Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2020-03-15 12:20 pm
pirateangelbaby) wrote2020-03-15 12:20 pm
In Trees and Men Good Timbers Grow
The trunk of the tree glimmers with rainbow-swathed stars, a great nebulous pillar that rises nearly beyond the range of sight as it towers overhead, branches stretching from horizon to horizon. Seven jeweled orbs float among the leaves, spinning serenely beneath the glow of their suns, and if he squints he can make out the shapes of continents and seas on their surfaces. One limb is burned to cinders, blackened scars tracing down the length of the trunk, droplets of melted gold hung suspended amidst the char. Another is cold and dark, interlocking rings encased in ice like a fruit frozen on the vine.
A great pool beneath arched roots lies before him, its waters still as a mirror, reflecting the orange glow of a blazing funeral boat at its center, its prow draped high with golden silks bearing the triquetra of Odin's house. He is too distant to see a body, shrouded or not, the flames roaring silently skyward in a pyre fit for a king, bright sparks drifting on unseen winds as they climb the branches of the cosmic tree.
Three figures stand on the quiet shore. Thor would know them anywhere, and his heart aches in his chest, his throat closing with unshed tears as he approaches, long grasses swishing against his armored legs, the weight of a winged crown resting on his brow, his cape tattered and pinned at his hip.
Heimdall stands as strong and tall as he did in life, the golden sentinel whose eyes watched over Asgard and its protectorates for thousands of years, the shattered hilt of Hofund in his hands as if the blade was still whole and battle-ready. "Thor Odinson," he intones, warmth in his deep voice as he gazes upon his king. "Do you swear to guard the Nine Realms?"
Thor had been swift to answer once before, without a single moment of reflection on what those words would actually mean. He's done so little for the other Realms since the fall of Asgard, barely able to cope with the demands of the survivors and his own infirmity, not even when the shockwaves of the Mad Titan's victory had culled their populations and left them wanting, save for one small visit. He has no excuse for his neglect since, none but his own cowardice, and for a moment he opens his mouth to say so. But Heimdall's golden gaze is proud, and full of a gentleness rarely seen from the watchman.
He may have failed them, just like he failed everyone else. But it does not have to always be so.
"I swear," Thor murmurs.
A hand claps down on his shoulder, warm and friendly, and Thor raises his gaze to look into the eyes of Volstagg, a tankard grasped in the man's other hand. "Thor Odinson," his friend greets him, a smile on his lips. "Do you swear to preserve the peace?"
Peace... Thor had once craved war, the rush of battle and fire and blood, glorying in the enemies that fell before him. He had counted his victories by the bodies left behind, and thought himself invincible, truly a god as humans thought. But now... now he counts his victories in lives, in those left behind to build anew. Hela's domain was death, a perfect weapon crafted to slaughter millions without a single regret, a reaper of men with no regard for good or ill. But Thor... Thor was born to be her opposite. A god of life, and of balance, plucking weeds and paring away rot so that new healthy growth can flourish.
A weapon to destroy, or a tool to build.
Thor would readily pick up his axe in defense of others, even now, and use every tool he has to bring an end to the conflict, whether by word or by sword. But he no longer thirsts for it, seeking enemies where there need be none, intent on his own glorification through bloodshed. Now he finds fulfillment in rich brown earth and teeming fish-filled seas, and in the cries of new infants who will never know the horrors of Ragnarok and Thanos' culling, except in stories told by their elders.
"I swear."
"Thor Odinson," the final figure says, and Thor nearly weeps at the sight of green leather and golden horns, his brother standing tall and unbroken with Gungnir in his hand. Those green eyes are clear and unbloodied, a sadness hung about him like a cloak, yet with a brotherly fondness that does not seem entirely a front. "Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition, and to pledge yourself only to the good of the Realms?"
