Summer Clouds

A long time

A/N: I couldn't think of an appropriate title for this- I actually changed it six times. If you can think of one, I will be eternally grateful. I was thinking along the lines of something depressing, but with the word Summer in? What do you think of Summer Clouds? And now... To der Stori

Savannah's POV:

It was as if the skies themselves were mocking her. The day was sunny, and bright, and warm, but inside Savannah felt cold, and alone. And hollow. Like someone had sucked the light out of her soul, the life out of her bones, and the hope from her eyes. She was empty, and her eyes were no longer the window to her soul, but an unfathomable vacuum.

Thor had returned from Asgard, furious with Odin, because the Allfather had refused to let him see his brother. He had brooded in his room for a while, two weeks at the least, and the weather outside the Tower reflected his ... stormy mood. And that was fine with her. But then Natasha had gone and convinced him to spend some time with Jane. The clouds had gone away almost immediately, the sun shining benevolently, and pissing Savannah off. That was rare. It was unusual for her to feel any emotion now, except for regret, and an overwhelming  sense of loss.

But she couldn't take the nothingness any more, and so she drew. The drawings took up one sketchbook, after another, until she was buying one every other day. And although she had tried to keep them as positive as possible, each new page showcasing Loki's mischievousness, or his smile when he'd tricked her into saying something she didn't mean, or, her personal favourite, his blush. Except, she drew what was on her mind, and all that she could think about was Loki.

In pain.

In a way, it was worse than when she had thought Thanos had him. This time, she knew, without a doubt, that the man who Loki had called 'Father' for most of his life had sentenced him to death, in the most violent way conceivable, without so much as a trial. She didn't know much about Asgardian Justice, but it didn't sound very just. And so she drew him. Anyone who saw her sketchbooks would probably refer her to their local psychiatrist, but the sketches weren't horrible distortions of her imagination, but rather things that had actually happened to him.

And some that hadn't.

Ones where Loki is in a stone oven, his Jotunn form exposed, and his royal blue skin blistering and peeling. Where his organs are pulled out, like Prometheus', and burnt in front of him. Where his fingernails are ripped off, one by one.

And the thing is, she knows that the Aesir have lived a long, long time.

And they probably know a thing or two about torture.