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Loki knows he's dead before Heimdall says a word. He can feel it deep in his bones, coursing through a brotherly connection he didn't know he had. It smothers the nauseating combination of rage, hatred, and terror he’s been feeling since the Vault and replaces it with something cold and helpless and broken.
He supposes he should feel joy or at least some kind of satisfaction. Asgard is his to rule, free of Thor's inescapable shadow. Jotunn or not, Odin will have to accept him now. Isn't this what he dreamt of? To be loved, to be worthy? He hadn't realized that Thor was such a large part of that dream.
You weren't even his biological brother, his mind scoffs, darkly. If he had discovered what you are, he would’ve killed you without hesitation. Why waste your time mourning him?
But try as he might Loki cannot stem the flow of sorrow streaming through his body. He cannot help the way his tears mingle with Frigga’s as they embrace. He cannot help the way his chest tightens when he dares to set foot in Thor’s room. When he speaks his name.
"The people of Midgard murdered, Thor, Crown Prince of Asgard, Heir to the Throne," he swallows, " and my brother. It is our duty to avenge his death."
For once Sif and the Warriors Three are more than willing to stand at his side. And if they wonder why he chooses to bring the Casket of Ancient Winters with them, they don’t say a word.
The Midgardians come at them with their puny weaponry and empty threats. Loki laughs in their faces. If they think they can kill Thor and live, they are sorely mistaken. He wraps his hands around the Casket, forcing down the panic that rises within him as he does so, and obliterates their defenses. It takes a considerable amount of seidr for Loki to stop his body from transforming into its Jotunn form, but he cannot allow Asgard to see him for what he truly is. Hearing that he is the rightful king of the Jotunnheim is one thing. Seeing a Frost Giant leading them into battle is quite another.
“Stop!” the tall man with the eye patch commands, “Declaring war on this planet will not bring your prince back!”
You don’t think I know that? I have lost my identity, my life, and now my brother. Nothing can bring him back. But it was my actions that sent him here and it will be my actions that will avenge him.
It’s only when Sif places a hand on the Casket that he stops, chest heaving, eyes shooting daggers at her.
“He’s not wrong,” she reasons, bold even in the face of the rage dancing in Loki’s irises. “The All-Father would want us to listen.”
Oh, yes, Loki wants to sneer, let’s listen to the all-knowing Odin who decided it was a wonderful idea to steal a Jotunn babe and lie to him his entire life! Oh, he’ll certainly lead us on the right path.
But he purses his lips and glares at the man, waiting for him to speak.
“We have the same enemy here!” he’s saying, hands in the air. “The same person who killed your brother also killed two of my people—good people. We should be working together!”
And wouldn’t you just love that?
“We are not allies.”
The man looks slightly desperate now.
“Then let me help you!” he pleads, somehow retaining a demanding tone. “I promise when I find your brother’s killer you will have your pound of flesh.”
Loki smirks condescendingly, but he hands the Casket off to a soldier beside him and grips Gungnir again. He chooses to ignore the relief that floods him as soon as the Casket is out of his grasp.
“What a fascinating choice of words,” he admires mockingly. “But I shall require the entire corpse.”
“You need to give me time.”
Time is something Loki can work with. Time gives him the advantage. But that doesn’t mean he’s feeling generous about it. His eye catches on the setting sun, glowing as bright and golden as Thor in the heat of battle.
“Very well,” he concedes, “You have until the next rise of Midgard’s sun to deliver my brother’s assassin, or I will reduce this planet to ash and ice.”
They set up camp within an enormous palace of ice. Loki can’t help but feel grateful that no one has dared comment on his sudden affinity for the substance. Then again, he has always been fond of the cold. He just wasn’t sure anyone except Frigga and Thor had cared enough to take note. And perhaps that point still stands. This part of Midgard is oppressively hot during the daytime, so no one is incredibly inclined to complain about the chill the makeshift palace provides.
Sif and the Warriors Three sit together, companionably reminiscing about their many exploits with Thor. Somehow, they can still be cheery when they speak of him. It grates on Loki’s already frayed nerves and within ten minutes he retreats to an isolated cavern in the structure.
He has barely made it into the room when his legs give out. He makes no effort to catch himself, allowing his body to slide down the wall and onto the ground. With a sigh, he tilts his head back and stares up at the sky. Distorted as it is through the ripples of ice, he can still see the twinkling stars.
“I’m scared, Thor.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of Loki. Look!”
Thor leaps off the bed, yanking Loki along with him. He pulls him to the window and points at the sky.
“See? Darkness is nothing to be frightened of. See the stars? It’s just like Mother always says. Even in darkness, there is always light.”
Loki tilts his head to take in the splendor sparkling above him, still doubtful.
“The light of the stars will protect me?”
