The people of Midgard, Thor has noticed, do not seem to understand when he says that he is immortal.

(for he has lived for such a long time and he will continue to live, long after they have died, until Ragnarök arrives and everything starts anew once more)

The face of SHIELD, the man they call Fury, think that he understands. The Asgardians are simply a race of aliens who have fooled themselves into thinking that they are gods. In his mind they are not gods, nor immortal beings who have been around longer than Fury's beloved Earth has been formed. They are no different than humans, and can be destroyed like them, even if the means happen to differ. Nothing, after all, can truly live forever.

He is wrong.

. . .

Thor leant against an oak tree, and smiled fondly. He remembered another oak tree, long ago after the fall of what many Midgardians believed was their first great empire, though he himself had seen many an empire rise that would be considered much greater. It was in what was now known as Germany, and he was known by another name during those times. It was somewhat difficult to remember which – he had been addressed by many over the centuries, and he had never seen much point in correcting them, as soon enough there would be a new generation with their own ideas and names.

The tree itself had been magnificent, by far the most beautiful he had encountered on Midgard. He had been there when it was little more than a sapling, and had watched with fascination as it grew into a proud, towering oak. He had spent many a week simply sitting in its highest branches, enjoying the peace it provided, and paying little mind to the humans who occasionally passed by, attempting to gain his attention but unable to reach his resting place. His identity was eventually revealed to them – to some extent, at least – and the tree became known as the Donar Oak; their name for him. He had left soon after the naming, feeling that he had overstayed his welcome, Asgard beckoning to him as only home could. He was angry when he returned after a decade of absence to find that it had been cut down by a Christian missionary, and had never been too fond of the Church and its variants since then.

It was somewhat odd, remembering Midgard as it had been all those years ago. It was quite amazing how much it had changed over the millennia. Whilst the technological differences were obvious, it was the culture he found most interesting. How simple it had been when it first began! And now, similar to the oak tree, it had grown and branched out from the weak sapling it once was to a mighty, interconnected network.

It was only in the past century that the humans had made themselves a people of worthy warriors. Whilst he doubted that alone they could stand against the majority of the other realms, they had not fallen into the period of stagnation that had taken hold of many. It pained him to include Asgard as one of them, but he refused to blind himself to what was true. He would no longer allow his arrogance to cloud his judgement.

Far too easy it had been to retain such confidence and selfishness, in a time of relative peace that had been the past few centuries. He was assured in his ability as the strongest warrior in Asgard - besides his father, of course – and had basked in the glory of being a prince for far too long. He recalled a time where peace was but a distant dream, an ideal that few remembered experiencing. Where ties between the realms were tremulous at best, and he was often called on to battle. There was no place for arrogance on the battlefield; all that existed was the next fight, the vicious struggle for survival. Death would not release its claim on him due to status or prestige, and he knew that there was no true difference between him any other being, Asgardian or otherwise. They were all of equal value, and that value accounted to very little.

On the day of his coronation he was a different Thor to the one who had learned this lesson in all its terrible intricacies. He was a dulled sword, left to rust and crack upon an altar of light and gold. He could not see, could not think and understand as he once could. He was a spoilt child, a young man drunk upon past victories and an illusion of invulnerability. He needed to once again be taught; to be sharpened.

As much as the consequences pained him, he couldn't help but be grateful for his brother's interference that day. He would not have made a good king, not as he was, and he would never truly believe himself worthy of such a responsibility after his actions. How foolish he was, to attempt to begin war once more with the Jötun! The devastation it would cause to Asgard alone, never mind the other realms when they inevitably were drawn into the fighting, could never be justified. It had taken the loss of his powers (his strength his safety his family his home everything he knew and loved-) for him to realize this.

His eyes slid closed and his thoughts turned deeper into his memories. It was always a somewhat dangerous endeavour, but he often appreciated the peace it brought to his mind; losing himself in memories of Before. When Midgard was but an infant, and Asgard was far from the majesty it now flaunted. He remembered sitting as judge at the foot of Yggdrasil, when the ancient paths were still accessible. Remembered the dwarf Alvíss, whom he learnt many of the numerous wonders of the universe from, however unwillingly. Remembered when he and Loki were not brothers, and their interactions were rarely more than an exchange of insults and threats, the half-god at once an ally and an enemy.

(He remembers the end; the world tree quakes and the great serpent writhes and the heavens split apart and it is chaos. He remembers the endless battles between gods and monsters, between all realms and peoples until there is nothing left. His father and mother and brothers and wife and friends – deaddeaddead – but he is protector of the Earth and he has a duty, and he defeats the serpent but the bright snake gapes to heavens above and nine steps does his take, its deadly poison finally taking effect, leaving his heart stuttering in his chest, and when he sinks he is anything but fearless.)

His eyes snapped open, the blue vivid in its swirling mix of sadnessterrorconfusionvictoryanxietysorrowacceptan ce.

(He dies, and the cycle starts over once more)

His mother told him once that it was only he and herself who could remember what came Before,

who could remember who they once were (he is but a child and looks in a mirror and thinks wrong, thinks where is my red?). She did not know why (but he can separate truth from lie, when his judgement is not clouded by the arrogance of his later life), and it was rare that he ever brought it up with her (she looks so sad). He did not tell anyone else, at her request, and had little temptation to do otherwise.

That was immortality; a never-ending cycle of life and death and struggle and happiness and love and hate and wonder and fear- it was insanity, and he could barely keep himself from losing himself to it. Perhaps it was merely his own innate stubbornness; he was rather firmly set in his ways after so many millennia, and wasn't about to give up any time soon. The warrior that he identified himself by would never allow such a disgrace. Just as it had drove him to seek battle, it demanded his continued survival with just as much – if not more – ferocity.

. . .

So the Avengers forget how old he is, just how much he has experienced and seen, and – though he hates this thought – just how small and insignificant they are. Or rather, they will be, when another millennia has passed and they are but memories. By no means does this mean he doesn't care about them, but it is all too easy to think (during another fight, another end-of-the-world scenario, another matter of vital importance) in a few centuries time...

Usually he can dismiss these thoughts, and force himself to live solely in the present. He hopes that they will never know of this, of how sometimes he can't help but scoff at their problems (petty), recalling his own troubles and those of people he had known or observed, and think this is nothing.

They are a lot like children, to a being of his age. They do not see this, of course, and he knows that they often think of him as the ignorant one on the team, the 'tank' who is ignorant to the ways of their world, their technology and culture. This is of course false - when you have lived as long as he there is very little you do not know, or cannot learn – but he sees no reason to correct them, to help them realise (especially Fury) the danger he and his people pose. He may not yet be wise, but he has learnt to be wary. Whilst he may consider Midgard under his protection, he duty is first to Asgard as its prince.

Perhaps one day they will learn the truth of his existence, should he ever trust them to such a vast extent, but until then he will allow their dismissal and savour the time he has with them. He knows, better than anyone else, just how fleeing happiness can be.

. . .

So, uh, this didn't quite turn out how I thought it would, but I hope you guys enjoyed anyway. I apologise if it got a bit confusing :) As always, prompts are welcome, and reviews are really encouraging!