Odin Allfather's voice echoes in his ears, harsh and unforgiving. You are unworthy of these realms. You are unworthy of your title.
He's taken the Bifrost before, and he's been at the center of storms. He's Thor, Odinson, Mjolnir's wielder; he is the center of the storm, in himself, always.
But not like this. He's tossed about like a child's toy, buffeted by frigid winds. There's grit sanding at his skin, through his knitted undershirt and trousers. He has no control, no power, nothing but helpless disorientation.
You are unworthy of the loved ones you have betrayed.
And then --
WHAM.
Well, that was something hard he just rebounded bodily off.
Ow.
(The ground is also hard. He knows that because he just rebounded off it, too.)
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He's taken the Bifrost before, and he's been at the center of storms. He's Thor, Odinson, Mjolnir's wielder; he is the center of the storm, in himself, always.
But not like this. He's tossed about like a child's toy, buffeted by frigid winds. There's grit sanding at his skin, through his knitted undershirt and trousers. He has no control, no power, nothing but helpless disorientation.
You are unworthy of the loved ones you have betrayed.
And then --
WHAM.
Well, that was something hard he just rebounded bodily off.
Ow.
(The ground is also hard. He knows that because he just rebounded off it, too.)