higher powers have always existed. He also understands that some of them must have allowed him to meddle with dark magic and manipulate certain laws while he was alive.

“I’m humbled by your appearance.” Loki smiles evenly, looking up from his bow.

“I jest, of course, there are no shortcuts,” The being continues, passing over his manners. She tilts her head. “Loki…both son of Odin, and son of Laufey.”

“Just Odinson, if it pleases you,” Loki’s small grin remains. Her eyebrows rise slightly. Her nails are as blue as the ocean, and her fingers are as long as Loki’s legs.

“What interesting creatures, you and your brother. Well, perhaps not quite your brother. Blood or no blood; however, your tapestry has been written with such…poetry.” The being sing-songs. Suddenly, she snaps her fist up and curls it around something in the air. Loki flinches—feels pain in his chest—and sees her gripping a golden thread. It leads straight into his breast and doesn’t cut through his back.

“Do you know what this is?” The being asks, though she doesn’t wait for an answer. “This thread is one that you and your brother share. Millions of creatures have tapestries that never so much as cross with another’s. You are all so singular. I should know. I do a lot of the weaving. But you two…your tapestries share this…thread. This pretty, yet pesky little thing.” Loki feels pain again when she tugs down hard on his thread, but he says nothing. Her voice is jovial, but her aura is intimidating and all-consuming.

“That Thanos character made a big mess of our tapestries!” The god glares. “And not too long ago, this thread of yours was supposed to go ‘snip!’” She mimics a pair of scissors with her fingers. “But it didn’t budge! To be honest, it’s probably the only reason your brother didn’t somersault into Valhalla not too far behind you. Anyway, what a fluke. What a mistake. What a blunder on our part, right? I mean, we had billions of tapestries to try and repair and dispose of, not to mention organize. That lunatic caused a few…hiccups in our work, unfortunately. Double unfortunately? I can’t let this slide.” Her voice becomes cold. The shift in instantaneous. Her hair falls around her shoulders from where the makeshift breeze has stopped.

“Thanos talked a lot about balance, but he didn’t really know what that meant. Our balance definitely trumps his. Now that most of our tapestries are back in order—now that one of your little mortal friends snapped his fingers—I’m going to have to fix a few things.” Loki doesn’t have time to process what she’s saying before she pulls a real pair of golden scissors out of thin air and cuts straight through Loki’s thread.

“NO!” Loki shouts before he can think better of it, watching the thread that binds him to Thor fizzle out into space. He doesn’t care about disrespecting the deity; he gapes at her in pain.

“Oh, Loki, it was supposed to be cut in the first place. You wouldn’t have known the difference. I mean, look!” The god’s other hand plucks an image from the air. The void of space floats above her palm, and in it, Loki’s physical body still drifts—cold and alone. “There you are! To this day! At least now, Thor will be joining you shortly. The thread won’t matter once you’re reunited.” She smiles at him, but Loki feels hollow. A tear falls from his lashes and hits the blank ground beneath him, but he doesn’t notice.

The god brushes the image of outer space away by waving her fingers. Loki’s fist curls.

“…What do you mean?” He asks. She purses her lips.

“Sometimes you pull a thread too hard and the entire blanket comes undone, you know? The severance of your thread will cause Thor’s tapestry to fray and darken. He’ll leave the living plane. He only lived long enough to chop up Thanos because we failed to do our own chopping. Whoops, right?”

“That’s not fair!” Loki exclaims, uncaring of his insignificance. “That’s not fair, why even tell me this? Why not let him arrive in Valhalla without this fanfare? I’d be none the wiser!” Loki’s face grows hot and his fists tremble.

“We’re on clean-up duty, Odinson. I have to dish out all of the disclaimers. You probably should be thanking me.” Her voice and eyes hint at something darker.

“I won’t.” Loki says icily. “Thor doesn’t deserve death. You said it yourself; none of this was supposed to happen in the first place. Thanos, the entire universe’s unlucky day! Balance is whatever our world was supposed to be before he got those stones. If all of this was so tiresome for you, you should have crushed his skull to begin with!” Loki’s breath heaves. “That thread belongs to me even though you made it! If those mortals managed to reverse everything, then I shouldn’t have to be here!” He should be with Thor. Thor. Wherever Thor is.

Thick silence sits between Loki and the deity. Thanos may have sent him from the living plane, but she could snap him out of this plane with a click of her tongue. Loki finds that the thought doesn’t quite scare him. Thor promised that they would build New Asgard together; Loki wants that or nothing. The god huffs.

“There are always a few of you that don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Although you’re always the most entertaining to watch. You and your brother are all the more peculiar…death won’t intimidate either of you.” She muses. A sigh falls from behind her pearly teeth. “Very well.” She rises to her feet, and if Loki thought she was large before, she’s humongous now, towering over him.

“You may attempt to enter the living plane again; Thor will be there, and I don’t have any reason to trick a trickster. If you make it through the Wood, I’ll reattach your thread, good as gold.” She crosses her finger over her breast. “If you don’t hurry, Thor will enter Valhalla. If you get lost, Thor will enter Valhalla, but you will never be able to see him there…is that a risk you’re willing to take?” She wonders, her voice as smooth as silk. Loki swallows.

He could play it safe…he could turn back and wait in Valhalla for Thor to arrive. At least then, they’d be guaranteed an existence together. But that doesn’t sit right with Loki. That isn’t the future that they promised each other when they were aboard the Statesman. It isn’t what they fought tooth and nail for, and suffered for. It’s an easy way out, and Loki doubts that she’d even really allow it after he raised his temper.

Loki doesn’t give her an answer, nor does he look at her again. He stares straight at the forest—at the gravel road beckoning to him from the dark—and runs.

Chapter Text

The Wood is dark. Vines and ivy threaten to choke the trees, all twining together in an art form that seems connected internally. Loki hears birdsong, though there are no birds, and hears branches sway, though there is no breeze. In his youth, Loki read many ancient tomes and scrolls that described the existence of alternate, spiritual planes. Purgatories, hidden realms, pockets of time where no mortal should play. Loki used to consider finding back doors to places like this, but he never fully committed to a journey; the risk of being noticed by something unfavorable was too great. Despite his cleverness and skill, the potential rewards were never worth the tedious ritual work and inherent danger.

Loki is cautious yet unafraid. He briefly humors the idea of Thor bringing thunder to a greater deity’s doorstep because she led his younger sibling into an endless trap. Fanciful as the thought is, it comforts him. The path beneath his feet is winding and thin. Loki’s been walking for what feels like hours, but there hasn’t been an end or turn in sight.

As soon as Loki decides to complain about the monotony, his surroundings change in the blink of an eye. Rather than walking through a forest, he finds himself standing in the middle of a glass cell—specifically, a round chamber of Midgardian origin. The flying ship on Midgard—

Loki whips around and comes face to face with a mirror image of himself. Albeit, he looks sallow, bitter, and thoroughly exhausted, and he’s wearing armor that he hasn’t donned in years. If Loki thinks too hard about it, he can remember the feverish chills. The nausea, the sweating, the deep bags underneath his eyes. Despite the vivid memories, he hasn’t felt that violated and foreign in a long time. Loki’s minute surprise vanishes; he smiles with a degree of sincere amusement.

“Well, isn’t this cute,” Loki observes, speaking to no one in particular. “What are you? A witch? Are you of fae origin? Or something else?” Loki asks cheerily. His counterpart smiles, but it’s a lot less friendly.

“Something else,” It answers flatly. Loki raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t realize the ancient powers relied so heavily on parlor tricks,” Loki huffs, reaching his arm out to bat his hand through the illusion. He jerks back in surprise when his fingers hit real, physical cloth layered on top of real, physical flesh. Not an illusion, then, but a manifestation. Loki laces his fingers together and tilts his head in consideration.

“Certainly not more than you do,” Loki’s counterpart says mockingly. “Waving pointy knives at Thanos and being bested by Midgardian sorcerers who are still wet behind the ears. Mother must be so disappointed.”

“My abilities are my own business. Of the two of us, she’d be more disappointed in you.” Loki shoots his double a pointed look.

“I still am you, somewhere under all that ‘woe is me’ bluster,” The double jabs a finger at Loki’s chest. “The bigger picture got a wee bit bigger, and you got to act like you’ve been a misguided juvenile this entire time.” The double circles Loki around the interior of the containment cell. “Just as bratty and entitled as Thor, ready to make Midgard a sandbox just so you’d get attention. Did you ever really leave this cell?”

“I left this cell a long time ago,” Loki says with dignity, lifting his chin.

“Only to end up in this one,” His double says. The Hulk containment unit shimmers and shifts. Now, Loki stands in a different glass box, nestled in the dungeons on Asgard. “In your little bubble where Thanos can’t get you, even if it means Frigga will pay the price. She must have been insulted to see you end up in Valhalla.”

“Keep your mouth shut,” Loki warns. There’s a voice in the back of his head chiding him for being goaded by whatever the Wood has conjured for him, but seeing himself in this lowly, bygone state ignites a visceral reaction. It disgusts and shames Loki to know that he’d been…this, in its entirety.

“Odin really should have shut yours,” The double counters, waving his hand. Loki’s eyes widen and his fingers move to touch his mouth. He can feel thick wire grating against his teeth. When he looks at his reflection in the cell’s glass, he sees that his mouth is now stitched shut. Unwilling to feel afraid, Loki steels himself and glares harshly at his counterpart.

“Do you really deserve to be anywhere other than here? I think Valhalla was just another fluke. You’re vile, and pitiful, and willing to show your belly for any force that makes you feel small. You were never going to compare to Thor! You were never going to regain his trust! And if you were nearly as strong as he, you wouldn’t still be in this cell!”

Loki's temper flares, as does his magic. He allows a force of energy to knock his double back into the glass with a 'thud.' The double doesn't fall to the ground, but he rolls his shoulders before retaliating. A large, invisible hand makes a fist in Loki's dark curls and slams him down onto the floor, face-first. Loki grunts in pain, blinking stars from his eyes. 

"You whine to everyone that you don't deserve punishment for your petty actions, even when the stars themselves give you your sentence!" The double shouts, gesturing wildly at the air. "You still go crying to your mother even though you've never so much as apologized for inconveniencing her so thoroughly! You go crying to Thor whenever someone hits harder than you do, shocked and appalled when he thinks you're crying wolf!" Loki's double ticks off on his fingers before curling his fist in the air. Loki feels another fist wrap itself around his arm and pull him violently into the nearest wall. He's dizzy again from the impact, but he calls on his own magic. With a jerk of his head, his double whirls around, his face smacking into the glass hard enough to break his nose. 

"For just once," the double sneers, blood gushing from his nose and down past his chin, "If you could look at yourself in the mirror and not feel the need to lie about what you see there, maybe your body wouldn't be out floating in deep space!" 

Loki snarls past his stitches. As soon as he's ready to rip his double's arm from its socket, his counterpart vanishes, smug and satisfied from having said his piece. 

Loki trembles with unspent anger. Minutes stretch by, as he kneels on the cell floor in silence. He's aware; no matter how much he’s yelled at Thor and struck him with his fists and blades, he’s only really hated himself since he fell into the abyss. The failures and rejections piled up, reaching a breaking point. But they had to change, ultimately, in the end. There had to come a point at which Loki could no longer find tales to be mad at. There had to be a point where the trumpets would sound, and he could no longer blame anyone other than himself for his blight. When he commandeered the Statesman on Sakaar, he knew he’d broken a link in the chains. It all clicked into place, and his blood sang when he set foot on the rainbow bridge; not as Odin, but as himself. When Thor’s true power rained down from the clouds, the pride that Loki felt was enough to make him believe he’d never belonged anywhere but there—at least for a singular moment.

Behind the stiches, Loki’s teeth grind together. He left this cell. Thor got him out of this cell (at least physically. He doesn’t want to delve too deeply into the sentimental metaphor of it all). So he refuses to remain here while Thor fades—while their shared tapestries fade. Loki refuses to die as a failed sorcerer or an exiled reject. He did that once before and it didn't benefit him at all. If he can’t make a pathetic joke out of the magic here, then he should just kiss Thor goodbye. Again. For the fourth or fifth or six-hundredth time. 

Loki taps into the magic in the air, and wraps his fingers around an invisible cord beside his face. He yanks hard, tugging the wire out of his mouth in one speedy, painful motion. He ignores the burning sensation and lets his lips bleed. As he lashes his arm out in a broad gesture, the tiny wire shimmers and transforms into a whip made of green light. Loki snaps the whip hard. It hits the floor of the cell with a deafening ‘crack!’ And it (almost) reminds him of lightning.

The glass walls shatter into thousands of pieces, showering Loki and the grass around him, as the exterior becomes the Wood once more. The whip dissolves in Loki’s hand and he grins to himself. Dignified, he steps back down onto the gravel road.

Loki wipes the blood from his mouth and carelessly shakes the glass from his hair. He’s not that miserable thing anymore, he thinks to himself. He had to wrestle with that conflict in his head for years; convincing the forest of his worth feels easy in comparison. Loki wants to believe that Thor never even needed convincing. And if he could have the chance to communicate some of this with Thor... If he could see his brother again... Well, the forest’s opinion of Loki matters very little.

Chapter Text

The Avengers are spread throughout one of the lounges at headquarters. Companionably, they exchange data pads and toss bags of chips or bottles of water around the room.

“A hero’s work is never done,” Fury told them, before assigning a dubious amount of paperwork and mission reports--all above the pay grade of SHIELD agents.

“How am I supposed to answer half of these? I wasn’t an Avenger in 2012!” Scott bemoans after two hours. Clint is sprawled over Natasha’s lap, scrolling through his tablet, eyes glazed over. Steve and Bucky are huddled together, talking quietly about whatever information comes up in their reports. Bruce wavers between comfortable silence and pointed worry; glances over at Thor only yield small, tired smiles in return.

“Bureaucratic violations, really,” Tony says after another hour, “FRIDAY, go ahead and wipe out all the extra fluff that my teammates don’t have to answer. Legally, especially. I mean, SHIELD can already make clones of us, right? Probably? I don’t need to tell them about Hulk taking the stairs.” Tony claps his hands together with finality. “Drinks, anyone? Of the non-alcoholic variety?” The team is now enforcing a firm yet subtle cut-off for Thor’s drinking. Bruce figures, bitterly, that they should have started intervening four years ago, but he tries not to get tangled in the web of could’ve and should’ve.

“Are delivery drivers allowed on the property?” Scott asks as he stands up. Rhodey shakes his head. This unfolds into an extensive conversation as the Avengers shake out limbs that have fallen asleep, otherwise abandoning their work. All save for Thor, who still sits at the table, his eyes glued to his tablet.

He was half-heartedly approving forms for New Asgard and its restored population when a notification from Fury popped up on screen. It’s for a classified document, addressed specifically to Thor. Thor’s eyes skim over the words and images, then they go back and take them in two or three more times. A photo of Loki stares back at him—straight through him. More of a mugshot, really, from back when Loki was contained in helicarrier cell. His hair is long and untamed, but his smirk is softer than it is menacing. Thor’s throat dries up. He hasn’t seen a depiction of his brother in years. Only Thor’s memories have kept his sibling in motion.

“Pardoned” is slapped across the bottom of Loki’s photo in bold, red letters. The report from Fury includes some proper jargon, but it’s mostly succinct; Bruce had offered valid input from his time away from Earth. With some extra flair on Doctor Strange’s part, an American council has decided to grant Loki posthumous endorsement. Were he still alive, he would be allowed on Earth with minimal supervision and bi-monthly status reports. It seems that Loki’s actions in New York are no longer the talk of the planet. He's a newspaper villain--no longer more intimidating than a puppet on strings.

The longer Thor stares at the photo of Loki, the harder he squeezes the tablet. The screen cracks viciously after a couple of moments, and it splits Loki’s face with a lightning bolt.

Thor distantly hears people calling his name, but it sounds like he’s under water. Suddenly, his tablet clatters to the ground, and Loki stares up at Bruce, who jerks back minutely before glancing at the others.

“Thor?” Rhodey asks gently.

“Thor, buddy, talk to me,” Tony’s voice grows urgent, but Thor doesn’t understand what the fuss is about. He goes to say as much, but his throat feels like it’s closed up completely. His breath rattles, and his hand clutches his chest; he’s now very aware of how much pain he’s in. It feels like his ribs are threatening to cave in.

He tries to speak, but his teeth drive down into his lower lip, breaking open the skin. He barely registers Natasha grabbing his arm. His vision goes dark before he understands that he’s collapsing.

--

Loki doesn’t show it, but he’s somewhat tired. The scenery here never changes, so it feels as if he’s walking on a reel of film. He has no idea how long he’s been walking, though the minutia of it probably doesn’t matter—time may not exist in this limbo. Anxiety pricks at the back of Loki’s neck nonetheless, since time certainly does matter back in the living realm, and Thor’s hourglass is running short.

