Loki's words don't sting but ache, deep in the wounds already made over the decisions of his fate. Thor expected nothing less of Loki, but this accusation? Of dishonoring him? It bites him with its truth. "The most honor I could convince anyone of was to allow me to be the last one to lay a hand on you." Even in the storm his voice carries, reverberating through the raindrops that are his, the very thunder that was echoing around them in his voice.

Despite this, Thor has never felt so helpless, such a carved tool ready for someone else's use - but to give the execution of the Trickster Loki to anyone except himself is inexcusable. "Brother," and it's on that word that Thor's great voice finally wavers, "your glorious demise was quite some time ago, and not so full of laudable acts." Loki had given himself to the universe, to Yggdrasil, and to the Chitauri. He had been lost to glory for some time--

but that's not true. Even now when he knows he will die, Thor is watching Loki taunt him with hateful power, a spite and cunning that the world will surely be out of balance without. Where did his brother go?

Thor looks down and then begins to look back over his shoulder, at the Allfather, for advice, but knows he won't see what he wants. Or even what he needs. No, his gut is correct now. It has to be. He strides to close the rest of the distance and swings Mjolnir up in a great arc, lightning gathers behind him and crackles out -- as the hammer rents the metal chains in half, freeing Loki.

So long ago, it seems, they were in Heimdall's observatory and Loki had demanded that they spar, acknowledge the growing wedge of competition and greed and careless childhood acts. An entire millenium of days and Thor recalls that one, hardly a year ago, as surely centuries of time for things to change. To fall apart.

There's no smile on his face when he commands "Fight me," but there is a tearful promise in his eyes. An honorable death.