as soft grey ash falls on dark lashes

Thor wakes with a start. 

He hardly remembers the life-colored magic, Loki’s- oh gods, Loki- magic rising in his peripheral vision as he maintained eye contact as long as he possibly could. Perhaps he should’ve looked at other things; the shape of his face, his smile, his hands, but his eyes had always been the sorcerer’s most bewitching characteristic. 

Soon, Thor will pick himself up and go to the Asgardian palace. Will find out when he has fallen, and then he will find Loki. Then he will destroy any threats posed to the ones who hold his soul.

He is Thor, but he is no longer the son of Odin or an Avenger. It is unlikely that he will protect anyone other than Loki again. 

---

Thor looks at himself using the reflection of a clear, still lake. Two glacial blue eyes and shoulder length locks of light golden hair are reflected back. He shreds the muscles inside of his mouth with his teeth.

“Wretched,” he sobs as blood and saliva drip steadily into the water below him. The red makes a tiny splash before dissipating as the lake overpowers the evidence of his torment. “Absolutely wretched.”

He does not alter his appearance, because this is what Loki has left him. He does not know why, but he has rejected his brother far too many times. He’ll trust him.

Falling to his knees, Thor wishes had someone to kneel to.

(“Your Majesty,” Valkyrie calls.)

(“You are King now, my son,” Odin declares.)

(“I assure you brother, the sun will shine on us again.”)

---

It seems, on top of time travel, Loki also manipulated space so he would appear on Asgard. It was clever that he didn’t put Thor next to cities, however exhausted he was from his fight with Hela and Thanos just hours prior.

It takes all his control to delay the storm's development a few minutes, forcing it to unfurl somewhat normally, if only to avoid attention. When compared to the clear sky three minutes prior, the heavy grey clouds reflect his grief much more aptly. His heart clenches and Thor gives up, allowing them to coalesce and darken. Within seconds, thunder roars and the lightning wrecks havoc, ripping damaging grooves into trees and buildings. Some are killed, and a minor forest fire will leave some animals without home.

Thor sits serenely amidst the disarray, the ruin, the chaos. Still as a statue, quieter than a mouse. 

His brother is no longer here to cause destruction, so Thor should demolish in his wake; must level the entire clearing, the cities, planets-

No. That is not what he’s here for.

His tears have dried and his most base self aches and throbs, the bleeding in every corner of his psyche having turned to nothing but a tickle. Thor has pulled himself together- not well, hardly functional at all, really, and has not bottled it so much as pressed against the wound to let all the blood come out first and in the process lost more than necessary- and it is time to go in search of his charge before he goes hunting.

Thor pushes himself to his feet, debris swirling around him, some clinging while the rest fly by at stinging speeds. His footsteps are steady as he heads to the palace. 

Welcome home, Asgard sings, rivers passing the word faster than their currents traveled. The vegetation rejoicing even as it is struck down mercilessly by his lightning, Welcome the King!

---

Thor has known his birthright was the throne for as long as he remembers. 

He thinks back towards his incomplete coronation, and how Asgard itself had greeted him when he returned from Earth. About how he had never heard it before that.

He never got around to asking Loki, or Odin, if it was the same for them.

But Thor is no longer Crown Prince, nor King, not even a citizen of Asgard. Is not of this timeline at all. “How do you know?” he murmurs under his breath. “Stop it now.”

He does not get angry when it does not answer, when it continues repeating its chant, because he is at the city gates. A few steps farther inland, and there will be a passageway that takes him right to the hallway outside Loki’s bedroom.

The guards are simple men. They take quick glances at him; his hair so filthy it’s no longer blonde, ripped clothes, clearly Aesir, and grant him passageway. Stormbreaker is under the dark cloak he is currently borrowing, and he has nothing else to his name.

Has nothing in this timeline except for himself, Stormbreaker, and a second chance to be a better brother. 

---

There is a wing in the lower palace dedicated to traveling warriors. They should be approved, but no one will question him once he’s inside, and he has snuck in and out of the palace since he was a whelp. That is where he’ll take a bath, eat, sleep for a night, and perhaps see a healer before he moves on. 

But first…

The sight steals his breath. As much as Loki is young, he is elegant and nymph-like. His movements are not perfectly smooth, but he holds grace that Thor doesn’t think would leave even if he caught him snoring in bed. 