Looking at the greenery, Loki thinks back on Thor’s fertility boons. When his brother wished it, he could make flowers bloom in his wake. Wherever he set foot, grass would grow and pollen would drift. With a touch of his hand, he could make ivy climb tree trunks and lily pads unfurl in the water. Thor, blessed with a smile that prompted creation, could offer wind, rain, and sunlight. The memory of flower stems twined in his brother’s braids is enough for Loki to feel renewed.

It dawns on Loki; however, that reality is currently unlike his preference. The change in his surroundings is enough to make Loki double-take. As he makes his way down the path, the trees begin to shrivel and turn gray with lack of life. The dirt is no longer brown and hearty, and thorns encroach on every bush. Faint birdsong drifts out of existence, and all Loki can hear is the mild trickle of running water.

When he rounds the tight curve in the gravel, Loki is met with a narrow brook. The air here feels less clean, and moths can be spotted drifting through the dull streaks of light breaking through the treetops. A woman—one that Loki recognizes—sits primly atop a boulder, examining her nails.

“It took you long enough to get here,” Hela’s drawl is so distinct. Loki only knew of her for a day or two, but that heavy and withered voice has stuck with him, it seems. Loki approaches with hesitation, not fully rounding her boulder. It’s currently her domain, and hopefully, he’ll just be passing through.

“Kept you waiting?” Loki asks, smiling with no apology. Hela looks up from her nails and shoots him a bored look.

“You’ve no idea.”

“Humor me; are you actually here, or are you the Wood, as well?” Loki thinks back on his double, who was undoubtedly something of the Wood’s making. But Hela’s actual presence seems more plausible, whether Surtur killed her or not.

“I think you’re too clever to believe that it can’t be a bit of both,” Hela observes with a haughty smirk.

“And what do I have to gain by wasting my time here with you? This place isn’t so subtle,” Loki huffs, gesturing at the trees. “Give me whatever sage wisdom you want to offer and let me be on my way.” Loki’s eyes narrow. Lesser beings would very easily get caught up in the Wood’s machinations. Challenges and tests all designed to make the explorer feel weary and doubtful. Loki is, fortunately, more intuitive than he is gullible.

“From the sound of it, you could use some of my sage wisdom, brat,” Hela replies with good nature. “So much like Odin, assuming you already know it all; that nothing could surprise you. That no situation can’t be manipulated, no matter how scared you really are.”

“I’m unlike Odin,” Loki rebuffs mildly.

“Then are you more like me?” Hela asks, rolling her eyes. “Come on, are you Odin’s son, or aren’t you? Make up your mind. And by the graces, look at you,” Hela waves her hand at Loki, taking in the full sight of him. “So much like me, it almost makes me wonder if Odin felt some modicum of guilt for sealing me away when he crafted your glamour.” Loki considers this for a moment before tilting his head down somewhat. He doesn’t know what makes him decide to do it, but he shifts his form. It’s as easy as stepping into a different pair of shoes. Hela’s eyes widen.

“Odin’s daughter probably looks more similar,” Loki concedes, her voice higher but no less striking. Hela takes in Loki’s arching cheekbones and heavy earrings. Her long, curling hair gathers over her shoulders, decorated in thin, golden chains.

“How charming!” Hela says with genuine interest, leaning forward on her rock and beckoning Loki over. “Come here, come on.” Loki’s brow creases. She’s hesitant and confused, but she sits down in front of Hela regardless. “May Odin rot for keeping me from such a skillful thing,” Hela’s voice drips with bitterness. Loki doesn’t dare turn her head and ask Hela what she means. Suddenly, Hela’s fingers are gathering locks of Loki’s hair and separating them.

“It occurs to me that you two may not have turned out to be so insufferable if you had a proper, guiding hand. Honestly, if I had known, that old bastard never would have been able to contain me. Could you imagine? My brother wouldn’t have needed that hammer with training wheels for as long as he did. My sister would have all of the forbidden knowledge in the cosmos. People from every realm would look at these hardened, blood-thirsty little beasts and know that they had a soft spot for their big sister,” Hela paints a picture, though Loki doesn’t think it’s very pretty. On the other hand, she doesn’t feel uncomfortable as Hela ties her hair into plaits.

“We avoided disaster, then. Thor’s ego would have never diminished, and I would have ripped Midgard in half without remorse. Perhaps Odin’s leash was for the best, though I loathe saying,” Loki chuckles. Hela tugs on her hair, annoyed, and Loki winces.

“Hush, I’m being idyllic.” Hela scolds. Moments pass by in silence as Hela indulges in Loki’s thick hair. Loki stares up at the moths and humors the idea of Thor stopping long enough to chat with their maniacal sister. She uses ‘maniacal’ lightly, though. She considers that Hela is only doing this because the years since Ragnarok have given her time to observe her siblings and their similarities; if she’s even still alive. Loki can’t afford to assume that this isn’t the Wood distracting her with what-if’s.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t have felt so isolated, if you had another sibling to turn to when Thor was running off with his fleeting companions.” Hela’s words sting, almost. Loki sometimes wished for someone aside from Thor and their mother when she was younger—someone to vent her frustrations to when Thor was being too pig-headed. At the same time; however, Loki can’t imagine abandoning Thor in favor of someone else. She can’t imagine not dropping everything at once and following her brother into dangers untold, just because he asked her to. No matter how many suitors Loki had, nobody had ever kissed the back of her hand as lovingly as Thor.

“Perhaps,” Loki concedes, “but Thor is the one who caught me as I fell from the bridge. I was the one who let go.” Loki has grown enough to admit that now. “What if I’d been distant from him in our youth? What if I’d been nastier than I already was? Would he have still tried to catch me? My innards twist in knots when I imagine ... I don’t care to dwell on it. Thor begged me to come home when he found me on Midgard. I won’t tarry any longer.” Loki rolls her shoulders, signaling for Hela to tie off the final braid.

“I know what it’s like for Odin to string you along with false expectations.” Loki turns to fully face her sister—and that’s what she is, whether they voice it or not. “I know you were abandoned, and alone, and unappreciated,” Loki’s eyes well up with tears. Those feelings are so binding; it’s hard to ever forget what they feel like. They’re all she felt when she saw her skin change color for the first time. “Our father cast all of us out when our intentions weren’t good enough. Fortunately, I never had to weather his frustration alone.” Loki looks her sister in the eye. “I’m sorry that you had to.”

Hela’s eyes don’t become glassy, but she visibly swallows. She blinks a couple times before shaking her head, as if coming out of a daze.

“Oh, save it. At least I’m not wandering around the ass-end of the universe whining after my idiot brother. Keep going, before I’m tempted to keep you here.” Hela’s lonesome and empathetic threat isn’t lost on Loki. She rises to her feet shuffles there for a second.

“But you didn’t offer me any sage wisdom,” Loki smirks. Hela glares.

“I gave you something better,” Hela nods at her. “You haven’t woven seidr into your hair in decades. At least the dimwits in this forest should take you seriously now. Bit of a one-trick pony, death is, but it’s reliable.” Hela’s tone grows dangerous—her lips curl up into a pseudo-grin. Loki bows her head in thanks.

“I’ll use it wisely, sister.” As Loki turns away, she barely catches a glimpse of Hela’s eyes widening. Loki inhales and stares at the gravel road; it continues its journey through the Wood, starting again on the other side of the creek. “You evaded my question earlier. Are you actually—“ Loki turns back around to face Hela, but her sister is gone, as are the moths. “—Real?”

Loki’s hand slowly reaches up to touch her hair. The spikes of anxiety and loneliness disappear when she finds that the seidr-laced braids are still there. That in itself is a sufficient answer to her.

Chapter Text

Rocket is tucked away in his quarters, away from too-curious ears and too-loud mouths. He still kind of considers himself part of the team back on Earth; he was with them for five years. Completing missions with Nebula, reporting to the Widow, and struggling not to get too close with yet another group that could turn into dust at some point. Unfortunately, they’ve rubbed off on him. Stark has an ego, but at least he has the chops to back it up. Cap keeps himself distant, but he always told Rocket he was welcome at HQ anytime. Rhodes is consistently a good laugh.

And then there’s Thor the thunderer; charming, skilled, and determined to find solutions to problems beyond comprehension. ‘Dead brother, huh? Yeah, that can be annoying.’ Clever asshole with two-toned eyes now thanks to a certain Rocket. And a huge fucking axe thanks to Groot. What did any of Thor’s precious Avengers do to help when he sat in a shitty little hovel for five years?

Rocket feels guilty as soon as that thought appears. It’s not like he ever really dropped by to play cards with him. He was too busy missing people. They all were. That’s why, when it came down to it, all he and the Avengers ever offered were holograph calls filled with pleas for him to take better care of himself.

Rocket’s guilt increases tenfold when he sees the look on Natasha’s face. Speaking of holo-calls--he’s in the middle of one with the majority of Team Earth. It’s obvious that they’re all currently thinking ‘what if,’ and ‘we should’ve.’ Rocket’s stomach feels uneasy. They tell him Thor is sick. 

“He’s…Tony and Bruce don’t know what it is,” Rhodey informs him gently. “His readings aren’t unusual for an Asgardian, but clearly, he’s struggling. He can’t stand on his own...” Rhodey pauses and looks off-camera to exchange hushed words with someone else—Barton, maybe. He turns back to Rocket. “We’re gonna have him transferred to New Asgard. They might have a solution, since it looks like ibuprofen isn’t going to cut it.”

“You positive he isn’t just trashed?” Rocket ventures, but he winces as the words leave his mouth. Thor’s been trying to drink less, and it takes a load of Earth alcohol to even get him anywhere beyond buzzed. Natasha just gives him a sad smile. She knows he just wants Thor to be in decent shape. 

“It could be psychological, for all we know,” Natasha says carefully. “But we don’t have much to go on right now. I can call you back later. We just thought you should be kept in the loop, Rocket.” Natasha’s nice. Rocket’s become a lot less allergic to nice.

“Yeah, yeah...I appreciate it.” Rocket shrugs. Then, there’s a muffled background noise that he assumes is an argument. Natasha and Rhodey both glance at the source—Rhodey ducks out of frame with a choppy wave goodbye. Natasha purses her lips.

“Gotta go, I think Bruce is taking it kind of hard.” She and Rocket exchange a nod before her feed flickers out, leaving Rocket alone in his dark room.

–

Loki’s new braid provides her some comfort as she continues her walk. It reassures her that perhaps not everything in this forest is a test or an obstacle—there could be a grain of truth in every rock and tree, for all she’s willing to guess. It also helps her keep a steady pace. As much as she wishes to sprint through the Wood in order to get to Thor, she can’t. She could easily exhaust herself only to end up barely moving at all. The Wood will lead her to Thor in its own time, it just has to go through its motions, she’s sure of it.

Her optimism is quickly dashed when her next blink lands her in a golden dining hall of Asgard. Loki’s memories of this particular room vary depending on its contents. The contents today being Sif and the Warriors Three.

Loki’s spine straightens subconsciously. She angles her chin a little higher in the air. She is royalty, and they are Asgardians. Her time in the dungeons don’t change the fact that she helped save their home. It doesn’t change the fact that the people—her people—celebrated her return and honored her death. Loki stands, elegant, on the steps leading down into the dining divot. Her helmet shimmers into view, settling on her thick, curling hair.

Sif and the Warriors Three look up from where they laugh and eat, and their expressions change immediately, shifting in a range from neutral to suspicious.

“...Princess,” Fandral greets with a fist to his chest, respectfully. Sif is quiet, and her eyes are as cutting as ever.

“Friends,” Loki greets. Decades of practice allowed her to navigate conversations with these four while Thor was in the room. Nothing she says with him absent can be taken out of context. Even her words could be twisted, she’s almost certain that Thor would never fully believe his sibling capable of outright maliciousness. “How do you fare?”

“You mean now that we’re dead?” Volstagg asks with no real heat, taking a sip of his mead. Fandral shoots him a minute glare. “What?” Volstagg shrugs.

“It seems that even in death, there is wisdom to be found,” Loki says, “And also...patience.”

“Well, clearly Thor isn’t here, so don’t hurt yourself trying to keep up with your own flowery diction.” Sif’s eyes narrow, her fingers drumming on the table.

“Dear Sif, I don’t know what you mean,” Loki smiles, all plastic. Sif slams her fist on the table unexpectedly. Hogun and Volstagg startle somewhat. Fandral glances back and forth between Sif and Loki. “You’re right; Thor isn’t here. I wonder why you are, though. I haven’t seen you around Valhalla.” Loki’s smile drops.

“Indeed, I have business to attend to back in the living plane. Respectively, I think you should return to Valhalla. It seems blasphemous to leave sacred ground, especially when your entrance was baffling in the first place.”

“Now who’s using flowery diction?” Loki sneers, glaring down her nose as she stalks toward the table. The Warriors Three slowly rise to their feet, trying not to bring attention to themselves. “I’m two millennia too old to humor your misconceptions. If I’ve done so in the past, I refuse to do so any longer. I am your princess; you owe me clear speech.”

“Princess?” Sif flies to her feet so quickly that her chair tips back, clattering to the floor. “You don’t have a throne here, Loki, and you don’t have one in Valhalla! You aren’t Asgardian.”

The Warriors Three inhale—quiet yet sharp. Loki hears it. She takes an even breath and laces her fingers together. Silence sits for a moment before she opens her mouth again.

“Am I not Asgardian?” She asks softly. “Do I not know every song? Every folktale? Did I not hunt for creatures in the wilds—where the brook’s waters run purple? Did the castle artisans not include me in the tapestries and the murals? Did I not attend every party, and every funeral? I begged the Allfather to permit me. I hung from the bridge and pleaded for him to maintain my truth as his child, and he looked down at me, and told me no.” Loki can feel eyes on her.

“He denied me that much!” Loki’s voice suddenly thunders, “YET I ENTERED VALHALLA!” With a twist of her fist, the entire dinner table goes flying—not unlike it did all those years ago when Thor threw a tantrum. All those years ago, on his failed coronation day. “ME! The liar you find dubious must have had some modicum of honor in order to pass through those gates, Lady Sif! So you tell me, which of us is blasphemous, when you question me still!”

Sif’s sword is drawn instantaneously, and Loki summons a staff made of light to parry her offensive moves. Their weapons clash loudly, and Hogun moves to join the fray, but Volstagg holds him back, shaking his head.

“Even in death, I have to claw my way into some respectable light!” Loki exclaims, twirling her staff and side-stepping an over-arching blow from Sif. Loki flips her staff up behind Sif, knocking her in the kidneys before dodging again, her cape sweeping brilliantly along the floor. Sif barely flinches at the blow. “Tell me, what must I do to waver your disgust with me? Whatever task, I’ll do it, so long as I get to leave!”

“Just be honest!” Sif shouts, and as soon as she does, Loki is knocked back by a strong wave of kinetic energy. She doesn’t fall over, but her boots slide across the marble floor. More magic, she realizes, but definitely not from Sif. When Loki looks down, he realizes that he’s no longer in his feminine form.

In fact, his skin is a rich, encompassing blue. Black, clawed fingernails, and silver lines of symmetry crawling up his arms. The reflection of floor polish shows him a set of short, dull horns jutting from his forehead. Loki gapes, feeling naked. His Asgardian glamour always felt like his own skin—the seidr of Frigga and the Allfather made it so. Loki has never had to try and will it into existence, but now that he’s trying, it feels like his feet are stuck in tar. He can’t call on his own seidr whatsoever. He can’t feel it; it’s like it isn’t even hovering in the air in front of him. The Wood must be keeping it away. It’s just gone, and with it, his Asgardian skin.

Sif’s weapon is slowly lowered, as is Volstagg’s jaw. Loki’s hands tremble. He wills himself to speak, voice shaking. As if he isn’t humiliated enough.

“...Is this what you wanted?” Loki asks, teeth clacking together with frustration. He’s so livid, his ruby eyes sting with tears. “You wanted to see it? Well take a look, then!” Loki gestures. “The big, angry frost giant! Devouring children whole and desecrating the nearest village! Oh, what a menacing picture I paint!” Loki seethes. Tears freeze when they roll down his cheeks.

“I killed Laufey for you people!” Loki shouts, clutching at the clothes on his chest, pained. His back bows forward. He just feels raw. “I ran him through with a blade! Perhaps it’s best that Asgard fell to pieces, if all its people were so willfully ignorant of its humongous fucking mistakes! My family’s included!”

Loki shivers, though he can’t feel cold. His shoulders shake with the effort of holding back cries. He misses Thor desperately, and he loathes this forest with equal strength. Sif’s expression turns sad and regretful. Whatever outcome she intended to achieve, this wasn’t it.

