Chapter Text
Thor stumbled through the grand hallways of the palace, his usually surefooted steps faltering as if the weight of his own armor had doubled. His hands trembled at his sides, despite his best efforts to still them. He rubbed them against the leather of his tunic, but the red clung to his skin, a damning reminder of what had just transpired.
The air felt colder here, away from the thick atmosphere of the courtroom, but Thor could still feel the heat of his father’s piercing stare, the echo of his brother’s strangled cries. That sound... it clawed at his mind like a feral thing, rising again and again no matter how fiercely he tried to banish it. He squeezed his eyes shut as he walked, but the image of Loki’s mangled lips—a grotesque mockery of the smirk they’d once worn—was burned into his vision.
This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.
Thor forced his feet forward, his boots heavy against the marble floors. He needed to find his mother. She would know what to do. She always did. Her wisdom, her warmth—Frigga had always been the light that guided them, the one who could weave broken pieces back together. He clung to that hope now, like a drowning man reaching for the surface.
He turned a corner too sharply, nearly colliding with a servant carrying a tray of dishes. The startled gasp barely registered with him. Thor muttered an apology under his breath, barely audible, before quickening his pace. His heart thundered in his chest.
His mind, traitorous and relentless, flashed back to the courtroom. Loki’s defiance, the venom in his voice even as he stood broken before their father. The guards forcing Loki to his knees. Thor’s hands gripping the arms of his chair, nails digging into the wood, helpless to intervene.
And then—
Thor stopped in his tracks, clutching a nearby pillar to steady himself as the memory threatened to drag him under. The glint of the awl in Asta's hand, the sharp, wet sound of the first stitch piercing flesh—Thor doubled over, bile rising in his throat. His brother’s cries of agony rang in his ears, loud and raw, as if the trial was still unfolding before him.
“No,” Thor whispered harshly, his voice hoarse and barely audible. He slammed a fist against the pillar, the impact jarring enough to pull him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Focus.”
He pushed off the pillar and straightened, inhaling deeply even as his breaths came shaky and uneven. His mother would be in her chambers—or Loki’s, perhaps, attending to him even now. She had to be. She wouldn’t have stood idly by. She couldn’t have.
When he reached Loki’s door, he found a guard stood rigidly at attention, his gaze fixed forward. Thor barely stopped himself from pushing past him. “Let me in,” Thor demanded, his voice low but taut with emotion.
The guard hesitated, his face impassive. “I’m sorry, my prince. You are not permitted.”
Thor blinked, the words not registering at first. He stared at the man, and when no explanation came, anger surged through him. His whole body felt wrong—tight, shaking, as though his fury was seeking escape through his very bones.
“Not permitted?” he repeated, his voice rising. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling with barely contained rage. “This is my brother’s chamber. My brother! You think you can deny me entrance?”
The guard stiffened but said nothing. Thor’s restraint snapped. With a roar, he slammed his fist into the stone wall beside the door. The impact reverberated through the hallway, leaving cracks in the polished surface.
The guard looked back at him, pale and wide-eyed. Just then, the door creaked open. Thor froze as Frigga stepped out, her figure silhouetted against the dim light spilling from within. She shut the door gently behind her, her hands lingering on the ornate, golden handle as if reluctant to let it go. She whispered something to the guard, and he nodded before disappearing down the hall. When she turned to face him, Thor’s heart sank.
Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale and drawn. Tears still glistened on her cheeks, the kind she hadn’t bothered to wipe away. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“You shouldn’t be here, Thor,” Frigga said softly, her voice hoarse with grief.
Thor’s breath caught. His chest tightened as her words hit him like a blow. She blames me. The thought struck him with a force that left him staggering. Of course, she did. How could she not? His hands fell to his sides, and he caught sight of the blood still smeared across his skin. Loki’s blood. He stared at it, unable to tear his eyes away.
“I—” His voice faltered. He wanted to explain, to say something, anything, but his words stuck in his throat. The memory was too loud, too vivid. His hands, holding Loki’s head in place, his brother’s body jerking beneath him. The coppery scent of blood had filled the air, so much of it—
“Thor.”
His mother’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, and then her hand was on his cheek. He flinched, startled, but her hand didn’t move.
“Thor,” she repeated, her voice steadier now. “This was not your fault.”
Thor wanted to believe her, and for a fleeting moment, he did. But the weight in his chest told him otherwise. He shook his head, averting his gaze, but Frigga’s hand guided his face back toward hers.
“Darling,” she said, her eyes locking with his, “listen to my words. You are not to blame.”
Thor swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that he did blame himself. But the words wouldn’t come.
“Loki is still unconscious,” Frigga continued, lowering her hand at last. “When he wakes, he’ll likely be frightened and disoriented. I don’t want anything—or anyone—to make it worse.”
The way she said it was careful, without accusation, but Thor heard what she didn’t say. He took a step back, the implication striking him like a physical blow. She means me.
Thor’s gaze dropped again, and the blood on his hands seemed to burn against his skin. He saw it clearly—how Loki had thrashed, how his wide, tear-filled eyes had met his, silently pleading, and he had done nothing. No, worse—he had helped.
