Borgir, the ancient frost creature, stood at least fifteen feet tall, his presence seeming to drain the warmth from the very air. He completely ignored Thor, as if the God of Thunder were beneath his notice, nothing more than an annoying insect. Instead, his cold, calculating eyes—the color of winter storms—locked directly onto Loki with an intensity that made even the God of Mischief's blood run cold.
"So," Borgir's voice rumbled like an avalanche gathering momentum, each word carrying the weight of centuries of imprisonment and rage. "You are my descendant."
The words hung in the air like frost.
Loki felt his breath catch. Descendant. The word carried implications he didn't want to examine, connections he'd spent his entire life trying to sever.
Borgir's lip curled in disgust. "Is my race now all degraded to warm-blooded weaklings like you?" He took a step forward, and the ground beneath his foot crackled with spreading ice. "Reduced to licking the boots of Asgardians, playing lapdog to Odin's golden halls?"
Something snapped inside Loki.
Perhaps it was the mockery in Borgir's tone. Perhaps it was the reminder of everything he'd tried to forget about his origins. Perhaps it was simply rage—pure, unfiltered rage—at being called weak, at being called a degradation of his species, at being reminded that he would never truly belong anywhere.
To Thor's complete astonishment—and, if he were being honest, Loki, who was always calm, always collected, always thinking three steps ahead and planning five moves beyond that, charged at Borgir without any regard for strategy or self-preservation.
"You bastard!" Loki roared, green magic crackling around his hands as he launched himself forward.
For a single heartbeat, Thor thought his brother might actually land a blow.
BOOM.
Borgir swatted Loki away with one massive hand, the gesture almost casual, as if brushing away a particularly persistent mosquito. Loki's body flew backward, crashing into an ancient oak tree with bone-crushing force. The impact was devastating—the centuries-old wood splintered and cracked, the trunk actually bending from the sheer force of Loki's body slamming into it.
Loki crumpled to the ground in a heap, unmoving.
"Loki!" Thor shouted, taking an instinctive step toward his fallen brother.
The frost giant turned his attention to Thor, a cruel smile spreading across his ancient face. "Now you, Odinson." He cracked his massive knuckles, ice forming and shattering with each movement. "You—"
"Now you will—"
But Thor was not stupid enough to stand there and listen to villainous monologuing. He'd learned that lesson centuries ago. In one fluid motion, he scooped up Eira—who had been frozen in shock this entire time—into his arms.
"Hold on tight," he muttered, and immediately started to run.
Eira, to her credit, wrapped her arms around his neck without protest, though her voice shook. "What about Loki?"
"He's survived worse," Thor said, though his jaw clenched with worry. "And he'd want us to run."
Behind them, Borgir's roar of fury shook the forest.
The world came back to Loki in fragments.
First, the pain—a symphony of agony radiating from every nerve ending. His ribs screamed in protest with each shallow breath, his head pounded like someone was using it as a drum, and his back felt like it had been shattered into a thousand pieces.
Then, the sounds—footsteps. Running. Coming closer.
Loki forced his eyes open, each eyelid feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. His vision swam, doubled, then slowly began to focus. Through the blur, he saw Thor sprinting toward him, Eira tucked securely in his arms, both their faces masks of panic.
"What..." Loki's voice came out as a croak. He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as his ribs shrieked in protest. "What happened?"
"Your plan didn't work!" Thor shouted as he thundered past, not even slowing down.
Eira, looking back over Thor's shoulder, added with surprising pragmatism, "We're running now!"
"What pla—" Loki began, confusion momentarily overriding the pain. Then he turned his head and saw exactly what they were running from.
Borgir, the frost giant, was coming. And he was enormous—as tall as a two-story building, each footstep shaking the earth like a minor earthquake. Trees bent and cracked in his wake, and the very air around him shimmered with cold.
"Shit."
Without wasting breath on another word, Loki scrambled to his feet. Every muscle protested, his vision swam dangerously, but survival instinct overrode everything else. He ran.
The bitter irony wasn't lost on him.
When Odin had found him as an infant, abandoned in a temple of ice on Jotunheim, the All-Father hadn't simply suppressed his frost giant bloodline—he had fundamentally transformed it. Using ancient magic, Odin had directly converted his Jotun heritage into Asgardian physiology.
There were still traces, of course. Subtle reminders of what he'd been born as. His natural affinity for ice magic, the way his skin still turned blue under certain circumstances, the odd coldness that sometimes crept into his core.
But in terms of raw physical ability? He was Asgardian now. Which meant that no matter how desperately he ran, lungs burning and legs pumping, he still couldn't catch up with Thor, who had spent centuries maintaining a warrior's physique, training every single day without fail.
Loki could only watch his brother's broad back getting farther and farther away while the monster drew nearer and nearer with each thunderous step.
The mathematics of the situation were simple and terrifying: Thor would escape. Loki would not.
Pride was a funny thing. It could keep you silent when you should speak, keep you standing when you should kneel. But survival instinct, Loki had learned long ago, was stronger than pride.
He decisively swallowed every ounce of dignity he possessed.
