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And the only solution was to stand and fight,
And my body was bruised and I was set alight,
But you came over me like some holy rite,
And although I was burning,
You're the only light
They do not meet again for seven centuries; Thor’s human companions have long since dusted in their graves and Midgard has once again changed, as Midgard always changes; the short lifespan of its children forcing them to grow and move in ways that none of the other realms can fathom.
The rest of Yggdrasil seems stagnant, in comparison, and Thor sometimes wonders if he had been born Midgardian: would he have grown faster? Would he have understood the infinite workings of the worlds his father rules in a shorter time-span? Perhaps it was better to be Midgardian after all.
If he was, perhaps he could have seen his brother for who he was before it had become too late.
Thor roams the silent woods of Asgard, Mjölnir in hand and an enamelled dagger at his belt. His friends have long since left him to his devices; they know it is not a hunt he seeks, but something else. Something colder and more fragile.
Forgiveness is a funny thing amongst gods.
Thor stays away from Asgard’s walls for a year and a day. This process has happened before, but Thor does not change. Asgardians do not change. He searches for Loki, in every realm he knows.
It is a cold, cool night when Thor finally spots his brother’s form, stark white in the moonlight. Loki sits naked in the middle of a freezing stream, his head bent and seemingly watching the swift, clear water carve paths around his legs and feet, falling down a small waterfall into a deep blue pool below. The air around him is fragrant with the cool scent of wet rock and midnight grass. This place is a Secret Place, Thor realises. A place of Seiðr. A place of refuge for his brother. He avoids stepping into the gently shimmering ring of light that marks the holy place, for weapons and armour are forbidden inside them.
Thor knows that Loki is aware of his presence: only one person had ever succeeded in sneaking up on him, and she was long gone to the ground of her birth.
What would the Black Widow do, if she were here now? Thor wonders. Or the Man clothed in Iron, or the Soldier, the Archer, the Doctor?
The answer is simple: they would attack. They would attack because they do not possess millennia of tangled history in Yggdrasil’s ever reaching branches, watching Sól and Máni perform their never-ending dance of the ages, clothed in the sparks of Múspellsheimr.
Thor grips Mjölnir tighter in his grasp, and waits for Loki to speak first. He owes him that much.
It is an hour before any words come.
“Tell me, Odinson. What gods do gods pray to?”
“None,” replies Thor, as easily as breath, “I pray to you, and you to I, and that is all we have need of.”
Loki turns slowly. Thor is standing in the stream now, ignoring the way the icy water seeps into his boots and his bones. He smiles, all teeth and feral, like a wildcat.
“Seven hundred Midgardian years. You look the same.”
“As do you.”
“Nay, my back carries more scars these days. The branches of Yggdrasil contain many sharp twigs and thorns.”
“I would kiss them for you, if you would like.”
“Have you forgotten what happened the last time we spoke, brother mine?” Thor flinches, but Loki’s voice is detached and dreamy, not bitter as he would have thought. His hand drifts in the water, like a dance, and Thor is entranced, even as he knows he is in the jaws of the monster.
“A storm brews, brother.” Loki tips his head back. “Is it yours?”
“All storms are mine. You know this.”
“What has angered you?”
“It has been too long since we last met.”
Loki stands, and Thor tries very hard not to gaze at the backs of his white legs, his feet and arms spread apart in an uncharacteristic display of submission. Loki is fire and ice and air and all of these things that cannot be grasped in the palm of a hand, and Thor has tried for far too long to catch him in a net, to tie him down to the rocks and watch over him for all eternity, as older brothers ought to do.
When Loki speaks again, the words cut as ice.
“Take me home, brother; catch me under the weight of your hammer, and I will set upon you the fires of Múspellsheimr and the ice of Niflheimr. I will fling you into the darkest, deepest reaches of my Daughter’s grip, where neither Heimdall nor Odin All-Father can Hear or See you. I will crack your limbs and tear away your soul and consume it with smoke and blood. I will destroy the realms and people you hold most dear and I will laugh as the winds laugh, I will sing as the old bones of Jötunheimr sang as Odin Hoárr lost his eye to my father the accursed Laufey, and even as I do this, you will smile, because you are Thor Odinson, a fool and the unyielding thorn in my side.”
Loki reaches to his stomach and caresses it, as if he were pregnant.
“You always loved me more than you should have.”
