A/N—I don't own Thor. That belongs to Marvel.
Alright, I have a few things to say. First is that we're now in the movie events, which means that this story is drawing to a close. There should be about three more chapters left, maybe four, and then I've got to press the completed button. :(
But I'd like to run an idea off you guys. I'm considering writing a sequel to the Thor movie. This story was a prequel. So I'm thinking of writing the sequel. If you guys could let me know what you think of this in your reviews, I'd really appreciate it, and if enough people want a sequel, I'll write one. :)
Thanks so much for your dedicated reviews-you're all so kind. I dedicate this chapter to all of my reviewers, favers, and alerters!
willshakespeare-immortalbard
He cried.
Father dead...—and every bitter, hateful word that Thor had ever spat in his direction had served a sword, piercing until, standing furiously inside the Bifrost, he had stuck the final blow—"And you are an old man and a fool!"
The mud caked his clothing, dark and stiff as any blood he had shed. He could feel it clinging to his skin, coating his arms and hands. For a brief instant the fluorescent lighting turned it blue, and he saw Jotun blood, blue and coldly real. It was as if the mud at his knees and elbows was ice, inhibiting him more than the ropes that bound his hands behind his back.
Father dead...—and Loki, who didn't look like a child anymore, even though only day had passed since the youth had shone so starkly in his frightened eyes, the horror of loss and pain glittering like the reflection of supernovas in a green, writhing sea—burdened with the heavy throne that he had never wanted.
Thor's vision was blurry, and he could feel himself shaking. The mud was seeping into his shoes, numbing his feet. A tear splashed into the dark muck, and in the brief blossom of clarity, Thor saw everything he had ever loved, bright and illuminated in the rainbow light of that shining bridge to the distant Bifrost.
And then the muddy ground sucked the light under, pulling the last remnants of Thor's life away, dissolving it more permanently than it had ever been before, even when Thor and his father's arguments had broken it apart, like a fragile ornament shaken too hard.
The next tear didn't leave his cheek, and he could feel it there, as sharp as the icy drops that had scratched his skin that day when he had knelt in the snow of Jotunheim, shaking with fear and pain, his hands buried in the white sea, clenching his only hope in his fists, the Jotun's pity following him as the Bifrost wrenched him home.
Father dead...—and Thor had seen the lie in his little brother's eyes.