I was feeling angsty again, and this came rushing into my brain while I was washing dishes.
Yeah.
I love you all, as always! ^.^
*insert disclaimer here*
There was blood.
So much of it, dripping from his hands, drying into thin sheets of blackish-red crust on his armor.
So much blood, everywhere.
Blood on his weapon.
Blood on his face.
In his hair, beneath his feet.
It surrounded him, filled his nostrils with the sickening stench of death.
He had spilled this blood.
He had won this battle.
He would go home with the head of yet another slaughtered monster, magnificent and deadly, brought down by his hammer and done with the skill of a master-warrior.
A killer born and made.
He would walk the golden halls of Asgaard and hear the cheers of his people. He would thrust Mjolnir into the air and present his trophy to his father as a show of strength and worth. He would feast and drink and bed a woman he did not know. He would bask in the thrill of his life.
He was Thor, the prince of Asgaard. Thor, wielder of the great hammer Mjolnir. Thor, master of thunder, conqueror of beasts, to be feared and loved throughout his home and abroad.
The blood hardened in his hair and yet remained slick and warm on his fingers.
He felt feared.
But he did not feel loved.
Thor Odinson raised his weapon to the sky and summoned the Bifrost to carry him home.
There was fire.
It flickered low as it fought for life, dancing flames reflecting in his eyes as he stared thoughtlessly into it.
He knew fire well. It had often accompanied him wherever he chose to next shed blood.
It was often a symbol of the destructive force that he was; a warning of what he could do with just a strike of lightning, a promise of what he would do for the sake of glory.
But tonight, it was just fire.
Dying before him in the cold desert night, he briefly considered adding more wood to keep it burning.
The woman beside him could catch a chill.
Tonight, Thor was not bringing death. Tonight, he was not the prince of Asgaard, the bringer of thunderstorms, the death of the most terrifying of creatures from the darkest of realms. Tonight, he was Thor the man. Mortal, powerless, vulnerable.
And strangely at peace.
There was no blood. There were no battles. Mjolnir lie beyond his reach and ability and worthiness.
He wielded only a pen, scribbling his own descriptions of his home and others he had visited into Jane Foster's precious notebook.
He would leave out the details about the battles.
He would not mention the blood and the death.
This girl he did not even know (but felt a strange and warm connection to) did not deserve stories of his most violent conquests.
She was gentle and kind…. everything he often found lost to him.
As he closed the small black book and set it between the chairs they lay on, Thor Odinson leaned over to ensure the blanket covered Jane enough to keep her warm.
He felt the smile grace his lips as she mumbled calmly in her sleep.
He did not feel feared tonight.
But he did feel loved.