Verto, a thor fanfic

Disclaimer: I own nothing

The Destroyer is your faithful servant with Gungnir in your hand.

One flick of the wrist and the big oaf shall cease to be. No more thunderstorms at the will of a thick-headed god. No more speeches on the importance of an already broken brotherhood. It will be over if only you let the Destroyer do what it does best.

Yet you don't.

Your knuckles grow pale, your fingers turn white, but there's no sound from the throne room's tiled floors of bronze meeting with ceramic.

It is but a fleeting moment.

On the next second, Thor is glowing and armed and geared.

And you, the wayward prince, with your horns and your grievances smile upon the challenge.

It is so easy, you think.

One piercing strike and Tony Stark shall breathe his last. The scepter is multipurpose. It can easily get it done. It's like tipping over a man on a ledge. Just give it one push and the man's good as dead.

Except in this instance you watch and talk.

And the playboy replies and takes liberties. He says things. Empty threats with no real meaning.

You do not only sense fear, you see it; in Stark's trembling hands as the man reaches for a drink. You laugh and smirk. It is almost tangible. Almost as dense and concentrated as midgardian butter.

You do not stab him. Instead, the man of iron is thrown out disgraced.

You don't want to destroy the future—contradictory to what your actions may imply.

You just want to put it under your mercy, to be able to control it somewhat, some way.

To silence it. To prevent it from corrupting you with false hopes.

You cannot be saved. It's time they all accept that.

It becomes evident that the picture you imagine, and the future you've been given are no longer the same.

One does not resemble the other, and everything is falling to the void you've escaped from. Thought to have escaped from.

And those sweet lies, those glittered chains tell you that it will never be the same as before.

So full of hope that giver of justice who continues weaving countless of fabricated truths.

Beside the All-Father, you are but an apprentice wanting to fill his master's shoes.

You should have done it.

Kill Thor. Take Asgard.

Everything has led to this, and yet the taste is bland.

And all you want now is a deep long slumber.

The flame is still burning, but for once (in a very long time) you do not set fire to anything. It is enough to watch its glow, and feel its warmth.

The liesmith will betray you, Thor.

But trust his lust. Trust his flame. Trust his rage.

They are not all lies or so you tell yourself.

And when Thor walks away, there's contentment in both your hearts.

You say it's finally here. That your day has finally come, and the rightful king finally sits on the throne. However, the calm remains unbroken. There is no jabbing insult, no snide smirk. The thunder god leaves with the same glow he's born with. The god of mischief stays behind, watching until the familiar back of forgotten childhood is no longer within sight.

It is a wonderful tribute to Frigga. She who gave all until there is nothing more left to give.

The interiors of the new academy are elegant but not mindless. Though it takes much after your sophisticated tastes, there's a balance in the undeniable practicality of most the furnishings.

A school for wielding seidr, Mother. It's sad to know you didn't live to see it.

After three full moons of going about, doing this and that, you finally relinquish.

One night, you go down to the weaponry, and deliver Gungnir to its bronze stand. You hesitate, with the same hesitation you had on answering Frigga's question on whether she was your mother, and though you ought to learn from past mistakes you still cannot bring yourself to yield. Not to Odin of all people and so you don't.

You do not visit the dungeons.

Just like that, the wayward prince disappears. Without so much as a glance, the King of Asgard abandons the crown.

All you ever wanted is to be Thor's equal. To be respected and esteemed like your brother.

The throne isn't that important. Not originally. It's no more but a chair studded by precious stones. What possible good can come out of it?

The first incident with the frost giants is but a childish rebellion. No more but an act of a little brother in want of attention.

But then things fall apart. The truth about your heritage is revealed in the most hideous way possible, and in a spurn of rage, you set everything to ruin.

You are born without anything, and in your rising, you swear to take all.

Midgard is an embarrassing realm inhabited by dense beings who cannot distinguish a meteorite from a star unless it hits them in the face.

Or at least, you feel this way after a very warm reception in a country in mainland East Asia.

The people here look different, but there's a charm in that difference after seeing so much of the Caucasian race. Either they do not recognize you or they have forgiven the past. Whichever it is, it doesn't matter now.

There's comfort to be found here, and it's not just because of the food. Midgard is the middle ground. Just earth. Plain fertile soil that cares for both the living and the dead.

You have settled yourself among them; simple people with simple means. They who cannot possibly want more in life for all is provided. Surprisingly, you do not mind the slow passing of hours in the east.

Then of course, there are less boring nights.

Your fellow borders are discussing the green monster again. The topic ruins your appetite, but you can't bring yourself to say it so you compromise. You excuse yourself from the table and head outside.

Thor and his friends are pulling off quite the publicity stunt. The global PRESS is awfully excited.

The Avengers.

Angry or not, your way of pronouncing it never alters; monotonous baritone at a timbre of absolute indifference.

They're pests. Very troublesome pests.

Outside the dormitory, you let your boots sink in the snow. It'll be futile to fight it, but it's still a wonderful thing to have the impression of struggle.

You are well aware how illusions work. All it takes is subtlety and a great deal of deception to redefine the lines of reality. You employ this technique so often that it has become a second nature, but everything is effortless for you, liesmith.

There is a special kind that works anomalously. Not exactly opposite, but it is gravely different from the traditional doctrine of illusory enchantment.

Delusions, they're popularly called.

Instead of projecting the magic outward towards the environment, delusions bottle seidr inside the mind. Rather than bending figments of reality, they braid them together: the possibility and the truth, the fear and the hope, all into one picture that even the consciousness can't distinguish which is which.

There are only three ways of causing them. First, is through deliberate effort; a sort of pseudo-magic self-hypnosis. Second, is through the divine; anything with a past life. Third, is through encounter; either from a talented magician or from the innately gifted.

It takes you two seconds to know Stark has been plagued by a delusion of the third cause second case. The work is a marvel, ingenious and neat. The cracks, however, are evident. From those measly mistakes, you know, it's not bound to last.

You take your hand away. There's nothing to worry about after all. A green glow envelops you. Your flesh turns to feathers. You fly away.

There's a thing with delusions.

People don't want them gone. Not entirely.

It's an ugly wish that plays with a person's vanity and heroism, creating a situation wherein one can play as the altruistic protagonist.

To be the one in the cape and spandex, the weight of the world on one's shoulders, and then the inevitable destruction of the globe; the dystopian future where everyone is gone, and the only one left standing is someone with a beautiful tragedy.

The demons inside our heads look a lot like us.

As beautiful as our best and as ugly as our flaws.

Claustrophobia, you learn, is not the fear of tight spaces. It is the fear of being trapped in them. Of being limited to a limited space. Of not being able to grow to your fullest potential because of a so-called predetermined fate.

It is the horror of being in one place forever.

"Ah! Thomas-san is claustrophobic!"

You nod pathetically at the heavily-accented Japanese woman. She's probably in her early fifties. The elevator is stuck, dwindling in mid-air at the mercy of suspended metal cords. It is one of the few times you dare use your powers in front a complete civilian, but that's alright.

You move to Europe the next day.

You are in a small bistro Paris.

A blonde catches your attention. She's fair and formal. She's on her phone. Her hands gesture for the waiter. She ends the call and orders in French. All this is done under two efficient minutes.

Before leaving, you catch a glimpse of her talking on the phone again. This time, she sounds frustrated. You catch her saying 'Tony' twice before your exit. It doesn't bother you. This is a different life.