After a moment, Fandral slowly walks over to Loki. Mindful not to touch his skin, Fandral gently guides Loki to sit on the dining hall steps. The others follow suit, and as Loki stares at his foreign hands, and the fake Asgardian sun sets behind them, the five sit together in silence.

Some time passes before one of them feels comfortable enough to break the tension. It’s Sif who does so, offering Loki a goblet of wine. He takes it with wary eyes.

“...I was not referring to your skin, when I said you weren’t Asgardian...” She starts, shame tinging her ears red. “My temper didn’t allow me to choose my words more carefully. Loki,” She looks at him with sincere remorse, “I had many unspoken frustrations when I set eyes on you again. It was wrong of me to question you.”

“What did you mean, then, when you said I’m not…?” Loki stares at her incredulously. Sif clears her throat.

“I...was not on Asgard when it fell. I was not present to witness the deaths of my friends. I was unable to fight Hela alongside them. Even if I were in Valhalla now, I do not feel as if I’d deserve it,” Sif lowers her gaze. “If I wasn’t blaming myself, I was blaming you. For not doing enough when you were disguised as the Allfather. For having let Asgard spiral into strife after what happened with the Bifrost. I hope you can forgive my actions.”

Loki considers this before huffing. He smirks, but the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes—they’re still distant.

“Like flint to wood. Actions now and questions later. No wonder you and Thor got on so well.”

“Is that why you dislike us?” Hogun asks suddenly, his voice quiet. Loki looks over at him, brow creased. The raw, naked feeling of his Jotun form must have him feeling honest, for some reason. Like he’s being laid bare. Because he says something that he never thought he’d vocalize.

“I don’t...truly dislike you.” Loki’s words are halting, like he’s never spoken before in his life.

“Could’ve fooled us,” Volstagg jokes, and the other three chuckle a bit.

“You’re tolerable!” Loki snaps before feigning indifference. Fandral stares up at him from where he sits on the step beneath Loki’s feet.

“Were you green with envy all this time, your highness?” Fandral asks seriously. There’s a beat; nobody expected anyone else to voice the speculation.

“I...it’s silly, isn’t it? To have worried about Thor abandoning me when I was so young? Before I even knew about this.” Loki gestures at himself with barely concealed distaste. “Would that I could smack myself as a child. For ever thinking misplaced toys and broken noses could make Thor shut me out.” Loki stares at the upturned banquet table.

“...He always came back to you, didn’t he?” Hogun asks. “No matter where we ventured, no matter what foes we squared off against, one thing remained constant.” Loki looks at Hogun. “Every night, when we gathered around our campfires, Thor would always talk about how he couldn’t wait to get back to you.”

The secret lances through Loki’s heart—it’s palpable, and painful. The imagery of beautiful, golden Thor, lit up by the glow of a fire. Thor, falling asleep under distant stars, longing to give Loki tokens from other realms. It’s enough to make Loki ache, and feel like a fool.

“Thor loves you,” Sif tells him, hesitantly placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m...I’m sorry if we ever made you doubt it.” She says it like a weight has been lifted off her chest; her eyes are glassy. Loki’s breath shutters.

It’s like he’s talking to these four strangers for the very first time.

“No, I...owe you all an apology. So many years of scrutiny and covetous nonsense. And to what end? Now you three are here,” Loki looks to the Warriors, “And there’s no time to fix any of it.” He shakes his head. Volstagg gives him an encouraging smile.

“Don’t fret! One day, you’ll return to Valhalla with Thor, and we can all start anew. We can forge something stronger!” The sentiment makes Loki double take. Volstagg quirks his mouth at Loki’s unspoken question.

“You are heading to the living realm, right? To help Thor? It’s a worthy task, one that would unite us all, were we able to join you.”

“You’ll have to tell him we’ve missed him dearly,” Fandral agrees, setting his hand on Loki’s knee before rising to his feet. Hogun, Volstagg, and Sif get up as well. The four turn and walk up the stairs, their profiles lit up in gold by the faux-Asgardian sun.

“You trust me?” Loki asks, trying not to appear too confused by their departure. “With this? With Thor? After all that’s transpired?” He leans forward, as if to follow them, though he knows he shouldn’t.

“We’ve always wanted Thor to be happy,” Fandral says with a sad grin.

“And you make Thor happy.” Sif nods with finality, an apology still in her eyes.

“We’ll see you again sometime!” Volstagg promises, waving goodbye.

“We’re all rooting for you--”

Loki hears Hogun’s voice fade out as the brightness of the sun overtakes the dining hall. Loki shuts his eyes to the warmth of it. Just barely, he can hear the sounds of ocean tide and drunken song. He’s reminded of pastel sands, Thor’s smile, and a large feast.

He remembers laughing so hard with Sif and the Warriors Three that he almost forgot to dislike them.

Chapter Text

“For so long, I forgot what it meant to be Asgardian. All that time, I just wanted to distance myself from what I lost.” Brunnhilde sits on a bench with Tony and Bruce, just outside the healers’ center. New Asgard smells like salt water carried in by the breeze. Brunnhilde is bundled up in a sweater and a scarf, still used to the warm weather of Sakaar. Bruce turns his head to look at her as she speaks. “I thought I was doing myself a favor, but I probably could’ve been of use back home—before all this.”

The Valkyrie looks up at the gray clouds. Her eyes don’t sting, but she twirls her thumbs around one another in her lap.

“I’ll never see those golden halls again, nor will I walk through the gardens. The libraries are gone, as are the potions and recipes that died with the artisans. It makes me wonder if we ever should have bothered building such a culture in the first place, knowing that a prophecy was inevitable.” Brunnhilde sighs.

“Asgard stood for thousands of years,” Tony speaks up, crossing his arms. “Were you all supposed to live in huts and never make anything? Never create? The ability to share is what separates us from everything else. It was better for you all to have had something of substance, rather than monotony just to spare you from loss.” Tony briefly thinks about Peter hugging him fiercely, and Rhodey tugging him out of a lab at two in the morning. Brunnhilde looks at him skeptically.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Tony replies easily. Bruce says nothing but leans into Tony’s side, still too chilly for his liking. Brunnhilde swallows and looks away again. The rain clouds continue to gather over New Asgard. The healers have yet to emerge from their work.

–

Loki is back in his usual form—his magic returned after his companions left and the dining hall vanished. Once more, he finds himself on the gravel road, waiting for the Wood to conjure up another simulation. He still can’t quite discern what actually comes of these encounters. The braid in his hair seems to be a real gift, but it may or may not be from his actual sister. Hogun, Volstagg, and Fandral seem like possible realities, but he doubts the validity of his former self—his copy. Loki assumes that he’s had successes in his interactions thus far, but he’d be foolish to let his guard down now.

Oh, Loki wants to see Thor more than anything. Memory flashes of red capes and blue eyes keep him moving. The lure of static electricity pulls him down the path, unwavering. Despite his doubts about time and its relevance in this limbo, Loki feels no desire to stop. He’ll keep moving until he’s allowed to see his brother.

Drawn from his thoughts, Loki notices that there is a prominent gap in the trees to his right. There haven’t been any openings like this so far; nothing has urged him to leave the path yet. The clearing is expansive, and it leads to what appears to be a ledge. It’s also the first landmark that indicates a perimeter or edge to the plane. The small trees taper off to a rocky sort of cliff with a pale blue backdrop. Loki is wary by default, figuring that he shouldn’t stray from the gravel, but he also finds that the path is no longer continuing—blocked off by a thicket of trees and boulders. A detour or a diversion, then.

Loki sets his jaw and steps off the path. As he walks, the silence of the forest is replaced by the muffled thrum of bass, like music is playing in another room. The trees flicker in and out of view, and are replaced by artificial walls with garish paint. Loki’s boots clack on the glass floor that branches outward; the rocky ledge is replaced with an elegant balcony that looks out over the Sakaarian skyline. The height and wind are very real, and Loki’s hair flutters gently around his shoulders.

A colorful cocktail appears in Loki’s fingers, the nails of which are now painted. Loki bats his eyelashes, coloring them a deep blue to match the streak of makeup bisecting his lower lip and chin.

“Loki! Loki, my wonderful companion!” The Grandmaster shuffles out onto the balcony, donned in dark velvet robes with purple fur lining the collar. He spreads his hands, welcoming, and not a drop spills from his drink. “Beautiful, ethereal, stunning, as usual,” He greets, taking one of Loki’s hands and kissing the back of it. Loki smirks easily. This isn’t the first time the Grandmaster has greeted him in such a way. “How, ah, how are you? Really? Do tell me.”

“My condition can only improve when I’m in the presence of one such as yourself,” Loki says coyly, taking a sip from his glass. The elixir tastes like old, Asgardian fruit. Something he’ll never taste again. The Grandmaster waves a hand and laughs.

“This guy, he ah, always knows what to say!” The Grandmaster praises, as if Loki isn’t present. “What a clever tongue he has! Loki, truly, what a shame it all was.”

Loki eyes the glitter that’s smeared across the Grandmaster’s jaw.

“Surely, it was never my intention to cross you. Why would I, when I was treated with such fairness? A stolen ship, a mutiny gone wrong! What a mess to tidy up.” Loki’s lashes flutter again, his brow creased with practiced concern. The Grandmaster’s mouth curves upward.

“Now, Stardust, I could listen to you talk like that all day, uh, really, I could. But I know you’re lying. Not that you aren’t a very pretty liar. Ugly liars, I don’t care for as much, really.” The Grandmaster leans forward, elbows on the balcony rail. Loki shifts from foot to foot. It’s not like the Grandmaster was this observant before. He was always too lazy and cocksure. Maybe a Grandmaster that’s lost it all can no longer afford to play dumb.

Albeit, from the look of city below, it doesn’t seem like he’s lost much. The fantasy intrigues Loki.

“A pretty liar has many uses,” Loki decides to agree. The Grandmaster chuckles, gazing dreamily down at the smaller buildings below.

“All leaders rise and fall, and all stories come to an end. Sakaar wasn’t my first, uh, oopsie-daisy, you know. I, hmm, probably shouldn’t have been so stubborn about the whole, uh, whole shebang. A revolution can be fun! I should’ve had a costume change!”

Loki approaches the guardrail and feels the breeze against his face.

“You should know I had plans to seduce you, and take your throne after an unfortunately tarnished bottle of whiskey,” Loki smirks. The Grandmaster turns and gapes at him before his mouth splits into another genuine grin. He snaps his fingers with delight.

“See! That’s clever! It wouldn’t have ah, wouldn’t have worked, but I do love a good drama! The romance! The violence! The treachery! Bang!” The Grandmaster visibly delights in the idea of a tasteful coup.

“Then I would have married my brother, so the entire system would be more stable, then I would have lobbed the big, ugly faces off this skyscraper of yours.”

“Hey, now, I don’t insult your choices of décor, Stardust, I don’t—ooh, your brother? Way to escalate the plot! Wait, ah, he’s uh, that Lord of Thunder, isn’t he?” The Grandmaster blinks owlishly.

“God of Thunder,” Loki corrects happily, eyes still fixed on the city below.

“Ambitious little thing, you are, Stardust. I ah, wouldn’t ever marry my brother. Definitely not for a coup. He and I ah, don’t see eye to eye. I definitely have better taste than he does, for uh, for one thing. He’s an introvert, you know.” The Grandmaster nudges Loki’s elbow. “Complete opposites, he and I! Hm, I should ah, I should write to him sometime,” The Grandmaster trails off thoughtfully, “...It’s been a while.”

“You should,” Loki nods, “He may very well appreciate it. Even if he acts like he doesn’t.” Loki’s smile fades. The Grandmaster notices his change in tone and nudges his elbow again.

“Come on, Loki, tell me more. What, ah, what would you do, if you had all this? What about all those big plans?” The Grandmaster makes a sweeping gesture down at Sakaar’s expanse. He sips his cocktail and waits for Loki to speak. Loki’s eyes glaze over somewhat.

“...I almost had all of this. More than once. Indeed, I may have obtained it, had I not fucked it all up so gloriously. Asgard could have been ours, but Thor annoyed me, and I sabotaged his coronation. Midgard could have been ours, but I couldn’t follow through. I knew it wouldn’t make us happy. Sakaar could have been ours, except not really. I didn’t really want your city. I just wanted to rule with Thor before someone obliterated the universe. The end was...I could feel it coming, in the air, and it scared me to know that I still never got what I truly wanted.”

“You made him a promise, correct?” The Grandmaster asks, and Loki doesn’t care if that’s something he shouldn’t know. The idea of the Wood flipping through his memories like a filing cabinet bothers him less and less as time trudges on. Although, perhaps it isn’t even the Wood. Perhaps the Grandmaster really is the all-powerful entity that he claims to be, and he has a third eye fixed on Loki’s sad smile.

“The sun will shine on us again...” Loki looks up, almost in a daze. Sakaar’s sunset is light orange. “Your playground is beautiful, Grandmaster, but this planet’s star is not the one I was referring to.” The Grandmaster adjusts his robes idly.

“So what if I, uh, told you that you could have it? What if, with a snap of my—hmm, my fingers, I could bring the Lord of Thunder here, and you could have it all anyway, even if it isn’t the right sun?” The Grandmaster suggests, his eyes skeptical. Loki chuckles.

“I’ve grown tired of cocky men snapping their fingers, thank you. Regardless, I won’t even humor the thought; you’re only charitable when it suits you.”

“Seeing pretty things happy suits me,” The Grandmaster raises his eyebrows. Loki huffs.

What the Grandmaster suggests is exactly what Loki suggested when Thor became a prisoner. A pocket of the universe where Loki could drink fine wine, do complex research, and speak to party-goers that would be sincerely interested in his tales. He could heal sick children and play naughty tricks on boorish men, and the people—his people—would praise him for it. He could build larger statues of himself, and watch Thor…

But what would Thor do? Laze around, ignoring his duties? Would he ever truly leave the remaining Asgardians? If Loki asked, he just might, but that wouldn’t mean he’d be happy about it. Loki last heard Thor talking about undoing what their father had done. Thor would liberate the suffering, and uplift the weary, were he to become his ideal self. Thor, selfless Thor, wouldn’t be satisfied on an apathetic planet.

Loki thinks that his newest self—his better self—wouldn’t be satisfied, either. Thor is the one that told him that he could be greater than the god of mischief. He could offer more to the universe, and the remaining Asgardians. Sakaar is too small-time for him now. Loki can see the bigger picture that links the tree branches like ivy; he cares more now than he ever did, and no one can scare him into denying it.

“I denied Asgard so that I could cover my losses,” Loki says, “I shouldn’t settle for monotony now. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer. Perhaps my younger self would’ve taken it in a heartbeat.”

“Oh, Stardust, how wise of you!” The Grandmaster preens. “My brother could learn a thing or two, and he’s much older than you are!” He jokes, as if his brother could overhear their conversation. Loki lifts his chin slightly.

“Maybe you could, as well,” Loki tries, but the Grandmaster waves a hand at that.

“I, ah, know a lot of things already! Plus that whole revolution thing was just a kick in noggin—jogged some new ideas, really. I should be thanking you, probably. If I were nicer.”

“And if you were worse, you’d be melting me.”

“You know me so well! Hm, Stardust, do pay me another visit sometime. I hardly ever get trinkets as beautiful as you,” The Grandmaster pouts. Loki glows somewhat in response, unused to the outright praise.

“And I’m sure you don’t get any that are nearly as clever.” Loki drawls, finishing the last of his drink. He savors the taste, since he’ll never be able to recreate that Asgardian fruit. He can only guess if the Wood gave him the drink as a bitter jab or a bout of encouragement. The Grandmaster laughs, tossing his head back with delight.

“Sweet thing, it’s been a pleasure! A real uh, a real riot! You know, the thing about ah, about stardust, is that it’s romantic! It’s inspiring! You get to look up at stardust, and see that it um, is connecting you to someone else, millions of light years away,” The Grandmaster’s voice quiets, and his grin becomes softer. He takes Loki’s hand in his own, and Loki is so focused on his companion’s words that he doesn’t notice the scenery change behind him. “...Maybe I'll write to my brother,” The Grandmaster says with an unspoken ‘thanks’ before pushing Loki with unexpected strength.

Loki topples backwards, his foot missing solid ground. His back doesn’t hit the guardrail, and he feels himself fall—quick and startling. The last thing Loki sees is the orange sunset of Sakaar before his body is jarred, hitting the forest path. Once more, his vision is blocked by tree canopies.

Chapter Text

The air is tense and solemn. None of the present Avengers want to do so much as cough. Tony, stubborn and resilient as he is, refuses to look up from his tablet; he taps away at his notes and tabs full of research, compiling data from multiple sources. Three days have passed since Thor collapsed, and since then, most of the team members have been struggling to discover the source of his illness. The urgency wouldn’t be so prevalent were it not for the fact that his condition seems to worsen by the hour.

