Wind dances through the lush verdant plains of the abandoned valley, the colossal mountains appearing frozen in place as they outline the empty clouded skies. The howling of the wind picks up, leaping back and forth without mercy as the grass of the expansive field moves in ripples with the gale. Crows glide overhead, cawing and flapping amongst each other, lowering to the center of the plain which stands still without any time. The sharpened talons of the miniature ink-like creatures descend into the hardened mounds of the grass. Pecking, pecking there, then pecking again at the remnants that decorated the ground. Beaks pinching at the deceased flesh of those whose bodies piled on top of one another.
The scent of death plagued the field, the grotesque heavy aroma of decaying flesh weighing heavy into nostrils. The scent would stick for weeks, not only in the nose, but on the body entirely. Yet, it is the blood that stays in the mind for much longer. Redden liquid smeared the brilliance of the natural green of the earth in the hollowed lowland, the metallic balm lifting on the gust. The spray of blood formed obtuse symbols as the bodies of the fallen were dragged into a pile.
Body on body.
Limbs tossed on the mounds of lifeless forms.
The puddle of blood forming an ocean as the dead bodies strain under the weight of the other.
“Gather their bodies. Pile them high for our enemies to see. They shall be undone by our resolve, and they shall receive our warrant! Those against Asgard will fall!”
Thunder's harsh voice echoed throughout the valley, his mighty cry ripping far beyond the mountains that stood tall with snow coated high peaks. Mjolnir raised high to the clouded heavens, sparks of lightning zipping trough the ashen painted sky, and the Norse God's face painted with a twisted expression of fury and solemn.
Thor's appearance was fierce-some; he looked neither of man nor god, but beast in true form. The long cascading golden locks of the God were now begrimed with semi dry blood, clinging to his face in a random flurry, unbound and wild in tangles and knots, and ultimately as wild as his flaxen beard. Gashes, scrapes, and claw marks adorn the bare flesh of his face, hands, and neck. Gore coats Thunder's lips, as blood lightly drips from his mouth. The same mouth that just moments ago ripped the jugular from a Frost Troll who decided to get too close, and suffered the price with agony and violence. The God's glorious armor that once coated his body is now tarnished by bodily fluids, dirt, and is shattered on the warrior's arms, abdomen, and chest. The only unscathed item that adorns Thor is his divine flowing vermilion cape; the bloodshed blended finely into the threads of the fabric.
The once shining azure gaze of the Aesir God has been snuffed out long ago. Nothing remains in those eyes except ravenous thrashings of cobalt exploding in bursts of lightning; ablaze in a marriage of rage and torment.
The Thunder God's appearance alarmed his comrades; the Warriors Three and Lady Sif. Thunder's looks have been vicious and animistic for months into years now, and the move into battle only hardened his intimidating atmosphere with each battle. The Thor that they knew was dwindling away with each thrash Mjolnir gave, the God that stood in playful strength yielded to the darkness growing inside, and wrath was the only emotion Thor knew to give.
No one dared speak a word about it. No one dared.
But they all knew why.
Sif lifted two dead Frost trolls, one for each of her shoulders to carry the uncomfortable weight. The Goddess of War walked with ease to the forming pile of death in the field, her inhuman strength making her actions easy. Yet, she shivered feeling her long raven tresses get coated in blood from the decapitated troll on her shoulder. Lady Sif tossed the trolls like rag dolls on top of the grave, growling in irritation as she ran calloused fingers through her mane. Her fingers only then started to journey about her face, over the slash over her eye, on the scratches kissing her cheeks in stinging pain, then over her body, and the damages in her armor.
The War Goddess made it out of this battle with minor injuries, all of which will be healed due to her speedy recovery time by tomorrow morning. Yet, the win felt bittersweet in the female warrior's mouth. Perhaps it was the blood in her mouth from taking a fist to the jaw, or maybe it was the grim scene of the crows devouring Frost Troll flesh, but nothing about this battle in Nifleheim felt victorious. Looking at her Prince, that bittersweet taste became unbearable.
Frigg, Loki, that mortal woman, and soon Odinn. They were all lost to Thor.
Loki's betrayal earning him shackles and imprisonment; never to be seen again.
The Midgardian woman turning her back on Thor, no longer withstanding his absence.
The All Father, the only shred of sanity Thunder has, fading fast, his great sleep catching upon him.
Walking the perimeter of the lowland, looking for any sign of additional forces, Sif stops. A lone chopped off arm, blueish to the tint with rigor mortis stricken clawed fingers, lied on the ground with a crow ripping into the flesh.
There's been times, many in fact, that Sif offered her body to Thor in hopes it would lessen his sorrows. But nothing from Thunder, except rough spurned fucking. Tender touches in the midst of sparring sessions, just out of sight of Fandral or Hogun. Nothing from Thunder, except a grimace on his chapped lips and a jerk away. A kiss on his lips, so tender and giving. Nothing from Thunder, not even a slight kiss back. Those words that hung in Sif's heart since they were young, finally spoken aloud after a night of harsh sex. Nothing from Thunder, absolutely nothing.
The long fingers of Sif reach out and grab the lifeless limb, crushing it lightly in her fisted palm before tossing it far off into the pile with no effort. The Goddess' boots clank across the field as she walks on, a small limp in her legs from those long hours of combat.
There's no giving up on Thor, not now nor ever. She'll fight still for her Prince, and earn his heart. The Goddess of War wouldn't stop her affections, she'd bring Thunder back from his darkness.
