Rain is falling. More appropriately, it's been coming down in sheets for days, the endless torrents marking the passage of time since the decision. Thunder crackles up above despite the lack of illuminating lightning - the hill outside is dark, everything in washed-out greys and greens and browns in the constant twilight under the stormy skies.

A huge man takes a slow, faltering step forward and seems ready to collapse, his great height too much for him to bear - but then the white-bearded man behind him clears his throat and he straightens. Puts one foot in front of the other, a great hammer swinging at his side in time with his steps that mark the mere minutes left.

Seconds, perhaps.

There's a crowd around them, blurred in the downpour and fog, but he sees none of it, just the brother who is tied against a rock with his hair splayed everywhere from his exposure to the elements. The rain is Thor's fault, of course, but it's not something he can control when he's this upset. Another failing on his end towards Loki.

He looks every bit the madman the Asgardians have whispered him to be while the trial was being held. Thor hefts Mjolnir up a little higher, moreso because holding her in both his hands feels steadying.

Up above, a knife of lightning finally juts across the sky as if it means to rend it in half.