Thor had never been afraid of a fight. More importantly, he'd never been afraid of dying. Fear of death made warriors hesitate, made them slow. Better to face the end with courage than to cower and die anyway.
"Here," Loki said, green magic swirling around his hands. The energy coalesced into a large battle axe, its blade gleaming with ethereal light. He offered it to Thor with both hands.
Thor took the weapon, immediately noticing the intricate carvings along the shaft and blade—elaborate patterns of wolves and ravens, Celtic knots and Norse runes, all rendered in exquisite detail. It was beautiful, really, the kind of craftsmanship that belonged in a museum rather than a battlefield.
"Why do you always waste your magic on useless decorative details?" Thor asked, though his tone held more exasperation than genuine criticism. "Just make the weapon stronger, more durable. Function over form."
Loki looked genuinely offended. "You brute. How can you possibly understand the beauty of intimidation? A warrior who carries a magnificent weapon into battle has already half-won the psychological warfare."
"Mm-hmm," Thor said, unconvinced. He hefted the axe, testing its balance. It was good work, actually—Loki had outdone himself. "Okay, okay. Let's use our usual tactics."
"Just distract him," Loki confirmed, already moving to flank. "I'll definitely backstab him when he's focused on you."
Thor didn't bother responding. They'd executed this strategy hundreds of times over the centuries—against dark elves, frost giants, demons, and creatures that defied easy classification. Thor drew the attention, absorbed the damage, while Loki struck from shadows.
It was a good plan.
It had always been a good plan.
"AAAAAAAHHH!" Lifting the magical axe high above his head, Thor charged straight at the frost giant.
Borgir watched him come, and something like amusement flickered across his ancient face. "Even without your power, you still have this much courage?" He let out a sneer that was somehow both mocking and respectful. "You will still be powerless before me, Odinson. And yet you dare raise your weapon against me while being no more than a mortal?"
He paused, and his expression shifted to something almost thoughtful.
"I have to commend your courage. I don't know if you are needlessly brave or simply stupid." Borgir planted his feet, ready to receive the charge. "Either way, I will grant you a quick death. You've earned that much."
Thor's axe descended in a powerful arc, aimed directly at Borgir's head. The frost giant blocked it casually with one massive hand, catching the blade mid-swing as if it were nothing more than a child's toy.
But Thor felt the impact vibrate through his arms—felt the resistance, however slight. The weapon had force behind it. Borgir had actually needed to block rather than simply tank the blow.
That was something.
Immediately, Thor released the axe handle and lunged forward, using his momentum to tackle Borgir with all his mortal strength. He wrapped his arms around the giant's waist, planted his feet, and pushed with everything he had—every muscle straining, his face red with effort.
Borgir didn't move. Not even an inch.
It was like trying to tackle a mountain. Thor might as well have been a child pushing against a boulder for all the effect it had.
The frost giant looked down at the grown man currently hugging him around the middle with an expression of pure distaste. "Pathetic."
Then, with casual brutality, Borgir drove his knee upward into Thor's stomach.
The impact drove all the air from Thor's lungs in one explosive gasp. His vision went white with pain. He felt something in his torso shift—maybe a rib cracking, maybe just deep bruising. For a moment, he couldn't breathe at all, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but experience the pure agony radiating from his core.
He stumbled backward, bent double, one hand clutching his stomach while the other reached out blindly for balance he couldn't find.
Before he could gather himself, before he could even begin to recover, a cold hand—so cold it burned—grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground as easily as picking up a kitten.
Thor's feet dangled uselessly in the air. The pressure on his windpipe increased. He tried to pry the fingers away, but it was like trying to bend iron bars with his bare hands.
"Loki!" Thor managed to choke out, each word an effort. "It might be too late if you don't attack now!"
Borgir's laugh was like grinding ice. "Hmm? Do you mean the traitor frost giant bastard?" He tilted his head, and his smile widened with cruel amusement. "Don't worry—he ran away the moment I grabbed you. Vanished like smoke."
"What?" Thor's eyes widened in disbelief. He tried to look around, tried to spot his brother's familiar form, but his vision was going dark at the edges. Lack of oxygen was making everything hazy.
And yet, even through his shock and the encroaching unconsciousness, Thor had to admit—it seemed very reasonable for Loki to do exactly that. Run when the situation became hopeless. Survive to fight another day. It was practical, really.
Thor let out a self-deprecating laugh that came out as more of a wheeze. Was he really going to die like this? Not in glorious battle, not protecting the Nine Realms, but choking to death while his brother fled and left him behind?
It seemed like such an undignified end for the God of Thunder.
But before he could fully accept his fate, before the darkness could claim him completely, a familiar voice rang out across the clearing:
"Leave him alone!"
Both Thor and Borgir turned their heads—or in Thor's case, turned his eyes since his head couldn't move much.
There, standing in the clearing with her legs planted and her jaw set with determination, was Eira. She was holding an unknown spear, its shaft old and weathered, its point gleaming with strange runes that seemed to pulse with ancient magic.
Borgir's entire face suddenly became distorted. His eyes, which had been filled with cruel amusement, became incredibly sharp—focused with an intensity that suggested recognition and something that might have been fear.
That spear.
He recognized it immediately. The same spear that had been used to seal him away twenty thousand years ago. The weapon that Bor had wielded when he'd trapped Borgir in that cursed fire dimension.
But how? How did this mortal woman—this insignificant human—possess it?
"You," Borgir breathed, and for the first time since breaking free, there was uncertainty in his voice. "Where did you get that weapon?"
Eira's hands were shaking, but she held the spear steady. She had no idea how to use it, no idea what power it might contain, no idea if it would even work.
But she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she couldn't just stand there and watch Thor die.
"I said," Eira repeated, her voice stronger this time, "leave him alone."
Thor, still dangling from Borgir's grip, felt the pressure on his throat lessen slightly as the frost giant's attention shifted entirely to this new threat.
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