Thor’s technical readings are fine, but he’s in something akin to a coma. He won’t react to anything his friends say to him, and his skin grows pale. His eyes are dark underneath, and his breathing is shallow. Tony forwarded all of his findings to Shuri, who was sad to tell them that there are no signs of actual disease or infection. Whatever is plaguing Thor doesn’t appear to have a technological solution, which only makes Tony frustrated.

Natasha is typing quickly, and has been for over an hour—she’s been combating messages from many friends and allies from various locations. Fury wants updates on Thor's status, Scott sends sad-face emojis when the news doesn’t improve, and Rhodey asks her to keep an eye on Tony. Natasha’s eyelashes get tacky with tears when Clint sits down beside her and wordlessly offers a cup of coffee. The crying comes easier to her nowadays; she’s no longer ashamed of it, and is willing to admit that the idea of losing a friend after just fixing the Snap is worrying.

Brunnhilde is propped up against a wall, her arms crossed. She’s just as disappointed in Asgardian solutions as the others are in their medicine. The remaining healers seemed devastated that they couldn’t provide any comfort for their king; Brunnhilde told them to take it easy, and that his declining health isn’t their fault.

Unfortunately, Brunnhilde does feel helpless. Tony’s words were somewhat reassuring, but they didn’t change the fact that her return to Asgard doesn’t feel as fulfilling as it should. It was gratifying to lead for a while—to scrounge together all the hope that she could in order to help their people rebuild—but the conclusion is lackluster. In spite of everything, Thor wastes away nonetheless. She kept saying that the under-eating and the alcoholism were going to do him in. She couldn’t even be right about that.

The Avengers look up collectively when Strange walks back into the room, all shifting with trepidation. Tony reluctantly called him in earlier this morning, conceding that his own efforts weren’t doing much good. Strange has been in Thor’s medical chamber for a while now, consulting ancient tomes and his own magic. There’s hesitation on his face as he takes in the sight of a vulnerable team, and Bruce knows regret when he sees it. Stephen shakes his head minutely.

“I...wish there was a way to make my findings easier to bear, but...” Stephen’s brow creases.

“Just...give it to me straight, Doc.” Tony says evenly, resting his arm on the side of his chair. Stephen pauses before continuing.

“Thor’s illness is beyond me. And it’s above our capability, as it doesn’t have a tangible cause from our universe.”

“...What the hell does that mean,” Clint asks flatly. Stephen briefly thinks about an explanation before holding out his hands—a translucent, mock model of a galaxy forms and floats above his palms.

“Consider every planet you can think of; think about how the universe as you know it shifted drastically as soon as Thor and Loki set foot on our planet years ago. Try to conceive every possible virus or infection that exists in every solar system. Every venomous organism, and every radioactive stone. There isn’t a single biological or technological entity that has caused Thor to end up in this state.”

“So, it’s...magical, then,” Natasha ventures, shifting in her seat. Stephen shakes his head.

“If his ailment stemmed from my criteria for magic, I’d be able to find a source; like a curse from another sorcerer or artifact. But Thor’s ailment has no physical manifestation, other than his body...” Stephen trails off and corrects himself. “This can only lead me to believe one thing; that something else has intervened in Thor’s life cycle, and that nothing from our plane was meant to prevent this from happening.” The room chokes in stillness for a moment as the Avengers process the information. Steve is the first to speak up.

“Something else? What do you mean, ‘something else?’”

Stephen closes his hands together, causing the model galaxy to vanish, scattering into blue dust. He frowns.

“You’re not really supposed to look behind the curtain when you get to Oz,” Stephen says in lieu of a concrete explanation.

“Like...like, God? I mean, more ‘god’ than he is?” Clint asks, gesturing at the door to Thor’s room. Stephen purses his lips thoughtfully.

“Not necessarily. But it is cosmic. I...we could theorize until sundown, but the fact remains that...” Stephen looks at them earnestly, with honest apology in his eyes, “Thor is dying. I’m...I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help. I’d suggest making preparations. His aura wanes as time goes on.”

Tony is the one to clear his throat, rise to his feet, and move to shake Stephen’s hand.

“Thanks, Doc. For coming out. We uh, we appreciate the input.”

“Don’t thank me. You have my condolences.” Stephen firmly takes Tony’s hand and realizes how worn out he looks. Lack of sleep, lack of food, too much caffeine. His eyes briefly flicker beyond Tony’s shoulder to see Romanov wiping her face with her sleeve. Rogers’ jaw is clenched with resignation. He looks back to Tony and lowers his voice so that only he can listen.”If there were ever a poster boy for defying cosmic anomalies, it’d be you, Stark. But you can only defy the odds but so often...don’t blame yourselves for this.”

Stephen lets go of Tony’s hand and takes a step back before opening up a sparkling portal. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know,” He tells them before disappearing from the room. There’s a beat.

“...Well that’s bullshit, right?” Bruce says, a bitter twist to his mouth.

“Bruce--” Natasha starts, voice sad, but Bruce cuts her off.

“No, really, c’mon!” Bruce gestures at everybody stubbornly. “What, the universe wants Thor dead? Intervention from a higher power is the kind of thing people talked about in the nineteenth century before polio vaccines were developed! What do you want to do? Just let him go?” Bruce asks, voice wavering.

“Bruce, nobody wants to do that,” Steve cuts in, his hands moving in a placating gesture. “But we all heard what Strange said. There doesn't seem to be a cure for Thor.”

“So we should give up?” Bruce asks, expression pained.

“No, nobody’s giving up!” Tony exclaims, running his hands back through his hair. “We all did that already, when we left him alone for five years. How...how am I ever supposed to make up for that?” He adds softly, the gravity dawning on him. He shifts gears. "Look, we’re all his friends, right? And we’ve been kind of shitty friends. The universe told us all to deal with it when Thanos happened, and we did deal with it, but then we fixed the whole thing. So I’m not gonna humor the notion that this has to happen.”

Clint hates being the skeptic, but it’s a part he’s good at playing. He clears his throat.

“Is it selfish? I mean, to try and keep him here? He said he goes to Valhalla or something when he dies, right? What if he wants to go there, and be with his family?”

“You’re his family, too.” Brunnhilde raises her voice and steps away from the back wall. The Avengers look up at her, surprised. She’s been quiet this whole time. “He’d tell you that, no matter what you did, or what you regret not doing. I regret not doing a lot, and he had a place for me; he still does. So I’m not gonna let this slide, either, alright?” Brunnhilde looks pointedly at Clint. “You—what you just said. It gave me an idea.”

Steve’s eyes widen and Bruce sits up in his chair. “Well, let’s hear it,” Steve welcomes. Brunnhilde looks at all of them—all eager and ready to kick at the cosmos. Thor seems to pick really good friends.

“...There’s no guarantee it’ll work, and it’s a little dicey. We might risk pissing off the universe or something, maybe.”

“That sounds like our kind of plan,” says Natasha.

“Alright...” Brunnhilde resigns herself to this; commits to it. “I think I know someone that could help.”

–

The first thing that Loki notices is that the air now smells like burning pine. The sound of faint, crackling wood follows shortly after, and as Loki turns, he sees that the trees have vanished yet again. Now, the Wood makes way for an expansive field with small pockets of flame littering the charred ground. It’s not unlike the burning, hollowed out interior of the Statesman, and the memory makes Loki dry heave.

However, this isn’t the Statesman; it’s open terrain with smoldering debris. Piles of scrap metal, splintered trees, and dried up grass. The air itself is dark, and no sunlight peeks through the heavy storm clouds and wafts of smoke. Something is wrong. Loki can feel it in the air. He feels it as his skin crawls.

“Peter! Hey, Pete, stay with me, kid. Just don’t--”

Loki whips his head around to find the source of the voice, the tone of which rises with anxiety. The Iron Man kneels on the ground, metal fists clutching at something that’s no longer there.

“Hang on, Sam! Please...Sam!”

Loki whirls around again, eyes widening. Captain America looks different—older, haggard, and now his face is pinched with barely concealed agony. Loki steels himself and hurries forward to greet the Captain, his cape fluttering behind him.

“What is this? What’s happening?” Loki asks, eyes searching for an answer. He has no idea why the Wood would conjure such an exhibition; he’s never gone through something like this. He’s unaware of what trials Earth’s Avengers have been through over the years. Loki has no experience here. What is he even supposed to make of it?

“My king! Where is T’Challa? Has anyone seen T’Challa!” Loki sees a tall man with broad shoulders, dressed in furs. His nose seems to be broken.

“Come on, Quill, answer your damn communicator!”

“I haven’t seen Stephen in days...I’m starting to think he won’t be coming back.”

“We all need to stay here, we don’t even have a head count!”

The people appear faster than Loki can keep track of, and he can’t seem to get the attention of a single one of them. They all talk over each other—snippets of dialogue that don’t seem to connect at all, but rather overlap. It dawns on Loki that they’re all vignettes. Pieces of information that do connect even if they don’t all take place at the same time in the same location.

This is it, he realizes, as the sobs increase in volume, along with the furious shouts born from failure. The clamor builds and leads to one conclusion. This is what Loki missed while he was in Valhalla. He’s currently bearing witness to Thanos’ promise on a grand scale. Thunder rumbles above, and the clouds crack open, making way for a downpour of rain.

Loki’s breath catches, and when he turns around, Thor is standing in front of him. He has a different colored eye now, where before he wore a patch. He holds an enormous, hefty axe in one hand, though its blade drags through the damp soil. He looks broken—so much so that Loki promises he’s never seen his brother look like this. Not when Mjolnir was taken away from him, not when their mother perished, and not when Asgard disintegrated into the void of space. The expression on Thor’s face is the result of all of these events combined, piled on top of even more hopeless failures.

“Loki. Loki, I’m sorry.” Thor whimpers, his voice cracking in time with the thunder. The moisture on his face may be tears, rain, or both. Loki’s eyes widen; he rushes forward and takes his brother’s face between his hands. Despite the fact that he can feel Thor, Thor doesn’t see him—he looks right through him.

“Thor, look at me!” Loki hisses as the rain hammers down against his skin and clothes.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do any of it right,” Thor’s mouth gapes with an unvoiced sob. His chin trembles. Loki’s empathy swells. His brother’s moods have always been somewhat contagious, and Loki bears Thor’s storm openly. “I tried! I tried, it wasn’t enough!” Thor drops his axe.

“Thor, you did everything! You failed no one, I know you fix this!” Loki begs his brother to notice him, one hand tugging at Thor’s sheared hair, the other clutching the front of his cape in a death grip. Thor’s eyes adjust, and for a split second it seems like Thor notices that someone is touching him.

Thor looks directly at Loki and sees him. The corner of his mouth jerks upward in disbelief.

“It’s like you’re really here.” Thor whispers. As soon as Loki smiles back at him, he feels Thor’s cape unravel beneath his hand. Loki inches back, horror and disbelief overtaking his face as he watches his brother’s armor turn to dust. It barely takes a moment before Thor is completely gone.

The visual is so jarring that Loki briefly forgets that it’s all a farce. It has to be; this has already happened, and Thor and his Midgardian companions reversed all of it. That’s why Loki’s currently doing all of this. It’s only as real as his former self, and perhaps less real than his sister was. Thanos’ unrelenting ego was for the universe’s collective history book, not Loki’s current reality.

“It truly was beautiful,” A deep, rumbling voice cuts through the rain. Loki seethes in spite of the mantra in his head insisting that this is all a fantasy. He has no idea how hard his fingers shake until he curls them into tight fists. “Peace, at last. Once the dust settled, the silence echoed throughout the universe.”

Thanos stands to Loki’s side—he can see him in his peripheral. Loki’s shoulders jerk. Muscle memory from being poked with an electric prod and from the pain of being left in a chamber of sweltering heat with no water. Memories of being beaten, smacked, starved, carved, and brainwashed. Surprisingly, Loki doesn’t feel small.

Hair plastered to his face and water dripping steadily from his jaw, Loki rises to his full height and turns his head to acknowledge the titan.

“Failure to directly impede my plans doesn’t mean you succeeded in aiding others, Laufeyson.”

“Odinson,” Loki corrects without thinking, tone flat.

“What was it that you said? ‘Freedom is life’s great lie.’” Thanos shrugs, looking around at his wasteland thoughtfully. “You had the right idea.”

“After a few months of your infantile rhetoric, I assume anyone would start spouting nonsense,” Loki sneers. Thanos shoots him a pitying look.

“You came to me as a tight coil of anger, justified but with nowhere to direct your vengeance. I sympathized with your plight. I gave you an entire world to rule after balance was achieved, and you couldn’t even manage to follow through. A creature without resolve, Loki, is just like every other organism that can’t see the bigger picture.”

“I never wanted a throne!” Loki shouts, and somewhere inside him is a young man, crying in front of his brother at the Bifrost. Some things remain constant. “You exploit everything you touch and call it mercy. You took a sick, young fool and made him sicker! That’s all you can claim of me! Well!” Loki huffs, “I’ve no shame in admitting that I was scared of you. But I’ll tell you another thing; I’m no longer scared of you!”

Thanos looks on, smirking. His delusion of grandeur allowing him the privilege of never having to take offense to what others think of him. Never once has he had the incentive to consider another’s perspective. But by the Norns, Loki feels great shouting at him like he never could when his mind was contorted.

“I have far more important things to worry about than you and those damned stones, and I’m glad to finally be rid of you!” Loki finishes, smiling viciously with bared teeth and a mad glint in his eye that hasn’t shown itself in some time. He dismisses himself, turning to walk away with his pride.

“Rid of me?” Thanos asks. “With a knife again?” That self-satisfied tone spikes Loki’s blood with anger. Unable to let it go, Loki grabs his brother’s axe from the saturated dirt with both hands and swings it back with all his might, boots almost slipping completely in the mud.

The blade collides with Thanos’ skull, cracking straight through bone and brain, severing his face in grotesque halves. Discolored blood splatters in Loki’s already-soaked hair but he pays it no mind. Loki staggers, regaining his balance on the slick terrain and lets go of the axe. Thanos wobbles on shaky knees for a moment before he falls back completely, dead and quiet.

Loki stands in the downpour for a moment, heaving and catching his breath. With a knife, indeed. Loki flicks the blood from his forehead with a wave of seidr. He’s humored this fantasy for too long now. He knows that Thanos is dead, and that everything in the living plane has been restored. Thor is still alive, if only barely, and Loki must get to him. That’s all he’s allowed to think about. He has to keep moving. He just isn’t scared anymore.

Loki begins to walk again, in no specific direction, as the Wood reappears around him soon enough. The sound of rain doesn’t stop for a while.

Chapter Text

“Are you absolutely sure that you want to go through with this?” Stephen asks, his cloak shifting in the seaside breeze. “I can guarantee neither safety nor success,” He informs the team. Brunnhilde looks to Steve for confirmation. Steve nods firmly, face set with determination.

“Well, we’ve never been guaranteed either of those things, so I think we can wing it,” Tony agrees.

The first five Avengers gather in an isolated field, just a few meters away from a cliff’s edge and the sea, and a few miles from the outskirts of New Asgard. Brunnhilde, Strange, and one of the last Asgardian elders exchange a look of trepidation.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” Brunnhilde tells the elder. She’s wise beyond her years, and has lived to see Asgard’s highs and lows. Brunnhilde is sure that she was around when Hela was a child. To have lived through Ragnarok and Thanos must double as a blessing and a curse. The elder shakes her head with knowing smile; kind, and it that implies she’s resigned to whatever may come.

“My dear, I know the risks. But your intentions are selfless, and if there’s one thing that I’ve found to be true, it’s that selflessness is easy to tolerate and forgive.” The elder looks over all of Thor’s gathered friends and sees that their faces are open—their pain and willingness to try the impossible are unifying factors that will bind them for many years to come. “Our king is fortunate to have impacted so many in such a positive manner. I think it’d do us all some good to get him up on his feet again.”

Bruce worries at his lower lip with his teeth and Tony puts a hand on his shoulder to ease his restlessness.

“We’ll do better this time. It’s gotta mean something.” Tony says. His eyes are so determined that Bruce can’t help but feel like everything will work out—that’s how Tony makes everyone feel.

They talked about it earlier; about selfishness and Thor’s current relationship with New Asgard. No more keeping their distance, hoping that Thor will improve on his own. No more keeping their mouths shut, hoping that one day, the topic of Thor’s health would become less sensitive. In the end, Natasha said that even if it’s selfish of them to keep him, it’d be worse to continue letting him go; to continue letting him down.

Clint watches, rapt with interest, as Strange burns large, intricate sigils into the dirt. Face pinched in concentration, Stephen forms a large circle that encompasses all of the Avengers.