“Shouldn't we call Heimdallur? We shan't linger here. This smell is clogging my nose, and I look beyond indisposed.” Fandral said, running a gloved hand through his short wheat colored hair.
Fandral the Dashing was quite opposed to being seen without looking...well, dashing. As much as the Asgardian born adventurer is attached to the sheer thrill and pulse pounding drive of war, the amount of Giant and Troll attacks has been getting out of control. The enemies of the throne and of the Kingdom of Asgard grew active as whispers of decent in the house of Odinnson grew. The citizens of Asgard heard the whispers of the fall, but the Gods and Goddess that live within the castle were actually witnessing it. Revolt was in progress and war was closer than on the horizon.
Fandral couldn't remember the last time he ran a comb through his hair, let alone the last he took a fair maiden into his chambers for a right amount of fun. These two things, spoiling himself and a night of good fucking among beautiful ladies, were a necessity for Fandral to feel confident or refreshed. Yet, Thor wasted no time in crushing the enemies of Asgard without hesitation.
Fandral has grown so uneasy at this shift in his comrade. He barely knew who he was anymore.
Dashing knew and grew to be devoted to the Prince who laughed while hammering his weapon into the skull of his adversaries, to the Thunder who drank himself silly with delight, to the friend who swapped stories of sexual glory and adventure, but not this shadow he peered before him. Thor was a shell not even half the God he was several years ago. Frigg, her murder snapped a cord in his friend, and that's when he noticed him coming undone slowly. However, long before his mother's passing, his brother's betrayal literally infested his ability to look at anyone the same. Thor looked upon everyone with this shimmer of mistrust. Yet, who could blame Thunder? His own blood tried to leave him for death, what was anyone else capable of?
“Do as thee wishes. I shall stay a bit longer.” Thor said, the small group coming to the leader.
Besides the sound of Fandral heavily sighing, then Sif elbowing him in his side, Thor didn't hear anything else from his comrades. No one dared to counter his words or steer him on another path. Heimdallur, his bewitching eyes observing all with ears just as open, must have heard Fandral the Dashing's complaints as he flowed forth passage upon the bridge. The blinding golden light blurring Thunder's vision for only a moment, before he was left alone on the desolate valley's turf.
Barbarous indeed has Thor grown in his anger and hostility. The electric eyes of the God sparked as he observed the handy work of his partners. The death stricken tangled and mangled forms of the bodies so wonderfully stacked, as if the decaying flesh provided a stable foundation of architecture. The bulky forms of the Frost Trolls piled high, almost blocking the gargantuan mountains from Thor's view. How twisted and grotesque. How fitting a message to serve to anyone who dared cross the House of Odinnson or the safety of Asgard.
The God's large fingers ran through his hair, as a tiny crunch sounded from him disturbing the dried fragments of blood in his dirty blonde hair. Thunder's muscles ached not only from his small movement, but from the armor that dug into his sore abdomen all throughout battle.
How long has it been since Thor rested? Ate a full meal? Smiled? Ran a comb through his hair? These were things that the God couldn't remember himself. So many things have changed in the time his mother passed...he felt human because of it. Life was moving fast, things changing, time moving on the clock for him...time running out. His father is running out of time too, Odinn is getting weaker with each passing day until he collapses in sleep. Then, Thor would be King. Then, he could feel Loki cursing him from his cell over and over into his niece's domain, Helheim. Jane- gone, doesn't want to even look at Thor anymore- he's a failure to her. All she wanted was time, time to be with him, but Thor couldn't do it. Odinn despised Jane, she was human and Thor wasn't, Odinn didn't approve, he'll never approve. Loneliness. Anger. Rage. Fury. Sadness. Darkness. Nothingness. Pure nothingness. Thunder needs nothingness. You can't lose nothing.
Thor slaps his hand to his forehead, gripping it. Heat is rising from his chest to his head, and it's setting his brain ablaze. Mjolnir suddenly feels heavy at Thunder's hip, his balance is off. The thick scent of the metallic richness of blood and gore of death infiltrates his smell in an overwhelming fashion, and the scenery is tipping. Thor falls to his knees, his breathing becoming short.
He feels human, much to human right now.
“O Gracious Goddess, O Gracious God. Lend me health, strength, and love. During this coming day that I may do your will.”
The voice whispered sweetly in his ears, lightly chiming as a hum upon the hills. Thor rubbed his ears, fierce azure eyes looking about, but to no avail. No one is with him in the empty coffin of death, just him on his knees hallucinating alone. But, the voice it sounded to real and wondrous through his fit he shut his eyes again, listening harder. The winds blew and fingered through his long coated flaxen hair; the song of the wind brought that entrancing hymn-like voice again. Thor's eyes slowly open, his mouth parting to take in the untainted air of the gale.
“Assist me with the challenges ahead. Share your divine wisdom. Teach me to respect all things. Remind me that the greatest power of all is love.”
This siren, this sylph of the heavens was singing out, and their sweet invocation spiraled far beyond the mountains and ascended high over the now revolting scene of stacked corpses. The psalm sent the warmest touch on each gash and wound the God bore, and he felt his chest loosen from his internal attack.
The final words hooked his mind...what enchantments is this? Who relieved him of his pain- if only for this one brief moment? The Thunder God remained on his knees, bold eyes scanning the partially gray clouds that began to part, hands open as if in the action of receiving.
Thor remained on his knees for at least two hours.
Time meant nothing to a God.
Prayers even less.
But for this hymn, this nectarous ode, Thor might actually listen.