skiesovergideon: …and he misses her…the...

…and he misses her…the mortal

What Hope Feels Like

She stumbles upon him in the tallest tower with a balcony facing the ruins of the Bifrost. His white-knuckled hands clench the railing, and wind combs through his hair with angry fingers. It tugs at his cloak, making the red fabric ripple in the breeze. The distant sound of thunder rolls comes from over the mountains, and she presses her lips together, concerned.

“Mother,” he says when she approaches, and she notices immediately then tension that goes out of his shoulders. His fingers around the rail loosen, and he slouches. But only slightly. “I hoped I’d find you here.”

She lifts a brow and gives him a wry smile. “You know I come here often to think.”

“It… seems a good place for it.”

She murmurs her agreement and shifts to stand at his side. There is longing in his eyes, a great and terrible sadness. With Loki, she wouldn’t pry. She would stand at his side and wait for him to speak. But Thor is nothing like Loki, so she leans heavily against his side, wrapping her arms around his waist. His hand settles on her shoulder, warm and sturdy.

The wind wails, and brings with it the scent of rain.

“What was it like on Midgard?” she asks.

He bites back a laugh. “Truly, Mother? It was awful. It was so strange.” He hesitates a moment, and she nudges against him, bumping his leg with her hip.

“You can’t stop there,” she tells him.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning, perhaps. Most stories are best started there.”

He scowls at her, but there is a smile in his eyes, and so she laughs and smiles back. As rain begins to fall, the little droplets bursting on their hair and clothes and the balcony all around them, he recounts his journey. He is no storyteller, but what he lacks in skill he makes up for in enthusiasm, as he always has.

Pulling away from her, he dramatically reenacts the effect of the mortal Darcy’s taser weapon, dropping to the ground and twitching. “—actually hurt!” he exclaims from the ground before leaping to his feet. He describes Darcy’s dry humor and wit, her love for some mortal device called an iPod.

He tells her about mortal medicine – “Needles, Mother!” he exclaims, and she, too, is aghast at the barbarism. It takes all her effort to follow the rest of the story, as he jumps between telling her about people and the fights he found himself in, but she listens attentively as he builds a picture of friendship.

In the end, she thinks, that what it was about: friendship.

And then, finally, he tells her about Jane. They are sitting on the balcony in the rain, soaked to their skin, cross-legged and casual with no pretense of formality. In the rain, she is not a queen and he is not a prince. He is her son, and she is his mother.

With open, generous expressions, his face animated like she has not seen it in hundreds of years, he describes Jane. Focused, driven Jane, a woman who was – is, he corrects himself – so sure of herself that she will do whatever it takes to prove her theories. She showed compassion to a man who had nothing, who must have seemed insane, giving him a home and a place on her world. Brave Jane, who ran to him when he fell, who flew with him over Midgard’s deserts. Wonderfully smart and brilliant Jane, a woman who listened to him explain Asgardian cosmology when surely she thought him touched.

His eyes are soft, gentle, when he speaks, his smile small but still there. There is a distance in his voice; he is back on Midgard, with her, as he recounts his tale.

Frigga listens with rapt attention, far more interested in this single, mortal woman than all of Thor’s adventures.

“And now she’s gone,” he finishes, the light going out of his eyes. He drops his chin and drags a hand over his wet hair.

Reaching out, Frigga catches his wrist and wraps her hands around his. “No,” she says. “She will find you.”

Thor’s lips pull into a small smile. “Perhaps.”

Frigga tsks at him and rises, tugging him to his feet. “It’s alright to miss her, you know.”

“I barely knew her,” he reminds her, in a moment of clarity she doesn’t always expect from her oldest son.

She considers this for a moment and then says, quietly, “You saw her at her best and she saw you at your worst.” He winces. “And yet she cared for you anyway. That says something remarkable about her character. Don’t waste what you’ve been given, Thor. Find a way back to her.”

He gives her a weary nod and pulls away, leaving her in the rain. But they do not part in sadness. Frigga clasps her hands to her chest, unable to suppress the strong feeling rising there. Asgard is a static place, unchanging.

For the first time in years, something has changed.

She tips her face back to feel the wash of rain over her skin. This, she thinks to herself, is what hope feels like.

Ask and you shall recieve. I love everything about this.