“You will be opening a line of communication with Valhalla,” the elder explains to them, “Something that only champions of great importance are allowed to do. Suffice it to say, I think repairing the universe qualifies you. This ritual is both rare and sacred, and otherwise discouraged, as the dead are meant to offer us their guidance in less tangible ways.”

Clint blinks and exchanges a look with Steve. They’ve gone back in time. This can’t possibly be more unusual.

“The form of communication varies. I’ve witnessed individuals carry on one-sided conversations with the deceased. I’ve also heard tales of visions and projections. I’ve no way of telling you if you’ll get the results that you need, or if you’ll be treated fairly if you disrupt Valhalla.”

“Just be very polite. And discrete. Probably.” Brunnhilde gives a smile paired with a thumbs-up, neither of which are very encouraging. Bruce’s anxiety spikes.

“You aren’t doing this with us? You’re Asgardian,” Bruce asks, confused. Brunnhilde gives him an apologetic look.

“A leader of Asgard has to be here to validate the circle or, something. That’s just what she told me,” Brunnhilde gestures at the elder. “And I’m the only thing resembling a leader right now.” Brunnhilde turns her attention to Steve. “If your communication succeeds, you’re going to have to try and speak with Loki.”

“Still think we should call their mom instead,” Clint mutters, put out.

They discussed this earlier, as well. Nobody was over the moon for the idea when Brunnhilde suggested it, but Bruce vouched for Loki yet again. Clint argued that Loki may not have even made it into Valhalla, but Bruce persisted. Out of all the potential Asgardian heroes and sorcerers, Loki was the most likely to know about ancient and forbidden magic. He also had the strongest relation—a true incentive to help Thor and New Asgard. If Loki doesn’t have any information to give the Avengers, then maybe Thor really is fated for the golden gates. Regardless of what may happen, this ritual is worth a shot.

“Are you all ready?” The elder asks. Natasha nods at her. “Then we’ll begin.”

–

Thanos’ appearance was unexpected and unwelcome. No one should have to perform so tirelessly for the privilege of breath in one’s lungs. Loki vaguely remembers seeing Thanos’ daughters; he had it bad, but there’s no way they didn’t have it worse. He didn’t know them beyond a few words, but Loki hopes that they found some relief in their father’s elimination.

Loki also wonders if there was ever an ounce of selfless love within Thanos—if such a creature could feel remorse the way that Loki does now. The fool probably considered himself a martyr.

As much as Loki feels cupidity and rage for his brother, he also feels humility and devotion. Thor makes him feel as if he could cup the void of space in his hands and watch it drip between his fingers like nectar. Thor makes Loki feel as if he could continue on like this for a century, or three, or seven, so long as he got to see his smile at the end of the path. Whatever it takes.

Loki is confident that Thanos has never had someone to hold such a torch for. Someone whose labors of love would rattle the stars and make him feel sorry for all he’s done. Not that the idea is worth humoring; his daughters deserve that theoretical love now, seeing as they were previously starved for it.

When Loki glances up again, he finds himself staring at books where there once were leaves. The expansive rows of the Asgardian palace library, filled to the brim with ancient tomes and well-protected scrolls. The historical texts, the medicinal theories, the traditional plays, and fanciful legends. All cared for and assorted by delicate hands and inquisitive minds. One of Loki’s favorite rooms in the entire castle.

The smell of it is borderline intoxicating; just like the cocktail on pseudo-Sakaar, it doubles as a fond memory and a painful sentiment. Loki blinks owlishly, as he sees himself hunched over paperwork just three tables over. He is very small and fair, not yet ready to take on complex magic with his instructors. Undoubtedly, his child self is jotting down notes about theories far beyond his years while Thor is outside, swinging a wooden sword at a training dummy.

“Loki.” Loki turns to see Odin approaching, a smile on his face that is soft and minute. His hair is not yet silver, and his robes are more practical. He looks younger, and more physically capable. He also looks like he won’t know stress again for many years to come. Loki watches his younger self bolt out of his chair, beaming as he rushes to his father’s side. “It’s almost sundown, my child, you’ve been shut away for hours,” Odin reprimands, a fond lilt to his voice. Loki’s lower lip sticks out.

“I’ve been studying. I don’t want to be in that beginner’s class anymore! It’s far too easy,” Young Loki’s words are far too large for a boy his size. Loki can’t help but huff a snicker at his desire to impress.

“A prince such as yourself should perfect his fundamentals before advancing his work. Your mother would say the same.” Loki looks put out by his father’s words, but Odin sets a placating hand on top of his head. “But I’ve no doubt that your spells are impressive. Are you hungry yet? You can share what you’ve learned at dinner.” Odin offers a hand and Loki eagerly takes it. The two walk out of the library together, little Loki running his mouth about invisibility or some such.

Loki remembers the sensation. His father’s hand was so wide and warm, with rings adorning his fingers.

“Not three years later, you were convinced that you no longer required mentors at all.”

Loki whips around, his heart catching in his throat. Odin stands a couple feet away; rather, the Odin that Loki knew before he booted him from Asgard. Shorter, silver hair and long, decadent robes. He still looks tired, all because of the stress his two wayward boys caused. Loki says nothing, eyes flickering around and not wanting to settle on his father. His folds his hands together and takes a stiff bow at the waist. For a moment, Odin looks sad.

“I suppose it’s my own doing; that my child cannot bear to embrace me, even in death.”

“I’m sorry.” Loki supplies, but he can’t offer much else.

“I see you’ve been spending time with your sister,” Odin observes. Loki figures that he notices the seidr in his hair. Loki feels like a fish out of water. He doesn’t know what to say to that, and for once, he resigns himself to silence. His biting wit causes more trouble for his father than it’s worth. “Come,” Odin beckons, “the end draws near.” Loki doesn’t want to ask what he means by that, even though his need to know everything pokes at the back of his mind. He follows Odin out of the library and to the open walkways leading out of the palace. Marble pillars, gold accents, hanging boughs of flowers, and yet another sunset.

“I must admit,” Loki ventures with a lost smile, “I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to say to you.” The Wood obviously wants him to learn something from this little stroll with dad, but this is the first illusion or encounter that’s felt forced. Loki has no true desire to recite the laundry list of grievances that he has with his father, nor does he want to put on some spectacle for the sake of getting through this area relatively unscathed. It’s none of the forest’s business what he would or wouldn’t like to say to this wizened old king. If it were up to Loki, he’d keep his thoughts to himself until the end of time. He did just fine avoiding his father during his stay in Valhalla. The distance certainly never bothered him. At the very least, that’s what he’s tricked himself into believing.

“Are you supposed to say anything in particular? Is there no room for us to simply exist in this moment?” Odin asks at length. “I’ve not spent time with you since you entered Valhalla; allow an old man a few moments with his child.”

‘Your child,’ Loki wants to say, scathingly. It’s on the tip of his tongue; malice and well-practiced banter that comes so naturally to him. It’s as easy as breathing, but that’s never made it right. It would just start an argument for conflict’s sake. Conflict, Loki is used to—at least he knows how to process it and build off of it. But Loki can’t deny that he’s been calling himself Odinson, and he can’t even lie and say that he’s seriously called himself Laufeyson. The only time he’s ever said as much was when he was bargaining with dark elves, and that was all a ruse.

He’s Odin’s child. At least that serves as a proper excuse for half of his issues.

“...I didn’t know what to say to you then, either. That’s why.” Loki admits quietly. That’s why he never visited with Odin in Valhalla. Odin nods thoughtfully and stops near a courtyard fountain.

“If you return to the mortal plane, I won’t be seeing you again for a very long time, I gather.” Odin folds his arms inside of his sleeves. Loki nods.

The two stand for a while, wordless, listening to the running water and the shuffle of branches.

Perhaps Loki would be able to leave now, if he so desired. Maybe he’ll be allowed to leave within a certain amount of time, even if he doesn’t actually speak to his father at all. The idea twists Loki’s stomach into knots—the idea of leaving Odin without so much as a ‘goodbye.’ If this is a test, he can’t imagine failing if he were to decide to separate himself from Odin completely, but even if it isn’t, isolation still doesn’t feel like the right ‘answer.’ Too much has been left unsaid, and it would be unfair to let it drag out any longer due to his pride. Unfair to his mother, who wishes they would speak again. And unfair to Thor, who never got the chance to truly talk with Odin about his own doubts before he died.

“I never despised you. But I hate that you made me feel like I should.” Loki mutters, barely above a whisper. His fist tightens, hidden behind the edge of his cape. “I’ve always wanted to apologize, but I didn’t feel like you would want to hear it.” It feels like fingers are closing around Loki’s throat, choking the words out of him. Odin turns his head to fully look at him.

“In making you feel this way, I have failed. I’ve failed you, as I’ve failed Hela, and as I’ve failed Thor. A parent’s job is to ensure that their children are better than they are. A child should be wiser, stronger, and they should succeed where their parents once fell short. I’m beyond proud to find that in spite of everything, the two of you have surpassed me. Thor’s empathy is greater than my past conquests, and your resilience is greater than my resignation to fate. The fact that you are here on this day, able to walk the gravel road, is proof of this. And I am so very proud of you, Loki.”

Loki only realizes that he’s crying when he feels his lashes cling together. He stares at his father in awe. His feet move of their own volition, and before he can think better of it, he falls into Odin’s embrace, burying his face in his shoulder. Loki’s shoulders shake, and Odin’s hand rests on the back of his head, as it often did when he was a child.

“The things that I said to you were wrong, my child. Your trespasses have been forgiven in a way that mine will never be.”

Loki cries. He sobs in a way that he hasn’t since his mother died. He cries, for he was always exceedingly sensitive, and his life hasn’t always been fair. He cries because he didn’t fully acknowledge his own death, and because he couldn’t stick around long enough to help the world be rid of Thanos. He cries for the lives he took on Midgard, and for the lives that were lost due to his negligence. Tears for his brother, who may yet die because of the enchanted bond he didn’t ask for, and tears for his mother, who always deserved better.

Loki attempts to rein in his melodrama. Embarrassed, he pulls away from Odin, but Odin grabs Loki’s hand and doesn’t let go. He allows Loki to face away from him and sob in an effort to retain his dignity, but his son doesn’t tug his hand away. Odin’s smile is tired. Moments tick by until Loki can breathe again, but he does breathe easier—easier than he has since he fell from the bridge.

“I am afraid,” Loki finally confesses, still not turning to face Odin again.

“What do you fear?” Odin asks.

“I fear failure. Above all, I fear that I will not see Thor again.” The words stick to Loki’s teeth, and they taste bitter. “...I also fear that if I manage to be reunited with him, it will only be a matter of time before I drive him away.”

“You’re wiser than you were when fear did nothing but cloud your judgment. Now, your clarity is the source of your strength; it will prevent you from making the same mistakes, and it will remind you why you’ve come as far as you have.” Odin advises. Loki takes a deep breath; a final shudder before he lets go of Odin’s hand.

“Do you believe I am ready?” Loki asks, turning to look at him fully.

“For whatever may come? Undoubtedly.” Odin nods with a smile, sympathetic and wise. Loki’s mouth breaks into a pitiful grin. His mood shifts immediately when he notices the edges of Asgard fray in his peripheral vision. His time is up. Desperation tugs at his demeanor.

“Father, I—I’m sorry I waited this long. I wish that I hadn’t.”

Odin shakes his head.

“You needed time. Your mother and I would love to see you boys again, but perhaps not until you’ve lived the lives you were meant to.”

Loki wipes his face with the back of his hand. He has more to say, but the Asgardian sun blinds him momentarily. When he’s able to open his eyes again, he’s surrounded by the Wood. The air has changed; Loki can feel it. The trees seem aware of the shift, as well. The path beneath his boots beckons him forward. The end draws near. Thor and the mortal plane--they have to be closer than they were before. Ignoring the soreness behind his eyes, Loki runs again.

Chapter Text

The Avengers undergo some form of displacement. When the elder finishes her incantation and Strange lights up the glyphs beneath their feet, the group finds that they’re no longer standing near the rocky shores of Norway.

Steve looks around, taking in the nature of the situation; the five of them are now in a lush garden, surrounded by tall hedges and trees. Insects and birds flutter from flowers to fountains, but luckily, there don’t seem to be any other people around.

“Where are we?” Clint is the first to ask, hesitant.

“I thought the elder said this was supposed to be like a phone call,” Steve adds. He reaches out and brushes his hand against the leaves of a nearby bush, confirming that their surroundings are tangible.

“She said it varies,” Natasha says absently, “I don’t think we’re on Earth anymore, at least.”

“Indeed, Midgard is no longer within your reach.” A new voice speaks out, and the group turns to see a woman that wasn’t previously standing near an apple tree. Rays of sunlight reach her curling, golden hair through the gaps in overhead leaves. She’s old yet fair-skinned, and wears a knowing smile—implying that she’s privy to information that the Avengers don’t have.

“I had a feeling I should tend to my garden today,” the woman mutters to herself before giving Steve another welcoming smile. “Welcome to Valhalla. I am Frigga, the last queen of Asgard.” Bruce and Natasha nod their heads at her, unsure if they should be bowing. Steve steps forward.

“Ma’am. We’re--”

“Heroes of Midgard...and more importantly, my son’s companions.” Frigga approaches Steve and sets her hand on his bicep. “Thor is so very lucky to have friends willing to bend the natural order for him. What you’re doing takes a lot of determination.”

“Then you know why we’re here?” Tony asks, gesturing at the garden. “Thor’s in a bad way, and we don’t have a lot of time. We need to talk to Loki about some forbidden penicillin.”

Even if Frigga doesn’t understand what Tony means, her eyes shine with recognition. Her smile drops, and her gaze becomes more serious.

“Come with me,” Frigga beckons, hurrying down a walkway that curves toward the back of the palace. Her steps are quiet and she continues to look around for other Asgardians that could potentially spot or interrupt them. The Avengers follow suit and try to keep from drawing attention to themselves.

The six duck through an abandoned kitchen, slip through a back passage, and swiftly head up a winding staircase leading to the top of an isolated tower.

“Loki is no longer in Valhalla; he left recently, and is trying to undo the same thing that you are,” Frigga speaks to them over her shoulder as they bustle up the stairs, their footsteps echoing throughout the stone walls.

“He’s not here at all?” Bruce exclaims, grabbing the railing. Clint almost bumps into him. Frigga pauses, looking down at the confused and lost expressions of the Avengers.

“Loki is currently in another plane, unable to come back to Valhalla, and unable to aid Thor unless he succeeds in getting through the trials that have been set before him. The reality is that I should not even have this information, nor should I be sharing it with you, but the longer Loki is caught in that plane, the more my anxiety grows.” Frigga turns away and continues the journey up the stairs. Tony shuffles under Steve’s arm to get closer to Frigga, following the dragging train of her robes.

“Hold on, rewind, that’s way too broad. He’s in a—a what? Another dimension? How is that supposed to help Thor?” Tony asks.

The group reaches the top of the staircase, and from the folds of her dress, Frigga produces a ring of keys. She shoves one of them into the keyhole of a wide, wooden door, and the expanse of the frame lights up with runes. The door clicks open, allowing them access. Frigga leads them inside the tower’s peak, and introduces them to what looks like a sewing room. Heavy bolts of fabric drape from organizational rods, hundreds of thimbles sit the nooks of a drawing board. Thousands of thread spools line the back wall on pegs. There is also a sofa, a coffee table, several stools, and an enormous loom sitting in view of a gaping window.

“My sons have been connected since the day Loki was born,” Frigga explains, occupied as she immediately begins plucking spools of thread from the wall, seeming to consider every color choice. “The grand design—the fates, if that’s what you’d like to call them—deemed it necessary for them to exist alongside one another. In essence, they have always had a link. Unfortunately, the link has been severed within the past week, and Loki is trying to appease the fates in order to restore it.”

“So it’s all up to Loki? There isn’t anything we can do to help?” Bruce asks, rubbing his hands together and still glancing around the room. Frigga settles in front of her loom and begins to unwind thread with a level of delicacy that only comes with thousands of years of practice.

“Actually, I’m rather glad you showed up. You see, my loom is very special. I can watch so many events, and so many people from the magic within my weaving. Normally, I would never be able to look into the events from another plane; the fates have their own threads that are far more powerful than mine. However, I’ve created my children’s clothing and armor throughout their lives. I’m able to sense their feelings and take in their surroundings. That’s why I was convinced that Loki did not die before he arrived on your planet, even when my husband wouldn’t humor the idea. It’s not just fabric that I create, but feelings, wards of protection, and spells of good fortune.”

Frigga winds thread through the appropriate slots before working on another spool. She pauses and looks up at the Midgardian team, sympathizing with their desire to keep up with her explanation and the context at large.

“So you can tell what’s happening to Loki right now?” Natasha asks her. Frigga nods, but with a crease in her brow.