Loki is reading a tome the size of his torso in Frigga’s gardens, thankfully public, sheltered by a large gazebo and blissfully alone. Thor puts Loki somewhere around twelve. He is still quite small, puppy fat clinging to his limbs, but Thor admires the way his intelligent eyes dart around the page to chase words so old the blonde wouldn’t know their definition. He looks too small, too soft to know what a sharp edge is, let alone to summon daggers like Thor knows he can. Should this Loki so much as smile, Thor might call him gentle and subsequently fall for every trick and whim. 

Brother was very tiny until he simply wasn’t, Thor recalls. From one year to the next, Loki had jumped from growth spurt to growth spurt and by the end he was hardly half a head shorter than Thor himself. About a fourth of the width though, which made him even less intimidating and he was teased for his beanpole stature more than Thor ever was at the same development stage.

He makes no move towards the young prince. Sitting down at the base of a grand tree, Thor blends in with the roots. His hair is near-brown with the amount of mud caked in it and his clothes are drab and dirty. He stays there until Loki closes the book, a tender joining as the pages kiss.

“How odd.” 

I shouldn’t hear him, Thor analyzes. Loki's voice is far too quiet under the layered noise of agitated thunder. Only then does Thor realize they are in the eye of the storm; instinctively protecting this irreplaceable child. There is no rain to plink against the top of the structure and no water to wash the grime from his own skin. 

Loki steps out of the gazebo almost hesitantly, as if the rain will suddenly crash upon him, as if it was waiting to ambush him the second his guard is down. There is no umbrella in his hands- only the book which he cradles to his chest in an effort to protect it.

Thor dissipates the storm. On the inside, there is still lightning and heavy static and the telltale pickling sensation near his eyes, but he will kill himself three times over before he inconveniences Loki.

And that’s part of the problem, Thor acknowledges, no matter how much he wants to dig his heels in and deny it. Because this boy is not actually Loki, is not his brother he can justify doing anything for, because his brother is dead. 

He failed, and Loki died. 

“Stronger,” he spits out when the boy has long since left. “Stronger than anyone.”

Thor stands up and spins on his heel, cloak billowing. He strides in the opposite direction that the prince took.

---

The air feels fresh, Loki thinks. It never feels like this after Thor has a fit.

Yesterday’s storm had been sudden, devastating, but it didn’t put him on edge the way that Thor’s spontaneity often did. And it had ended just as abruptly as it started; that wasn’t a level of control his brother had achieved yet.

Must’ve been a freak storm.

---

Waking up is facile, granted that Thor didn’t fall asleep at all. He tossed, turned, and knew that he would never feel like he belonged in the palace again. Not when he had no family, no desire for the throne.

He eats quickly, sinking into the scalding waters of the public bath with a sigh. 

“Haven’t seen you around before.” The phrasing is confident, meant to put him on the defense, but the execution is pitiful. Not that any random warrior could intimidate him, but a teenager even less so. 

“You have not,” Thor replies passively. 

Hogun had been the last of the Warriors Three slayed by Hela, and one of his many failures, though he admits- if only to himself- that all those failures stacked on top of each other did not impair him as much as a sliver of a fraction of the anguish he felt with Loki’s passing. 

The Warriors Three were a cycle older than him, who was the same age as Sif, and Loki was the youngest. The age gap between him and the Three, combined with different skill sets, had always made them more Thor’s friend than Loki’s. Sif, on the other hand, had suffered Loki’s wrath with her betrayal. 

“Are you a traveling warrior?” Hogun presses. Thor grunts, annoyed by his instincts. Hogun had always had a nose for pinpointing trouble or lies, and now it’s directed towards him. Thor has no history with this version of his dead friend and he has even less patience; the longer Asgard calls to him the more he itches to depart, to escape as it wiggles beneath his skin. 

“I do not see how that is your concern,” he rumbles in a tone that says desist. “I understand that those from Vanaheim bathe early, but do not bother me with your blathering small talk.”

Hogun simply nods, drifting towards the other side of the empty baths. His shrewd eyes will continue to examine him for the duration of his stay or until Thor is considered trustworthy. If he fails spectacularly, Hogun might even involve Heimdall. 

In any event, it doesn’t matter. Thor will be gone by midday.

---

“Your magic power is recovering well,” the healer tells him. “I admit I haven’t much experience with powerful seidr, but all indications say that yours will be battle ready by late evening. Best wait until tomorrow, if you can.”

