The first words Thor speaks to him are “Where is the Tesseract?”
A growled demand. The brash, entitled tone Thor took when addressing Laufey on Jotunheim.
Loki bristles and gathers his own words to go to war.
He huffs out an dismissive laugh. “Oh, I missed you, too.”
“Do I look to be in a gaming mood?” Thor’s eyes are a storm and his hammer is raised in a fist that looks like it wants to punch.
How can Thor would even think to say ‘game’? Fury licks up through Loki like an igniting flame and he is punching. Before his mind even reacts his fist cracks against Thor’s jaw and the shockwave travels back down his arm.
He curses himself for reacting before he can craft a strategy.
Thor grabs him by the neck in a choking grip.
“Where is the Tesseract, Loki? What have you done?” He shouts in Loki’s face, so close his breath is tangible in hot gusts.
“What have I done! And there you are, Thor!” Loki hisses. “There is the truth of you. Not, ‘Where were you, Brother? How did you survive?’ but ‘What have you done?’ I am only ever of use to the court of Asgard when I serve your purpose. Well I have found new purpose, Odin’s son.”
Thor looks chastened, eyes wet.
“I thought you dead.” Thor’s grasp on his neck gentles, old gesture Loki knows like his own reflection. He pushes the affection away.
“You thought,” Loki echoes, flatly. He turns head away, the hand on his neck burning him with its mockery of concern.
“Loki, what has happened to you? Where have you been?” He drops Mjolnir, and the short musical hum grates Loki’s ears.
“It matters not. I have been given purpose. I have seen true power, and I—”
“Who showed you this power? Who controls the would-be king?” Thor grabs him by the shoulders now.
“Controls? No one c-controls me,” Loki says, and twists out of Thor’s grip. He’s starting to shake, so he stalks the craggy ground in a circle. “I was and should be king!”
“Not here, Loki. Not like this.” Thor’s voice is soft, conciliatory.
Loki can’t stand it, this gentleness. He’s coming apart. Flashes of the empty rock world come to him. Thin dusty air never refreshing his lungs, sunlight never brightening his eyes, his stomach a churning hollow. Poison his only water and razor whips lashing his back.
He doesn’t realize he’s weeping until the tears grow cooler than his skin.
“Loki, tell me what happened,” Thor pleads from far away.
“No!” Loki says. He turns on the spot and isn’t even seeing Thor as he seeks out the seam in his armor and sinks the knife in.
Thor grunts heavily but doesn’t counter attack. He presses a hand against the wound and reaches out for Loki again. “Brother, please, tell me.”
“Now?” Loki sobs, inching away. “Now you offer solace? In the midst of battle? Where were you then Thor?”
He screams, his hands twisted into claws. “Where were you then!”
Thor catches up to him, and pulls Loki against him, and the fight falls out of him. He slumps against his brother, crying in gulping, heavy sobs. “I needed you. I needed you Thor, and you weren’t there.”
Their shared tears rock them together and eventually they sink to the rocky ground, bloodied hands grasping each other’s necks.
Not one of the real ones, the other. The fake one his father brought with him from
Asgard, the kid with fair hair and fairer skin.
The one that’s now Loki’s same color, because Loki is
a master of magic, and the boy was dying in the harsh winter of Jotunheim.
Loki hates him, because Thor is no giant, just like
him, but no one looks upon him with poorly veiled pity, Thor is not a lithe,
feeble runt. Pure unrestricted thunder flows under his skin, his arms hold a strength
known to no one on Jotunheim.
And Loki hates him, because they should have been
equals, but Thor is so much more in the eyes of their peers, something Loki
will never be, even as the heir of the throne.
Thor is respected not just feared. He’s loved, not just
tolerated.
“Come, brother, night’s upon us already. I’m cold.”
Five thousand years is a long time to be brothers.
They fought, they loved, they swore oaths of hatred and alliance. They always found their way back to each other.
-*-
The first time he noticed, they were lying in bed together. He was combing his brother’s perfect golden hair, considering what braid would cause the most political upheaval, and there it was.
A single grey strand.
He grinned, and considered teasing his brother, but decided to save it up for later use. Thor was so proud of his hair! Loki hoped he greyed early, and had to envy Loki’s dark waves!
-*-
The second time, hundreds of years later, they were in battle.
They were locked together, pushing their blades against each other’s strength, snarling curses. And suddenly Loki noticed signs of aging on Thor’s skin. Not wrinkles, precisely, not yet, but… aging.
He stared into his mirror that night.
Perhaps he did look a bit older himself. Maybe. Well, time passed. Even gods were not immune.
-*-
Thor was grey, but no less mighty, when he stormed in on Loki, in his lab deep under Asgard.
“What are you doing, brother!”
Loki had taken almost half of the golden apple seeds. He needed them. He needed to make something stronger of them.
He shouted at Thor that true immortality could be had. Thor had roared at him to give up such an arrogant ambition; their time passed, as all’s did! They had fought. Loki had been forced to flee.
But he did not give up his goal. Every time he looked in a mirror, he saw again his motivation.
-*-
Asgardians lived five thousand years.
It seemed such a long time. It wasn’t.
Everyone else had been sent away. These last moments were for the brothers alone. Thor lay on his bed, grey and fading. Loki lay his head on his chest, weeping, cursing him.
Young, and vital.
“You can’t. You cannot die. Please, brother! You cannot leave me here! I’ll do terrible things, I will destroy the realms, I swear I will!”
Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. ― Charles Bukowski
Loki is the Philosopher King 