Frigga’s voice softened, drawing him from his torment. “He needs time, Thor. Time to heal, to feel safe again. We’ll find a way forward, but for now...” She hesitated, her expression pained. “For now, he needs rest. And you need to forgive yourself.”
Thor’s jaw clenched, the words hanging heavy in the air between them. He nodded stiffly, though he wasn’t sure he could do what she asked.
“Where—” Thor’s voice cracked, raw and gravelly, as though the words themselves were scraping against the walls of his throat. “Where did you go? During the trial. I looked for you, but…”
Frigga closed her eyes, her face twisting with a pain that seemed to deepen every line and shadow. She exhaled shakily and shook her head. “Forgive me,” she whispered, her voice breaking like fragile glass. “I should have been there for you—for both of you—but I…”
Her words faltered, swallowed by the weight of her grief. Tears spilled over, carving fresh paths down her already tear-streaked cheeks. “I couldn’t bear to watch,” she admitted at last, her voice barely audible. “There was nothing I could do to stop it. I tried. I tried everything, but your father…” Her voice caught, and she pressed her trembling fingers to her lips as if to hold back a sob.
Thor didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. She, who had always seemed so strong, so unshakable, now felt light and fragile in his embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured against his chest, her words muffled as she buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m so sorry…”
“Shh,” Thor whispered, his voice thick but steady as he rested his chin on the crown of her head. He began to rub slow, soothing circles on her back, the way she had done for him so many times when he was a child. It felt instinctive, grounding, though it did little to ease the ache in his chest.
Frigga clung to him, her grief pouring out in unrestrained sobs. Thor held her tighter, as though his arms alone could shield her from the pain that consumed them both. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to let go of the weight of his own sorrow—if only for this moment—and focused entirely on her.
The hallway was silent but for her weeping, the sound reverberating softly against the walls. And Thor, steady as the pillar she had always been for him, held her until her sobs began to wane, her breathing gradually evening out.
Even then, he didn’t let go.
The marble floor of the courtroom was soft and smooth against his skin, cradling him gently as he sunk into it.
No, that couldn’t be right.
Loki shifted slightly. There was something on top of him, heavy and soothing. Silk. The smell of down feathers and chamomile. His blankets. His bed. He was in his bed. Relief washed over him like a tide.
It was a nightmare. It was only a nightmare.
Loki’s eyes fluttered open, slowly and cautiously, the haze of sleep still clouding his mind. Shapes began to take form as his gaze wandered over the familiar details of his chamber. The tall bookshelves loomed against the far wall, crammed with leather-bound tomes that whispered of stolen hours spent lost in their pages. The flickering candlelight cast uneven shadows across his writing desk, cluttered with bottles of ink and scattered parchment. Heavy green curtains draped the windows, the fabric catching no light save for the faintest glimmer of twilight.
Twilight?
Loki furrowed his brow, his mind struggling to reconcile the quiet darkness with the morning he expected. A storm, perhaps—that had to be it. The clouds must be choking out the sun. He shifted to sit up, the silk blanket pooling around him like water, but the soft weight of a hand on his shoulder stilled him.
“Careful,” a voice murmured, calm yet firm. Loki turned his head, the motion sluggish, and found a man seated beside his bed. Auburn hair tied back in a neat braid framed his face, his white robes spotless and crisp. He smelled of soap and fresh linens. A healer.
Loki blinked at him, confusion knotting in his chest. Why was there a healer by his bedside? Had he fallen ill? He was about to ask, his lips already forming the question, when sharp pain jolted through him. It was as though fire had ignited at the corners of his mouth, burning and pulling. Instinctively, his hand shot up to his lips, brushing against swollen flesh and—
Stitches.
Loki froze.
No.
The room around him seemed to collapse inward, the walls pressing closer with each shallow breath. The edges of Loki’s vision darkened and blurred as his trembling fingers traced the threads binding his lips. His chest tightened painfully, and he couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? His heart pounded against his ribs, erratic and deafening, drowning out the healer’s calm, steady voice beside him. Loki barely heard it, barely registered the presence of another. His thoughts fractured, splintering into jagged shards of memory that pierced his mind.
The trial. Odin’s booming voice. The awl biting into his skin, the unrelenting pull of the thread as it pierced and dragged through his lips. The taste of copper flooding his mouth, choking him as his screams dissolved into silence.
It hadn’t been a nightmare.
His fingers trembled as they pressed against his lips again, the pain anchoring him to the truth. The healer moved to stop him, catching his wrist with a gentle yet firm grip, but Loki barely registered it. The room spun, the faint light smearing into blurred streaks. He couldn’t breathe. He felt the threads pull taut against his lips as he gasped for air, the sharp tug burning like the fires of Muspelheim.
Hands pressed heavy on his shoulders, and he realized someone was speaking again. It was a different voice than before—a woman’s voice. Vanilla and almond blossoms. Her cool hand pressed against his forehead, but Loki barely noticed the touch; he was sinking.
A strange sensation swept over him—heavy, like a thick veil being drawn over his mind. The panic ebbed, the edges of the room softening. He blinked sluggishly, his vision swimming. Something hot and wet ran down his cheeks.
And then nothing.
His body slackened and everything slipped away.