(Source: bloodydeath11)

skiesovergideon:

…and he misses her…the mortal

What Hope Feels Like

She stumbles upon him in the tallest tower with a balcony facing the ruins of the Bifrost. His white-knuckled hands clench the railing, and wind combs through his hair with angry fingers. It tugs at his cloak, making the red fabric ripple in the breeze. The distant sound of thunder rolls comes from over the mountains, and she presses her lips together, concerned.

“Mother,” he says when she approaches, and she notices immediately then tension that goes out of his shoulders. His fingers around the rail loosen, and he slouches. But only slightly. “I hoped I’d find you here.”

She lifts a brow and gives him a wry smile. “You know I come here often to think.”

“It… seems a good place for it.”

She murmurs her agreement and shifts to stand at his side. There is longing in his eyes, a great and terrible sadness. With Loki, she wouldn’t pry. She would stand at his side and wait for him to speak. But Thor is nothing like Loki, so she leans heavily against his side, wrapping her arms around his waist. His hand settles on her shoulder, warm and sturdy.

The wind wails, and brings with it the scent of rain.

“What was it like on Midgard?” she asks.

He bites back a laugh. “Truly, Mother? It was awful. It was so strange.” He hesitates a moment, and she nudges against him, bumping his leg with her hip.

“You can’t stop there,” she tells him.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning, perhaps. Most stories are best started there.”

He scowls at her, but there is a smile in his eyes, and so she laughs and smiles back. As rain begins to fall, the little droplets bursting on their hair and clothes and the balcony all around them, he recounts his journey. He is no storyteller, but what he lacks in skill he makes up for in enthusiasm, as he always has.

Pulling away from her, he dramatically reenacts the effect of the mortal Darcy’s taser weapon, dropping to the ground and twitching. “—actually hurt!” he exclaims from the ground before leaping to his feet. He describes Darcy’s dry humor and wit, her love for some mortal device called an iPod.

He tells her about mortal medicine – “Needles, Mother!” he exclaims, and she, too, is aghast at the barbarism. It takes all her effort to follow the rest of the story, as he jumps between telling her about people and the fights he found himself in, but she listens attentively as he builds a picture of friendship.

In the end, she thinks, that what it was about: friendship.

And then, finally, he tells her about Jane. They are sitting on the balcony in the rain, soaked to their skin, cross-legged and casual with no pretense of formality. In the rain, she is not a queen and he is not a prince. He is her son, and she is his mother.

With open, generous expressions, his face animated like she has not seen it in hundreds of years, he describes Jane. Focused, driven Jane, a woman who was – is, he corrects himself – so sure of herself that she will do whatever it takes to prove her theories. She showed compassion to a man who had nothing, who must have seemed insane, giving him a home and a place on her world. Brave Jane, who ran to him when he fell, who flew with him over Midgard’s deserts. Wonderfully smart and brilliant Jane, a woman who listened to him explain Asgardian cosmology when surely she thought him touched.

His eyes are soft, gentle, when he speaks, his smile small but still there. There is a distance in his voice; he is back on Midgard, with her, as he recounts his tale.

Frigga listens with rapt attention, far more interested in this single, mortal woman than all of Thor’s adventures.

“And now she’s gone,” he finishes, the light going out of his eyes. He drops his chin and drags a hand over his wet hair.

Reaching out, Frigga catches his wrist and wraps her hands around his. “No,” she says. “She will find you.”

Thor’s lips pull into a small smile. “Perhaps.”

Frigga tsks at him and rises, tugging him to his feet. “It’s alright to miss her, you know.”

“I barely knew her,” he reminds her, in a moment of clarity she doesn’t always expect from her oldest son.

She considers this for a moment and then says, quietly, “You saw her at her best and she saw you at your worst.” He winces. “And yet she cared for you anyway. That says something remarkable about her character. Don’t waste what you’ve been given, Thor. Find a way back to her.”

He gives her a weary nod and pulls away, leaving her in the rain. But they do not part in sadness. Frigga clasps her hands to her chest, unable to suppress the strong feeling rising there. Asgard is a static place, unchanging.

For the first time in years, something has changed.

She tips her face back to feel the wash of rain over her skin. This, she thinks to herself, is what hope feels like.