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A/N: I was blown away by the ending of Thor 2, and my instant first question was: What happened to Odin?
This oneshot is actually part of a larger, multi-chapter story that I am working on, but when I wrote this part, it was so vivid in my mind that I knew it deserved to stand alone. Please enjoy!
Triumph
"Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth. I love your majesty
According to my bond; no more nor less."
[-King Lear, Act I, Scene 1]
The Aether descended; a liquid cloud of infinite night. The high pinnacles of the eternal city were caught in its miasma. They blackened, transforming until all light that touched them was swallowed up, and their inky darkness became visible only as a gaping absence of being. The people screamed and ran as the seething cloud of nothingness slithered ever nearer. Chaos erupted as they scrambled for shelter from this force no shelter could hope to stand against.
But Asgaard stood against it nonetheless. Even as Prince Thor battled the Svartalves upon Midgaard, the magic masters wove defenses of light and sorcery. The Einherjar stood in ranks, a bright barrier of burnished gold, and crossed shield and sword to reflect the light, their weapons and armor gleaming and sparkling in the glittering green glow of enchantment. Asgaard shone, a beacon of light in the darkness, and for a moment the darkness was driven back in places. But it could not hold forever.
In the midst of the fray and confusion, the All Father directed his troops, ever vigilant even against an enemy that no sword could cut, nor spear pierce, nor shield deflect. Some he sent to bolster the magic masters, others he charged with corralling the terrified civilians to safety, if such a place could be said to exist anymore. They would stand to the last, the first defense against any foe that threatened the might of the Realm Eternal.
Odin sent them on, squad after squad, until only his honor guard remained.
"With me," he barked, sweeping out of the throne room down a side passage with sure, purposeful steps that belied his weary, aching, hopeless state. They would take a shortcut to the Bridge. He would stand at the fore of his men, and the champions of the nine realms, who had turned back every enemy ever faced would die on their feet, charging into battle, as warriors of Asgaard.
The faceless enemy looming without, none of those remaining inside the castle ever expected an attack from within.
As they moved through the high narrow corridor towards the secret passage to the gate, a deeper darkness flickered in the shadows of the columns an instant before one of the guards cried out. The handle of a throwing knife sprouted from the gap in his armor at his throat and he crumpled to polished stone, rolling swaths of blood blossoming from his still form.
The remaining guards came instantly alert in deadly concert. Blades range free of scabbards as armor and shields clattered into familiar stances of readiness. Odin, too, lowered Gungnir to the ready, though it drooped in an uncharacteristic display of weakness. But weary as he was, his eye was sharp as he searched the shadows for the next attack.
Without fanfare, it came, swift, brutal, effective. The foe seemed to be everywhere at once, darting like a serpent between the shadows.
A swish and whisper of a blade slicing the air, and two guards fell, fountaining blood, their slayer vanished faster than Odin could turn to strike. There was a cracking snap, and Odin turned again to see a third topple, his head twisted to an unnatural angle. A flash of green caught the corner of his sight as two more guards began to scream. The king turned in time to see them burst into acidic green flames that consumed their flesh in mere moments. The clatter of falling armor did not quite drown out the rattle of charred bones against the stone floor.
Odin swayed, dizzied by adrenaline and fear that would never show on his face. He gathered himself. Prepared. His breathing slowed, quieted. He listened.
There was the barest sound of a footfall behind him. He swung the spear, blazing a trail of golden fire as it bisected the air around him. For an instant, the shadowy silhouette was illuminated – an instant before the final guard was flung through the air into the path of Gungnir's fury.
Odin instantly released the shot, horrified, but there was no time to grieve the young soldier, as a force struck him full in the chest, throwing him off his feet. Marble cracked and chips flew from the crater he made in the wall. Gungnir was wrenched from his grasp. The world swam. Darkness tinged with gold blackened the edges of his vision.
For some time the strain of the sleep had pulled at him, and he had pushed it aside, waiting for Thor to at last ascend to the throne. But the Dark Elves had attacked and the pall had descended.
Time was up. The sleep was upon him
The shadows shifted.
"Show yourself!" Odin commanded, his voice strong though he could not longer even stand. "I would look upon the face of my killer before I die!"
"Am I your killer?"
The swish of blue fabric fluttered into the light. Odin thought he felt his ancient heart stop beating as his breath caught in his throat and unfathomable pain tore through his chest.
"Or are you mine?"
"Frigga…" he whispered brokenly.
She stepped from the shadows, straight, proud, graceful, heartrendingly beautiful. His dead queen advanced slowly, an expression of rage and hate colder and darker than the blackest pits of Helheim twisting her dear face.
"I was yours to protect," she hissed, advancing. From the folds of her gown flashed a blade. "I should have been your heart, your dearest treasure. Nothing should have reached me. And you let me die!"
