Warning: This Is A No Cuddliness Zone! A/N: All posts made with this userpic are for the Thor from Silvertonguegod's universe, NOT for the usual Thor.
Every time he remembered it, shame rose within him.
His... indiscretion, as Odin had euphemistically called it. The disapproving tone the Allfather always used made him feel so small, so weak, so much a failure.
He had failed to be a good son. He had failed to do his duty and act worthy of the throne. Even the fact he was not Ergi in his.. activities.. was little comfort.
And when he learned that his indiscretion happened with someone who's existence threatened that of the Nine Realms, his humiliation fossilized into rage. He would redeem his transgression, prove to the Allfather that he was indeed a worthy son, and earn his rightful place.
Tossing aside his compassion and fraternal love for his brother was easy, for his brother was a serial liar and his father the bringer of truth. It was easier to harden his heart towards the progeny... even Jormungandr. Odin's shapeshifting curse certainly prevented him from having any unworthy thoughts about what to do with the now-serpent.
And now, Odin had summoned him again, to do what must be done. That incorrigible distortion of nature is deciding to revolt against his place... he thought as he marched down the corridor with Mjolnir in hand. The soles of his boots thudded against the polished marble floor; each near-crash in sound punctuated the omnipresent rumble of distant thunder.
The boiling blood in his veins raced through his clenched jaw and white knuckles. His heart pounded and his breaths were already harsh by the time he reached the stables. He saw the spattered blood on the walls and floor; several droplets lay atop the shining metal of the bonds, the crimson stood out against the silver gleam.
"Why do you persist in your foolishness?" Thor rhetorically intoned, followed by a loud crack of thunder, as he paced towards his eight-legged equine nephew with hammer at the ready. He leant down, keeping his back straight and eyes on Sleipnir's, before he picked up the manacles.
"You will keep still and I shall put these on you," he ordered in a voice which echoed off the walls, "and should you make things difficult, I shall make you regret it."
Another crash of thunder boomed through the air, as if it were the sound of a judge's gavel.
With that, he used his free hand to begin to lift the chain over Sleipnir's neck; the tinkling of the chainlinks was the counterpoint. to the constant rolling rumble in the distance. The will of the Allfather must be done.