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Hrøkkva

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They are in the air until they are not.

While the bulk of the bridge is shattered and falling to pieces, all Loki can feel under his scratching fingers as he tries to stop his descent is the smoothness of the surface.

There is no traction. No purchase. He is falling.

Thor is falling too, but he will not Fall. He never Falls, so Loki does not think of it.

There is air underneath him and around him and he clings to Gungnir because it is the only thing he can hold onto. There is yelling and noise. He is waiting in such panic to be encompassed by the Nothing that he does not realize when he has stopped.

Past his not-brother is the familiar shape of the tall one that smiled at him softly before Loki even knew what the movement meant, who ruffled his hair and kept his defects and let the realms think Loki was his son.

“Father?” He calls breathless, surprise and relief battling inside him. There is a hopeless sadness in the king’s eye. “I could have done it, father! For you!” He tries to reach up with his other hand, to cling tighter. “I could have done it!”

He is whispering father one last time when the Allfather shakes his head (the smallest of movements) and Loki shatters. Just like the bridge.

“No,” it is a quiet exhale. “Loki.”

His fingers are numb and he doesn’t understand why he should be able to feel tears in his eyes if he’s not real. He feels like he’s falling again, and then he is. By the time he realizes his hand is no longer holding onto the staff he can do nothing about it.

Loki forgets Thor is there until the prince screams his name.

And then it feels nothing.