This was his chance to be good. Of course, he had to ruin it.
Never mind that his other four children were miserable bastards. Never mind that they were doomed to the deepest pits of their respective realms until the end of eternity. Never mind that he had all but forgotten about them for their own sakes; how could a prince of Asgard, even a false one, sire such pitiful things?
No, this was worse. He had wanted this one. It was hers.
It was theirs.
He was going to prove it to her, to Thor, to all of them. He could do it. He would be good. He wasn't such a heartless wretch to want to cast this all aside. He did know how to love. He could, and he would, damn it.
His baby.
Oh, how her face had lit up. She was scared, yes, terrified. But she wanted this. It was hidden in her, that one last prayer, dim and hiding in the recesses of her soul. But it was there.
He had held her, laughed with her, cried with her. No one else would believe it when they heard, not even Thor. They were happy, they supposed. But did they really believe he was capable of that again? Was he in the first place?
Time had passed, as time does. Things were changing, and things were growing. Alive. Really alive, and part of him, and part of her. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever known.
But then was the war.
She was not allowed to come to the fight, but the fight found her still. He had found her soon after, but not soon enough.
He had cried with her, cried with her, cried with her.
This was his atonement, he supposed. All the pain and suffering he had brought down upon others, so this was to be brought down upon him. But she did not have to suffer. She had done nothing. Nothing.
Of course, they could try again. But it would never be the same.
He could have done it, though. For her, for all of them.