Dumbstruck and scrambling to hide the fact, Thor wonders if this is one of Loki’s so-called gifts. Thor himself is the God of Thunder and has tremendous strength, balanced with little magical talent. That was always his brother's specialty. It’s unsurprising the magic is exhausted, as magic has a limited capacity the body can hold at once. Loki is known for his large reserves but even he cannot time travel at the flip of a dime.  

As if that wasn’t enough, information he’s never heard or understood is falling into his mind in manageable and organized groups with perfect clarity. He hasn’t gotten any of Loki’s memories- and Thor reminds himself that revelation wasn’t heartbreaking- or his thought process, nor his fractured mentality and penchant for deceit. Just information. 

Another eye, his hair, Loki’s knowledge, his magic- Thor isn’t sure what else he could even give, let alone that he could put it together after his neck had been snapped.

“Of course,” he replies smoothly, mind continuing to reel. “Anything else?”

The healer frowns, just slightly. “Physically, you aren’t older than eighteen, though your eyes are weary. We have mental health treatment, should you care to part-take.”

Thor doesn’t remember what he tells her, dazed as he leaves. His brother gave him more than a second chance- he gave him more time. Made him even younger than Loki was when he died. None of his muscle mass or power is gone or diminished, and Thor’s mood once again dives when he remembers how he never held feasts for Loki’s accomplishments the way he did with everyone else around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses. The I love you he had given Loki was sincere, but his actions had never backed his words. It was hardly a surprise he would resort to tricks when he had nothing else. 

Stronger, he chants to himself as he leaves the palace. I’ll become stronger than anyone in the universe.

---

Thor is almost nineteen the next time he visits Asgard. Forty-five Earth years have passed.

Loki is thirteen and for the first time in his life, Thor is a better sorcerer of the two. Loki’s magic had to be learned, yet it wasn’t anywhere near the difficulty he remembered Loki expressing when he had begun to learn. It’s as if the magic is doing everything in its power to follow Thor’s wishes and all he has to do is direct it. 

With his near-relentless training, he’s perfected half of the skills Loki ever knew. It feels like he’s paying homage to him and that is a heady, addicting feeling. He’s terrified of running out of new things, but anticipates the day just as much. 

Once he has mastered magic, Thor will once again face Thanos. 

The victory could’ve been won with his own power, as Thanos had no infinity stones at this point in time, but Thor wants his end to be cruel, wants Loki to have a vicarious chance to avenge himself. Besides, it gives Thanos a chance to become the dictator Thor actually wants to murder; he has no interest in a scrawny, useless version of the villain.

Thor wants to tear him apart at his peak, or as close as can be allowed.

This time, Loki is beside younger Thor. They had begun to drift apart at this age, should Thor remember correctly. The god had recently discovered brothels- being 16, an adult- and was far too “grown up” for his younger brother to hang around him and his friends. 

After much reflection, Thor believes this to be the time where, in addition to the entire kingdom, he thought himself better than Loki. When the shadow that had tugged at Loki’s toes for the entirety of his life began to devour him, limb by limb.

But for now, the interaction between brothers seems civil. No dismissive comments or bored posture, though Loki is holding tension that leaves slowly. Young Thor has already started to lose his trust and he doesn’t even notice.

Thor hates his mistakes, his arrogance, his unconscious cruelty, though perhaps not as much as Loki hated his own young counterpart. Thor has wrath for young Thor, but he does not despise everything as inconsequential as the shape of his nose.

Young Thor laughs at something Loki says, and the remaining rigidity held in the small frame retreats. 

In his own body, Thor feels muscles in his face lose their strained disposition, and he slips into an expression that is truly neutral. He cannot smile, has long since lost that privilege, but he can not bring himself to be angry when Loki is in front of him and well. 

“Commander,” crackles in his ear. “It is time to go.”

Thor sighs, turning away from the princes without further prompting. “I am on my way, Brunnhilde.”

---

The Valkyrie had, much as she was in his last life, been somewhat of an accidental meeting. 

On his explorations of the galaxy he had staunchly avoided Sakaar, and alternated his focus between urban centers- mostly when he sought knowledge on Thanos- and isolated planets where he could train without holding back. 

It had been during one of those training sessions that she had all but dropped from the sky.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says, and Thor tries hard to wipe the recognition from his face, emphasizing his surprise instead. 

“Why?”

“You have great strength,” she pauses. “You are Asgardian, but you are not attached to Odin.”

“You wish to defeat Hela,” Thor guesses. This warrior is not his shield maiden, but it does not have to stay that way. This Brunnhilde is not an alcoholic, has not yet given up, and Thor feels foolish for ever avoiding Sakaar. 

