Never Ever?

He will betray you.

He will try.

Thor hated that he could not trust his brother. Being on guard instead of simply on an adventure, even if it was an adventure of revenge, was not something he liked. He wanted instead to fight beside him, trusting that Loki would always have his back, protecting his physically weaker brother when he got in trouble. Protecting. He liked having someone to protect.

And yet here they were, travelling to Svartalfheim together in what should have been a mission of vengeance for two tightly bonded brothers, and he could not trust the man beside him.

But he had to, at least for a little while. And in that little while, everything changed.

Loki lay dying, clutching at Thor, begging forgiveness with the few words he could utter. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Thor held him, looked into his eyes as the light in them faded, hoping that wherever he went after death, he found peace. Then Jane reminded him that he had something else he had to do. A world to save. All he could think of was that he could not save his own brother, what could he do to save a world?

He had to keep moving, but the promise he made years ago to a very small child echoed in his mind and he could not shake the fact that he was breaking it by walking away.

Loki had still been quite young and had fallen ill. Trembling and feverish, he huddled under the blankets, crying, scared that he would never get well. Thor brought him soup and sat with him. The disease had baffled their healers, confused because it wasn't anything they had seen before. It was their mother who had suggested that perhaps it was something that they would not be ill from, but one born of Jotunheim could easily catch. Loki did not know these things- he only knew that his big brother told him that he would not pass the disease on. They ate together nearly every day. On this particular day, though, Loki had been unable to sit up to eat and Thor had gently picked him up, held him on his lap, and fed him the hot broth little by little, his touch a comfort to the frightened child huddled against him. Thor tucked him back in bed when the soup was finished and kissed his forehead. As he turned to go, Loki called out to him. Please don't leave me. Thor had stopped and returned to his bedside. He took a leather bracelet from his wrist and gently wrapped it twice around his brother's slender arm. I promise you, Loki,I will never leave you. Even if I have to go away for a little while, I hope this will remind you that I am always right here with you. Loki touched the small gold disc in the middle of the leather straps, tracing his fingers along the elaborate knot-work. Never ever? Thor had smiled and bent down to hug his little brother. That's right, Loki. Never ever.

Walking away from Loki in Svartalfheim was leaving him. He had to, of course, and it wasn't as though his body was going anywhere. He could come back for Loki later, but some part of that memory nagged at Thor as he heard that young voice asking Never ever? He shook his head to break the thoughts free, focusing on Malekith. A double revenge, now- not saving the universe and all the realms, it had nothing to do with Midgard. This was now entirely about revenge. Revenge for Frigga's death. Revenge for Loki's death. Half his family dead.

Loki lay on the cold ground, dying quickly, as he heard Thor walk away. Of course, Thor thought he was dead, but Loki still felt heartbreak as he thought about dying entirely alone. Breathing had nearly stopped. His eyes no longer saw, but his ears, those still seemed to pick up on little sounds here and then. And then he was left with only memory and thought. He left me. I still need him and he left me. If he could have, he would likely have cried. Instead, he struggled to fight against the urge to live, knowing that death was far easier, far simpler, and would hurt a lot less.

But it was still there. That feeling that he was alone. That the one person living who he longed to have cradling him as he died was leaving and had a greater mission, something more important to do, than to hold him as though he was still a child as he died.

And then Loki heard a voice. A delightfully beautiful voice that he knew so well. Mother? The voice responded, enveloping him in warmth. Yes, my son. Lay still. It's almost over. Loki sighed, but wondered how he could ever join her. He was not one of the valiant dead, an honoured soldier who would join the ranks of those who feasted and laughed for eternity. No. He would join those who died disgraced, who had committed atrocities and lived to cause pain. No, it won't be, will it? I can't join you. The voice was pained when it responded. No. You won't. I wish you could, but you have caused so much pain. He was starting to lose focus, to feel something tugging at his soul that would rip it from his body and tear him away from her yet again. Then send me back. Please. I beg you, if you ever loved me as your son, don't send me there. Silence. So much silence as he fought the pull, struggling to stay where he was, at least, instead of going to wherever the wicked of Jotunheim landed after their deaths.

Then undo what you have done. Make it so you can sit beside me when you join us here. And suddenly, he could hear the wind and the tugging subsided. He felt pain. Shooting pain. His skin regained sensation and the wind blew his hair and whipped dust in his face. His eyes opened last and the dim sky of Svartalfheim seemed unkindly bright after the darkness of death.

Loki sat up. He sat up, looked around, and placed his head in his hands. He left me. He promised never ever to leave me. The cold of the little gold disc on his wrist stung, having taken on the cold of the air as the warmth of his body had faded. The small child's voice in his head was devastated by this, pained, fighting back tears as an older voice, the voice of Odin, scolded him for the time when he clutched Thor's shirt to his chest every night while Thor was away at war. Loki slipped his fingers under the leather strap and considered tearing it from his wrist, casting it aside as a symbol of something else that had died in Svartalfheim, but he could not. No matter how much he hated Thor, there was still part of him that wanted to run after him, tell him to wait, beg him not to leave him. And while a different part was disgusted by this need, Loki still could not bring himself to completely sever ties, somehow hoping that he could reveal his survival and fall into Thor's arms, safe, warm, and kind, hoping he could go back to how things were before. It was Odin he blamed for his pain and rejection, not Thor.

Odin. Odin who hated him, Odin who wanted to kill him. Odin who collected him as just another relic, willing to use him as political leverage when the time was right. For a moment, Loki's rage rose, but he calmed himself to think of a plan. It was quite convenient that Thor thought him dead. Death meant that a master of illusion could move freely in whatever form he could conjure, and no one would suspect him in the least. With that, he realised that he had a chance. Frigga's gift presented him with an opportunity for both revenge and redemption. The throne of Asgard. If he could empty it, if he could imitate his father well enough, he could sit on it and no one would be the wiser.

Loki broke into a grin as he slowly sat up, every bone in his body burning in pain. He was still bleeding profusely, but with a little magic, he could make himself hurt at least a little less and reduce his chance of entirely emptying his veins on to the soil. Standing took more time, more pauses, and was incredibly painful. He sighed and straightened his clothing the best he could, hoping he could repair his garments so he could focus his energy on the other magic he wanted to perform- the illusion of being Odin. First, though, he had to gain Odin's trust. He took a deep breath, stood up tall, and shifted his shape. Even then, everything hurt, but between shapeshifting and illusion, the magic would get him where he needed to be. All he had to do was play the part.