Thor laughs. “No, silly, I’ll protect you! But the stars will guide your way.”
He turns back to their bedroom, grinning widely.
“Come, Brother! Let us sleep, for in the morning adventures await!”
The sound of heavy footsteps yanks Loki back into the present-day and he jerks to his feet. His cheeks are wet and his throat raw with sobs he didn’t even realize had come.
“He’s this way?” comes a voice that sounds suspiciously like it belongs to the man with the eye patch.
In a flash of green, Loki is presentable again, his illusion skillfully masking every bit of his brokenness. He plasters a demeaning smirk on his face and twirls around with a dramatic swoosh of his cape.
“Found the assassin, have you?” he queries, stepping from the shadows. The man doesn’t even flinch. “That was shockingly quick for a Midgardian.”
The look on the man’s face tells him everything he already knows.
“I need your help.”
How every candid.
“Ah, so you have not apprehended them. Tell me, what have you been doing all this time?”
That seems to strike a nerve.
“Another one of my agents died tonight,” the man snaps, stepping up until he’s toe-to-toe with Loki. “Before her death, she left me a clue to who the assassin might be. I need your help to see if my hunch checks out.”
Loki whirls away from him, stalking back toward his cavern. “I told you, we are not allies. My brother perished while on your planet and you did nothing to stop it. You are lucky I have shown you this much mercy.”
“Look, Loki,” the man takes a step toward him, “if I could’ve saved Thor or any of the other victims, I would not have hesitated to do so. But there was nothing I could do then and nothing I can do now—except bring whoever did this to justice.”
Loki clenches his jaw, watching the man from the corner of his eye.
“Don’t you think that’s what your brother would want?”
In a second Loki is on him, looming over him despite their similarity in height.
“You know nothing about Thor,” he hisses venomously. “Do not even dare to assume otherwise.”
To his credit the man keeps his cool, staring Loki right in the eyes with a demeanor as calm as if they have been discussing the weather.
“Will you help me, or not?” he asks, sounding eerily like Frigga when she had had enough of the brothers’ bickering.
Loki stays frozen in place for a moment, glaring at the man with every ounce of rage he has within him. When it becomes apparent that the man will not back down, he retreats with a sigh of resignation. The hot anger rushes out of him, once more replaced with the hollow emptiness of before.
“I will help you,” he says, turning away from the man, “on one condition.”
Thor’s corpse lays prone on the cold, metal table. He is in Midgardian clothes, but they do little to cloak the glory of the god who wore them. His long hair is spread around his head like a halo and his eyes are shut serenely. Loki supposes he is meant to look asleep. But Thor never looked like this when he slept.
The man, Director Fury, pats him on the arm and Loki flinches.
“I’ll give you a minute,” Fury says, and walks out, closing the door behind him.
For a few agonizing minutes, Loki just stares at the body. Then, cautiously, he moves to touch Thor’s hand. Halfway through his journey, Loki changes direction, reaching instead to cup the back of Thor’s neck in a gesture so familiar his heart aches.
Guilt washes over Loki in waves as he presses his forehead to Thor’s. This is his doing. If he had not goaded Thor into traveling to Jotunnheim this would never have happened. Of course, he hadn’t ever meant for them to leave Asgard in the first place but between Heimdall and the lazy guard, that plan had failed spectacularly. Odin was right, he is every part of the monster his blood ordains him to be.
“I'm sorry, Brother,” he breathes. “I never meant for this to happen. I never meant for it to get this far.”
Thor is cold, so cold, like the icy caves of Jotunnheim and Loki hates it. He wants to rage and scream and tear the room apart until warmth floods back into Thor’s body, life into his eyes, lightning into his fingertips.
“I assure you, Thor,” he chokes out, tears dribbling down his face and onto Thor’s, “I will avenge you. I will slay whoever murdered you and I will conquer this planet in your name. They will all kneel before us.”
The door slides back open and, he steps back from Thor’s body, forcing his illusion back into place. He can feel Fury’s gaze boring into his back.
“Time to go, Loki,” he says, firmly but not unkindly.
Loki inhales a shaky breath and rests a hand on Thor’s head. “Rest well, Brother. May we meet again in Valhalla.”
It takes every ounce of strength to turn from his brother’s corpse and follow Fury out of the door.
The assassin is a pathetic weakling, an old man on a doomed mission of vengeance. Loki bests him with ease, barely breaking a sweat. Nevertheless, the fight is exhilarating, and he goads Pym on, reveling in each display of enraged hopelessness. Loki’s seidr courses through his veins like icy flame and he lets it loose, surrounding the terrified man with double after double. He can’t stop the laughter that bubbles up within him, unbridled and slightly mad, and he’s still cackling when the doubles dissipate.
“Uh, what’s with the goth kid?” Pym asks, obviously trying to comprehend the magic show he’s just witnessed.