There is so much that Thor wishes to say to his brother. So many things left unsaid in life, so many opportunities cut short, untreated wounds that healed wrong and were never rebroken and set right. Thor could linger for a thousand years and never come to an end of the things he wishes to say, to both give and seek forgiveness for wrongs dealt on both sides. He wishes he could hold tight to Loki and never let him go, a brother he would choose again and again to claim as his kin.
But Loki is dead. And even a trickster can only cheat death so many times before his tricks run dry.
Valhalla may yet await Thor, at the end of his days. And when it is his time to enter that golden hall, his loved ones will be waiting for his arrival. How could he face them if he did not do everything he could to ensure their people thrive?
"I swear." His voice nearly chokes in his throat, and he reaches out as if to grab Loki's wrist before realizing that it is with his false arm, faltering before he can sully him with the symbol of his failure to protect his people from those that came to cull them. His failure to protect Loki.
But Loki reaches out in turn, clasping Thor around the forearm, untroubled that he grasps smooth metal instead of warm flesh. "Words alone do not make a king nor an Allfather," he says, leaving Gungnir standing as a rooted sapling at his side, silvered oak leaves wreathing its points in a crown. "But a willingness to do what must be done, and a love for the people he serves. You'll make a fine leader, Thor. But we would give you a gift to help you on your way, if you would have it."
"Of course." What else could he possibly say? Even if this gift is naught but words, Thor would cherish it all the same.
Loki smiles, and takes Thor's prosthetic hand between both of his own, slipping something into his palm and curling the fingers closed. "The Wheel turns, as it always does. But it does not turn in place, with no path ahead. Travel forward, and wake, dear brother."
Thor's eye flies open and he sits upright, sucking in a great lungful of air. Yggdrasil no longer looms above him, replaced instead by the cream white ceiling of his house in Norway, the light of the Worlds Tree reduced to mere sunlight streaming in from uncovered windows. The weight of his armor is gone, the softness of cotton wrapped around him beneath the warm covers of his bed. The sound of waves crashing against rock and the call of seabirds ring out faintly through the walls of his home, and the tug of the weather in his bones tells him there is going to be a light rainshower within the hour.
Everything is normal, as it should be. It was just a dream.
Except Thor has had dreams, and he has had Dreams. And this one does not fade with the waking, as true dreams do. And when Thor looks down at his hands, his metal fingers are curled into a loose fist on his lap.
He opens his hand.
Nestled in his palm, warm with life, are a pair of pale blue, brown-mottled eggs.
A great pool beneath arched roots lies before him, its waters still as a mirror, reflecting the orange glow of a blazing funeral boat at its center, its prow draped high with golden silks bearing the triquetra of Odin's house. He is too distant to see a body, shrouded or not, the flames roaring silently skyward in a pyre fit for a king, bright sparks drifting on unseen winds as they climb the branches of the cosmic tree.
Three figures stand on the quiet shore. Thor would know them anywhere, and his heart aches in his chest, his throat closing with unshed tears as he approaches, long grasses swishing against his armored legs, the weight of a winged crown resting on his brow, his cape tattered and pinned at his hip.
Heimdall stands as strong and tall as he did in life, the golden sentinel whose eyes watched over Asgard and its protectorates for thousands of years, the shattered hilt of Hofund in his hands as if the blade was still whole and battle-ready. "Thor Odinson," he intones, warmth in his deep voice as he gazes upon his king. "Do you swear to guard the Nine Realms?"
Thor had been swift to answer once before, without a single moment of reflection on what those words would actually mean. He's done so little for the other Realms since the fall of Asgard, barely able to cope with the demands of the survivors and his own infirmity, not even when the shockwaves of the Mad Titan's victory had culled their populations and left them wanting, save for one small visit. He has no excuse for his neglect since, none but his own cowardice, and for a moment he opens his mouth to say so. But Heimdall's golden gaze is proud, and full of a gentleness rarely seen from the watchman.
He may have failed them, just like he failed everyone else. But it does not have to always be so.
"I swear," Thor murmurs.