There is a pause. “I do.”

“You have not asked for my name,” Thor reminds her. “If it does not matter, I will fight Hela alongside you.” 

She nods once, effortlessly climbing over the rubble left from wayward seidr, and extends her hand. 

Thor had taken it. And, one by one, one by the dozen, others joined them. He did not know what Brunnhilde knew, or suspected, about him and his appearance, but she had insisted on his leadership with her as his second. 

An army was not necessary against Hela- it would get in the way if they succeeded in not giving her time to summon the undead- but it would be helpful against Thanos. 

It was more than Thor deserved, but it was rejuvenating to have comradery when desired. 

“I’m back,” he calls as he boards the ship hovering along the edge of Asgard, cloaked by his magic. 

“Honey, I’ve made dinner,” someone chortles back. Thor snorts, approaching the meeting room that only Brunnhilde occupies. 

“Our group of ruffians is up to no good,” he warns her, his mood higher than its been in decades. She cracks a grin, “You are brighter than five suns. Perhaps we should bring you to the dark haired fey more often.”

Thor stiffens and she holds her hands up in surrender. 

“I’m curious,” she continues, body language poised to communicate ‘harmless.’ “Is he yours, from out of wedlock?”

While Asgardian bodies and time do not run directly parallel to one another, it is clear she makes the comment in jest. Sighing softly, Thor runs a calloused hand through his hair, tugging on the miniature braid that hangs near his ear.

“We will soon battle Hela. I,” he slumps; giving his trust is something he did not expect from himself when he had first arrived, “I wish for us to become shield partners before that time comes.”

“I have already told you of my past, of what I desire,” her dark eyes show that he has all of her attention. “I am not against this type of development.”

Thor sits beside her, angling his chair so they face each other. 

“Very well. I will start at the beginning.”

---

The next time Thor is able to see Loki, only two Midgardian years have passed. That amount of time is nothing within their life spans, not a single ripple, but the grand scheme is inconspicuous in the face longing. Brunnhilde has given him a day with his brother as she finishes their invasion preparations.

The time to kill Odin- and release Hela- has come. 

In his timeline, Hela was powerful right after being released, but that was due to Odin clinging to her as long as he was able. His trap weakened as he aged. 

Now, Thor will kill his father at his peak strength. And after, with his shield maiden, they will strike down the Goddess of Death. 

“Loki!” a voice snaps and Thor jumps in surprise. The young warrior had not evaded his notice, but the runt was so weak he hardly made a blip. What caught the former Crown Prince off guard was that someone with so little authority would say, no- spit, the prince’s name without his title. 

Thor’s hands clench into fists. How dare-

They are in an old, abandoned, empty training ground. Thor is high in a tree, a small bird perched on his knee, but it flies away with a chirp that chants danger, danger, danger when he sees Loki hunch his shoulders as he recognizes the voice. 

The daggers in his hands vanish as he straightens his shoulders and raises his chin, smirking at the boy across the dusty clearing. Thor knows this expression, but he has never before noticed how it wobbles; as if one phrase could dismantle it like a ball of unruly yarn and mince Loki’s soul to shreds alongside it. 

(“I did it for you, Father!”

“Loki, no.”)

The pit in Thor’s stomach is nothing but fury- at this disrespectful child, at himself, at his progenitor he will kill in a handful of hours. The drip, drip, drip of the tears his heart weeps is for Loki alone. 

The boy prowls forward, and the more Thor looks the less recognizable he is. Someone who never became anyone, and he feels assured enough to mistreat Asgard’s prince. 

“You should stop training,” the boy curls his lip. “You’re useless in a fight.”

“At least I am not useless elsewhere, and do not need saving every battle, Sveng,” Loki shoots back. “Have dignity.”

 “I suppose you aren’t useless everywhere,” the boy leers and Thor feels lightning jump across his knuckles and over his wrists. He must not be seen; cannot have Loki know he watches, cannot give away the slightest possibility there are enemies on Asgard. In this life, his work is in the shadows. “If you hid your small dick and laid on your back, maybe someone would take care of your whorish tendencies. Perhaps not, though, with that hideous coloring.”

The training ground is right outside part of the palace, at the end of a secluded storage corridor that tails off into a single doorway exit, or entrance from the partial-field. There will be no one to help Loki in this scrape, but Thor knows he will not need it if this comes to blows.

