Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-04-27 09:36 pm
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-04-27 09:36 pm
[Part 3 of 3] The Sun Will Shine On Us Again
It's been easily two hundred years since Thor has set foot in Nidavellir, but never has he seen it so dark. So silent. Where once were the clanking of gears and the roaring of forge-fire, and the laughter of dwarves at work, now there is nothing but a vast emptiness that stretches all the way around every ring of the forge, his own footsteps far too loud in a place where they should be drowned out with ease.
Eitri's eyes hold the same anguish that Thor feels in his own heart, failure to protect his people from the Mad Titan's calculated rampage, the horrible fear of being alone at the end of all things. But the dwarf knows the fate of his people for certain, their bodies left where they fell, slaughtered to the last man. Thor still holds desperate hope that somewhere out there, Asgard yet lives, scattered and diminished but alive. But they will not be safe until Thanos is defeated, and once again, Thor does not hesitate to face certain death to do everything he can to stop the Mad Titan, to make the madman suffer until Thor's hands are drenched in his lifeblood, and avenge the fallen who now feast in Valhalla, long before their time.
He stands in the iris mechanism of the forge and braces himself for the agony to come, a pain of the body that will surely pale in comparison to the black hole that now devours him from the inside out, grief and rage and desperation consuming his every waking moment. His hand reaches up to grasp the pendant around his neck, a token given by a mirror of his brother - gods, Loki - and he chokes back a strangled sob as he tucks it carefully beneath his cuirass to protect this fragile thing from the raw destruction to come, something he could not do for Loki, or Heimdall, or any of the others who fell to the blades of Thanos and his Children.
Yet here Thor stands, without them, when he should have died to protect them first.
Perhaps that is his curse. But curse or no, weregild is now owed to Asgard, and Thor will stop at nothing to extract every drop of blood in the Titan's veins as recompense for the slaughter.
"Allfathers, give me strength," he prays, and pulls the handles down, the forge cracking open at his back and unleashing the full force of the neutron star upon the man in its path, blasting over and through him as if he was nothing, an ant in a firestorm, and the only mercy is that his left arm cannot hurt any longer. The fulgurite around his neck sputters to life, but Thor cannot hear the voices that sing forth over the sound of his own screams and the roar of the star's fire as it burns deep into his flesh, searing him down to the bone. At his belt, his PINpoint shrieks unheard as the cosmic fire lashes out and sets it ablaze, a howling scream of energy that joins the stellar beam on its path to the forge, carrying Thor's agony and rage and despair alongside, pouring into the melting uru to be given shape and purpose.
Thor howls his torment as the star-fire flays him alive, screaming until the darkness creeps in and drags him into its depths, drowning him in its silent sanctuary. His grasp slackens, his eye slides closed, and his last thought is to wonder if he will wake to Valhalla.
He lets go, and is plunged into night.
He wakes with thunder in his blood and bone, hand clenched around the gnarled handle of a greataxe, drenching him with its power and vitality until he literally glows from it, scouring him of weakness and pain and filling him up with a howl of vengeance so loud that it is a wonder he cannot hear it with his ears.
Death, the axe cries, and Thor's grip tightens around its haft in agreement.
He lifts his head, eye alight with blue-white fire, and raises the axe high, reaching deep for the current of the Bifrost that hums just outside of sight, calling to Yggdrasil to carry them all to Earth. To war. To Thanos.
And to bring justice to his murdered people.
Eitri's eyes hold the same anguish that Thor feels in his own heart, failure to protect his people from the Mad Titan's calculated rampage, the horrible fear of being alone at the end of all things. But the dwarf knows the fate of his people for certain, their bodies left where they fell, slaughtered to the last man. Thor still holds desperate hope that somewhere out there, Asgard yet lives, scattered and diminished but alive. But they will not be safe until Thanos is defeated, and once again, Thor does not hesitate to face certain death to do everything he can to stop the Mad Titan, to make the madman suffer until Thor's hands are drenched in his lifeblood, and avenge the fallen who now feast in Valhalla, long before their time.
He stands in the iris mechanism of the forge and braces himself for the agony to come, a pain of the body that will surely pale in comparison to the black hole that now devours him from the inside out, grief and rage and desperation consuming his every waking moment. His hand reaches up to grasp the pendant around his neck, a token given by a mirror of his brother - gods, Loki - and he chokes back a strangled sob as he tucks it carefully beneath his cuirass to protect this fragile thing from the raw destruction to come, something he could not do for Loki, or Heimdall, or any of the others who fell to the blades of Thanos and his Children.
Yet here Thor stands, without them, when he should have died to protect them first.
Perhaps that is his curse. But curse or no, weregild is now owed to Asgard, and Thor will stop at nothing to extract every drop of blood in the Titan's veins as recompense for the slaughter.
"Allfathers, give me strength," he prays, and pulls the handles down, the forge cracking open at his back and unleashing the full force of the neutron star upon the man in its path, blasting over and through him as if he was nothing, an ant in a firestorm, and the only mercy is that his left arm cannot hurt any longer. The fulgurite around his neck sputters to life, but Thor cannot hear the voices that sing forth over the sound of his own screams and the roar of the star's fire as it burns deep into his flesh, searing him down to the bone. At his belt, his PINpoint shrieks unheard as the cosmic fire lashes out and sets it ablaze, a howling scream of energy that joins the stellar beam on its path to the forge, carrying Thor's agony and rage and despair alongside, pouring into the melting uru to be given shape and purpose.
Thor howls his torment as the star-fire flays him alive, screaming until the darkness creeps in and drags him into its depths, drowning him in its silent sanctuary. His grasp slackens, his eye slides closed, and his last thought is to wonder if he will wake to Valhalla.
He lets go, and is plunged into night.
He wakes with thunder in his blood and bone, hand clenched around the gnarled handle of a greataxe, drenching him with its power and vitality until he literally glows from it, scouring him of weakness and pain and filling him up with a howl of vengeance so loud that it is a wonder he cannot hear it with his ears.
Death, the axe cries, and Thor's grip tightens around its haft in agreement.
He lifts his head, eye alight with blue-white fire, and raises the axe high, reaching deep for the current of the Bifrost that hums just outside of sight, calling to Yggdrasil to carry them all to Earth. To war. To Thanos.
And to bring justice to his murdered people.