Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Empty Victory
The Snap leaves the universe quiet in a way that feels wrong—too clean, too empty.
When Captain Marvel brings Tony Stark and Nebula home, Thor barely registers it. He is still vibrating with the echo of the axe in his hands; the moment too late, the scream that never came. The Garden changes nothing. Thanos dies without ceremony, without triumph. Thor takes his head, and the thunder does not answer him. There is no rush of justice. Only a deeper hollow.
Before anyone can decide what comes next, Thor turns to Nebula.
“My ship,” he says. His voice is steady, which frightens even him. “The last coordinates of the Statesman.”
Nebula tilts her head, eyes flickering as calculations scroll behind them. “There will be nothing left.”
“There will be something,” Thor answers.
She does not argue. Neither does the Rabbit, though he mutters darkly as he sets a course. Loss recognizes loss.
*** *** ***
The remains of the refugee ship drift like a broken constellation. Twisted metal. Frozen bodies. Shattered remnants of what had once been hope.
Thor steps into the wreckage as if into a grave. His hands—still strong, still capable of summoning storms—tremble as he lifts pieces of scorched hull and weapons that will never be wielded again. They find Asgardians. Too many.
They do not find Loki.
Thor searches longer than the others. Longer than logic allows. He follows instinct, memory, and desperation—each dead end cracking something else inside his chest.
Rocket finally says it, quietly. “Pointy-hair… if he was here, we’d know.”
Thor does not answer.
*** *** ***
The funeral is held beneath an open sky. Wood burns. Names are spoken. Prayers are offered to gods who no longer answer.
Thor stands before the pyres and feels nothing but distance. Asgard’s magic is thinning; he can sense it like breath leaving a dying body. Earth has no memory of the old ways, no true belief in Valhalla. Only fire. Only smoke.
Still, the people believe. So Thor says nothing. If they need Valhalla, he will not take it from them. He gave up believing a long time ago—somewhere between betrayal and forgiveness, between loving his brother and burying him again and again.
When the flames die, all that remains are blackened beams and ash carried away by the wind.
Hollow.
*** *** ***
Time moves forward without asking his permission. Thor does not.
He walks. He sits. He drinks. He remembers. Every choice becomes a question; every memory sharpens into an accusation. He replays moments endlessly: What if I had stayed? What if I had listened? What if I had protected him better?
King. Brother. God. None of the titles mean anything now.
He becomes quieter. Slower. Then louder, sloppier, easier to ignore. The automaton gives way to the drunk, and the drunk to the ghost everyone politely avoids.
Five years pass. Thor barely notices.
Then, one day, someone stands in front of him who should not exist in this shape. Green—but not raging. Massive—but calm. Familiar eyes looking out from an impossible balance.
Thor squints, mug halfway to his lips. “Banner?” he slurs. “Or… the other guy?”
The figure sighs. “It’s both,” Bruce Banner says gently. “We figured it out.”
Thor laughs, a rough, broken sound. “Of course you did.”
Banner doesn’t smile. He looks at Thor the way people do when they’ve already lost someone and are trying to decide whether it’s too late to bring them back.
“We might have a way,” Banner says carefully. “To fix it.”
Thor’s laughter dies. For the first time in years, something stirs beneath the weight of grief. Not hope. But the memory of it.
*** ***
To Be Continued