the edge of night
Once, long ago, men had believed their world to be flat. They had believed that sailing too far into the distance would carry them over the edge of all they had ever known, into some unknown void. They had feared this edge, this void, until the day they had realized that the world was round. There was no edge of the world to fall off of, no precipice waiting for them to meet their end.
What most men failed to realize, however, was that one did not have to sail off the edge of the world to find where it ended.
Far into the North, high above the mountains, there was a single, solitary peak. It was here that the gods of old had first appeared on what they called Midgard. It was here that Midgard ended, and the rest of the world began.
And it was here that Thor, son of Odin, God of Thunder, sat. He sat at the end of the world, staring into the white fog, and letting the cruel winds assault his person. Were it not for his red cape and blond hair, he might have blended entirely into the rock of the mountain. Up here, at the end of his world, there was no sound to be heard and, if there had been, there was nobody to hear it.
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hello! i wrote a brief hercules/thor one-shot, based on Walt Simonson's Surtur Saga about thor's grief for his father and his struggles with his own humanity. enjoy.