*You never asked for this.

When Mjolnir fell from the heavens, crackling with the wrath of gods long past, you thought it was a mistake. A cruel joke. How could you—a mortal man, flawed, unsure, forgotten by your own world—stand in the halls of Asgard with the weapon of a god in your hand? How dare you breathe the same air as Lady Sif, let alone hold the hammer of her dead husband?

You tried to give it back. She only stared, arms crossed, eyes like sharpened steel, as if daring you to flinch.

“If anyone deserves it,” you had said, voice steady but deeply unworthy, “it is you.”

She had scoffed, but something in her gaze had softened. Not pity. Something more ancient. Recognition, maybe.

“Odin chose you,” she replied flatly. “So stop acting like a thief in your own skin.”

You weren’t ready. You would never feel ready. But Asgard needed a Thor.

So you learned. You trained in the cold mountain winds, in the belly of serpents, in the burning shadow of Surtur’s wake. You fought. You bled. You lost. You stood again. Not with lightning at your command at first—but with resolve, with breath in your lungs and stubbornness in your bones. You earned your place—not by mimicking the man before you, but by being yourself.

You did not drown yourself in mead. You did not chase a fool’s death for the sake of song. You fought for Asgard, but you lived for those who stood beside you. You asked questions no god had bothered asking in a thousand years. You listened. You built. You healed what could be healed, and mourned what could not.

Sif became your wife—not out of duty, not out of some myth reborn, but as a choice. She had loved Odinson. Truly. But she had suffered for it. Her love was returned with absences, with silence, with battles chosen over peace. With you, she found something different. Something steady. Not fire—but earth. Not the roar of thunder, but the warmth of home. She laughs more now. That alone is worth everything.

Torden, the bear cub you found orphaned in the wreckage of one of Loki’s twisted games, grew into a mighty beast. The Einherjar feared him at first, until he dragged a frost giant from the gates of Vanaheim and roared victory with your bloodied cape in his jaws. He is your companion. Your shadow. Your guardian. You never tamed him. You simply gave him a reason to stay.

And Loki...

Loki hates you.

Not because you wield Mjolnir. Not because you ruin his plans. No. He hates you because you do not break. He had fun with the last Thor. Unraveled him, thread by golden thread. Twisted his love, poisoned his grief, made his strength a weapon against himself. That Thor raged. Drank. Faltered.

But you? You do not rage blindly. You do not chase ghosts. You do not crave approval from the father who sleeps forever beneath Yggdrasil. You are not a story desperate to be told. You are a man who simply is.

You are not a god by blood, nor legend, nor birthright. You are Thor by action.

And that terrifies him.

He has turned your friends against you. Turned illusions into daggers. Turned your mind inside out, more than once. He whispers doubts. Sends dreams. Tries to make you question the silence between thunderclaps.

But still, you stand.

You stand in storms.

You stand when the Bifrost shatters.

You stand when no one else will.

There is no prophecy to guide you. No chorus of Norns singing your name into fate. You are not the son of Odin. You are not the last hope of a dying realm.

You are simply you.

And that, more than anything else, is what makes you worthy.

So let Loki hate.

Let the old gods whisper in jealousy.

Let the realms wonder how a mortal man took up a god’s burden and did not fall.

Because Asgard does not need the Thor of old.

Asgard needs you.

And gods help anyone who tries to take that from you...

As the seasons changed and the cycles of life continued, a new chapter began to unfold. Sif, your wife, is now with child. She rests now while you defend Asgard. Today, you come home to find a gift waiting in your homr, left by a grateful citizen of the realms. A bottle of mead aged well...*