Chapter Text
TW: Discussions of blood and death–kind of explicit. Abandonment. Angst. General profound thoughts. Not the happy kind. Heed the tags.
Hopeful ending.
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All he ever knew was war.
He knew the feeling of his giant hammer, cold on his hand. He knew the rough feeling of the battle axe he occasionally held.
He knew the feeling of his enemies' skulls crushing beneath them.
He knew the thrill of battle, of heavy breathing and pained screaming. He knew the taste of smoke entering his mouth and lungs, he knew the burning pain of wounds.
He knew the feeling of warm, sticky blood sliding through his hands, he knew the terror in his enemies' eyes when they found themselves at his mercy.
He knew the pale stillness of death, the face of agony frozen in a twisted mask as they fell silent.
Frozen like his land.
The land he knew, the cold caves and screeching winds.
The bitter people, each one fending for themselves, sliding each century into a deeper and deeper animalistic identity. Taken away, stolen, by one who they once bowed to. They took his eye in return.
He had lost his voice, but he knew his words. They resounded inside his head, like an unending echo. He knew his name, but did not care to claim it.
He was frozen, just like his land. Just like his prey, just like the dead.
Frozen until he had a reason to move. To kill.
Blood, rinse and repeat.
He knew his routine. He knew his sins, and made peace with them. He knew his future, and where he would end.
He knew.
.
.
.
.
What he did not know was what in Hel that thing was.
"Hewwo?"
Tiny. Unbearably tiny. He could almost fit it in his whole fist. Fragile, thin.
He could crush it under his foot, like a pesky bug.
He imagined what it would be like. Warm blood splattering everywhere, the cracking of bones, like such of a newborn bird. Would it cry? Would it scream? He did not think so. It was much too tiny.
He did not move. He had no reason to. The tiny thing was not an enemy. It could barely walk straight. He stayed hunched in the same position, leaning against his cave, hidden but still visible if anything decided to peek inside. This was his place. Thus, his territory. He had left his marks, done with his axe, like claw marks running up and down in an incomprehensible pattern to any different race, but ringing clear with warning to other Jötnar.
Anyone trespassing would die at his hands.
But the tiny thing would not. His work was cut out for him.
It clearly did not belong here, so it would die with the upcoming storm. It would blacken with frostbite and whither, and eventually it would become a carcass, still and dead.
Things from the outside tended to last shorter than the weakest warrior in this place. The cold was unforgiving.
Just like life was. A petty, unforgiving thing.
The tiny thing clearly had no such qualms, for it stumbled and wobbled clumsily closer to where he was sitting.
He growled in warning. He could tolerate its presence while it died, but he would not appreciate it coming too close.
It would get hurt. It would die faster. Because everything they touched died in a heartbeat.
The tiny thing stopped in its tracks, becoming so startled he lost balance and fell on its bottom. How pathetic. How had it even gotten here?
Wide, shiny green eyes stared up at him. Strange. He had only ever seen red eyes.
Red dead eyes, aggressive and mistrusting.
These ones however...they only held curiosity.
Pure, unadulterated wonder. How...peculiar. He would have thought the tiny thing would be scared.
Smaller things often were.
"You, gwwol?" it babbled, putting its hand in its mouth. He did nothing. Its musings were nothing but white noise, lost to the screaming wind outside. They were unimportant.
The tiny thing looked around, fragile neck turning this way and that. He did not understand what it found interesting. There was nothing here, save for a few dead leaves on the ground. It still looked, and inevitably, its gaze returned to him. The thing put its hands flat on the ground and stood up, legs trembling. It walked closer to him.
Did it not understand his warning? He growled deeper. The tiny thing stopped again, but this time it did not fall. Only titled its head.
One step closer. He growled again. The tiny thing did a weird thing with its mouth. What was that?
Another step, this time deliberate. He snarled, showing his teeth. Do not come closer. It made a foreign noise, repetitive and high, and wiggled its fists.
...Another. He had enough. He roared strongly, shaking the walls of the cave. Birds screeched outside, frightened by his might. As they should be. As it should be.
There was silence after. The tiny thing had widened its eyes even more, frozen in place.
Always frozen.
Its face made a strange spasm. He hoped it would not cry. Crying was annoying. If it cried, he decided, he would kill it himself.
He did not need any more noise in his existence. The only cries he relished in were the ones of his enemies, because he was able to end them quickly, their choked tears cutting into silence with a swing of his hammer.
But once again, the tiny thing proved him wrong. It started...blowing air out of its mouth in short bursts of sound, similar to a bird's chirping. Its mouth was wide, showing him its harmless canines, and its eyes were shut tight, open to any unexpected attack. Its small frame shook with trembles, and it twisted its hands over its middle.