“Hellooo,” Loki grins mischievously, tilting his head in mock greeting. “Trickster god. Hi.”
Fury bends down and looks Pym in the eye.
“Shield is people,” he states. “People willing to give their lives for something greater than themselves. To save the world from men like you.”
He removes a tiny device from Pym’s suit and squashes it between his fingers. The Asgardian soldiers heave Pym up off the ground.
Fury straightens, trench coat flapping in the wind. “Agent Hope Van Dyne understood that, and she will never be forgotten.”
“Then you honor her,” Pym groans pitifully. “Then honor her.”
Loki curls his lip at him as the Asgardian soldiers drag him away. Then he turns to Fury, a wide grin he doesn't feel plastered on his face.
"Well, this was an absolute pleasure, Director Fury."
"Good," returns Fury, snappish. "Now, take your hammer and get off my planet."
You seriously thought I would leave just like that? After what your people took from me?
Loki laughs. "About that, we really should be allies. In fact, I was thinking of staying a little while longer."
Apprehension floods Fury's features. "For how long?"
Loki just smirks and disappears in a dazzling flash of green.
It's easy to steal Thor's corpse from SHIELD. They have put it in a coffin now, lined up amongst the other victims of Pym's retribution. Loki sneers. Thor will not have this sorry excuse for Midgardian respect. He will rest in Asgard.
He tasks Sif and the Warriors Three with escorting the body and the prisoner back to Asgard.
"When I return, we will give Thor a proper funeral."
The Warriors Three pick up the coffin reverently and begin carrying it away. Sif hangs back, skewering Loki with an accusatory look.
"You promised to leave this planet."
Loki chuckles. "Oh, no, Sif, I promised only to spare their planet from destruction. I never said I would leave it."
There's a flash of anger in her eyes that assures Loki that she knows he's right.
"The All-Father would not want us to conquer this realm," she snaps.
"Yes, and you have always cared ever so much about what the All-Father thinks." Loki's voice is practically dripping with sarcasm.
Guilt sneaks into her eyes for a brief second before it's gone.
"You cannot bring Thor back," she says, quietly.
"No. But I can honor his name."
A thousand emotions war in her face but she doesn't give voice to any of them. Instead, she shakes her head, turns, and marches after the others. Loki watches her go, the all too familiar sting of rejection threatening to engulf him. He has never had the luxury of relying on Thor's friends before. Still, their eagerness to invade Midgard earlier gave him some small hope that they would stand with him now. But loyalty to Thor has never translated into loyalty to Loki. Why should Thor's death change that?
He sees a flash of dazzling rainbow colors as the Bifrost swallows them up. With an effort, that he makes himself turn away.
"Come," he motions to the soldiers surrounding him, "we have work to do.”
It takes less than twenty-four hours for Midgard to surrender. Loki can’t help but be surprised. He’s been in enough battles (and endured enough of Odin’s never-ending tales of conquest) to know most planets don’t cave with some smooth talk and the flaunting of a, particularly large army. Perhaps, Midgardians really are as weak as he tells them they are. Fury must be an exception.
By the time he slips away to catch his breath and rearrange his thoughts, the sun is setting. He stares into its honey rays, ignoring the way his eyes tear up and his vision smears.
“I did it, Thor,” he whispers into the breeze. “I avenged you.”
He knows it will never be enough.
“You know,” he laughs, harshly, “only a few days ago I thought I could no longer call myself your brother.” He shakes his head. “I was a fool. Frost Giant or not, I can never cease to be your brother.”
If he closes his eyes, he can feel Thor’s hand on his shoulder, see his face lighting up in that hundred-watt grin. He inhales a shaky breath, attempting to stem the flow of emotion he’s held at bay all day.
“Never doubt that I love you.”
The sun is exactly level with his face now, caressing it with its warmth. When he looks down, he can see his shadow, stretching behind him, the horned helmet giving it an ominous demeanor. Soon, he will have to return to Asgard. He will have to give Thor the send-off he deserves. He will have to watch Frigga cry, knowing her tears are his fault. He will have to strategize about how best to rule the realms beneath his control. And when Odin awakes, he will have to face him.
But for now, he has time. Time to grieve before he faces the expectations and responsibilities saddled to the crown. Time to let the brilliant glow that was Thor disappear with the setting sun.
As the darkness closes in, his fingers shimmer with green seidr and he weaves it skillfully. With a flick of the wrist, a thousand tiny lights surround him, lifting off the ground to dance in the air. He watches them levitate higher and higher into the atmosphere; vision blurred by the tears streaming down his cheeks. When they have climbed high enough to meld with the actual stars beginning to dot the sky, he turns away.
“Farewell, Brother. Until we meet again, may the stars guide your way.”