Against all odds, a familiar but too-young head pokes itself out of the doorway and Thor feels his stress evaporate like dew at midday.

Sif has arrived, and she will surely treat this scoundrel as he deserves. Even at this young age, she had been a well respected warrior, second only to Thor himself, and perhaps two or three older veterans. A prodigy.

Only that she doesn’t, and when Loki spots her, his face goes three shades paler; out of embarrassment or possibly something worse. Dread clogs Thor’s throat.

“I cannot change my appearance,” Loki says drolly, lying through his teeth remorselessly. “Though I apologize if my hideousness offends your sensitive eyes.”

“Dark hair and you keep it long,” the boy spits, but he has no one's attention. Sif has turned and begun to leave, as if this situation is one that can be left. As if Loki is not her prince nor her friend, nor someone younger to guide. 

She just… leaves.

Fuck, he thinks, I should not have broken Loki’s nose for cutting Sif’s hair. 

Thor had never known what had pushed Loki to hate Sif, what she had done to betray him, only that “She, like everyone else on Asgard, has never given me the respect I deserve. The respect a person would deserve.” In this moment, he hates Sif more than Loki ever could. 

And a few minutes later, when Sveng swings a fist and Loki drops him on his ass only to leave immediately, water gripping his dark lashes and little fists so tight Thor’s sure his hands have lost all circulation, he hates himself even more for not interfering. 

---

“Odin.” 

Thor steps into the throne room with an exposed back. Brunnhilde is still on board the ship, organizing their strongest for the fight against Hela. Despite that, Loki’s strategy books had been quite helpful in showing how to defend it, and the crew still tells horror stories of the storm that reckoned when he finally completed the puzzle.

I’m sorry, Brother, Thor had sobbed, I’m so sorry.

“Say your goodbyes to your loving wife,” he demands, pretending that seeing Frigga alive doesn’t carve out another piece of his heart that is no longer his. “Because then we will battle, not on this planet, and you will not return.”

Gungnir hits the ground as Odin stands, outraged, but Frigga is examining him so closely he knows she will make a connection between him and young Thor any minute. 

“Let you try,” the King who turned his back on his firstborn snarls, “No one has defeated me in over a millennia!”

Compared to his dead Father- who he loathed for his treatment of Loki, for allowing Thor himself to stray so far before his banishment, who he once loved as his King- it’s easier to fight this man, this version of Odin who is not his father but an arrogant ruler at the height of his youth and the crest of his power. 

A portal opens with a simple command to his seidr and Thor steps just inside, boots crunching packed dirt instead of polished marble, Stormbreaker in hand. 

Odin pauses, and Thor had been flabbergasted by how illogical and rambunctious the All-Father was acting. His hesitance, if delayed, to leave Asgard is an important characteristic, though unwelcome at the present. 

“Come,” he rumbles. “Do not be a coward, Borson. Or I will make you regret it.”

Odin charges. 

---

“Stop,” he wheezes, blood trickling from his nose, his mouth, the cut above his eye. “Please stop.”

Thor stills, intrigued. He does not speak. 

His father did not pick up many tricks with his old age, simply depending on what brought him glory in his youth. This Odin has an inflated ego and more power than grace or strategy- just like Thor did before his banishment. Little refinement, as if in defiance of learning anything from the Asgard-Jotunheim War. Thor has not used any seidr since the exchange of blows began, saving that for the fight with Hela.

“If you kill me, Hela the Goddess of Death will emerge,” Odin says. “So I must not die.”

“And what else?” Thor prompts. 

“What do you mean ‘what else’ you deranged, inane monster?!”

Thor is uncertain to take more or less offense to these insults compared to those hurled at him as his powers were stolen. This Odin has far less patience and humility, no reasoning apart from knowing his word is as absolute as the crown on his head. 

“I am not a monster,” Thor tells him, unsure if he believes the statement, but it is spoken with conviction. How ironic that Odin has ridiculed all three of his children with the same term. “My name is Thor, and I am the God of Thunder and Storms.”

Brunnhilde drops beside him, shockwaves rippling across the earth as she catches a single wide eye in her orbit, “And I, Odin, am the last of the Valkyrie you sent to be slaughtered.”

Arms crossed, Thor’s lightning strikes the ground around them. He does not want to hear or see Odin’s reaction to his precious, golden son being the one to end him. They are a clean up crew, nothing more, nothing less.

Thor will never let anything evil, anything negative, touch his brother. 

Not even himself.