What...what was it doing?
He...knew that noise. He had heard it once, several times in fact. Before. When times were kinder, when their land was shining with abundance and the Heart of the Ice was in its rightful place. Before the war. Before he became this miserable thing. When he was smaller, more naive. Not as tiny as this fragile thing, though.
But he could still do that sound back then.
It was...He struggled to find the word in the darkest corners of his mind.
Laughter.
Laughter.
He stared at the tiny thing. It was laughing. He remembered, laughter was a way to express one's joy or excitement.
Why...? Why was it happy? It was lost, stranded probably, in a frozen, desolate place. It would die soon, he knew, buried under the snow somewhere, stiff and cold. It was trapped in a cave with a monster.
So why was it laughing?
The tiny thing finally ceased its laughter, and looked up at him again, with watery eyes and a turn of its mouth.
Another spark was lit in his mind, long forgotten. Smiling.
The little thing smiled at him. At him. At an abomination, a monster.
....No.
No, this one did not know of the world. It was too tiny, too new to it. If it was bigger, stronger perhaps, infused with the knowledge of Jötunheim's perversity, it would not laugh, certainly. It would glare, it would scream–it would shout hurtful words he could understand but was not able to deny.
It would eventually die at their hands. If not he, then someone or something else.
This...happy, laughing thing, would die.
...It would die. It was normal. It was fate, the end of the line everybody reached one day.
So why...?
The tiny thing shuffled closer, all rosy cheeks and chubby legs.
"'Gain! 'Gain!"
He stared at it, not understanding. It stood close enough to touch him, and he could not even turn away, stunned as he was. It knelt next to him, and patted the ground with its hand.
"Dwo it 'gain!"
Oh. It wanted him to...
He growled hesitantly. The tiny thing laughed again, clapping its hands together. The sound...it sounded like...bells. Like a fresh stream. Like the stars in the sky. Like everything good and kind he forgot existed. The opposite of this place. The opposite of suffering and death.
...When had been the last time he had laughed? He could not remember. Not even smiling.
It was...like a light was shining in front of him. Such a simple thing, unimportant like was a growl, had made the tiny thing laugh. Had made it happy.
With a start, he realized...he had made it happy.
These teeth, good only for tearing flesh apart, that had been bloodied so many times...the horrible sounds that had come out of it...
He had made it laugh. And...it felt...
It felt...warm.
Warm in a world of frost and ice.
He looked upon the little one with newfound admiration. That one so vulnerable could find amusement in one that could crush him without effort...It was a kind of braveness he had never seen before.
The tiny thing smiled at him, and he felt something in his chest give. He reached a tentative hand to it.
It had been so long since he had found a reason to let go of his frostbite...but...
He did not want to hurt this creature. It did not deserve it, unknowing of the dangers of this world, innocent as it was.
The little one smiled wider and grabbed one of his fingers with its pudgy fists.
It was warm too.
Warm against his cold skin. Peach against blue.
Warm...
"Ah–choo!"
He startled. The tiny thing had something transparent beneath its nose. It rubbed its hands against it.
Snot.
Sneeze.
It was cold.
Of course. He had forgotten for a moment. The cold was starting to settle in, the storm roaring above the skies.
This one...
It would die.
It had already started trembling.
He watched with something akin to despair as the tiny thing shivered against the cold. Its cheeks reddening further from a healthy pink to a furious red.
He did not like this. This feeling. It was not warm, it was...
Helplessness.
A wave of rage overcame him, different from the blind red haze of war.
Tiny things always had caretakers.
Even deplorable creatures such as they had them still, until they were of age or they died. Because they knew that small creatures could not always take care of themselves. They needed someone else.
So where were the tiny thing's caretakers? He looked down at it.
It was sniffing constantly, not crying, but definitely dimmer than before. He did know what this meant.
Unhappiness. Discomfort. He clenched his giant fist without truly realizing it.
The tiny thing should not be unhappy. It should be cared for. Even a murderer like him knew how valuable small ones were. They would carry their weapons next, they would battle their war next.
His mind unclogged from the dark mist that had been settled over it through the last few centuries, racing with concerns and thoughts that had never crossed his bloodied soul before.
...Could he try?
...Could he hope to try?
He was not made for this. He was made for destruction, for death. He had stepped over countless corpses, melted, severed, trespassed. He had helped with this empty fate. He was one more monster in the legends. He was alone, caretakers gone, facing his enemies on his own.
...It would be dangerous. This world was not made for softness.
