Hela and her army of the dead have overtaken Asgard. Loki is forced to surrender his guise as Odin. Thor must battle Hela's champion for the throne—to the death. And Jane Foster is crushed beneath half a ton of concrete and left to die. The dusk of an age has come. Night is falling. It is RAGNAROK. REPOSTED.
Author's Note: Herein, there will be many references to Tolkien (sometimes whole verses or songs), as well as Old-English, Old Norse, and Middle English words. There are also medieval and Middle-English songs used. There is also reference to Beowulf, the oldest written epic in both English and German. They are all real, please look them up for extra fun.
Only kind reviews, please. We're all here for entertainment, after all.
Enjoy!
RAGNAROK
Deep thanks to Madi-solo for the beautiful trailer for this story
RRRRR
"If this is to be our end
Then I would have them make such an end
As to be worthy of
Remembrance."
-Theoden King
The Two Towers
STAVE ONE
Thunder rumbled. It echoed between the stone buildings of Baker Street, in the midst of this ancient Midgardian city known as London. Thor glanced up at the lowering grey sky, taking a deep breath of the moisture and electricity in the air. The roar of the city—still strange to him, even after four years—surrounded him like a pulse. As if he stood within the very heart of a huge, metal-and-stone beast.
His footfalls scraped heavily against the dirty paving. The thunder chuckled again. He halfway smiled as he put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, the wind picking up and whistling down the alley.
Ahead and to the right, he caught sight of the corner of the building where Jane lived. She did not occupy all of it—just an upper portion she called a "flat." And she had rented this particular "flat" because it apparently occupied a space on this street that was near the supposed dwelling of a famous detective of olden times. Thor didn't particularly see the appeal—he could barely squeeze through the door. His own house here in London was much larger, nearer Hyde Park…
Though still not airy and vaulted like his golden chambers in Asgard, with tall windows open to the gardens, misty purple mountains beyond, and the scent of lilac and rose drifting through the curtains…
Thor shook himself and lowered his head, drawing up alongside Jane's pale building.
And he felt it.
Something tingled upon the backs of his hands, and down his neck.
He stopped.
The air had fallen still—but high, high above, the clouds roiled, and darkened. A chill cooled his skin. He narrowed his eyes, and slowly turned around.
The long, narrow alley behind him stood empty. Nothing stirred. And the traffic noise quieted…
As if the whole of London held its breath.
Then…
Wind.
It started as a low, restless breeze, then snarled down the alleyway, tossing trash and leaves ahead of it. It built in strength, snatching at Thor's clothes and long hair. The clouds turned to black. The street lamps flickered on.
Thor drew his hands out of his pockets, his heartbeat picking up. The wind began to swirl in one place, fifty paces ahead of him in the alley. Mist gathered in its binding, and leaves and papers lashed the alley walls. The pillar of cloud grew dark, sprouting roots that spread like tentacles across the paving.
Suddenly, the reek of rotting corpses rolled across Thor, driving him back three steps.
He flung off his jacket, exposing his red Asgardian tunic. Quickly, he slapped his shoulders with his hands…
And his armor bloomed across his chest, rippled down his arms, encased his legs, and billowed out behind him in a scarlet cape—all rattling and jingling like summer rain. Mjollnir's heavy weight slapped into his right hand and he curled his fingers tight around the leather, feeling the very metal of the hammer thrum in its depths.
The dark mist ahead of him solidified, intensified. Took shape. A winsome form, as tall as he—but lithe as a blade. He could soon make out the dangerous curves of a woman.
And then, with an icy rush, the fog blew away…
Revealing she who wore a battle suit of wrapped midnight edged in silver, with
raven hair hanging like a torn veil around her snow-white face. Black was the skin around her eyes, making her sharpened features ghastly as a skull.
She carried no weapon. And yet Thor felt a horrid dread crawl through him as that stench filled his throat.
Her pale lips smiled. But she said nothing.
Thor never tore his eyes from her.
"Who are you?" he asked. His rough voice carried through the silence. Far overhead, a deep crackle snickered through the clouds.
"I ought to ask who you are," the stranger replied, her tone like the surface of a dark lake, her grey eyes luminous. "The only son of Odin, past the age of inheritance…and yet he wears no crown." She slowly tilted her head. "Banished, but redeemed to honor—and yet he has abandoned his duties." Her gaze narrowed. "Can it be he has forgotten how to love his kingdom? Or perhaps his power is indeed not great enough to rule?" Her voice softened to a lethal whisper. "Perhaps he is not even a prince after all."
"Who are you?" Thor demanded.
The smile faded from her face. And with the voice of the winter wind—thin and cutting to the bone—she began to sing an eerie tune.
"A youth walked out, one day, one day
And met a woman by the way
Her head was black, her eyes were grey
Her clothing made of the cold earthen clay…"
She stepped toward him. Thor trembled, a cold sweat breaking out upon his hands and neck—and he gripped Mjollnir tighter.
"He said, 'Woman, what one are you?
What country do you belong unto?" she sang, the wind building around her hands, the thunder mounting in the skies.
"My name is Death—hast heard of me
All kings and princes bow down unto me.
And you, fair youth…must come along with me."
Her eyes blazed. A fiendish grin flashed across her face.
Thor leaned back and hurled Mjollnir at her with all his strength.
It slashed through the air, cracking like a whip—
She flung out her arm—
And caught it.
Her fingers wrapped around its head, its mighty weight shivering in her grasp.
Thor staggered upon the end of his throw, staring—feeling the earth tip beneath him.
Death gazed past the shaking hammer, directly into his eyes.
And then…
She squeezed.
As if she were breaking an egg, Mjollnir crushed in her hand—
Flindering apart and shattering to the pavement.
The great handle tumbled onto a pile of ash.
And there, by the will of a finger and thumb, lay the invincible, immortal Thundercall—the hammer forged in the very depths of a star. The weapon Thor had wielded as his own arm since boyhood.
Utterly riven. And utterly dead.
To be continued…