(Siegfried's P.O.V)
To mortals, five hundred years is eternity.
To gods, it's just long enough for the wine to age and grudges to cool. Time loses its sharpness when you stop counting birthdays, when the stars don't change their patterns, and death becomes a memory instead of a fear.
I don't feel like Siegfried anymore.
Those memories—the muddy fields, the chains, the pain—are there, but they feel distant. Like old dreams. The memories of a god trump those of a man. And lately, I've been remembering more of what it meant to be Thor.
After Alfheim, we went to Jotunheim.
A civil war had broken out among the frostborn clans. The king, Laufey had been dethroned, and his enemies sought full dominion. But gods of Asgard do not go unnoticed, and with Baldur's diplomacy, Loki's cunning, and my hammer, we resolved the conflict and reinstalled Laufey. He signed a new peace treaty between Jotunheim and Asgard.
Then came Nidavellir.
We'd heard whispers of Gungnir, Odin's lost spear. Baldur chased every lead, while I helped the dwarves in their forging chambers. They were impressed by my raw strength—enough to handle molten Uru bare-handed.
While they toiled, I tried again and again to hear Mjolnir's voice.
Nothing.
Even after two hundred and twenty years, the hammer stayed quiet.
So I focused elsewhere.
I studied my thunder divinity—without leaning on Mjolnir like a crutch. Control was difficult. My power wanted to be free, wild.
Loki, to his credit, had kept old Alfheim tomes on energy and storm manipulation. They helped. Slowly, I improved. By the end of our stay, I could call lightning and channel thunder with precision—not Mjolnir's precision, but mine.
That said, Mjolnir made my attacks ten times more powerful.
During those years, I also visited Midgard.
Twice.
Once, to see Dia, on her deathbed. She was old, frail, but she smiled when she saw me. She said I looked like I hadn't aged a day. I didn't tell her I hadn't.
The second time, it was to save her descendants' village—a demon invasion from one of the Hell realms.
There a high-ranked demon challenged me. Which is how I met another warrior in the fire—Etrigan, a demon who fights for mortal good. We fought together, and he became a friend.
When I returned, Baldur had given up the Gungnir search. Nidavellir, vast as it was, hid secrets even gods couldn't unravel.
Then came Vanaheim.
Portals had opened—flames tearing through forest groves—and from them, fire elementals poured in. Muspelheim's influence. Loki traced the portal magic back to a traitor—Freyja's brother, Frey who had once ruled Vanaheim and now made a pact with Surtur.
Politics bogged down the mission.
I stayed busy—training, working on refining the lesser-known aspects of my divinity. Rain, wind, strength, even fertility.
And, of course, I enjoyed my time with Sif.
Sixty, seventy, eighty years passed. We fought together. Slept together. Laughed together. But we weren't in love. Just… having fun.
Neither of us complained.
And then came Muspelheim.
Surtur.
The battle stretched for another hundred and ninety years. Endless waves of fire. Lava beasts. Sky-shattering clashes.
And when I finally brought him down, I carried his crown back to Asgard and dropped it into the royal vault.
That night, as I stood outside the palace walls, Mjolnir pulsed.
And I finally heard him speak.
("You're ready… for the Thoric Ritual.")
I didn't smile. I just nodded.
Now, all that remained was to find the Well of Mimir and regain my memories.
And that, I'm learning, might be the hardest part of all.
-0-
Thanks to Loki, I soon had a lead. He'd consulted the Norns on my behalf. And while they had spoken in riddles—as they always did— the meaning was clear enough.
The Well of Mimir lay hidden near the roots of Yggdrasil, cloaked in an eternal storm where time blurred and fate twisted.
With Loki gone, sent away on some mysterious task by the Allmother, it was just Sif, Baldur, and the Warriors Three who accompanied me through the Bifrost.
We landed in a blizzard-scoured landscape so cold even my godly skin stung.
Sif drew her cloak tight. "Heimdall dropped us in Jotunheim?"
Baldur shook his head. "No. But close. Mimir was a Frost Giant, once. Odin severed his head and placed it where no one would dare look. A Jotun-shaped landscape makes sense… keeps mortals and gods alike away."
Mjolnir buzzed faintly in my hand.
("I've been here before.")
I nodded, trusting the hammer's instincts. "We're close. A few hundred meters past this storm."
I stepped forward and reached deep into aspects of my divinity—into the cold-wrapped threads of rain and wind.
I parted the storm like pulling open a great curtain, forcing back the blizzard until a narrow grove of leafless trees revealed itself ahead.
"Hold on," I said.
I spun Mjolnir in my hand, letting it pull at the winds.
A tunnel of storm formed around us.
With a tug of the hammer, I lifted off—carrying them all with me through the funnel, riding the currents as we descended toward the grove.
As we neared the ground, Baldur's voice cut through the wind.
"How do you feel, now that you're finally going to regain everything?"
I didn't answer right away.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
But the flicker of anticipation in my eyes said more than my words.
We landed gently within the grove.
But it wasn't what I expected.