A hand claps down on his shoulder, warm and friendly, and Thor raises his gaze to look into the eyes of Volstagg, a tankard grasped in the man's other hand. "Thor Odinson," his friend greets him, a smile on his lips. "Do you swear to preserve the peace?"
Peace... Thor had once craved war, the rush of battle and fire and blood, glorying in the enemies that fell before him. He had counted his victories by the bodies left behind, and thought himself invincible, truly a god as humans thought. But now... now he counts his victories in lives, in those left behind to build anew. Hela's domain was death, a perfect weapon crafted to slaughter millions without a single regret, a reaper of men with no regard for good or ill. But Thor... Thor was born to be her opposite. A god of life, and of balance, plucking weeds and paring away rot so that new healthy growth can flourish.
A weapon to destroy, or a tool to build.
Thor would readily pick up his axe in defense of others, even now, and use every tool he has to bring an end to the conflict, whether by word or by sword. But he no longer thirsts for it, seeking enemies where there need be none, intent on his own glorification through bloodshed. Now he finds fulfillment in rich brown earth and teeming fish-filled seas, and in the cries of new infants who will never know the horrors of Ragnarok and Thanos' culling, except in stories told by their elders.
"I swear."
"Thor Odinson," the final figure says, and Thor nearly weeps at the sight of green leather and golden horns, his brother standing tall and unbroken with Gungnir in his hand. Those green eyes are clear and unbloodied, a sadness hung about him like a cloak, yet with a brotherly fondness that does not seem entirely a front. "Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition, and to pledge yourself only to the good of the Realms?"
There is so much that Thor wishes to say to his brother. So many things left unsaid in life, so many opportunities cut short, untreated wounds that healed wrong and were never rebroken and set right. Thor could linger for a thousand years and never come to an end of the things he wishes to say, to both give and seek forgiveness for wrongs dealt on both sides. He wishes he could hold tight to Loki and never let him go, a brother he would choose again and again to claim as his kin.
But Loki is dead. And even a trickster can only cheat death so many times before his tricks run dry.
Valhalla may yet await Thor, at the end of his days. And when it is his time to enter that golden hall, his loved ones will be waiting for his arrival. How could he face them if he did not do everything he could to ensure their people thrive?
"I swear." His voice nearly chokes in his throat, and he reaches out as if to grab Loki's wrist before realizing that it is with his false arm, faltering before he can sully him with the symbol of his failure to protect his people from those that came to cull them. His failure to protect Loki.
But Loki reaches out in turn, clasping Thor around the forearm, untroubled that he grasps smooth metal instead of warm flesh. "Words alone do not make a king nor an Allfather," he says, leaving Gungnir standing as a rooted sapling at his side, silvered oak leaves wreathing its points in a crown. "But a willingness to do what must be done, and a love for the people he serves. You'll make a fine leader, Thor. But we would give you a gift to help you on your way, if you would have it."
"Of course." What else could he possibly say? Even if this gift is naught but words, Thor would cherish it all the same.
Loki smiles, and takes Thor's prosthetic hand between both of his own, slipping something into his palm and curling the fingers closed. "The Wheel turns, as it always does. But it does not turn in place, with no path ahead. Travel forward, and wake, dear brother."
Thor's eye flies open and he sits upright, sucking in a great lungful of air. Yggdrasil no longer looms above him, replaced instead by the cream white ceiling of his house in Norway, the light of the Worlds Tree reduced to mere sunlight streaming in from uncovered windows. The weight of his armor is gone, the softness of cotton wrapped around him beneath the warm covers of his bed. The sound of waves crashing against rock and the call of seabirds ring out faintly through the walls of his home, and the tug of the weather in his bones tells him there is going to be a light rainshower within the hour.
Everything is normal, as it should be. It was just a dream.
Except Thor has had dreams, and he has had Dreams. And this one does not fade with the waking, as true dreams do. And when Thor looks down at his hands, his metal fingers are curled into a loose fist on his lap.
He opens his hand.
Nestled in his palm, warm with life, are a pair of pale blue, brown-mottled eggs.