When he first returned, bruised and bleeding but standing tall, the light of Mjolnir in his eyes, they had thought him triumphant. Thor supposed, in a way, he ought to be—after all, he had fought them out of the sorceress's thrall, he and Loki both. But something had changed, something that bled through the air like a knife, and Thor wondered that no one saw, that no one wondered. It was Loki who led the way. (And part of him wondered that it was strange, when his brother was a warrior as well; wondered only now to think why he had never before walked ahead. Perhaps it was simply that he had never needed to. That Thor had never needed him to.)
When they had finally passed into the private chambers, Odin and Frigga pressed around, close. Too close—Thor knew Loki was thankful for the subtle way Thor shielded him with his body, the light finger-brushes he touched to the bare skin of his hand. It was not that he didn't want to be with them. He did, Thor knew this. It was just too much. How long had they been her captives? Not long—not so very long, in the scheme of things. Four months that was a world. He had forgotten about this, about caring that wasn't rooted in desperation, in mutual need. But it was Loki who explained, in soft tones, and when Frigga reached out toward him he watched her, so he would not flinch at her touch—let her wrap her arms around him and felt something uncoiling deep within him. He let out a sound that was almost a sigh, but even now his fingers searched for Thor's steady hand.
It had not always been so. In the golden walls of his home, with his family about him, Thor allowed himself to think it might not be so again.
It was strange, being home. Similar, and yet different. Loki felt it too, perhaps more keenly; Thor could read it—in the small shifts of his face and of his body, the way he stood stiff when people came too near, the way his smiles came over him like a study, dropping away when all backs were turned. But Loki had always been more aloof, more quiet; and he was a master of lies not only with his words but with his whole self. The tilt of his eyes could conceal as much as confess. So they did not think, so much, that he had changed. Thor knew the truth; Thor knew how much Loki, too, felt uncertain and strange. But he could not tell, and would not, even had they asked.
The first meeting with his friends had gone… well, he supposed. Hogun had accepted him with a nod, as taciturn as ever, and did not treat him any different. In a way, Thor was grateful—it was a relief, sometimes, to be in the presence of one who was not constantly set on reminding you what had happened, or worse, thought it changed him in some way. As though they no longer knew him.
Fandral talked, at first, as if to fill the silence; but it was awkward and strange, both of them felt it. He did not precisely avoid Thor after that, but neither of them sought each other out any longer. It was strange, almost, how easily a friendship almost a thousand years long could dissolve; leaving no more than a vague sense of regret and a strange taste in the air.
Volstagg treated him as he would one of his own children; with kindness and understanding but the knowledge of when to back off. He had always taken Thor's lead, before; but now Thor found it was different—not that they were no longer friends, because they were—but that he was, almost, family. The thought that Volstagg had adopted him made Thor smile. And he still told the most wondrous stories; even with a silent audience he could read the signs well enough—in that he was almost like Loki. And that was strange, too, that Thor had never before realized how similar the two were, in some ways.
Sif tried to help him, at first. She was unsure of how to react, but took his lead—when her advances became unwelcome she stepped away, slowly. "I'm sorry, Thor," she said. "I didn't mean—"
Thor waved an arm, no no, stay, it was my fault and gave her a little smile. So she simply sat with him, looking at the stars. Later they began to fight again, and that was as it had always been—in battle, they were like two halves of a whole, two parts of one blade, working together and sure of itself as they were never at any other time.
It was not like Thor could avoid the talk. Sorcerers, sorceresses, they all came streaming into the palace, searching for a way to break the curse. One by one, they were unsuccessful. Thor knew they would be; after all, if Loki—who was the greatest mage he had ever known—could not undo it, why would they?
The worst were those who talked. In his presence; as though he were not really there. "I know," Loki murmured, a whisper of amusement. "Pay them no heed. They will always talk."
Thor reached over, letting his hand fall to Loki's shoulder; you?
"Yes. Not everyone is as accepting of seiðr as you, dear brother."
An unfurling of fingers. how long?
A year ago, Loki would have lied. A year ago, Thor would not have asked.