There was no glow of wisdom. No mystic waters.
Instead, a massive Jotun skull, cracked and ancient, was nailed into the bark of a blackened tree. Beneath it, a dry, cracked well sat silent and empty.
"Dry," Volstagg said grimly.
"That doesn't make sense," Fandral added, brow furrowed.
Hogun pointed toward the tree.
"Look… isn't that—?"
Embedded halfway into the tree trunk, slanted like it had been thrown by a god, was Gungnir, the Spear of Odin.
My fingers tightened around Mjolnir.
Then it started vibrating, harder than it ever had before. It grew heavy, yanking me forward—down to one knee.
"What—?" I gasped.
Before I could stand, the air ripped open with golden beams.
Three radiant sun-spears struck from above—piercing through Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun in a flash of light.
They collapsed, motionless.
"NO—!" I reached for them—
But Gungnir shot from the tree and into the hand of Baldur.
He stood tall, glowing with godlight.
Without hesitation, he aimed the spear and blasted me into the tree, pinning me against the trunk with sheer divine force.
I struggled, but I could barely move.
And then, like in a nightmare, Mjolnir lifted off the ground.
It didn't return to me.
It floated toward Baldur, slow and deliberate.
He raised his other hand, and Mjolnir landed in it with no resistance.
I stared, stunned.
Baldur looked at me with a mix of regret and resolve.
"About my question earlier," he said. "It doesn't matter what you feel, Sieg. What you want. You were never meant to succeed."
The storm above us stopped.
And I felt, for the first time in centuries, something close to fear.
It warred with confusion as I struggled against the vines tightening around my chest, bark and root slithering down the cursed tree, binding me tighter.
And Baldur stood holding the very hammer meant only for the worthy.
Then Sif stepped forward, sword drawn, eyes full of vengeance.
"Traitor!" she shouted, lunging toward Baldur.
Hope sparked. Maybe I wasn't completely alone.
Then she spun the blade, sheathed it, and gracefully landed in his arms, kissing him with such hunger it made me physically recoil.
She laughed against his lips. "I'm so glad I don't have to pretend anymore my love."
Then she turned and looked at me with mocking pity.
"The sex was fun, Siegfried," she said, "but you never stood a chance against the real deal."
My blood ran cold.
And that's when it happened.
Baldur's skin cracked—a thin seam down his body splitting like dry clay. One half melted, warping into a grotesque, burned mockery of himself.
The other half—
Was me.
Thor.
Same jaw. Same gray eyes. Same face. Same red hair.
"Surprised?" he asked, voice echoing with two tones—one smooth, one rasped.
I didn't answer.
Because I knew.
This was the thing Odin warned me about.
The traitor who fed on Ragnarok.
"You… you're me," I whispered. "That's why you can control Mjolnir."
He grinned. "Close. I'm you—consumed."
I stared. "How?"
"The Well of Mimir," he said. "Rune magic older than the Nine Realms. You can do incredible things with it."
His smile widened as he raised Gungnir.
"Like learning magic that lets you absorb your brother—body and soul."
The realization hit me. "That's why you look like me."
His voice darkened. "Look like you? YOU? Don't you ever fucking say that again."
The venom in his words stung harder than the vines constricting my ribs. All those centuries, and I had no idea.
"You don't know what it's like," he snapped. "To remember every Ragnarok. Every death."
His hands clenched.
"Every time Asgard is reborn, I die the same pointless, brutal death. Sometimes it's a blade. Sometimes fire. Once, I was thrown into the void."
He stepped closer, his half-melted face twitching.
"I begged MY father to stop it. Begged mother. Even Loki...They all couldn't and wouldn't. Said it was fate. But the one that broke me was big bro Thor himself. Big bro promised to always have my back. And I looked up to him and believed his lies. Protector of the Nine realms my ass. You know what he...what you told me when I asked to be saved?" He seethed close to my face, eyes I'd seen everyday for centuries, now embers of hatred.
"You said I was 'the unfortunate sacrifice.'"
His voice broke.
"So I changed my fate."
I looked up, barely able to speak. "And… what does that have to do with killing our friends? Or consuming Thor?"
"Sif, dear?" he said.
Sif sauntered over and slapped me across the face, hard.
"No interruptions."
Baldur laughed, a hollow, bitter sound.
"The others were merely 'unfortunate sacrifices'. As for why Thor, he was the missing piece. The son of Gaea and Odin. Bound to the World Tree. Your soul anchors the cycle."
He looked skyward. "So I used the Well and became you. I took your memories. I took your power. But no matter what, some piece of you always escapes. Reincarnates."
He turned back, eyes wild.
"This is the third time we've had this conversation. Your third failure."
I stared in disbelief.
"This place? The Well of Mimir? It's not just where you get your memories."
His voice dropped to a growl.
"It's been your grave. Three cycles. And this time… will be no different."
He raised Gungnir high.
"Heimdall!"
No answer.
He raised it again.
"Heimdall!"
The sky cracked open.
The Bifrost screamed down like a column of divine fire—
—and when it vanished, a hundred shining figures stood in a circle around me.