The blade was cold against his throat, cold as ice, and the hand that held it shook with the misery and grief swimming in those eyes… those emerald eyes…
The pain in Odin's chest transformed, deepened and broadened, lit with the smallest, faintest spark of joy and relief sunk under a cold crushing ocean of sorrow.
"Loki…"
Frigga's eyes went wide, draining of their rage, until only agony remained. Green light flashed and Frigga's beloved face melted away leaving the pale, vengeful visage of his second son crouched over him, the blade in his hand still fast against his flesh.
"You let her die," he growled between clenched teeth.
The tremor in his hand drew a thin line of blood at the old king's throat. An angry tear slid from the corner of his eye. The muscles and veins in his face and neck strained, as though he were fighting to bring the blade down – or fighting to keep himself in check. Odin saw the war raging in his eyes on a field of hopes shattered to jagged shards under leaden skies of grief. His broken boy…
"My son…"
But his sight was fading, and the last thing he saw before the golden glow of the Odinsleep dragged him under was Loki raising the dagger to plunge it into his heart.
"I am not your son."
Loki's downward swing faltered and halted as Odin's eyes slid closed. The old man lay there, weak and vulnerable. As good as dead. Deserving death - a thousand deaths more painful than a knife in the heart for all the lies and the failures, the betrayals, the broken promises.
He stared at the man he'd called father for over a thousand years. When had he grown so old? He'd been here before, he realized, crouching over the old king's fallen form, torn ragged with emotion he little knew what to do with. Emotion ripping at him from the fresh horror of learning he was no Aesir prince, but a stolen monster being kept like a particularly dangerous pet…
Pain, burning and immediate, flooded his veins with fire. He raised the blade again, teeth clenched, chest heaving. His muscles bunched painfully poised to slaughter. The blade flashed. It fell.
And clattered to the stone floor.
Loki followed an instant later, going from the balls of his feet to his knees. There he crumpled against the slumbering king's form, clutching Odin's sleeves and pressing his forehead to his breastplate.
"Father… Father…"
The whispered plea did not make it farther than the space between his lips and the cold metal, and silent tears washed them away. He broke against the old king's sleeping form like waves crashing against the cliffs. He rode the surging tides of pain and rage and sorrow, lost, adrift, clinging irrationally to the very one who constantly destroyed him, the one who's pride he had only ever aspired to obtain, the one whose pride he now abhorred because it could never be anything more or less than a lie.
He rode the waves of grief and anger and shame for Frigga - for his mother - for her death and his part in it, for the final kiss he could not bestow upon her cold brow, and the funeral barge he could not light to send her to her ancestors. Because this man had locked him in a cage.
And he was rocked violently between searing jealousy and desperate regret to imagine Thor, his one time brother, the treasured natural son of Odin, the beloved true child of Frigga. The ideal he had admired, and to which he had always aspired. The height from which he had always fallen short.
He wanted so desperately to hate them.
He clung there, absent to the passage of time, until at length the turbulent currents of his mind calmed and his shaking stilled. The jagged ruin of his heart was scooped back up and tucked away into darkness as his mind regained some semblance of purpose; of cunning and ambition, and lies and even mischief.
When he straightened and rose, his air and countenance were calm and controlled, his expression edged with dark amusement.
He stared thoughtfully down at the sleeping king at his feet.
"Isn't this an interesting development," he commented to no one, his voice rasping slightly from his show of emotion.
He glanced up and down the passage. A wave of his hand, and the blood and bodies and all evidence of battle melted away in a cascade of green luminescence and were hidden. His eyes fell once more on Odin. His face stretched into a grim smile.
"Very interesting indeed…"
The sky was clearing when Odin stepped from the shadows of the gate, Gungnir in hand.
"My king!" one of the captains shouted, fisting a hand over his heart. "The Aether has gone! Heimdall says Prince Thor has triumphed!"
Odin turned and cast his gaze down the length of the bridge towards Heimdall, whose whole attention was riveted on the far off battle on Midgaard. The corners of the king's lips turned up, and his eye flashed with approval.
It was an expression of pleasure. Pride. Triumph.
Yet somehow it caused the captain to falter in his approach, chilled and uncertain. An urge to reach for the hilt of his blade made his fingers twitch.
Then he shook it off, chastising himself. What weakness was this lack of recognition? This irrational feeling of foreboding after the battle was won? Utter foolishness.
The enemy was driven out, and his king stood before him in triumph.
What more was there to fear?
The End (for now...)
Hope you enjoyed my little scenario; I know Anthony Hopkins has decided that Odin is dead, but I don't believe it for a minute! I genuinely don't believe Loki is capable of it! But he is definitely capable of taking advantage of a conveniently timed Odinsleep! What do you think? Feel free to share your theory in your review!
If you enjoyed this little installment, please look forward to a future fic, tentatively entitled "Song of Ice and Shadow" in which a different, slightly longer version of this oneshot appears. Please let me know what you think, comments or constructive criticism are earnestly craved!