In all his many years, the stars of the [i]Yggdrasill[/i] had never seemed so cold. As a child, he had turned his gaze towards them, certain of his place among them. He would be King of Asgard, protector of the nine realms, and stand tall among those burning stars. It had been a truth as sure as the blood in his veins On every battlefield, he had known that he was fated for glory, that lightning was born of stars and dust and that he was a colossus in the guise of flesh and blood.

Now, Thor turned his gaze skyward and knew how very small he was. The stars burned like ice, infinite and remote, and there was no dust in his veins. How frail he was, standing on the edge of the shattered Bifröst Bridge, so close to being swallowed by the cosmos. Falling would be such a quiet thing, like the space between breaths, like the shift when a hand let go to float down, down, [i]down[/i] into the cosmos. 

Somewhere in the spill of stars, in the infinite, a brother’s body whispered through the void, an almost lover searched for truth, and worlds turned, uncaring, relentless in their march.

“Brooding is a poor look upon you,” cut through the silence of the stars. Thor inclined his head towards the interruption, lips curving into a humorless smile. Fandral’s footsteps echoed across the ruins of the bridge. The reed of a man drew to a halt at his side, looking out into the vastness of the heavens, gripping his belt. Thor offered a huff of laughter.

“I do not brood, my friend. I am merely thinking,” he remarked, fixing his gaze on the point where the Bifröst once stood. Fandral’s lips quirked into a grin, laughter rippling through his voice.

“Never in my wildest fever dreams did I think I would witness the mighty Thor reduced to [i]thinking[/i]. We should have exiled you centuries ago,” Fandral quipped. His light hand reached out, clapping Thor firmly on the shoulder. The larger man chuckled, shaking his head. They turned away from the infinite, falling into step towards the towering glory of Asgard.

“You are not wrong—although I suspect I should be wounded that you were so fond of my exile,” Thor returned. Behind them, the stars glittered, but Asgard shone before them. As a child, he had been eager to turn his gaze skyward, to dream of bigger things beyond his home. Midgard, frail and small, had reminded him of the splendor in the earth beneath his feet, the wonder of the air in his lungs. He had lost so much journeying through the stars; and he had found so much when he’d finally made his way home.

“It was quite the reprieve,” Fandral’s shoulders shrugged as they walked towards a curving street, along childhood paths long since memorized. “But I suspect I would have eventually gone mad without our bumbling misadventures to pass the time. As wonderful as it was to [i]not[/i] be stabbed for a spell, we would be lost without your nose for trouble.”

“For that, I am grateful,” Thor’s laugh was not thunderous, but it was warm, and Fandral seemed pleased by the sound. They wound through familiar streets, greeting faces both old and new, in companionable idleness. The palace loomed ever higher, and the lines across Thor’s brow deepened when its shadows landed across their faces. 

“We have not yet celebrated your return,” Fandral remarked simply, an unspoken question lingering in the air between them. “We should sing of your triumphs.”

Triumphs, Fandral said, as if the Nine Realms had not been ripped apart only days ago—as if there were triumphs worth celebrating with his shadow empty and the stars so cold. Fandral arched a golden brow, amusement playing across his face.

“You are brooding again,” he informed Thor, “Come. Those thoughts will hold for a few hours while we welcome you home. With any luck, Volstagg will have left food and drink for us.”

“Unlikely,” Thor remarked, but followed Fandral deep into the palace. [i]Earth and air[/i], he reminded himself, [i]home[/i]. They swept down the lazy spirals of staircases, deep into the palace, into the chamber where they had celebrated so many times before. The last time they had stood here, he’d had a brother in his shadow and fury in his veins. He mourned their loss, and yet—and yet this felt more like home than it ever had before. Asgard was here, present and [i]real[/i] and warmer than any story of glory or towering star. Here, with his merry band of misfits, far from the battlefield, with tables heavy with a feast, he was home.


“The man of the hour!” Volstagg’s voice erupted from behind a mountain of food at the head of a table. A wide grin crossed Thor’s face as his old, and most enthusiastic friend, leapt up. They embraced with heavy claps on the back. Fandral’s steps were light, his smirk smug as he inclined his head towards Hogun. 

“I take [i]great[/i] delight in reminding you that I told you so,” Fandral grinned, weathering Hogun’s withering look with fiendish glee. 

“You are insufferable,” Hogun deadpanned. Thor laughed and they exchanged warm greetings, his gaze scouring the room.

“Is the Lady Sif not joining us?” He questioned, brow furrowing.

“Business with Heimdall,” Hogun informed him simply, “She will not be delayed long, we hope.”

“And now,” Volstagg cried, voice echoing through the chamber, its timbre merry “We feast!”