Thor stumbles into his room and stares at the wall, thinking of everything and nothing.
He let go.
Thor's hands clenches on Mjolnir, clenches so tightly that the knuckles whiten and his bones start to creak in protest, and his jaw tightens until he feels as though he is breaking it.
And he stares at the wall, where there are no lights or patterns that tell of the founding of Asgard; no creatures of wood and hill leering out from nooks and crannies behind the pillars; no maidens being saved by valiant princes (the princes never use a sword, always a hammer, and they always, always glow with gold and red and silver lines); no moving pictures crafted by eager imaginations and deft sorcery.
Thor slowly releases his hold on Mjolnir and his head tilts forward. His hair curtains his face, so that even if someone walks in they will not see his expression.
There is only silence, and blank walls, and the harsh, desperate, incoherent whispers of prayers to unknown beings above Asgard and below Asgard.
Be safe, please be safe. Let me bring him home. Whatever it takes, let him be safe. Let me bring him home to me again. I'll do anything.
Do not go where I cannot find you.