"Always." Loki shrugged. "Ever since I can remember."
Thor's fists tightened, he looked their way with a dark scowl. He would kill them.
"No, Thor," Loki said softly, and Thor made himself smile. It's all right. He wouldn't really. He knew it was different here. He remembered.
[he also remembered long, dark caves; and the way Loki would keen in his sleep, fingers searching for magic denied to him; the way his face looked, pale and drawn, how every day he grew thinner and paler. "It's killing me," he had said dispassionately, when Thor had become insistent—held Loki tight and refused to let him go, tracing a finger over the dark circles under his eyes, across his palms. "Magic is connected to life force. Take one away, and you take the other as well."]
The strangest thing was the way people spoke, or did not speak—either over-attentive and unsure, or dismissive, as though he could not understand them. He could understand them—it was they who did not listen. Some of them tried. Some of them even managed, but most of them brushed past the loudest words he did not speak. It was infuriating. It was not that way with Loki; Loki could always divine what he meant.
["don't you dare," Loki had said, as Thor stood over the bent figure of their captor, fingers digging insistently into Thor's arm. "I swear, Thor—break your own curse you fool. Don't worry about me." (but oh Loki, you know I never listen)]
[in the beginning, he had screamed; screamed his voice raw, fading to incoherent noises that had no meaning. Loki had been silent; Loki had sat still as though he were carved of ancient stone. It was not any thoughts that held him during that time. No, but he could feel the magicks wrapped around Mjolnir. They could not kill her, but they could hurt her, twist her, break her. Not easily—no. Not before many of their own had died; not before many, many days. And when they did, at last his voice ran out, and he lay on the floor, and for the first time he cried.]
The healers helped, as well. Tried to help, mostly. They were well-meaning, and some were even kind, an oasis of stability; but they were few. Most did not understand. They meant to fix, and yet they could not fix what had been broken, and spent most of their time trying to fix what had not.
["I don't mind dying," Loki had said. It was dark; false-night, when the torches were doused, and they lay beside each other in the dark, playing at sleep. He would not have spoken, otherwise. Not of something like this. "I know I should care. I know it should be something I'm afraid of, or something…" his breath drew out, ragged. "I don't want to die," he said at last, "but I wouldn't really care, if I did." A searching question in the dark, eyes meeting. Thor pressed his fingers close. "I don't know, Thor," and the voice held something; a broken kind of humour, a jagged morbid amusement. "It is not new. It has always been so with me. Sometimes… sometimes it is as if the whole world is grey." A short hesitant silence. "Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me."
His fingers moved to clasp Loki by the back of the neck. Comforting. Calm. Possessive. Never. He could not tell him so, and so tried to instill it by sheer presence. Never. You are not strange, you are not broken, Loki. And I will always be here.]
The new magicians always come to him, as though studying him up close will make a difference; will give them some insight, some inspiration they could not otherwise have. Later, they drift away, spending their time conjuring up spells that do nothing; but at the first, it is observation, like he is a question to be unraveled, a problem and not a person at all.
[Day after day he grew weaker, until he seemed more ghost than living. Thor could feel the ribs beneath his brother's clothes, no matter how much of his own serving he forced his brother to eat. ("Don't," he would say. "Thor, it doesn't help. Save your strength. You are our hope in getting out of here.") That; and the careful, clever plan of Loki's devising. Slow, and careful; they had but one chance. A certain guard who looked a little too long and in the wrong places, who smiled with his mouth but never with his eyes, a guard who would give them the keys. "He is the one," Loki said, at last. It was the first time he had spoken since they had been placed in their cell. Thor could not stop him. Not when he knew Loki was right.]
"I wish I could help you," Sif had said. "I want to, Thor, but I don't know how. But whatever you need—I—I will do all I can."
He placed a hand over hers, a small gesture. I know. It's all right. He was the victim, they said; the healers and the magicians and the gossipers with their talk—yet they looked to him for their reassurance. It had always been so, in a way. That, at least, hadn't changed.
