Nobody expects to die. Plain and simple. Nobody expects to get into a car crash, or be murdered for $20 and a toaster oven. Even when somebody is in the hospital, blinking slowly as a result of old age or wheezing with chemo soaked lungs, nobody expects them to die. One more day they whisper Please just let them make it one more . Nobody expects to die.

Sometimes it's fast, a split second of unbelievable agony and then nothing. A car crash, or a few purposeful steps near the edge of a drop off. Other times it's slow. Maybe a wounded warrior, sluggishly bleeding from bullet holes, a background of battle cries and acrid smoke. Or sickly recipients, watching painfully as their entire life slips away, not able to do a damn thing about it.

How does death feel? How does the mother driving home feel, her van loaded with presents for her kids at Christmas, as she is plowed into by a drunk driver? How does the teenage boy feel as he takes his final steps of the edge of the bridge, mind filled with torturous thoughts and words that left scars?

Death is not peaceful. The screaming of soldiers as everything they are is bent and broken in war isn't quiet. The beeping of a hospital monitor, overpowering the wheezing breath of an ill child isn't peaceful.

Sometimes death is seen as a release. Maybe a 99 year old woman taking her final, pain filled breaths, is happy to be able to ease into that release from reality. Or a depressed teenager is ecstatic to escape at last from a world that is filled with nothing but hate. But the real question is, what happens after death? Do ghostly forms of what they once were sorrowfully float throughout a permanently gray expanse of Hades domain, a background of saddening screams? Do angels sing in heaven while sinners rot in the fiery pits of hell? Asgardians believe that the good sing and dance in Valhalla, celebrating their lives to the fullest. While the bad sink to Helheim, a realm of sorrow and mourning where the dead suffer, slowly forgetting who they once were.

No living person, be they mortal or immortal, knows what truly happens after death. They can only hope that loved ones have made it to a place without pain or war.

Thor.

T-H-O-R

Prince of Asgard

Wielder of Mjolnir, forged in the heart of a dying star

He was friendly, with eyes like a golden retrievers. His personality was much the same. Eager to make everyone happy. Sun kissed hair flew in the wind as he bounced from realm to realm. Jotunheim to bargain with frost giants. Vanaheim to visit with the Vanir, much like Asgardians. Asgard to check in with his homeworld and catch up with friends. And Midgard to visit the mortals he so loved to fight with, The Avengers.

He was the strongest of their group of heroes, The Avengers. Although, their team did consist of only two mortal assassins, a mortal man protected by a metal suit, a scientist who bewitched himself with a constant rage, a genetically modified super soldier, and a demigod from a different world. Even on Asgard, Thor was considered one of the greatest warriors. Better than the Warrior's Three and Sif herself. He was worshipped by the people of Midgard and Asgard alike. One as a prince, the other as a savior.

Nobody, not a single person from the Avengers or from Asgard, expected Thor to be the first to die. He was a demigod, for god's sake. He was supposed to live forever, or at least a few ten thousand years. He was the puppy dog. The idiot that didn't understand any references. The person that always had to have jokes explained to him. And he went and died.

It was said he suffered alone. Nothing from Midgard could kill him, and yet Thor, the big buffoon, somehow still managed to find a way. No, nothing alive on Midgard could severely wound a demigod. But Thor needed oxygen just like any mortal. And water is what took that away. Ironic isn't it? The God of storms taken by a puddle of water.

It was during a battle. His comm had fallen out and let's face it. Who worries about the immortal on the team? He got separated. Who's to tell what happened from there? The only witness is gone. They found him after the battle, as they were laughing and joking about how awful the latest supervillains had been. The Avengers had been looking for him, expecting him to come soaring out of the sky. or appear in the rubble of a crumbling statue, red cape billowing behind him. He would hold out Mjolnir and greet them with a jolly laugh and a booming, "Hello friends!"

They got the exact opposite. He was laying face down, legs spread eagle from kicking at his captor. Thor's upper half was submerged in water. The group of heroes hurriedly pulled him out, but it was already too late. His bronze skin had begun to pale. Body like a furnace had already cooled into a clammy cold. He used to be the sun. Light up the lives of all those he entered. Now he lay cold, like a star going supernova. A sick euphemism. Mjolnir, forged in the heart of a dying star, and now her master is going out. He used to burn so bright, and now everything's starting to fade.