Destroyer Armors. Gleaming. Silent. Their energy cores pulsing.
Baldur smiled one last time. "Goodbye, brother."
Sif blew me a kiss. "Try not to die too ugly."
Then they vanished into the light.
The vines tightened.
But I could feel it now.
The spark.
Even without Mjolnir, I felt the storm surge through my veins.
The air crackled.
My eyes burned blue.
Electricity exploded from my body, frying the vines into ash.
I dropped to my feet, fists clenched, trembling with fury and the sting of betrayal.
"Alright, you metal scraps!" I growled, stepping into the circle of armor. "Come on, then."
The Destroyers lunged forward in unison, their heavy bodies pounding the frozen soil.
Their armor glinted with ancient Asgardian design—etched in old runes, reinforced with spells of containment and obliteration. Each one was a death sentence forged into steel.
I stood in the center of their ring—no Mjolnir, no allies, no plan.
Just the storm in my blood.
The first Destroyer raised its arm, and the telltale light of its chest core began to glow.
I charged.
I moved before it fired, slipping just under the blast, sliding across the frostbitten ground. My lightning-clad fist slammed into its chest—crack!—and I felt the armor warp from the impact.
But it didn't fall.
It grabbed me mid-move, lifted me like a child, and threw me into another one's fist.
Pain exploded across my face as I was launched back into the snow.
I rolled up, spitting blood and static.
Another one came—two this time. I wrapped the storm around my arms and caught their blows. My muscles screamed, but I twisted, flipping one into the other. A lightning bolt cracked down from above, summoned by sheer will, exploding them outward.
I rose, chest heaving, as ten more advanced.
I fought like a beast.
My fists shattered armor plates and turned bloody. Lightning spears pierced joints. At one point, I ripped the arm from one Destroyer and hurled it through another's chest. I took hits—hundreds that would kill lesser gods.
I kept going.
But they didn't stop. They kept coming. Precise. Cold. Eternal.
At some point, I felt my left arm go limp.
Bones shattered from my relentless assault against Uru armor.
My right knee buckled—cracked from a direct blast.
I fell to one knee, lightning dancing weakly around me, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I must have taken down about a quarter of the group.
The rest still circled.
I stood. One last time.
I thought of Dia, of Loki, of the Warriors Three—dead because they followed me. I thought of Sif and Baldur, the face that looked like mine.
And then I thought of Odin.
I laughed through blood. "You better be watching, old man."
They came all at once.
The final attack was a wave of light and crushing metal. I didn't run. Didn't flinch.
I threw one last punch— infused with all my divine power.
And the world went white.
I died.
When I opened my eyes, there was no light.
Only cold.
Only chains.
I was floating, bound by silver-thorned shackles, my arms stretched outward. My essence—my very soul—glowed faintly, flickering like a dying ember.
The air smelled of frost and old death.
Niflheim.
The land of the forgotten. The land of the dead.
I looked around—but there was only mist.
And then I felt her divine aura before I saw her.
Hela.
She emerged from the darkness, clad in a black and green gown that flowed like liquid shadow, her headdress curling upward like antlers.
Her voice echoed.
"Well, well… Look who finally arrived."
I glared at her, too weak to speak.
She stepped closer, eyes scanning me with amusement and something else—pity? No. Hunger.
"You've died before, Thunderer," she whispered. "But this time…you will stay dead."
She leaned close.
"Welcome home."
The air in Niflheim chilled even further—so cold my chained soul began to flake, bits of light drifting from my form like ash in slow motion.
The shackles bit deeper with each breath, draining what little remained of me.
Across from me, Hela circled slowly.
Her smile was lazy, but her eyes were sharp—burning green with the hunger of someone who'd waited too long for a familiar torment.
"So many times you've slipped my grasp, Uncle." she said, her fingers tracing the edge of my spectral jaw. "You should've come here centuries ago. Maybe then we'd both have found peace in pain. Not to worry, we have an eternity to explore..."
Her claws flexed.
I braced myself.
And then the shadows behind her tore open.
From the rupture stepped a cloaked figure, horned helm low over his face, his boots echoing with weightless authority.
Loki.
But not the Loki I knew these last centuries.
No grins. No sarcasm.
His face was set with a weight I hadn't seen before. His eyes burned with conviction.
Hela scowled. "Father…"
"Leave us," Loki said coldly.
She laughed. "I rule this realm. You can't—"
"Leave. Us."
The room shuddered with his words. The chains around me loosened slightly in response.
Hela held his gaze for a moment longer before hissing like steam and melting into the dark, robes curling into mist.
Silence fell.
I coughed, tried to straighten myself.
"Loki?" I rasped.
He walked toward me. No swagger, no games. His magic flowed like quiet fire as he raised a hand and snapped the chains apart, my soul crumpling onto the frozen floor of the underworld.
He knelt beside me, eyes grim.
"We need to talk," he said.
I blinked. "About what?"
He looked me dead in the eye.
"About Baldur. And about Ragnarok."