[It was the worst to watch it occurring. "Don't move," Loki had said. "Whatever happens, you must not move." He tried, could feel himself shifting anyway, hands clenching around an unseen hammer or perhaps the man's throat. Small things at first—how when he came, when he lingered just a little too long, Loki would change his movements. He did not have to speak—sometimes, he did, making wry comments that made the man's face twitch to keep a real smile from his features; or the way he would tilt his head, baring his neck, looking down beneath his lashes. And reach for the bowl of food, fingers brushing the man's hands.
He knows what you're doing, Thor said, insistent.
"Of course he knows," Loki said, dismissive. "I want him to know. He just has to become careless for one moment, or come to care just a little too much—either will do. Both, if it can be arranged."
I don't like it. A subtle drawing away, the furrow in his brow, the set of his lips.
"You can kill him once we're free," Loki promised, a soft reminder. Of course he would; Thor would kill all of them.]
Thor made sure to stay with Loki. At first, they had not let themselves be separated at all; for the first few weeks they had not even been able to be out of sight or a panic would set in; deep, all-encompassing. It cared not for the heart's assurances of safety, cared only that the other was not there. But the healers had been adamant they learn to become apart once more; anathema as the idea seemed; they did it for Mother and Father, and, later, because they knew it to be true. But Thor still followed Loki, when he must be for long hours sequestered with others, talking of many things. And when it was over, when they left, Loki would let it all down; the façade of calm assurance and power and immutability; locked in their rooms, trembling, he would breathe, and breathe, and Thor would trace long slow circles across his back, wordless reassurance, until his muscles relaxed and he could close his eyes.
[It was the worst later. ("These kind of men," Loki said, "Are just honorable enough that they won't take it by force, but if the prisoner seems interested… ah, Thor, all those morals, those ideals, those thoughts of loyalty and right and good, they will slip away, as if down a dark slope.") Later, when there was more than just looking. When he had to sit in the corner of the room, eyes closed, nails breaking the skin of his palms and trying not to hear. And after, when they were alone once more, and then Loki would curl up, and Thor would never look to see if he cried, because Loki had specifically, repeatedly told him "do not". Not until he moved, and Thor could hear the sounds of clothes being rearranged, and then he would make some sound—sometimes not even a word; then Thor would come, and take Loki's hand, and sit there. Wishing he could fill the silence with a story of long ago and far away.]
And they were to sleep apart as well. That was the only thing they would not do; they knew without ever communicating that they could not. They did not argue. But Loki created a door, to pass through their walls, invisible and uncrossable except by them. Thor left his door unlocked at all times; he could not bear the thought that it might be. Usually he left it open, even; a thin crack into the corridor beyond; but Loki had his doors locked always. And that was not so different really. He had always liked his privacy even before, and had his wards and his locks, but it was also something different, and when Thor crossed over to his side he did not ask him to open the door. It was enough, somehow, to lie together and feel the twin sets of their breath; silent and still unless Loki would begin to talk, or set spinning illusions on his palms. And when Thor dreamed of being alone and without himself (without Mjolnir) and lost in a sea of emptiness and silence, Loki would take him in his arms and whisper softly. And when Loki would cry out, thrashing in his sleep as if to fight off a foe, Thor would not touch him, but hum an old song, a nursery-rhyme or a battle march or whatever was in his mind to sing, and Loki would open his eyes, wild, and then Thor would taken his hands, and then press himself close, and pretend not to notice the tears that streaked his brother's face.
["I have it," Loki said, and then everything happened at once. There was the swift turning of a lock and then a crashing, roaring wave of fury that left him able to battle unarmed even the armed foes before him. They gathered the weapons of the fallen, and when they came to that guard—it flared up brighter than ever, but then stilled, a single thought rising to the red-tinged surface of his eyes. He paused, and looked at Loki. Loki could have killed him; but, instead, he nodded, and then Thor slit his throat, and let his blood seep into the ground.
But when they came to the sorceress Loki held him back, nails digging into his arms, and said, "Don't you dare." But Thor knew when to listen, and when Loki had no business telling him what to do. Only one of the curses could be broken.
The sorceress laughed in her last breath but Thor killed her; so, in the end, he thinks he was triumphant after all.]