"Brother!" he called out, hating how desperate his voice sounded. "Help! Help me!"
Thor, who had been running at great speed with Eira still cradled in his arms, paused mid-stride. Loki could see the internal struggle play out across his brother's face—duty warring with brotherly love, survival instinct fighting against loyalty.
Thor glanced backward.
The sight must have been pathetic—Loki, the Silver-Tongued, the God of Mischief, who prided himself on his cunning and composure, stumbling and gasping as he fled from the frost giant who was now close enough that Loki could feel the cold radiating from his body.
Something shifted in Thor's expression. That old, familiar look of exasperated affection.
Thor felt speechless for a moment. He had always told Loki to train more diligently, to spend less time in libraries and more time in training yards. But Loki had always mocked him for it, calling him a "brute," insisting that wit was superior to strength, that brains would always triumph over brawn.
Look where your wit got you now, brother, Thor thought, though there was no satisfaction in being right.
But regardless of everything—all their arguments, all their rivalries, all the times Loki had pranked him or undermined him or made his life difficult—Loki was still his brother. That bond ran deeper than pride or irritation.
Thor gently set Eira down on her feet, his hands lingering on her shoulders for just a moment.
"Eira, run with Loki when he reaches us," Thor commanded, his voice taking on the authoritative tone of the prince he'd once been. "I'll hold Borgir off as long as I can."
Eira stared at him with wide, confused eyes that darted between Thor and the approaching giant. "Thor, what is happening? You said you lost your power when you fell to Earth!" Her voice rose with panic. "How could you possibly fight that... that thing?"
She glanced at the still-running Loki, whose face was red with exertion and whose breathing sounded labored even from this distance. "And what about your brother? Isn't he also supposed to be a god? So why is he so weak?" She paused, then added with devastating honesty, "He even looks more fragile than you do!"
Both brothers, despite the dire circumstances, became speechless at her observation. It was the kind of blunt, uncomfortable truth that no one usually said aloud.
"Okay," Thor said, shaking off the momentary awkwardness. "We'll discuss Asgardian politics and divine power levels later. Just follow Loki for now, get as far away as you can." He summoned his most confident smile, the one he'd used before countless battles. "Don't worry—I am the mighty God of Thunder, Thor Odinson! How can I lose to an oversized popsicle like him?"
The false bravado might have been more convincing if his hands weren't trembling slightly, if sweat weren't beading on his forehead despite the cold.
But sometimes, Thor had learned, confidence was all you had.
Without allowing himself to doubt, without looking back at Eira's frightened face, Thor turned and started walking toward his running brother, his stride purposeful and determined.
Every step felt like walking toward his doom.
Loki's lungs were burning, each breath like inhaling fire. His legs felt like lead, and spots were dancing at the edges of his vision. But then he saw it—Thor, walking toward him with that stupid, noble, self-sacrificing expression on his face.
That wonderful, idiotic fool.
Relief flooded through Loki so intensely it almost made him stumble. Looking at Thor heading directly toward him, walking into danger to save him, Loki couldn't have been happier to see that big, blonde oaf.
"Brother! Don't worry! We'll definitely beat this guy together!"
"We just have to work together like before! Remember the Dark Elves? The Marauders? We make a great team!"
The words came easily—teamwork, brotherhood, fighting side by side like the old days.
But when Loki actually drew close enough to Thor..
Different words came out of his mouth entirely.
"Don't!" Loki gasped, his survival instinct overriding every other consideration. "I'm your weak, pitiful brother—how could you drag me into fighting this monster?" Without breaking stride, without even slowing down, Loki ran right past Thor. "Please handle it yourself! You're so much better at this sort of thing!"
Thor stood frozen in place, his jaw actually dropping open as he watched Loki's retreating back.
"Are you—" Thor couldn't even finish the sentence. "Fuck..."
He couldn't shake the feeling that his choice to turn back had been extremely wrong this time. This was what he got for assuming Loki had any sense of honor or shame.
But then, just as Thor was considering running after Loki and throttling him, he heard his brother's next words, shouted over his shoulder:
"Don't worry, brother! I'll definitely bring help from Asgard!" Loki's voice carried back to him, breathless but determined. "Just try to stop him for a short time! Just a few minutes! I know you can do it!"
Thor felt his anger deflate slightly, replaced by a complex mixture of emotions. In the end, he still cares, Thor thought, allowing himself a small, resigned smile despite everything. He's still my brother, even if he's a coward about it.
The plan made sense, actually. Thor could guess exactly what Loki intended—get far enough away from the frost giant to safely summon the Rainbow Bridge without interference. Heimdall would bring help, or at the very least, bring Loki back to Asgard where he could alert the All-Father.
It was a solid strategy.
There was just one small problem: knowing what needed to be done and actually being able to do it were two vastly different things. Keeping this monster at bay for even one minute seemed like an impossible task, especially without Mjolnir, without his divine strength, without his lightning.
It would be so much better if that mighty warrior of Midgard hadn't been teleported somewhere else, Thor thought with genuine regret.
I'll have to find him after this. Apologize properly. He was involved in this matter because of us, dragged into Asgardian problems.