“In a sense. What concerns me is the energy that has been building around him since he left Valhalla. By all rights, Loki should be able to succeed in getting back to the living world, but the task itself isn’t supposed to be easy. There is a force that grows alongside him, and it’s...antagonistic. The more determined Loki is to succeed, the harder this force will try to make sure that he doesn’t.” Frigga pauses her work and folds her hands in her lap. She looks up at the Avengers, gaze sad and imploring them to act. “Throughout his entire life, Loki has had Thor. And whenever he didn’t have Thor, he had to face all of his hardships alone.”

Frigga turns minutely to stare at the dark green thread sitting at the ready in her loom.

“For once, I’d like for him to benefit from the genuine company of others.”

Steve’s expression is apologetic; he can tell how sad Frigga is, and he recognizes that the love she bears as a mother is all-encompassing.

“With respect, ma’am, we don’t exactly have great history with Loki. But we want to see Thor back on his feet again.”

“Then you and Loki share a common goal, and I can promise you that when Thor regains his health, you will not be able to maintain him while shunning his brother.” Frigga observes the Avengers and their minute reactions. Bruce rubs at his bad arm and takes a step forward, his frown set with resolve.

“Nobody can make you like Loki, but he’s somewhere fighting some tough odds for Thor. What happened in Manhattan has been pardoned, for Christ’s sake, I don’t really care anymore if Loki inconvenienced us—Thanos was wiping out planets while you argued about accords that nobody even read the conditions for,” Bruce gestures at Steve, who stiffens, “and you went on a murder spree without the help of Loki’s scepter.” Bruce points at Clint, who averts his eyes.

“I agree with Bruce,” Natasha says suddenly. “It’ll be easier to help Thor if we aren’t all divided. We didn’t bring back the vanished just to pick and choose who gets second chances.”

“...So we’re all in agreement,” Tony guesses.

“If we weren’t, we wouldn’t have performed some crazy-forbidden ritual in the first place,” Clint says, “I’m good.” Steve nods and turns back to Frigga.

“So what can we do?” He asks. Frigga begins to work with the thread at her loom, twining strings together one by one in with well-practiced fingers.

“I believe that I can, for lack of a better word, transfer you to the same plane that Loki is walking through. At the very least, I can project your energies to him so that you can help deal with whatever it is that’s manifesting.” Frigga beckons them over to her loom, and the five surround her bench. “But I’m going to need you to offer your own magic so that the transfer works properly.”

“Our magic? None of us...” Natasha starts but Frigga smiles patiently and shakes her head.

“Look at the fabric that I’m weaving; I’d like for you to think of it as a spell. Each thread offers something to create the final product—something unique that adds value to what you’re attempting to do. I can pluck a thread of warmth from the closest star and weave it into a spell to offer resistance to the cold. I can pluck a thread of sturdiness from a brick in the palace and use it to make good riding boots.” Frigga twines an extra thread of green into her new spell as she thinks of Loki’s cape. “In the same vein, I can take threads of love, anger, or sorrow from creatures and people. Whatever you think may be valuable—you can focus on a feeling or a memory, and I will be able to feel it; I will be able to weave it into my spell, and use it to amplify its longevity and power.”

“That...” Tony trails off, attempting to rationalize the conceptual description as something else; something grounded in tangible sciences. Frigga grins knowingly, not looking up from her task.

“Sounds incredible,” Natasha offers.

The room becomes silent, save for the very faint brush of Frigga’s dress against her bench. Frigga closes her eyes and lets her fingers do the technical work as she takes in the sudden influx of warmth and teamwork and victory from Thor’s friends.

Tony’s memories are very logical, and are presented in chronological order, as far as Frigga can tell. Thor lighting up his mechanical suit with a jolt of irritated electricity. Loki looking up at Tony with a split lip and joking about taking a beverage after attempting to ransack their city. Tony pacing in a laboratory of sorts as Thor explains Asgardian uses of heat and light via holographic projections. They aren’t displays of bombastic love and emotion, but there is an undercurrent of affection and trust to each image, and it all points back to Thor.

Bruce’s feelings are very strong and confident, but his memories imply that they weren’t always like that. The unease from when he first met the other Avengers transfers to Frigga’s empathy. He would shrink around Thor whereas his counterpart—his other self—would push and boast. But it’s harder for Frigga to reach those feelings. At the forefront of everything is the strong friendship that he’s built with her eldest. Thor affectionately pressing his forehead to Bruce’s, or offering him a snack late at night. Bruce’s elation and relief when Thor is the one familiar sight in the sea of unrest that is Sakaar.

To Frigga’s surprise, there is also a subtle press of bemusement and hesitant camaraderie for Loki. The images of him smirking are replaced with images of him looking softer and less sure as he stands beside Bruce’s green counterpart at the hull of a ship. Loki discretely assures him that he won in an arena fight against Thor; a secret that Bruce’s other self thinks is very smart and amusing.

The rest of the Avengers don’t have much to offer in terms of fondness for Loki, but their love for Thor is evident and more than enough to ensure the success of their transportation. Thor offering pats on the shoulder. Sparring with Thor for hours as he laughs at their attempts to knock him off his feet. Thor telling stories of past adventures as the others listen with hooked interest. Helping one another in battle, offering wonderful gossip, letting each other know that they aren’t alone. And just as notable as the love is the feeling of regret.

It’s the communal apology being offered to Thor for not doing better. For having let him down, and for having let him waste years on his own as they struggled to wrestle with their own demons and losses. What comes of this; however, is the promise to do better. It clicks into place and brings tears to Frigga’s eyes as her fabric begins to shimmer and push her spell into fruition.

–

Loki is panting, his cape dancing behind him as he continues to sprint through the Wood. It feels as if he’s been running for hours, and despite his very forgiving stamina, his lungs begin to feel icy. The distance has been unnervingly notable. Loki is sure that he previously hasn’t had to go this long without some sort of encounter. The struggle against the anxiety forming in his throat is a constant one—how long will he have to stay on this path? Maybe the fate lied to him about being able to get back to the living plane, or maybe she just decided to let him suffer in limbo for a little while longer. The unanswered questions burn at the back of his head, and above all, he doesn’t want to humor the idea that he’s too late to keep Thor from dying.

Suddenly, there is a shift of noise—Loki’s boots no longer crunch in loose gravel, but rather clack loudly on fully-formed concrete. The path beneath him turns into a modern sidewalk; one of Midgardian make. The trees flicker before they no longer exist, transforming into silver and gray formations of industry. Monotonous cubes and skyscrapers, trying and failing to reach the clouds.

A hum builds within Loki’s skull, like aggressive white noise and pressure. It makes him feel uneasy as the Wood finishes building its newest creation; it fills the scene with shrill vehicle alarms and pitiful citizens attempting to use their cellphones. It’s a scene that Loki knows very well, despite the fact that he previously never looked upon it as an ant among the masses.

Today, the Chitauri invade Manhattan.

Chapter Text

Heavy, black smoke billows above a nearby rooftop. The stress of the portal above Manhattan causes the wind to whip through Loki’s hair and cape. Soot, debris, and fading embers drift through the air. People scream fearfully, calling out for loved ones and tripping over cracks in the sidewalk. It’s chaotic, but Loki no longer takes satisfaction from this kind of misery—it’s all fear, neither petty frustration nor naive confusion.

Loki holds an arm up in front of his face to shield his eyes from ashes; he strides further into the pit of the city as everyone else rushes past him in the opposite direction. The Chitauri wreak havoc and do little else by crashing through windows and raiding storefronts. All the while, Stark tower shines like a beacon—portal hanging above like a prologue, and lightning piercing quick flashes around its edges.

It’s all too real. Momentarily, it’s hard for Loki to inhale without choking either from the dust or from anxiety. This is the largest construct that the Wood has given him; it’s no suggestive landscape or isolated room, but rather an expansive gauntlet. The city is a maze, and Loki is a lab rat expected to run its course for the prize, but Loki has no earthly clue where to start unraveling the memory.

“You’re too late!” A voice shouts over the din, sour-toned and twisted. Loki looks up to see his counterpart yet again, just as sallow and angry as he was in the makeshift Asgardian cell. Greasy-hair and with dark circles under his eyes. Hollow cheeks and an iron grip on that cursed old scepter.

“All this time you’ve been busying yourself with insipid trips down memory lane while I’ve been perfecting this entire scenario!” The other Loki spreads his arms in a dramatic gesture. He staggers, climbing atop a nearby van, his movements stiff and short. “Planning this entire day, right down to every inconsequential civilian so as to ensure a victory for Thanos, and more importantly, a victory for myself.” Other Loki’s grin is wide and devious.

“This day has come and gone, you single-minded idiot,” Loki shouts dismissively, his face contorting with bemusement. “You can’t change anything here, not without my say.” Other Loki points at him like the cat that got the canary.

“That’s where you’re wrong! Do you still see me as a figment of your imagination? A conjuration of whimsy? Fool, I have just as much power here as you do, because I am you. You’re the only thing holding you back; that’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way I shall keep it.” Other Loki’s next step puts a dent in the roof of the van from which he leers down at Loki. Loki shakes his head in disbelief.

“You’re going to—what? Destroy this city? Rule Midgard? Aid a mad titan? In a never-ending pocket in which you get to just succeed for once instead of swallowing your pride? The high of it will never be worth Thor’s blood!”

“Success is all I’ve been owed,” Other Loki sneers with his chin tilted upward. “Our idiot brother owes us just as well. Small prices to pay and all that.” Loki can’t help but balk and wonder if this is what he really sounded like back then; far too caught up in delusion to recognize that the loss of Thor would be the end of him, both literally and metaphorically. Too stubborn to peer into his seidr and feel how sad his mother was.

“Well,” Loki narrows his eyes, “I hope you’ve gotten some entertainment out of this whole production, but it’s time for the curtains to close. I’m leaving, and I’m going back to the mortal plane whether you’re happy about it or not.” Other Loki’s frown is immediate.

“You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here because I’ve perfected it this time. You should know how many times you’ve gone over it in your head! More Chitauri, less hiccups, a stronger device for the portal. Most importantly; none of Earth’s mightiest heroes will come to save the day. I mean, why would they, if this is all just a fiction of yours? You’re no friend of theirs. And try as you might, you won’t be able to put a dent in the army—at least not before I get Thor out of the picture and take the city.”

Suddenly, a significantly larger bolt of lightning zaps the top of Stark tower, drawing Other Loki’s attention.

“Ugh,” Other Loki rolls his eyes. He briefly looks back at Loki with a haughty wave before vanishing, presumably heading back to the portal device. Loki grips his hair tightly, hissing with stress and glaring at the nearest plume of smoke.

“Damn!” Loki curses, pacing haphazardly, his thoughts darting from one idea to the next. He could maybe disrupt the portal device with magic, but there’s no way his counterpart would leave it unattended. He would have to distract him or lure him away from the tower somehow, but the Chitauri would bombard him no matter where he attempts to go. Perhaps the Thor of his old mind’s eye would be open to working with him; he could take on his other self with the help of his brother, but he’d have to get to the tower first.

Loki curses again. He’s come too far to be bested by an older version of himself, much less one that he’s already said goodbye to. Thor still needs him, and even if Loki’s misery has promoted itself in the Wood, that doesn’t mean the fate would necessarily set him up for failure. If he could just--

“Man, Frigga’s trip advisor app really needs some work, this is not my idea of celestial manifestation.”

Loki stiffens before whipping around to see five new, albeit not unfamiliar faces. Loki catches sight of Barton walking out of a golden slip of time; a clever fold in the plane. The gold vanishes and there stand the Avengers, all looking around at their city’s repeated destruction.

“This is the second time in a month I’ve had to deal with this,” Banner complains to Manhattan at large, and frankly, Loki could kiss him when he visibly brightens. “Loki! You’re here!” Bruce breaks the ice with no worry, stepping forward and clapping Loki on the shoulder. “Your mom said you needed some help.”

“My mother?” Loki asks, bewildered, looking over Bruce’s shoulder at Captain America.

“Yeah, something about alternate realms and magical psychiatry or...y’know, that kind of thing.” Tony waves a hand, taking off his glasses and tucking them inside his jacket.

“Jargon aside,” Steve interrupts pointedly, “We’re here to help. Thor’s in bad shape, and you seem to be the only one that can fix that.” Stunned, Loki’s mouth moves wordlessly before he manages to form a sentence.

“...You’re truly from the mortal plane?” Loki asks. There’s a pause during which he and the Avengers stare at each other as explosions and shouts continue to fill the city. “You’ve broken rules to come here,” Loki’s voice is soft, almost unheard over the commotion. His face then hardens with determination. “Then we may have a chance at closing the portal!”

“Is that what we’re doing? Again?” Clint sighs. “Alright, whatever you say, it’s your party.”

“What are our options if we don’t have any of our gear?” Natasha points out—the entire group was bare when they ended up in Valhalla. Loki smirks and waves his arm over them in a slow, broad arc. The Avengers shimmer as their armor and weapons appear on their bodies, all shiny, enhanced, and new. The Captain eyes his shield and Tony flexes his metal fingers experimentally before letting his visor slide shut over his face.

“Well, that’s simple enough,” Tony comments. Barton draws his bow and notes a new scope on it. Bruce shifts into his larger form, though his brutish alter ego doesn’t make an appearance; his arm seems to be functioning better, too. His expression is somewhat reluctant, but he doesn’t complain. “Gotta love dream world magic.” Tony continues.

“Like Clint said, Loki,” Steve talks with all of the presence of a leader but moves with the willingness to be guided, “This is your party. What do you need us to do?” Loki swallows, his mind quickly poking at the visual of all of the Avengers looking to him for some form of leadership.

“My best guess is that closing the portal will shut down the scene,” Loki looks back towards Stark tower. “If you can keep the Chitauri off my back, I can get to the other me and disrupt that device.”

“We’ve managed it once before. Doesn’t sound too hard,” Natasha shrugs, loading a pistol.

“Okay, but someone else is going to have to fly a missile into outer space, I already had my turn,” Tony bemoans. Natasha steps forward and directly faces Loki.

There’s a moment in which Loki wants to shrink under her gaze, ashamed of their last encounter in the helicarrier, but he can’t afford to do so. Instead, he rises to the challenge and maintains eye contact, a minuscule, upward tilt to his mouth.

“You’ve been pardoned back on Earth,” she informs him, to which he struggles to keep his face even. “Keep this up and you’ll be on your way to an Avengers membership.” Natasha smirks. “But right now, if you need us...”

Momentarily, Loki drowns out the sounds of the city’s destruction as he stares at Thor’s friends, all looking back at him with steady anticipation while they tweak their weapons and gear. Seconds tick by as he considers what all of this means—the fact that he’s being offered an olive branch when he never thought he’d get one is satisfying. What’s more is that Banner and Romanov look like they may already consider him an ally. It feels so different and filling compared to what Loki is used to, with Thor’s friends welcoming him into a fold without Thor’s cajoling input.

It’s a turning point that rises above all of the other revelations he’s tackled in the Wood. It dawns on Loki that his past self was right; the only thing that kept him from having friends was himself.

“...I need you. All of you.” Loki says it aloud, and it surprises him despite how drowned out his voice is.

“Well, why didn’t you say so!” A new voice is added to the group. Tony and Steve turn around to see another makeshift portal cracking open in space, glimmering gold. Out steps the Grandmaster, his steps lackadaisical and his grin amused as always. “Why, uh, Stardust, it sure did take you long enough to invite us!”

“Ah, geez,” Bruce mutters, pointedly avoiding eye contact. The Grandmaster only hums.

“And you still have my champion! Which is fine, I suppose, since it looks like you, uh, could use a hand or several.”

“My dear,” Hela’s heels clack on the pavement as she saunters forth from another portal. Her fingers move back through her hair as that telltale helmet appears. “I hope I’m not late. It would be a shame to miss out on some fun—it’s not like I get to have much these days.” Bruce’s skin turns a lighter shade of green and he gives Loki a pointed ‘what the hell’ sort of look.

“Loki! My prince! We’re at your command!” Volstagg exclaims, somewhat winded as he and his other friends jog through their own portal. Sif draws her sword and takes in the situation after nodding respectfully at Loki.

Loki gapes, his jaw dropped only slightly, as the newcomers settle in the ranks beside the Avengers, paying them no mind despite Clint’s confused blinking and Steve’s fierce gaze.

“...More friends of yours?” Tony asks, voice tinny through his helmet. Loki straightens his shoulders and clears his throat.

“...Yes, I suppose,” he admits, allowing his hands to glow with renewed seidr. It’s quite something, how just a few new faces can turn the tide. Already, Loki feels like victory is within arm’s reach. “Keep the Chitauri off of me! I’m going to the tower!”

