A/N: This will be one of the only things I write that makes it to the internet, woot woot!
This is about how trolls came into existence in Norse mythology. I'm a little disappointed with the lack of avengers, but maybe I'll do more mythology and include them or something like that if people review. Also, if I misspell anything, I sincerely apologize, but I'm too lazy to look up the real spelling.
I know that Thor might be a little OOC, but I tried to write him like he is before he's banished: arrogant. And if arrogance stems from pride, and pride is wounded, the arrogant seek revenge. So yes. Loki angst ahead! This is set when Thor and Loki are pretty young, both in their very early twenties (or whatever that equivalent is in norse god age charts), when Sif still has blonde hair.
Onward to the story!
It was a peaceful day is Asgard, a cool breeze blowing through the land, the sun shining over the tips of the trees and painting the world a buttery color.
Unfortunately, the mood of the Golden Prince didn't match the color or the sunlight, nor the color of his title. Thor was wearing a look that could curdle milk, glaring at the road in front of him from atop his horse, with Sif, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, and Loki riding behind him in awkward silence. They all know from experience that once Thor gets into such a sullen mood, very few things are able to pull him out.
It was Loki's fault, if you really wanted to point fingers, that his brother was in such a state. He'd felt that a joke would be a good start to their hunting trip, so he'd laced Thor's mead with ink; the result had been a livid and purple-tongued Thor shouting at him while Sif and the Warriors Three giggled behind their hands.
Now, as they rode along, he could almost see the gears working behind that mess of blonde hair, trying to concoct a method of revenge. He didn't want to know what kinds of tortures were being devised for him, and he didn't try to put a stop to it either. In Thor's eyes, if you apologize for something, it shows that you are remorseful, which is an invitation for him to exact a more thorough and brutish revenge.
Loki sniffs the air, wrinkling his pale nose in disdain and breaking the stiff silence. "Do you smell that?"
Thor stays silent, as is expected of him in his sulky mood, but Fandral pipes up with a sarcastic jibe. "What, is there a roasted pheasant lost in Volstagg's beard again?"
Sif snickers, and the large warrior combs his fingers through his facial hair, licking his lips.
"No, it smells like rotting flesh," Loki insists.
"You're just imagining things," says Fandral dismissively.
"No," interjects Hogun flatly. "I can smell it too."
Since it's Hogun who backs Loki up (because they never take Loki seriously, not that he cares much), the rest of the party agree to search for this mysterious scent.
After a time, they came across a corpse, half covered by the brush. It had been an old woman at some point, but all that was left was a limbless torso and a burned neck, the head thrown wildly into a copse of nearby trees, eyes turned to liquid and tongue lolling out of black lips.
"Awful," sniffs Sif, no real pity in her voice.
Thor grunts. "It's just an old witch. Her magic probably backfired on her, the stupid wench. Leave her."
The warriors shrug and spur their horses on. It's not uncommon to hear of a mage's spells going wrong and causing harm or death; Loki knows better than most how dangerous it is to consort with magic, with its fickle nature. However, seeing his brother just leave a corpse to rot without a grave is startling, especially when he thinks that one day, it might be him that needs to be buried after a bad spell.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes," snaps Thor. "We have game to hunt, and we can't stop to bury every idiotic woman who gets herself killed trying to use magic."
"How she was killed doesn't matter. What matters is that she's been killed, and needs a grave. Would you condemn her to walk the earth forever, with no place in Valhalla?" Loki argues. Magic has told him tales of those with power in their soul being unable to join the spirits when not given a proper burial and freed from the bonds of reality.
Thor grunts again. "I don't hear her complaining. Do you, sif?
Sif wrinkles her nose and makes a face, blonde locks swirling around her in a golden halo.
"How about you, Fandral?"
Pointed beard shakes itself no.
"See? She's not going to scold us. She's not going to tell anyone. Let's just get on with our hunt."
Loki can't believe what he's hearing. He can't believe that the Warriors Three and Sif aren't protesting. He can't believe Thor has such a heartless streak.
"Get on with your precious hunt, then. I'll bring what I can find of her body back to the palace, to try and find out if anyone's missing her. Have a good time," he spits, swinging off his horse with taunt limbs, muttering heartless under his breath.
A glint of something unfamiliar creeps into his brother's eyes. "Heartless, eh? Fine then, if you find us a camp and set it up, we'll all bury the wench."
Loki is confused. He's wary of this deal, but in his naivety, tells himself that this is Thor, and despite being a bit lazy, he wouldn't do anything too horrible. He is the Firstborn of Asgard, after all. He knows better than to do something stupid with a corpse. Right?
So he re-mounts his horse and rides ahead, scouting for a camp.
"Thor, what are you doing?" Sif hisses once she thinks he's out of earshot. "I'm not lifting a finger for this rotting piece of meat!"
"Patience, Sif," Thor soothes in the way that he does when he's planning something. "We'll show him heartless."
Loki knows that something is up. He knows that Thor is probably planning some sort of revenge for the ink, but he knows that the only way to lift his brother's spirits is to play along, so he does. He sets up camp and waits for a good long while for the rest to find him. He's concerned about his brother's attitude and mood, but there really isn't anything to do but hunker down and whether the storm.
Chapter 1 of 3. Don't forget to drop a review on your way out!