Thor, son of Odin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mjolnir_retriever) wrote2012-06-24 07:49 pm
mjolnir_retriever) wrote2012-06-24 07:49 pm
(no subject)
They give him a room, bare and boxy and illuminated by stark unhealthy blue-white lights. Some of the walls are mirrored glass, and they reflect his own face back at him: mud-smeared, drawn, with an expression he barely recognizes on himself. He doesn't look at the mirrors after that.
They put him in the single chair in the center of the room. It's flimsy, and much too small for him. To cause him discomfort, perhaps, or simply built to a human's smaller frame. Thor doesn't really care.
He sits. He waits.
They let him wait while his muddy shirt dries to his skin. It's fine. Thor's thoughts will occupy him whether they bother him or leave him alone.
The sound of thunder fades away, and then even the sound of rain. The skies must be clear now, he thinks, at length.
He doesn't know. He deduces, that's all. Mjolnir has rejected him. He has none of its power in him any more, and none of his own. He was an arrogant fool to think so.
He was an arrogant fool.
Thor's eyes don't lift at the sound of footsteps outside his cell, until the door slides back. Even then, he can't summon much interest for the man who enters. He's a small man -- average height to a human, probably, but small to Thor's eyes -- with short receding hair and trim black clothes. A pen-pusher, more than a warrior. Coulson, he calls himself, which is closer to a proper Asgardian name than Thor's heard yet on Midgard despite the title of Agent.
He asks Thor questions. Where he was trained; who's paying him. He guesses words that Thor's never heard -- locations, he thinks. Maybe nations.
It doesn't matter. What would Thor answer?
He lets the man talk at him until Coulson's phone summons him elsewhere, and he goes away. The mirrored door latches securely behind him.
Thor doesn't really care. He could probably break free, with enough effort and a lot of pain inflicted all around, but it seems pointless. To what end would he bother? Everything seems dulled.
But as the door latches, a familiar figure appears -- dressed in mortal clothes, or at least seeming to be, but Thor would recognize his brother anywhere, in any garb. He straightens in his seat. "Loki? What are you doing here?"
No guards rush in; perhaps they're curious, or perhaps Loki has done something to veil this from them. Thor barely notices. He's too preoccupied by Loki's face, which is drawn with a sober sorrow Thor has rarely seen from him.
"I had to see you," Loki answers softly, and Thor knows this is trouble deeper than mere sympathy for Thor's plight.
"What's happened?" he asks. "Is it Jotunheim? Let me explain to Father--"
"Father is dead," Loki interrupts, and the bottom drops out of Thor's world.
Loki explains. Sorrowfully, almost kindly, and the gentleness in his voice is worse than any blow.
Odin is dead. Thor's banishment and impending war with Jotunheim were too much for him to bear. No wonder he wanted Thor to be crowned early -- Thor thought it was trust, thought his father wanted the fierce vitality of a young warrior king, but it must have been that Odin knew his own growing weakness. He offered trust, and Thor gave him disappointment and grief and death.
"You mustn't blame yourself," Loki says gently, but he must know that Thor cannot do otherwise. "I know that you loved him. I tried to tell him so, but he wouldn't listen."
The tears are sliding down Thor's cheeks without shame, but Loki has more that he must say. Tidings like this are their own heavy burden.
Thor's exile is to be permanent. The truce with Jotunheim is conditional upon it.
There can be no negotiation or exception. He cannot even return home to grieve with his family, to offer himself in Asgard's service, to comfort his mother. Frigga, his warm and loving mother, has forbidden his return. Loki sits now on the throne of Asgard, a king who must begin his reign by trying desperately to hold the safety of his father's realm.
"This is goodbye, brother," Loki tells him, with self-control a thin mask over grief. "I'm so sorry."
"No," Thor manages, hoarse and tear-rasping, as Loki starts to turn away. "I am sorry." He's so sorry; so sorry for everything, and it changes nothing now. "Thank you for coming."
"Farewell," says Loki softly, and turns away, and is gone.
The room is empty.
Chill and sterile and alien, and empty. Thor cannot bear to look upon his own reflection. "Farewell," he whispers.