That’s all it takes for the entire group to take off, Hela’s light steps taking her to the rooftops and Tony’s suit taking him to the sky. Bruce, Sif, and Steve are the fastest on the ground, the three of them already acting as tanks against the Chitauri foot soldiers. Clint, Natasha, and Hogun pick off stray individuals with ranged weapons before they can so much as take three steps towards Loki as he runs.

The Grandmaster stops by the broken window of a pastry shop, eyes lighting up at the cakes still intact. He grabs a muffin and takes his time meandering down the sidewalk, taking in the Midgardian sights. The Chitauri are an afterthought, and when they group together, he lazily clenches a fist, causing them all to combust on sight.

Loki sprints over splintered pavement and singed car parts, throwing conjured knives as he goes; he doesn’t have to look to nail his targets. His focus is on Stark tower. He can feel vibrations through the ground from where Bruce throws a vehicle. He can hear the deafening crunches of Hela’s summoned spikes rending through walls and a Chitauri Leviathan.

Loki makes it about four blocks before something in the air shifts; it’s like his counterpart is trying to manipulate the Wood just as much as he is. It’s like Other Loki can sense that he isn’t going to give up before he’s even challenged. The rows and groups of incoming Chitauri seem to double in number but Loki only narrows his eyes in response. They flood the street, and Loki watches Captain America’s shield fly into view, knocking several Chitauri through their heads and rounding back to its owner.

Something else blinks into the picture—an arrow that Loki barely catches sight of—and it explodes in the middle of a Chitauri group. Tony lets loose a handful of targeting missiles, and they take out a good brunt of the crowd, too. Nonetheless, more opponents surge forward and Loki is forced to stop mid-run and handle them.

“Your highness!” Fandral calls, joining him in the fray. He parries with several Chitauri blades and thrusts his sword into their chests whenever the chance arises. Loki, not unlike his sister, summons several bouts of weapons, all formed from dazzling light. He twirls a staff, throws a knife, and wields a heavy axe in turn as his opponents attempt to get their licks in.

“Loki!” Hawkeye’s voice rings out, and Loki whips his head around to see him leveling an arrow directly at his face from several meters away. There is perhaps a split second of trepidation on Clint’s face, but it disappears just as quickly; he shoots Loki a wink before letting his arrow fly. It zips past Loki’s face and bores into the forehead of a Chitauri sniper ducked behind a vehicle. Loki exhales and exchanges an understanding nod with Clint before the archer slips back into a strategic duck-and-shoot rhythm.

Every time it seems like the next wave of enemies threatens to keep Loki at bay, another team member pops in to alleviate the pressure. When Chitauri begin to grab at his cape and arms, Volstagg and Bruce come charging in, thinning the crowd with broad axe swings and easy tosses. Loki shakes the pins and needles from a bruised hand. Volstagg takes a breath and wipes at a bloody lip. Brow creased, he nods at Stark tower.

“Don’t you have to get to the top?” He asks. The two suddenly feel heat at their backs; a loud explosion sounds out, causing the ground to shake briefly. Loki and Volstagg cover their faces as their hair whips in the wind. Loki assumes that the Grandmaster sent a Leviathan through the pumps of a gas station, so he otherwise ignores the din. Wiping soot from his face, he narrows his eyes.

“A lift might be necessary,” Loki concedes.

“You got it!” Bruce appears again. With Loki’s permission, Bruce grabs his hand and hoists him upwards in a strong throw. Loki takes it in stride and lands deftly on the roof of a three-floor bank. Loki begins to run again, building momentum as he jumps from rooftop to rooftop, avoiding the obstacles and heavy debris down on the street.

“They only get taller from here,” Steve says, appearing beside him with seamless effort. When Loki looks to his left, he sees Sif running on his other side now, too. She gives him a wink. The three don’t stop, their boots pounding on tile; as they near the edge of the roof, Sif and Steve both grab Loki’s hands and use their combined strength to toss him up to the roof of an apartment building. Loki grunts as he lands, but wastes no time in taking off again.

The tower gets closer by the second as Loki grabs railings, slides over exposed duct work, and drowns out the sounds of gunfire and lasers.

“I see you’ve kept my gift,” Hela is the next to make an appearance, and she eyes Loki’s hair with a knowing smirk. She doesn’t waste energy by running alongside Loki. Rather, she steps from one summoned spike to the next. As Loki climbs higher, so do her magical stalagmites, splitting through the pavement below and rising to keep pace with her brother.

“Why waste such a pretty thing?” Loki asks rhetorically, his gaze not straying from the ledge of the next building. Hela hums, amused.

“Need a hand?” She asks, before an enormous, black spike juts out from the side of the tallest nearby apartment complex. Loki makes a jump for it, and when he lands, more spikes appear. They pop up in convenient places, allowing him to make easy leaps. Hela strides almost lazily, her hands folded behind her back. She makes her way to the very tip of a spike before dropping down to a new one as it grows. The pattern goes on for a moment, and before he knows it, Loki is facing Stark tower, at least halfway up the expanse of its side. Hela begins to conjure another spire, but several Chitauri on hovercrafts zip by and fire at her.

Hela snarls and leaps back into the battle, taking personal offense to being shot at. Loki angles his head back and stares in awe at the skyline. Lightning still crackles at the head of the tower, dancing around the cloudy portal. There’s a minute, magnetic pull—Loki can feel it if he lets himself get lost in his head space for a second too long. The wind is almost too strong this high above ground; Loki’s hair tangles violently around his face, and the gusts threaten to knock him from Hela’s spire. The battleground feels like the eye of a hurricane. All of the forces surrounding the portal seem to circle around it in a dance.

“Loki!” Loki turns his head to see Iron Man fly over; he stops to hover beside him. “What, all of that hocus pocus and you can’t fly? Looks like you could take a page from the Earthling book of tech!” Loki smirks at that.

“Perhaps I’ll humor you when I visit your tower under...better circumstances.” He hears Tony laugh behind his visor.

“We have new digs now! I’ll be sure to give you the tour later! C’mon!” Tony grabs Loki by a sturdy link in his armor and flies Loki up to the tower’s peak. He sets Loki down, waves, and soars upward in a ring to keep flying Chitauri units away from the roof. What Loki sees near the portal device surprises him.

“Thor!” Loki calls out, voice frantic. His brother is currently sparring with his other self, going toe to toe, it seems. Thor spins around, and his expression is clear with bewilderment.

“Loki?” Thor asks skeptically, glancing back at Other Loki, who seems to take the distraction as a chance to lick his wounds. Thor hasn’t gone easy on him, despite the tight reluctance evident around his eyes. Loki could almost cry; Thor looks so young, and still so resilient. At this point in time, he’d only lost Loki once. He had yet to lose their parents, and he had yet to lose Mjolnir.

“Help me shut off the device!” Loki shouts over the deafening cacophony. “I’m going to--”

The air is punched from Loki’s gut when Other Loki runs Thor through with a concealed blade. It’s not unlike what he did on this very same tower. He had indeed stabbed Thor, but it was just a small pinch in a non-lethal place. It was hardly the first time Thor ignored a minor flesh wound inflicted by his brother.

But this is different; it’s a long and slender blade that peaks out through the front of Thor’s breastplate. Other Loki, from behind Thor, twists the blade hard. Thor drops to his knees with a deep shout of pain. It’s the third time in the Wood’s span that Loki’s had to face the idea of losing Thor, but the raw visual doesn’t make it any easier to process.

Loki snarls, and with a strong flare of seidr and an aggressive jerk of his arm, he sends Other Loki flying—straight off the side of the tower. Loki knows—he knows in his gut that this is just another illusion—but he can’t just leave Thor to clutch weakly at his wound, confused about the how and why of it all. Loki hurries to his brother’s side and drops to his knees, taking Thor into his arms.

“Idiot, don’t you know not to turn your back on me?” Loki jests, gently pushing sweat-sticky hair away from Thor’s forehead. Thor grins despite the obvious pain. His color is already draining. It feels unfair, and it feels like cheating; Loki doesn’t think that a wound like this would really end his brother, especially given Loki’s skills as a healer. But he lets it happen. He lets the final death of Thor roll off his shoulders, and he allows himself to breathe. Thor has had to watch him die a number of times, so he supposes this is only fair.

“I’ll admit, I was stunned momentarily,” Thor says quietly, “For I knew it was you, but you looked so different.”

“Different?” Loki asks, humoring him. He holds Thor’s hand even though his fingers become tacky with blood.

“You look happy, brother. Your hair shines. Your color is good. I don’t think you’re my Loki, but I like seeing you like this.” Thor confesses, like perhaps is new Loki is a way for him to share a secret.

“I’ll be happier when I get back to you. I’m not going to let this happen again,” Loki vows. He won’t let Thor die again, nor will he let the world suffer just because he’s in pain. Even though Loki is certain that Thor has no idea what he’s talking about, his brother smiles up at him anyway.

“I believe you,” Thor tells him, before his eyes stop tracking Loki’s and his fingers become a touch heavier. Loki swallows hard and drags his gaze away from Thor. He looks up at the portal again and realizes that he’s blinking away tears. Despite all of his lies and all of the unknowns, Thor told him that he believed him. It’s enough to push Loki to his feet. Before he knows it, he’s sprinting towards the edge of the rooftop—he doesn’t even hesitate, he just launches over the side of the tower. New York opens its maw beneath him, and time seems to slow as he falls through the air.

The Avengers look up at the evident shift of energy. They see Loki as he seemingly contorts and masters the air around him, making it so that he can mediate his landing and direction. He barely realizes that large formations of ice begin to form, clinging to the nearest sidewalks and walls. Hail begins to crash through windows, and a blizzard seems to form within seconds.

Since his rough landing, Other Loki has staggered back to his feet, only to have Loki crash down into the same rooftop that he stands on. The concrete splinters beneath his boots. Energy radiates from Loki. Angry and sad and motivated. His skin is caught somewhere between his usual pale and a moderate blue. As his fingers clench, more spires of ice form around him, violently breaking through the building beneath their feet. Flecks of ice gather on Other Loki’s eyelashes.

“Even if you have some new tricks up your sleeve, you--” Other Loki is cut off, his eyes widening comically when Loki charges forward with a shout of anger. Loki reaches back into his hair and feels the seidr tucked into Hela’s braid. He pulls hard on the magic; a large staff made of opalescent ice appears from thin air. Loki spins the staff, and with a mighty strike, he plunges the speared end through Other Loki’s stomach. Loki’s arms tighten with so much adrenaline and frustration that the staff angles and lifts Other Loki a couple inches off the floor.

There is no witty exchange or smirk of satisfaction. Loki merely yanks the staff back out of Other Loki’s innards and allows blood to splatter and spill all over their boots. Other Loki crumples weakly to the ground. Loki channels all of his focus into Hela’s gifted magic and he uses it to amplify his own.

Loki strikes the ground with his new staff, and the world lights up like the inside of a snow globe. Ice begins to choke Stark tower, climbing upwards from the base. The ice is so large and thick that it snaps and crackles with each shift in the formation. Loki’s new companions watch in awe as the ice engulfs the entirety of the building within moments. It must also split through the portal device at the top—immediately, the portal begins to shrink and fade at the edges.

It’s then that the world seems to fold in on itself, unable to maintain the simulation any longer. The Wood seems both happy and unhappy with Loki’s final choices; like it’s glad that the curtains can finally close, but perhaps disappointed that it failed to make Loki trip and stumble as much as it could have. Just as soon as Loki feels the crest of his new power threaten to overwhelm his senses, the scenario whites out completely. The flash of light blinds Loki momentarily, and all at once he feels numb and pained. Like the physical and emotional damages of the Wood are only just now making themselves known as bruises, cuts, and a minor ache in his bones.

When Loki’s able to open his eyes again and focus on his surroundings, he finds himself in a less overwhelming, white expanse of space. There doesn’t appear to be any seam where ground should meet sky—it’s all just white. The Avengers and the others stand around him in a circle. Loki slowly turns to take in all of them.

“Are you ready to go?” Sif asks. Loki swallows; he can only nod in return. She smiles back at him, and slowly he realizes that...all of them are.

“Nice work, Frosty. You should put that stuff into action again sometime,” Tony commends.

“You’re coming back to Thor, right?” Bruce asks. “We’ll be seeing you soon?”

“There’s a spot on the team for you, if you want it,” Steve nods approvingly.

Loki feels contented until he doesn’t. He quickly notices that all of his companions are beginning to fade, slowly disappearing from the feet-up. His eyes widen slightly, distress beginning to show on his face.

“Wait! Are you leaving?” He asks at large. The Grandmaster folds his arms and grins.

“Our time’s up, Stardust. But we did it! Don’t look so down.”

His throat threatens to tighten up, but Loki steels himself. He forces him to choke up words that he doesn’t really want to say, and has never really said before.

“Thank you,” He manages quickly, before they disappear completely. The last thing he sees is Bruce’s little wave goodbye; but now he is surrounded by nothing but white. It scares him somewhat, for it’s nothing like Valhalla, and nothing like Manhattan. He’s alone.

“Do you still feel alone?”

Loki’s reaction is instinctive. He throws himself into his mother’s arms before he can even look at her in full. He doesn't even question her sudden appearance or the Wood's intentions. It’s her, it really is—warm, soft, and gentle as her hand gently cards through his hair. He’s taller than she is, and he ducks his head down to her shoulder and breathes in the smell of lavender.

“My dear, you never were,” She whispers to him. “And though you may not see me again for a very long time...you should know I can see your light shine beyond all the stars. And you should know that I love you and your brother will all that I am.”

Loki sighs, peaceful, and he can tell that the world is whiting out again from behind his shut eyelids. He feels no fear, even as Frigga fades from his grip. For the first time since he started his journey, he is allowed a moment of rest.

Chapter Text

Rocket’s ears twitch when the comm screen lights up above his pilot seat. All too eager for news, he smacks a switch to answer the incoming call. Natasha’s face appears on the screen, but her expression doesn’t make Rocket feel but so apprehensive. She looks collected and even somewhat confident when her mouth quirks up in a mild grin.

“Rocket, I think I have some good news.” Rocket stands up in his chair, leaning forward on the comm.

“Have you been able to fix whatever’s wrong with him?” Rocket asks. Curiosity pulls Mantis and Drax closer to the conversation.

“I hope so; long story short, we went to Valhalla and talked to his mom.”

“Of course you did,” Rocket deadpans.

“If we’re right, Loki should be alive again, and he should be able to help Thor,” Natasha tells him. Rocket narrows his eyes skeptically.

“His brother, right? Okay, so, everything’s square?” Rocket isn’t even going to ask for the details; she’s probably going to forward him a report later. Natasha makes a face.

“Not quite. The problem is that Loki isn’t here. We’ve waited for a bit, expecting him to show up, but he just...hasn’t. Do you remember where you found Thor? You know, before Thanos? If Loki’s body is back in working order...” Rocket rubs at the back of his neck and groans. He knows what she’s getting at, and the image of a bunch of floating Asgardians is still really unpleasant. He doesn’t want to know how Thor feels about the frozen bodies—ones that never got proper funerals. Bodies that were tossed aside in one of Thanos’ careless escapades.

“I know what system we were in; with a couple of coordinate adjustments and some scanning, I’m sure I could find...something. Know what he looks like?”

“I can send you some pictures,” Natasha nods. Peter makes himself known very quickly when he grabs the back of Rocket’s seat.

“Hey, hell no! We aren’t taking a field trip to the ass-end of space for the viking pirate!” Quill protests, “That round time will put us off our course by at least two days. We have our own problems to take care of, remember?” Natasha watches Nebula elbow her way into view, shoving Quill to the side by his face.

“We wouldn’t have been able to defeat Thanos without the viking pirate,” Nebula sneers at him. He grumbles to himself and rubs his cheek. Nebula makes eye contact with Natasha. “We’ll change our course.” As much as Nebula wants to find her sister again, she can’t argue with the favors she’s incurred during the post-snap years. It won’t kill them to double back and help their companions on Earth. It would also be kind of nice to see another one of Thanos' rejects get a second chance.

–

Loki’s first, deep inhale is nothing if not painful. His lungs expand and flood with warmth where before there was nothing but frigid stiffness. Loki’s throat feels dry and icy-hot, and his eyes water as soon as he manages to open them. There’s a rasping gasp as he struggles to move his fingers and mouth. By all means, he could be dying all over again, but there’s a gentle and steady hum of magic that’s keeping his body going in space. He doesn’t have long to think about the implications of where he is and how long he’s been here; just as soon as he gains awareness, he feels the slight twinge of an artificial warp paired with a bright light.

Loki then finds himself wheezing, albeit less frantically, as he hits the floor of a ship’s interior. There are several strangers looking at him like he has two heads, so he can’t imagine that he’s currently a pretty sight. His eyes still sting, bloodshot and watery. Despite the seidr working through his blood and bones, it takes a moment to get his stiff limbs moving properly again.