But...it would only be for a short time. Until the little thing's caretakers appeared.
...And if they did not? What if they were dead? Or simply thought it better to leave their offspring behind to wither in fear?
Then...then he would see. He would take a decision.
But for now?
For now he needed fire.
Unheard of. Blasphemous, how something so crucial to other species was the very thing that had been an aid to their realm's doom. A betrayal, to look for it, desire it. Use it.
But the little thing needed it.
So he needed it too.
He sighed, making his whole frame rumble and messing the tiny thing's hair.
The small one looked up again, trembling. Its eyes held no judgement, no rage, no blame. They were clear as a lake. Trusting.
Trusting him.
He swallowed. It had been a long time since he made use of this. He gathered his Seidr under his chest, feeling the old pressure come back to life like a wheel full of rust that just started to move again. It crackled at his fingertips. The little thing made a soft sound and smiled when the thin hairs of its arms stood up. Lightning lit up the skies. Just a little more.
There.
He took hold of the sharp edges of the deadly blade, of light and blinding power. He heard the little one scream, shrill and high, but forced himself to continue.
Lighting bent and struck in the pile of dry leaves scattered over the cave, setting it on fire. Thunder broke out in the distance.
Thunder...
That. That was it.
He gathered the leaves quickly, preventing it from dying out and feeding the improvised bonfire in the process. It would not burn much longer, but it would be enough for him to gather wood to make a more permanent source of fire.
...It was bright. And warm.
Like the tiny thing.
Speaking of which. He looked down, and found the little one pressed against his side, barely visible fingers curling against his pelts. It was so small he had not felt it leaning into him. It was scared.
Something in his chest gave a pang.
The little thing was scared, and it had come to him for comfort. It could have run away, it could have covered itself with its arms, unmoving, but it had not.
It had chosen him. The monster. The murderer.
...If he truly belonged in Hel, such a fragile creature would not have ran to him for protection, would it?
He did not know.
The tiny thing looked up with watery eyes and trembling lips.
But he could not talk. He could not offer platitudes nor promises. That had been lost to him far too long ago. He could only make rumbling noises.
Like a wild animal.
He pushed the tiny creature with his finger, nudging it gently–what a strange concept, gentleness–in the fire's direction. It made a noise of protest, clinging to him and pushing with inexistent force in the other direction.
It was safe, he wanted to say. Fire was good. But he could only make a wordless hum.
He ripped a part of his pelt, just a fraction, and dropped it on the tiny thing as a sort of blanket. It buckled under the weight, and he worried he had hurt it–useless, monster, murderer–but it poked its fragile head out and passed a hand through the fur, looking awed. It was slightly wet from the snow, but it did not seem to mind, and it rubbed its cold cheek against the fabric with a content sigh.
It seemed to realize the fire was harmless, and scooted closer to it, raising its tiny hands to warm them up. It made that sound again. Laughter, and twisted its head to look upside down at him.
"Fiwre! Hot!" it chirped. He nodded.
"You come?" it asked, with hopeful eyes.
Kind. But impossible. He was a frost giant. He was ice. He could not expose himself. He shook his head. The tiny thing wilted, looking dejected.
"Cold?" it insisted. He shook his head again. He could not. The tiny thing frowned, and stood up quickly, bundling up the pelts in its thin arms with difficulty. It trotted over to him, and lay the fabric over his hand. Then, to his complete shock, it squirmed until it was under the blanket next to his hand, and smiled up at him.
"There! Hot! Us two, gwood!" it patted his hand.
Was it...trying to warm him up too?
...
That was...
Cautiously, slowly, he brushed a finger against the tiny thing's head, feeling the fragility of its skull, trying to touch it as softly as he could, like he had seen other races do to their little ones. It wiggled happily like a little serpent, leaning into him. There was silence, save for the fire's crackling and the leaves burning. It would die out soon, but it would be enough to make the little one last until the morning. He already knew he would not be gathering firewood today. His hand was compromised, and he could not move, lest he disturbed the tiny creature.
This was something he had never felt before. Never before.
Warm. So warm.
It felt nice.
No blood, no screaming, no torment. Not a trace of a storm in his mind, crushing him between its cruel accusations and the bitter echoes of guilt.
Just the fire, the slow breathing of the tiny thing, and him.
Him.
The Thunderer.
He remembered. Before. Before being a murderer, before being a monster, a shell of what he once was, forced to grow up too fast and face carnage and mutilation.
Before that, he had been someone. This tiny thing had reminded him of it. He was someone, and he had a purpose, one that was more than destroying an enemy, than winning a battle. A purpose truly worthy of existing.
.
.
.
He was Thor.