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Visitation ((Prose, nexus_crossings))
Jan. 22nd, 2019 08:26 pmSleep does not come easily, after the end of the world. All of the remaining Avengers are avoiding it, opting instead to walk around like undead themselves, while the ashes settle. While the news reports begin to tabulate the dead, get lost in the mounting toll, and finally give up, collapsing under the weight of the horror. Half. Half. Half.
There’s a lot of work to do, and Thor is in better shape than most to do it, but in time, even he succumbs to a need to rest. Even gods such as he require food and sleep.
He sinks into a plane of merciful darkness, but his dreams do not remain undisturbed for long. There’s a familiar voice, whispering, then calling his name.
Thor? Thor...Brother...
When Loki’s face swims into view, it’s ghastly. The skin is cobalt, the eyes red, and the tears streaking his face are red, too. He’s quietly crying blood, watching Thor with a distant, pained, knowing look. Belatedly, Thor realizes he’s looking at his brother’s Jotun shape, but that makes the image no more comforting, especially when he sees the awkward angle of his neck, the black bruises and edges of crushed bone.
Did you mourn? Loki asks.
“Loki?” His horror turns to sorrow, and then pity. Dream-Thor reaches out for his brother, but he seems to be just out of reach.
Loki reaches back, though, slender blue fingers and black nails not quite touching Thor’s.
Did you?
“Of course I did,” Thor tells him. “I haven’t stopped.”
The tears of blood pour faster, and Loki’s face contorts with emotion. I’m sorry, he says.
And then he’s close against him, arms curled around himself as if in self-defense, head resting against Thor’s chest. They’re both covered in red, and Loki feels uncannily cold, but Thor grips him anyway, taking the embrace he’s certain Loki would never have allowed him in life. Maybe this is just a dream and not a visitation, but just in case he holds on tight and braces himself against Loki’s sobs--actual weeping, now, blood and salt, and each hitch of his breath hits Thor like a wave of physical pain.
There are so many things he could be saying.
Did you mourn? Loki asks again. And then again, did you mourn?
He asked the question with a sneer, before. As if he thought he knew the answer and that the answer must be ‘no’, and Thor never did understand how Loki could think he would throw away centuries of affection like it was nothing. His heritage didn’t change that. The shade of his eyes and skin could not change that.
It’s a different question this time. Emotional, desperate, lost. This time, rather than expecting a ‘no’, it seems like Loki needs to hear a ‘yes’.
And just in case this is a visitation, and not a dream, Thor gives him that. “I mourn you, Loki.”
Loki is quiet then, except for soft sobs. The tears of blood cooling on his skin make Thor shiver. But the darkness around him is warm, and welcoming, and gentle, and slowly the vision begins to fade.
He holds on to the last. His sleep afterward is as deep and as healing as anything could be in these circumstances.
In the morning his pillow glitters with clear tears frozen into rivulets of frost.
Far away in time and space and thought, cradled in the roots of a barren tree in a Nexus of worlds, Loki opens his eyes, and sits up. The snow piled around him is stained with droplets of red.
There’s a lot of work to do, and Thor is in better shape than most to do it, but in time, even he succumbs to a need to rest. Even gods such as he require food and sleep.
He sinks into a plane of merciful darkness, but his dreams do not remain undisturbed for long. There’s a familiar voice, whispering, then calling his name.
Thor? Thor...Brother...
When Loki’s face swims into view, it’s ghastly. The skin is cobalt, the eyes red, and the tears streaking his face are red, too. He’s quietly crying blood, watching Thor with a distant, pained, knowing look. Belatedly, Thor realizes he’s looking at his brother’s Jotun shape, but that makes the image no more comforting, especially when he sees the awkward angle of his neck, the black bruises and edges of crushed bone.
Did you mourn? Loki asks.
“Loki?” His horror turns to sorrow, and then pity. Dream-Thor reaches out for his brother, but he seems to be just out of reach.
Loki reaches back, though, slender blue fingers and black nails not quite touching Thor’s.
Did you?
“Of course I did,” Thor tells him. “I haven’t stopped.”
The tears of blood pour faster, and Loki’s face contorts with emotion. I’m sorry, he says.
And then he’s close against him, arms curled around himself as if in self-defense, head resting against Thor’s chest. They’re both covered in red, and Loki feels uncannily cold, but Thor grips him anyway, taking the embrace he’s certain Loki would never have allowed him in life. Maybe this is just a dream and not a visitation, but just in case he holds on tight and braces himself against Loki’s sobs--actual weeping, now, blood and salt, and each hitch of his breath hits Thor like a wave of physical pain.
There are so many things he could be saying.
Did you mourn? Loki asks again. And then again, did you mourn?
He asked the question with a sneer, before. As if he thought he knew the answer and that the answer must be ‘no’, and Thor never did understand how Loki could think he would throw away centuries of affection like it was nothing. His heritage didn’t change that. The shade of his eyes and skin could not change that.
It’s a different question this time. Emotional, desperate, lost. This time, rather than expecting a ‘no’, it seems like Loki needs to hear a ‘yes’.
And just in case this is a visitation, and not a dream, Thor gives him that. “I mourn you, Loki.”
Loki is quiet then, except for soft sobs. The tears of blood cooling on his skin make Thor shiver. But the darkness around him is warm, and welcoming, and gentle, and slowly the vision begins to fade.
He holds on to the last. His sleep afterward is as deep and as healing as anything could be in these circumstances.
In the morning his pillow glitters with clear tears frozen into rivulets of frost.
Far away in time and space and thought, cradled in the roots of a barren tree in a Nexus of worlds, Loki opens his eyes, and sits up. The snow piled around him is stained with droplets of red.