But there was no time for such thoughts now.
Thor planted his feet, turned to face the approaching giant, spread his arms wide, and shouted toward the heavens with every ounce of hope he possessed:
Came....I will be your enemy.
The giant, whose eyes had been fixed on Thor after he'd so boldly positioned himself in the middle of the path, suddenly snapped toward Loki instead. Something had changed in Borgir's expression—recognition, perhaps, or the sensing of magic being called upon.
"You bastard!" Borgir's roar shook the trees. "Do you think the same trick will work on me twice?"
The frost giant's face twisted with rage and something else—something that might have been vindictive satisfaction.
"I spent every day and night at that seal," Borgir continued, his voice dropping to something almost conversational, which was somehow more terrifying than his shouting. "Thinking. Planning. Do you know what I thought about most?" He smiled, showing teeth like icicles. "How to destroy that cursed Rainbow Bridge. I've had centuries to prepare for this moment."
Loki, still running but now looking back over his shoulder, felt ice-cold dread settle in his stomach. Not the metaphorical kind—actual, literal cold.
"No," he whispered.
But it was already too late.
The Rainbow Bridge's light descended from the heavens like salvation itself, that familiar warm glow of Bifrost energy, beautiful and multicolored, ready to whisk him away to safety. The light touched Loki's body, and for one beautiful moment, he felt the tingle of transportation magic beginning to take hold.
He allowed himself to breathe.
Then he saw something that defied belief, that shouldn't have been possible.
The frost giant's arm moved in a blur of motion. His hand went to his back and pulled out a weapon that seemed to materialize from the cold itself—a trident made entirely of ancient ice, its three prongs gleaming with malevolent blue light, covered in runes that predated even Asgard itself.
Borgir threw it.
But not at Loki.
Loki's eyes, widened with horror, followed the weapon's arc. Up, up it went, spinning through the air with impossible accuracy, its trajectory aimed not at any person but at the beam of Rainbow light itself.
"No, no, no—" Loki breathed.
The ice trident struck true, embedding itself directly into the pillar of Bifrost energy with a sound like a thousand windows shattering at once.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, where the trident had penetrated the beam, a thin layer of ice began to form. It started small, almost delicate—frost crystals spreading like a living thing, beautiful and terrible. The crystalline patterns grew, spreading across the surface of the rainbow light like corruption spreading through something pure.
Then the ice began to spread faster.
And faster.
In the span of a single breath, the ice consumed the entire beam that had descended to Earth. But it didn't stop there—it traveled upward, following the connection like a disease racing through veins, climbing higher and higher toward Asgard itself.
Loki could only watch in frozen horror as the ice raced along the Bridge, moving at an impossible speed, heading straight for the Bifrost chamber, for the very core of the Rainbow Bridge that connected the Nine Realms.
Meanwhile, in Asgard...
Heimdall, the All-Seeing guardian of the Bifrost, stood at his post as he had for millennia. His golden eyes saw everything—every movement across the realms, every cry for help, every danger.
He'd seen Loki's call. He'd activated the Bridge without hesitation.
He did not, however, see the ice trident until it was already striking the beam.
"What—" Heimdall began.
Then he felt it. The cold. Traveling back along the connection, rushing through the Bifrost chamber itself with terrifying speed. Ice spread across the golden controls, across the observation platform, racing toward Heimdall himself.
His hands, holding Hofund—the sword that controlled the Bridge—suddenly burned with cold. Frost spread from the sword's hilt up his arms, flash-freezing his armor, his skin, threatening to freeze his very blood.
With reflexes honed over countless centuries, Heimdall released the sword and threw himself backward. He hit the ground and rolled, watching in horror as his post—his sacred duty—became completely encased in ice. The entire Bifrost chamber had transformed into a frozen wasteland in seconds.
Hofund, the sword embedded in its mechanism, was frozen solid, trapped in ice so thick and ancient that it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
"Shit!" Heimdall swore—a rarity for the normally composed guardian. He stumbled to his feet, backing toward the chamber's exit, watching as the ice continued to spread even without its source. "ALL-FATHER!"
His voice boomed through the golden halls of Asgard with unprecedented urgency, echoing off the walls.
"SOMETHING WENT WRONG!"
Back on Midgard...
Loki stood perfectly still, staring at where the Rainbow Bridge's light had been. The beam flickered once, twice, like a candle in the wind. Then it simply... died. Vanished. The warmth disappeared, replaced by nothing but cold air and the sound of Borgir's approaching footsteps.
The connection was severed.
Asgard might as well have been on the other side of the universe for all the good it would do them now.
"No," Loki whispered, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes had just witnessed. "No, that's not possible. That's not—"
Thor, standing between Loki and the frost giant, looked at the impossible sight before him—the frozen remnants of the Rainbow Bridge's light scattered on the ground like shattered glass, the triumphant expression on Borgir's ancient face, and his brother's look of complete devastation.
"Fuck me," Thor muttered with feeling.
Loki, still staring at the spot where salvation had been moments ago, where the light of home had touched him and then abandoned him, added his own sentiment to the cosmos:
"And fuck my life."
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