[ His strength and the storms drive winter back to the brink of its own realm, and there Thor catches Loki with one hand around his throat and the other swinging Mjolnir, shattering another gleaming blade of ice that would shatter his ribs apart and pierce heart and lungs in a gushing of dark blood. Then he pulls Loki near with that savage grasp and kisses him, claiming for himself again the cold lips that once parted in sweet yielding for him, that shared laughter and song and passion between their mouths. How diminutive Loki has become, lean and furious as a starving wolf, and Thor drops his weapon and wraps him into his arms, pulling him up against all his own great and brutally hewn frame: a body whose devastating strength has only ever been used in the realization of joy and love.

Then he lets go and thrusts Loki back, standing with one foot in summer and one in winter, torn between them as he has ever been, and Thor stands proud and unafraid and opens wide his arms, lifting his chin to bare his throat. Like the king stag, the great beast who comes every year on the eve of the shortest night: the sacrifice who offers himself. ]

Come then, Loki, my love; take my life if you will have it, then take this war of yours and bear it home to your own realm.

[ His voice is gentled now, the storm wrought of fury and grief gone from it, as the storm wrought above is now receding; the clouds thin and the twilit sky shows through, dusky and warm with the first brave gleaming of stars.

Thor does not fear death anymore. He has lived long, and known the hollow ache of a heart torn asunder, and would count it no great tragedy if his blood were spilled today, now that a son or a daughter might take up his crown. ]

Else put down your arms and come with me: there are things I would show you, and matters upon which we must speak.