[ The earth splits between the thrust of ice from Loki's hands, Loki's arms; life freezes and shrivels and withers away, and Thor sees again the cruelty of winter which his beautiful, strong, vulnerable body could no longer abide, all those years ago. Winter kills, winter suffers and sorrows and teaches loneliness and desolation, and even the sweetness of summer's kiss can only warm it for so long. He roars in fury, swings out Mjolnir, shatters the blades of ice in one fell swipe of its blunt savagery. ]

Would you have my plenty as yours? Would you take it now, Loki? You who sang the death of our love the first night we lay together?

[ Mjolnir strikes and the thunder roars, the dark clouds of summer storm and fury driving back the winter. Thor flings himself after his beloved, and the land trembles  beneath the clash of their weapons, trembles beneath the booming of thunder, as Mjolnir swings again and again, driving the king of winter back to his own borders. ]

And who will take my penance from me? Will it be you, my heart?

[ Yes, he stole their children. From the jaws of death he stole them into life, that they might grow and become strong, become queen and king, become warriors and mothers and lords of their own choosing, and that they might one day know the father who sowed them. And when the mortals fled to his green lands, Thor opened his arms and took them in, sent daughter and son to show them how to plant and how to harvest, that they might one day understand how to bear the cruel empty months of winter, so that they might one day return to the mountains and learn for themselves the true beauty and quiet peace of that kingdom. 

He knew there would be no such return for him. ]