“I will not stop.” And Thor curls his hand tight around Mjölnir, he brings forth all of his brewing rage and erupts in thunder. The brewing storm rages into a uproar as he flies at his brother, reaching for his neck, choked in bloodlust and suddenly wanting nothing more than to see Loki’s body broken and twisted beneath his feet, as it is the only way he can stay by Thor’s side for the rest of eternity. As he flies into the light the claws of Seiðr, angered at his presence, grasp his cloak but he rips away from them with the violence of the thunder that he calls his home. He flies through the Place and straight out to the other side, sending trees and dirt scattering.
Loki dodges Thor’s flight, and a second later he is dressed once more in his battle armour and green robes, golden helmet and curved horns and tall spear forsaking the sanctity of where he stands.
Even though Thor is not of magic, he hears the shrill scream of the earth at Loki’s transgression and watches as their dark fingers catch his arms and legs. He watches as Loki sends fire down at them, and hefts his spear onto his shoulders, preparing to send a bolt of magic in Thor’s direction. Lightning crackles and Thor matches Loki’s magic with electricity, the combination sending a sharp, prickling feeling down Thor’s forearm.
All night they fight: silver and gold and thunder and magic, and all the while Thor forgets the man in front of him is called brother, he forgets that once they played in the dirt with wooden toy swords and laughed at each other’s jokes, he forgets that once, in the shattered remains of a Midgardian bus shelter they coupled like animals.
A blast of Thor’s lightning sets a nearby tree crackling into flames, and he stops for a fraction of a second to watch the harm that he has caused the beautiful forest. That second is enough for Loki to send a throwing knife straight into his ribs, and the mighty Thor groans under the sudden sharp pain. He pulls out the knife and tosses it away, only to notice that now Loki has taken notice of the tree immersed in flames.
Loki reaches out, and Thor watches as the sparks set upon his brother’s fingers like fireflies. They dance up his arm, and suddenly his armour is engulfed in flames, burning him from the inside and out; burning, but not consuming.
Thor stands and stares at the burning figure in front of him. The sight is beautiful and terrible and enchanting. He wants to grasp his brother and throw him into the stream. He wants to watch the flames consume Loki into ash.
Thor does not know what he wants in this universe anymore.
He hears a hoarse shriek, and knows that Loki is casting more powerful magic, magic that could tear his body apart if he is not careful. He throws Mjölnir and is sickeningly satisfied when he hears a crack against Loki’s burning breastplate. Loki goes flying backward, the magic flames extinguished as he hits the ground.
Thor is upon him in that moment, tearing off his brother’s helmet and stealing a kiss from his lips, still searing with heat. It burns, but Thor ignores the pain and claims Loki’s mouth. He is aware of Loki kissing back, frantically, as if they had but seconds to live. The irony of gods acting like mortals hits Loki and he pulls away and laughs.
“Are we fated to spend eternity like this, Thor?”
“I do not know. Loki—”
“I cannot return to you, Odinson. You are beginning to realise this as well, are you not? Perhaps that is why you look at me with as much hatred as love nowadays.”
“I could never hate you, Loki. You are my brother.”
“Oh Thor,” Loki sighs, as if talking to a child; “someday you will realise that Love and Hate are as entwined in the branches of Yggdrasil as we are.”
And with that, he vanishes.
.
Another age later, Thor sits in his chambers in Asgard and as Loki’s image, burning with the flames of Thor’s design appears in his mind, his hand curls around Mjölnir and a growl escapes his lips.
Loki was right.
They are as much slaves as they are gods.
It is their destiny to love one another and dash each other’s head to the rocks.
When he had claimed Loki, and Loki had claimed him in return, Thor had returned to Asgard hollow and empty and burdened with a terrible sense of guilt. At what he had done. Of what he had allowed to happen.
But if the silver and gold threads of two gods had been knotted together by the crafty hands of the Norns, what could he do but obey?
Perhaps then, it was not a sin to claim his brother’s fury.
Perhaps that is what Loki had been attempting to drive into Thor’s skull.
The difference between love and hate is hard to distinguish.
Thor sets off to find his brother. Later, he will think his actions unworthy of a god and a hero. He will act as if there is only one night left to him under the stars. But they are gods, and they have eternity to play their games and fight their battles and love, in the only way gods know how to love. With cruelty.
They find each other in the tempest.