Agent Coulson, opening the door, gives him a confused look. "I just got here," he says.
Now more than ever, Thor has no words and nothing to offer this interrogating mortal stranger.
They put him in the single chair in the center of the room. It's flimsy, and much too small for him. To cause him discomfort, perhaps, or simply built to a human's smaller frame. Thor doesn't really care.
He sits. He waits.
They let him wait while his muddy shirt dries to his skin. It's fine. Thor's thoughts will occupy him whether they bother him or leave him alone.
The sound of thunder fades away, and then even the sound of rain. The skies must be clear now, he thinks, at length.
He doesn't know. He deduces, that's all. Mjolnir has rejected him. He has none of its power in him any more, and none of his own. He was an arrogant fool to think so.
He was an arrogant fool.
Thor's eyes don't lift at the sound of footsteps outside his cell, until the door slides back. Even then, he can't summon much interest for the man who enters. He's a small man -- average height to a human, probably, but small to Thor's eyes -- with short receding hair and trim black clothes. A pen-pusher, more than a warrior. Coulson, he calls himself, which is closer to a proper Asgardian name than Thor's heard yet on Midgard despite the title of Agent.
He asks Thor questions. Where he was trained; who's paying him. He guesses words that Thor's never heard -- locations, he thinks. Maybe nations.
It doesn't matter. What would Thor answer?
He lets the man talk at him until Coulson's phone summons him elsewhere, and he goes away. The mirrored door latches securely behind him.
Thor doesn't really care. He could probably break free, with enough effort and a lot of pain inflicted all around, but it seems pointless. To what end would he bother? Everything seems dulled.
But as the door latches, a familiar figure appears -- dressed in mortal clothes, or at least seeming to be, but Thor would recognize his brother anywhere, in any garb. He straightens in his seat. "Loki? What are you doing here?"
No guards rush in; perhaps they're curious, or perhaps Loki has done something to veil this from them. Thor barely notices. He's too preoccupied by Loki's face, which is drawn with a sober sorrow Thor has rarely seen from him.
"I had to see you," Loki answers softly, and Thor knows this is trouble deeper than mere sympathy for Thor's plight.
"What's happened?" he asks. "Is it Jotunheim? Let me explain to Father--"
"Father is dead," Loki interrupts, and the bottom drops out of Thor's world.
Loki explains. Sorrowfully, almost kindly, and the gentleness in his voice is worse than any blow.
Odin is dead. Thor's banishment and impending war with Jotunheim were too much for him to bear. No wonder he wanted Thor to be crowned early -- Thor thought it was trust, thought his father wanted the fierce vitality of a young warrior king, but it must have been that Odin knew his own growing weakness. He offered trust, and Thor gave him disappointment and grief and death.
"You mustn't blame yourself," Loki says gently, but he must know that Thor cannot do otherwise. "I know that you loved him. I tried to tell him so, but he wouldn't listen."
The tears are sliding down Thor's cheeks without shame, but Loki has more that he must say. Tidings like this are their own heavy burden.
Thor's exile is to be permanent. The truce with Jotunheim is conditional upon it.
There can be no negotiation or exception. He cannot even return home to grieve with his family, to offer himself in Asgard's service, to comfort his mother. Frigga, his warm and loving mother, has forbidden his return. Loki sits now on the throne of Asgard, a king who must begin his reign by trying desperately to hold the safety of his father's realm.
"This is goodbye, brother," Loki tells him, with self-control a thin mask over grief. "I'm so sorry."
"No," Thor manages, hoarse and tear-rasping, as Loki starts to turn away. "I am sorry." He's so sorry; so sorry for everything, and it changes nothing now. "Thank you for coming."
"Farewell," says Loki softly, and turns away, and is gone.
The room is empty.
Chill and sterile and alien, and empty. Thor cannot bear to look upon his own reflection. "Farewell," he whispers.
Agent Coulson, opening the door, gives him a confused look. "I just got here," he says.
Now more than ever, Thor has no words and nothing to offer this interrogating mortal stranger.