Purple bruises gleamed stark on a neck undertaken by death's pale color. A mark left by his captor. Blonde locks were spread across the ground, soaked with sweat and tinged red with drying blood and yet they still gleamed like rays of sunlight.

They took him to Asgard, his home. It's only right for him to be buried there. Heimdall the ever seeing knew and allowed the Avengers entrance. In Asgard, Frigga mourned and Odin hosted thoughts of guilt and regret. If he had never banished Thor, then this would have never happened. The whole of Asgard lay still in mourning. Their crown prince was dead and Asgard would never be the same.

The day of Thor's funeral came. The city as a whole was gathered. Loki appeared as well. The Avengers went to attack but Frigga held them back. With tear filled eyes, she spoke. "Please. They were brothers ." And so grievances were put aside and Loki stood with the royal family for what might have been the last time. The skies were clear and the sun shone bright, as if mocking the thunder who lay absent without her God.

Thor lay in his boat, ready to float out to the edge of Asgard. He was dressed for once, in formal wear. It didn't seem right. The black, fine knitted Asgardian wear highlighted the paleness of his skin, enforcing the reality that Thor, the Thor, was dead. And he wasn't coming back. The air was still and it was quiet. Much too quiet. Thor was always loud. Screaming battle and rousing celebratory dinners.

There was a scuffle and a few guards went down before Loki made it to where Thor's body lay elegantly, and so wrong. The Avengers went to attack for the second time, but were once again stopped by Frigga, who gave no answer to their questioning looks. With a wave of his hand and a flick of green magic, Thor lay dressed in his full battle regalia. "He would've wanted it this way," Loki whispered, "He always thought he'd go out in battle. A blaze of glory. And he always loved that cape."

Loki was right. Thor always wore that cape. He had it since he was little. Only 90 years old. He would put it on and trip over it as he ran through the halls. The bottom of the cape would get frayed and dirt covered and Frigga would have to fix it. With his armor on, Thor resembled a warrior going into battle. And in a way he was. His final battle. The war of death.

Thor's boat was pushed off shore by the hands of his last remaining family. He drifted further and further out and it was like feeling him slip away. And just when it seemed like he was gone, Odin gave the order and the archers of Asgard let out a breath and released their arrows. Each one a different color, ready to make their Prince an enamoring explosion of color. Thor ignited in a blast of pain. The blaze could be seen from where Heimdall watched over the Bifrost.

Mjolnir lay at the feet of the crowd. The hammer had traveled with Thor and had come to rest at the foot of his resting place. Nobody could lift it and so it was damned to lay for eternity in that spot. Mjolnir would find no other to be worthy like Thor. As he was one of a kind. The last of a dying breed. Eyes were drawn to the hammer as it seemed to vibrate. And suddenly storm clouds were gathering and rain was shrieking down. The storm was sickening. It was a reminder. That was not Thor's lightning. That was not Thor's thunder. Lightning spiraled out of control and the skies rained as if crying. This was not Thor's storm.

Instead of putting out the myriad of colors, the rain seemed to amplify it, like pouring gasoline on a bonfire. Thunder boomed in mourning as Thor went over the edge of the world. No, this was not Thor's storm. Thor wouldn't create a storm again and Mjolnir would lay in disuse, forever waiting to be reclaimed by her master.

The reflection of the flames grew fainter and fainter as Thor fell into the void. His body lay covered in flame and was cursed to endlessly cycle in the space between planets. But his mind, well, nobody really knew where his mind had gone. Maybe it lay with Loki, silently encouraging his brother to drop everything and come home. Or maybe it made its home with the Avengers, soundlessly protecting them in each and every battle.

The rain began to taper as wispy clouds floated by. The palace glistened with rain. It was rainy days like this where Thor and Loki would come back from exploring all wet and covered in mud. But that is gone now. A faint memory of what they once were. A taste of what true happiness felt like before everything was torn apart.

Now, one can only hope that Thor's joyous belly laugh echoes through the halls of Valhalla as he laughs and drinks and tells dangerous war stories with all the fallen soldiers of Asgard. One can only hope that Thor hasn't been taken to the awful, rage filled pits of despair and torture that reside in Helheim.

But sometimes, hope isn't enough. So, as Loki locks the door, sinks down into his chair, and picks up the knife. He sighs and thinks to himself, "I'm coming Thor. I just hope I'm not too late."