“He doesn’t look like the viking pirate’s brother,” A man gripes. No doubt Midgardian.

“But he is also quite beautiful; like an elf princess.”

“Yeah, well, the elf princess looks just like the picture that Widow sent us.” Romanov?

“Quiet. Morons. This is Thor’s brother.” Ah, now that’s a voice that Loki recognizes, no matter how vaguely. Blearily, Loki blinks up at one of Thanos’ daughters—Nebula. The angrier of the two, he believes.

“Nebula,” Loki whispers hoarsely, throat not yet used to the stretch of muscle. “Long time, no see.” Loki staggers to his feet. “How do you fare?” Nebula eyes him up and down and he can’t decipher what her gaze means.

“Good. Better now that my father is dead. I’m sure the same goes for you.” Loki huffs a weak laugh and reaches out to lean his weight on the nearest table. “You’re lucky we knew where to find you,” Nebula diverges, crossing her arms, “But otherwise, maybe you would have had a nifty trick to keep you from floating in dead space.”

“Maybe,” Loki agrees, grin wicked yet also tired. “Did Romanov send for me?”

That’s the cue for a raccoon to leap up onto the table and start talking. Sure, why not?

“Yeah, she did. Thor’s a good buddy of ours,” The Midgardian rolls his eyes but the raccoon continues, “So I figured we could give you a ride back to Earth.” The little creature shrugs. “It’ll be a few hours before we reach a jump point that’ll take us to their solar system. In the meantime you should eat a granola bar or something. You kinda look like shit, no offense.” Loki sighs.

Nebula and a young girl named Mantis have given Loki a spare room to use during their trip. It feels untouched—like someone was previously using it but they aren’t here anymore. He briefly hopes that it wasn’t someone they lost to Thanos, no matter how unfamiliar he is with them.

Loki spends a while tending to his body; washing his hair, reconnecting with his dormant seidr, and eating some kindly proffered snacks. He doesn’t have much of an appetite, but he knows it’s important to get something in his stomach.

He briefly humored the idea of scrolling through galactic news articles in order to update himself, but it didn’t seem like it would be of much use. Anything he could choose to read would never even scratch the surface, and he can’t focus on complex texts while Thor is still at the forefront of his mind. He’ll have to learn about the new state of the mortal plane after he sorts out his own business.

Currently, Loki sits in front of a mirror, tilting his head back and forth at his reflection. Something seems different about him, but he can’t quite tell what it is. Maybe it’s just some type of subconscious displacement; he’s been so used to his physical form in Valhalla, maybe there’s some underlying difference in his mortal form. A vessel that he hasn’t technically used in years. Or maybe the change is just due to the journey he’s had in the past—what? Week? Perhaps his walk in the Wood took more time than that.

Regardless of the ‘how,’ there’s a new solidity in his shoulders. There’s a glint in his eye that wasn’t there before, or perhaps it’s just been absent since his fall from the bridge. Briefly, without really thinking about it, Loki shifts into his Jotunn form. The blue rolls over his skin with ease; almost like it never should have bothered him at all. There’s a hint of fascination as he angles his head to look at his horns and markings. He wonders if Thor would be visibly bothered by this form—if the centuries of misinformation would incite a negative reaction whether his brother wants to have one or not. Loki can’t say for certain, despite all that’s happened, but he does know that Thor has never once refuted their connection. Despite Thor’s blundering attempts at conveying his feelings, he’s never slipped up and implied that his life would be better without Loki in it. Loki will grant him that much—he’s stubborn and stupid and Loki should probably give him more credit.

“That’s kinda cool. I knew another blue guy, once,” A voice from the open doorway startles Loki back into his Asgardian skin. He whips around in his seat to see Rocket slowly meandering into the room.

“...I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone refer to that form as such,” Loki says hesitantly with a crease in his brow. Rocket shuffles over and hops onto the vanity bench to sit beside Loki.

“People don’t have very good taste anymore, that’s for sure,” Rocket says, clearly not putting much faith in the galaxy’s populous. He’s a fascinating creature. Loki turns his head and stares down at him with interest. For some reason, he doesn’t feel weird about Rocket seeing his Jotunn skin. He also doesn’t feel weird about being so physically close to a stranger. It seems that the Wood has made him more open to random conversations. “They never know what to make of you until you bend over backwards.” Rocket continues to speak. Loki’s confused expression only deepens.

“Pardon?”

“People have crappy taste until you prove somethin’ to ‘em,” Rocket shrugs and looks up at Loki, “I read some of your files before we picked you up. You’ve got quite the colorful history there, pal. Lucky for you, that kind of thing doesn’t really matter on this ship.”

“...I see,” Loki doesn’t know what to say to that. He turns his head again and stares down at his hands; he folds them in his lap.

“That blue guy? He did some bad shit but didn’t really know he was doin’ it. He thought he was doin’ the right thing, but everyone else just thought he was lost. And I guess the more bad you do, the more dramatic your apology’s gotta be. It’ll end in you floatin’ out in space, all frosty. And the fireworks only come when you ain’t around to see ‘em.” Loki can’t turn his head to look directly at Rocket again, so he makes eye contact with him through the reflection of the mirror.

“...I’m sorry about your friend,” Loki says softly, picking up on the hints. Rocket merely shrugs again.

“I don’t really know you or anything. I just think that maybe you two had some stuff in common,” Rocket looks down suddenly, unable to keep Loki’s gaze. “Thor used to talk about you sometimes. Guess it kind of reminded me of me, too.”

“...Thor would speak of me?” Loki asks, unable to keep his voice from shaking with trepidation. Rocket nods.

“One time he told me that you’d push his buttons just to see how much you could. To try and make people sick of you, so at least you’d have some control over the whole thing once they finally decide to leave? Yeah.” Rocket looks at himself in the mirror. “That sounds about right.” Loki swallows hard and one of his hands tightens around the other.

“There was a part of me that thought I was always destined to be alone, so it felt better to sever communications on my own terms.” Loki admits, and it feels good to do so outside of the Wood’s confines. It’s so therapeutic and surreal that he could almost trick himself into thinking that he’s still inside that ethereal plane. Rocket suddenly chuckles.

“Before I lost everybody, I stole some batteries that I didn’t need, just so I could stir the pot—just to get on everybody’s nerves. A couple years ago I got to thinkin’ about how even if my groovy gang didn’t forgive me for it, I would’ve lost ‘em anyway. Thanos didn’t care about batteries or my friends. He just took everything from everybody. I guess I’m glad Mr. Blue told me that we were alike before that big, purple asshole came along. He gave me a wake-up call. Guess I needed to hear from someone like me that we aren’t totally unlikable. Even if we are dickheads.”

There’s a moment of silence in which Rocket toys with a watch-like device and Loki considers the information the raccoon has just dumped on him. Loki is the first to speak again.

“...It sounds like your friend was smart,” Loki tells him.

“Yeah, I guess. Still kind of a dickhead, though,” Rocket chuckles. There’s a beat before the two of them are laughing together. Sometimes people just kind of click. Sometimes people steal batteries that they don’t need.

–

Once the ship begins to land on Earth, Loki is a live wire of energy. He stares at the exit ramp door as if he can will a hole in it with his mind. He bites at the skin of his thumb. Mantis groans woefully, rubbing at her temples. When Drax asks her if she’s ill, Loki blanches at her response.

“Even from here, I can feel that he’s scared. It is very unpleasant,” She stresses, closing her eyes. Loki glares.

“You must be mistaken; what could I possibly be scared of?” Thor dying, Thor not truly forgiving him, being unable to adjust to life without Thanos and Asgard, being unable to truly integrate with the Avengers, finding out that this is all just a cruel dream and he’ll be waking up in Valhalla any minute now--

Loki rushes down the ramp before it can even finish opening properly. Rocket and Nebula hurry behind him, not running but keeping good form as they get brief greetings from Natasha and Steve. The Avengers were waiting for them in an open field, not far from the edge of New Asgard. Loki doesn’t stop to truly converse with any of them. He strides forward on pure instinct, barely able to keep himself from breaking into a genuine run. Even now, he’s drawn to Thor like a magnet.

“Take me—take me to him,” Loki urges to Bruce, but it doesn’t come out as a command or a threat. It’s oddly comforting when Bruce sets a hand on his bicep and matches his brisk pace; it’s very different from when Bruce regarded him with hesitation back on Sakaar. If Loki were able to focus properly, he’d spend more time thinking about how his past enemies are currently following him, and how he doesn’t feel threatened at all. He feels emboldened, if anything. He can feel Barton’s eyes on the back of his head, but there’s no concrete malice. Manhattan was real—not once, but twice—and they share that knowledge.

Loki spares the town and its people no second glances as Bruce steers him towards a building that resembles one of Asgard’s old healing houses. There will be time to address his people later, just as there will be time for everything else later. So long as Thor is alive.

“Loki!” Brunnhilde exclaims with clear surprise when she sees the lot of them enter the building. Loki’s eyes flicker and meet hers for a split second, but he doesn’t offer an explanation. He keeps going. He heads through another door and into smaller room. And there on a single cot is Thor. Loki lets out a sharp gasp at how different his brother looks, but he doesn’t necessarily care about the context. He rushes over to the cot and kneels on the covers beside Thor. Loki’s hands glow faintly with seidr, and he presses his fingers to Thor’s head, softly carding them through his unkempt hair. It seems like only days ago that Thor’s hair was buzzed short and jagged—now it’s long and dry and discolored.

“Thor,” Loki urges, attempting to use gentle waves of his magic to coax Thor back into consciousness. “Thor, I’ve returned. I’ve made it.” Loki whispers, eyes flickering all over Thor’s face, eager to take in all of the new lines near his eyes and the lack of color in his skin. He can feel all of Thor’s friends watching him, but he pays them no mind.

“I’ve walked for so long, but I never considered stopping, do you understand?” Loki’s voice trembles, his heart burdened with the weight of sensation—of being able to touch his brother again and know that it’s real, and that he earned the right to press his thumbs to Thor’s jaw. “I’m here now. I made a promise. I told you that the sun would shine on us again, and here we are.” Loki’s voice cracks further; with confusion, he watches one or two teardrops land on Thor’s face. “I’ve done it,” Loki confesses, barely audible. His lower lip trembles and his fingers tighten, now gripping Thor’s shoulders.

Even still, Thor doesn’t budge. The tangible wave of anxiety coming from the Avengers piles onto Loki’s own fears. Loki grits his teeth and shakes Thor by the shoulders, albeit gently.

“You oaf, what more would you ask of me?” Loki cries, tears now falling steadily on Thor’s shirt. “You’d have me sit here and beg? As if I’ve not stripped myself completely bare already? I’ll beg, if that’s what you would ask, just ask. Just wake up and ask me so that I may sit here beg for another year or more, I’m not above it! I’ve no shame! I’ve one half of a thread, and I’ve nothing to do with it if you go to Valhalla without me, that’s not fair. Thor.” Loki pleads, his weight giving out. He curls forward, tucking his legs in further and burying his face in blankets over Thor’s chest. “Thor, that isn’t fair,” He shivers, shoulders jerking quietly.

Though Loki can feel the shallow rise and fall of Thor’s chest, he neither hears nor feels anything of note. The manner of it disturbs him, and Loki resigns himself to closing his eyes and crying. He does so for a moment, uncaring of witnesses, until he hears a very quiet gasp from Natasha—followed by the sensation of a wide and heavy hand brushing through his hair. Loki bolts upward to see two, different-colored eyes staring at him tiredly. As a dawning realization plays over Thor’s face, Loki can tell that it’s all real. Thor sees him, and feels him, and they’re both breathing again. They no longer have to exist on opposite sides of a pane of glass. Loki feels as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders, and finally, he smiles.

“I’m back.”

Several Months Later

The air is cool and smells faintly of salt. The grass and wildflowers dance lazily in the breeze, as does Loki’s hair. The sun has only just started making its daily journey, and Loki spends his early morning sitting beneath a tree—on a hill not far from Thor’s house. From here, he can watch New Asgard begin its usual routines. He can’t see the faces of his people, but he can watch them leave their houses and begin their tasks; fishing, crafting, and setting up stands of bread and fruit. The children won’t be coming out to play and do chores for another hour or so. The chickens continue to inform everyone of the sun’s arrival.

There’s a serenity here that wasn’t previously inherent on Asgard. Though the quietness and less overwhelming bustle are correlated with the population change, Loki can’t say that he hates it. There’s a resilience and hardiness that he’s come to associate with Norway and the nearest civilizations that are willing to share resources and healing opportunities with his people.

A few seagulls fly over head, making somewhat of a fuss, but Loki finds them weirdly endearing. As he watches them, he idly plays with locks of his hair—it’s gotten longer now, perhaps down to his shoulders, and he keeps a braid tied in the back. He doesn’t bother to mention that it reminds him of Hela, though it’s not like he’s kept the retelling of his exploits from Thor.

“Good morning,” Thor greets, taking Loki from his reverie. His brother climbs the hill, barefoot and carrying a steaming mug of what Loki figures is tea, prepared just to his liking. Loki grins and takes the drink from his brother, thanking him. Thor looks better than he did when Loki first arrived on Earth; his skin has a healthy glow to it, his hair and beard are properly braided and nourished, and he’s started wearing proper robes again in favor of sweatshirts and pajama bottoms. His weight is still present, but Loki likes it. Thor hasn’t taken to the bottle since Loki returned—at least that’s what Bruce has told him—and muscle rebuilds beneath fat, making him look larger. Loki is quite covetous of the reformed appearance.

“Good morning,” Loki says in return before taking a sip of his tea. It tastes all the better for Thor’s thoughtfulness. Thor sits down in the grass beside his brother, and they both share mutual silence, taking in the sights of a relatively uneventful Tuesday morning. The shared company is something that Loki craves now, though he hates to admit it. Arguably, he can thrive on his own and only requires social interactions in small doses, but the years without Thor in Valhalla have made his brother’s warm presence a sort of addiction. It feels good to listen to him breathe and laugh. It feels even better to have his arm brush against Thor’s, or to find dinner already prepared and waiting for him when he comes home from brewing new potions and tonics.

Loki’s self-destructive tendencies aren’t gone by any means, but they’re no longer at the forefront of his mind, begging him to inconvenience Thor or the people of Midgard. There’s no real need for it anymore, not when he has ample work to do to better the lives of those in New Asgard. Having been denied a life with Thor serves as a good reminder that he never truly hated a life with Thor. Loki dares to say that he feels...content.

“...I never could have predicted any of this,” Loki decides to say, breaking the lull. “If I were to go back two hundred years and tell myself about what lies ahead...it would be unthinkable.” Loki is grounded by the hot ceramic warming up his fingers. Thor turns and looks at him.

“...Does it displease you at all? Being here now, I mean,” Thor asks mildly, with no accusation. Loki purses his lips and ponders for a second before shaking his head.

“I expended so much energy to get here. It would be wrong of me to take any of this for granted. Not that I would want to, of course,” Loki pauses before softly confessing, “...I’m glad that I’m finally able to share this with you.” Thor becomes teary-eyed and Loki pretends not to notice.

“I don’t like to admit it, but there was a time when I started to think that would never care for me again. It terrified me, Loki. I thought that you'd been hurt too badly to give this another chance. I thought that you’d abandoned yourself, and would thus abandon this. To think that you left Valhalla...for me?” Thor looks Loki in the eye and smiles. The sap. “You’re so very full of surprises.” Loki feels heat rise to his cheeks. Resolutely, he stares down at his tea and clears his throat.

“Yes, well...you took the heat of a star for me...you traveled through time for Asgard...You’re no fan of small gestures, yourself.” At that, Thor chuckles and sets his hand on Loki’s shoulder, rubbing it idly with his thumb. Another few moments of peaceful silence pass by until Loki feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out and answers a call from Romanov, who grins when her face appears on screen—it’s like she knows she’s interrupting a moment of peace and quiet.

“Morning, fellas. You busy? Spiderman needs an assist in Venice.” Loki sighs.

“Of course he does.”

“Excellent!” Thor exclaims, already rising to his feet and pulling Loki by the arm. “We can go there now!” Loki glares with no real heat, hanging up on Natasha and vanishing his tea back to where it came from.

“You don’t even know where Venice is!” Loki reprimands, letting Thor drag him by the hand. They run down the hill with no boots on, a boisterous laugh coming from Thor as his brother has no choice but to venture forth. It becomes quickly apparent that his laughter is contagious, because Loki can no longer deny the smile that wants to widen across his face. They race towards the open fields, and the scenic view briefly resembles an old snapshot. A memory of two young children sprinting and shouting at each other breathlessly, encouraging each other to keep up the pace as they try to make it back to the palace—just in time for dinner.

The sun has risen, and despite the sudden lightning, there are no clouds in sight.