Thor fell against the wall, his blood leaving long traces of warm down the side of his face. His body was hollow, burnt out, but his heart fought furiously against the stern call of sleep. He didn’t have much, but he still had his vengeance. He would cling to that while he could.
His legs moved on their own, pushing him back to his feet. He reached out, traced his fingers around Mjolnir’s edges. The cold feels good against his flesh.
His eyes crackle with lightning. He is Thor.
He is a God.
He is not to be trifled with.
He rises.
The room seems smaller as he feels it fill him. Anger. Righteous, and otherwise. It feels good. Familiar.
He is Thor.
His vision blurs and he stumbles, but does not fall. He continues his walk, one foot in front of the other. He can see them with his one good eye, sense them as they surround him. He forgets their names, forgets why they attack him, remembers only that they do. Only that they must.
He tenses his grip.
He is the Son of ODIN.
HE is a GOD.
THEY are mistaken.

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