Her life had crumbled. Frigga knew well the frailty of things, how could she not, with the long life she’s lived? Yet still, it hurt. All her knowledge did not quench the ache as things she held dear fell away from her. Fell away. Oh how it hurt. Her sweet boy, her youngest, he who she whispered all her secrets to, was gone. Fallen. No, let go--and that hurt all the worst.
She couldn’t focus on it though, because if she did, she too would fall. So instead she focused on a different pain, a lesser. A pain she could fix and make well. She would focus on her elder son. Her remaining light, and hope that he too, would not let go. They had been her creations, by blood or bond, it had been all the same to her. They were her monuments, her palaces that she had built up; though they now crumbled as sandcastles being taken by the unfeeling tide.
So she watched him as he sat in silence. Every motherly instinct yelling at her to go, to comfort. But she knew not how. She did not know how to approach this golden stranger, and she tried to tell herself that he had changed, that he was different, and that was why she hesitated, but none could lie to her-- not even herself. And yes, her son had changed, but this feeling was deeper, and not new at all.
She came to the bitter conclusion that yes, he was one of her creations, but unlike the younger-- whom she had sculpted day in and day out; whom she had forged in her ways, and chipped and smoothed and whispered to until he was a reflection of her-- her elder had been more of a tree that she had planted and watered until he was old enough (not really) to hand over to her husband. It was he who was supposed to trim and cut it to his own image. But Odin was King, and he had not the time for such things, so he trimmed the branches he saw fit to (the ones made to hold weapons of war) and left the others to grow wild.
She retreated.
*****
Odin looked tired, oh how he had aged these past few centuries. She found him standing in the shadowed portion of their balcony, looking out in pensive thought.
“I thought you would be with Thor, giving comfort,” he said before she reached him.
“I do not know how to approach him,” the confession left another hurt in her collection.
“Really? I thought he would have sought you out, as always.”
Frigga frowned, “Thor has not sought me out since he was a child.”
Oh her golden boy-- loved by all, but known by few. He had no problem showing all his joys, and not any trouble expressing his anger. It was all the inbetweens, all the intricacies of emotion that he would stifle, and grief most of all. And she knew the fault fell with them. Control, they told him, you must be in control. No wayward raindrops, no escaping lightning-- they must be kept inside, locked away. And they enforced it. Instead of asking why the tears fell, they asked why had the rain been aloud to escape. Frigga had hated it, but it had been necessary. The royal family could not be seen to be weak, and that burden fell to all its members. No emotion not preselected could be shown to the public, and that required control. So they had taught it. Soon the tears stopped appearing, but the unwanted rain was absent as well, so it was not questioned.
Odin was looking at her, “Who then did our son go to, if not to you?”
She did not answer. She did not know.
They stood in silence for she knew not how long, until at last a coming storm awoke them of their trances. She could not help but feel elation at the thought that perhaps it was her son’s doing. That maybe he was facing his grief, and it was a release, but no it was a natural occurrence. She could always tell the difference.
“Come now, my dear, let us find our son. We need not be alone--none of us.”
Odin let out a weighted breath, but nodded his aquicence.
They found Thor in his room, staring out of his wide open window. He had always loved storms not his own.
There entrance caused him to turn around and with a widening of his eyes he said, “this is not my doing, I promise. I am in control.”
And the broken pieces of her heart crumbled to dust-- it choked her as it got stuck in her throat and weighed her tongue down.
Her little storm bringer--his world shattered at his feat, and upon seeing his parents his first thought was not of comfort, but of fear of failure. Did he truly think their sole reason for coming was to reprimand? But of course, why not? They had never asked about the tears. Oh how they had failed.
“We know,” Odin said, and it seemed as if he wanted to continue, though he didn’t. But his words were what Frigga needed to rouse her tongue.
“We have come to make sure you are alright,” a pause, “and to keep you company.”
There was a confused frown on Thor’s face, “But you do not have to; I am sure there are much more important things that need doing.”
Kingdom over family; it was how they raised their sons. Thor had felt the bitter truth of that--they did not pay ransoms. They had lost him once, when he was barely out of boyhood. It had been months, they could not find him-- neither Odin's armies nor spys could find a trace, still, they would not negotiate. But Thor, Thor had managed to free himself, and he had come back to them. And as she had held her scarred and bloody boy and wept; she tried to explain to him why they had not freed him, but he had shushed her and told her that it was okay--that he had not expected them to.
He had meant it as comfort. It did not comfort her; instead the words had cut something within her. Something vital. Her boy, her light--while wasting in a dark place, while enduring horrors no boy should--had not expected his family, those who professed to love him, to do anything to get him back. To what hope had he held on to? She had been too scared to ask. But Odin, he had been proud (not that he had told Thor), he had said that, that proved they had done well in teaching the importance of the Kingdom. Prince over son; it was how they raised him.
And he had held on to those lessons. Even now--especially now. A prince of Asgard, while acting as King, had tried to commit mass genocide. Then upon failing had commited suicide. There was much to attend to. But for once, her family was coming first.
“There is nothing more important than being together right now,” her tone was nearly forceful.
“Of course, Mother,” Thor’s tone was perfectly respectful.
She could not hold back anymore--she would not. In a few quick steps she had enveloped her son in her arms. He was startled and stiff, but slowly the tension drained out of him and he clung to her as a drowning man to the broken pieces of his life raft.
“Come now, dear, let us start the fire. It is much too cold in here.” she spoke into his hair.
“Yes, Mother,” he was quickly out of her arms, and putting logs on the fireplace.
Had he always been so agreeable? No, he had not. It seemed this was a fruit of his banishment.
Looking to Odin-- who had remained standing near the door, seeming as though he wished to be anywhere else-- she nodded towards the sitting area. Taking her cue, he moved and sat in the singular chair by the forming fire. She sat herself on the adjoining sofa and waited as the flames grew. Thor, having finished with the fire turned around and paused, unsure what to do with his parents sitting so casually in his room.
Honestly, Frigga did not know what to do with these men. Was sitting around a fire together, so different that they did not know what to do? She sighed, yes, yes it was.
Patting the seat beside her, she called her son over, “Come sit here, dear.”
He sat. He was so tense, she feared he would break.
And once again she was unsure as to what to do, if it was Loki she would, but this was not Loki--it would never be Loki.
“Mother, are you all right?” She looked up to meet two worried blue eyes.
“Of course dear, why do you ask?”
“You are crying.”
Slowing she reached up and felt the overflowing of her sorrow, then looking over she saw her son--her dry eyed boy. She did not care if she did not know what to do. It was not going to stop her, not this time.
Reaching over, she grabbed him and started to pull him down, “Lay down dear, I am sure you are exhausted.”
He didn’t resist as she got him to lay on his side with his head pillowed on her lap. But he was still tense. Even in battle he was much more relaxed than as he lay in his mother's arms. She did not want to think about that. Instead she started running her fingers through his hair, and how beautiful it was--like strands of sunlight.
“It is not wrong to cry, you know,” He needed to hear it. And not just now, but long ago.
He stayed silent.
She looked up and made eye contact with Odin, challenging him to speak. They were doing this together. If her husband could send her not even full grown son to fight, then he too could give him comfort.
“Sorrow is not shameful, son. It is ok to feel,” his voice was rough and stilted, “Do you understand,” he added after a drawn out silence from Thor.
“Yes, Father, of course,” He was so quick to agree; it was almost as if he was afraid to disagree. The thought made Frigga frown.
Thor then tried to pull himself up, but she hardened her hold and kept him down--he did not fight her. She would not let him go--not now. “Thor, have you cried?”
“No, Mother, I told you the storm was not me.”
“I do not care about the stupid storm! I care about you!” in her frustrated exclamation she loosened her hold, and Thor took the opportunity to sit up. She sighed and reached to cup his cheek, “I love you. You. Not the Thunderer, or the Prince, but my son.”
He looked away, as if ashamed.
“What is it, dearheart?”
He swallowed and slowly licked his lips, “I am unworthy of it.”
What? “What?”
“I am unworthy of the loved ones I betrayed.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Odin bow his head.
“Why would you say that?” her voice trembled.
“Because it is true,” Thor would not look at her, “It is my fault. All of it.”
“Oh my son,” she lifted his face to look at her, “that is not true.”
“Yes it is! If not for my arrogance, then we would not have had the trouble with Jotunhiem. And it was I who drove Loki to act as he did. Had I not made him feel less, had I been a better brother, then he would not have hated so,” then, looking away and down, he said quietly, almost as if to himself, “he would not have felt such need to kill me.”
Kill? The word rang as shattering glass through her mind. It was not true. It could not be true. Yes, her sons had fought, but it had not been to kill. Had it?
“Thor, I know you fought on the bridge, but kill…” she could not finish speaking it out, “I know as you both grew, there were some disagreements…”
“Thor, what happened?” the quiet voice of Odin stopped her ramblings.
Thor’s eyes were glued to the flames in the hearth, “We fought, he let go.”
“What happened before. On Midgard?”
A hitch in breath was the only response.
“Thor?” Odin’s voice was gentle.
Thor looked up with hazy eyes. The utter torment in their stormy depths caused Frigga to catch her breath.
“I told him to. I told him to do it.”
“What happened Thor?” it was with dread that Frigga asked.
“He did not mean it,” Thor all but pleaded.
“He killed you,” Odin's words hung as weights in the air, “didn’t he?”
“I was weak--mortal. He miscalculated,” He would have said anything to make it hurt less, “And if it was not for that, then I would not have been able to lift Mjolnir.”
Frigga was not sure she had any pieces of her heart left to break, but now her lungs too had been crushed. Fratricide. She could not breath. Clutching her chest she stood up and fled.
The storm had passed, at least that is what the disengaged part of her mind told her. She wished it hadn’t. She wished it would pour and pour and wash every blood colored stain from her life. She wished that it would rage and break apart the atmosphere and shatter the ground beneath her feet so it would swallow her and take her into the abyss. Maybe there she would find her lost son.
She raised her head as the sky seemed to break in two with a renewed storm. It was violent and unnatural, with lightning spiraling through like cracks on breaking glass. The thunder turned deafening, and Frigga swore she could feel her bones crack beneath its fury.
“Thor,” she whispered.
The abyss would have to wait, for her son that she had not yet lost needed her.
She bowed her head. Or perhaps she had already lost him and she was just now realizing it.
Thunder once again shook the ground beneath her, and she realized that she might just get her wish. The ground would cave beneath her. But no, it was asgardian stone--it would not break. Then just as violently as it started, the storm ended.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and upon turning around she met the withered tired gaze of Odin.
“Thor?” she asked.
“He’s gone.”
“But where would he go?”
Odin did not answer her. His face, for the first time in she did not know how long, showed his helplessness.
Far in the distance, over the wilderness, a storm once again began raging. It was violent and unnatural. From where she stood, she could just barely hear the thunder, and if she closed her eyes, it sounded like the muffled cries of a child. More tears fell across her cheek. That was where he went to seek comfort, her Thunderer. She should have known, but she hadn’t. She was always too busy to notice. And now it may be too late. He would keep his gates firmly locked behind the iron of smiles and princely etiquette, and what hurt was that they themselves were the ones that forged the key.
She fell to her knees and wept, and the thunder was too far way to cover her cries.