Marvel's Strongest Mage

"Dididi—"

Jane Foster slammed her palm into the steering wheel, blaring the horn again in frustration. The car ahead hadn't moved an inch in the last ten minutes. In fact, no car on the entire Manhattan Bridge had. A massive traffic jam had turned the sprawling structure into a lifeless steel graveyard. Engines idled. Exhaust fumes choked the air. Tempers were fraying.

"Jane," Donald said from the passenger seat, rubbing his temples. "That's not going to help. If the bridge's blocked, we might as well just turn back."

He wasn't wrong. But that didn't stop the seething irritation pulsing through her veins.

The night before had been a sleepless one. Jane had insisted—desperately—that they needed to get to New Mexico. That the people she trusted there could help him. Donald hadn't agreed immediately. He didn't want to go. But after hours of pleading, reasoning, and more than a little crying, he had relented.

In his gut, Donald felt it too. There was something wrong inside him. Something vast and ancient. Something thunderous.

And that something… was waking up.

The compromise had been simple: they would drive across the country. No SHIELD planes. No covert escorts. No sudden transformations in the middle of a high-altitude flight. Just Jane, Donald, and the open road.

But so far, Manhattan hadn't given up its grip.

Jane pounded the steering wheel again and muttered something unintelligible.

Donald turned toward her, his expression soft. "Hey… if you're tired, I can take the wheel."

"I'm not worried about you driving," she snapped. "I'm worried about you flying the car off the bridge."

That got a weak chuckle from Donald, but he didn't press further. Instead, he turned his head toward the congested skyline. The sound of horns, engines, and irate shouting became a dull backdrop.

A strange pressure crawled up the back of his neck.

And then—he felt it.

A voice, impossibly calm and smooth, cut through the chaos.

"This is the woman you chose?"

Donald's blood turned to ice.

The world dimmed.

The horns. The shouting. The grinding metal of the city—all of it faded away. The vibrant, loud chaos of Manhattan was replaced by silence. Everything grayed out.

The bridge was gone. The cars vanished. Even Jane in the driver's seat dissolved like smoke in wind.

Only Donald remained.

And the man standing before him.

Impeccably dressed in fine British tailoring, cane in hand, slicked black hair swept back like a monarch from a forgotten time—Loki.

The God of Lies. The Prince of Trickery. The Architect of Catastrophe.

Donald's breath caught in his throat.

Loki gave a half-smile, as if seeing an old friend. "Finally. I was beginning to wonder if Odin had locked you in a deeper slumber than I thought."

Donald didn't respond immediately.

Because he wasn't sure who he was in that moment.

But his body moved of its own accord—posture straightening, heart slowing, a sense of divine clarity sharpening his vision.

The voice that answered Loki was deeper, more resolute.

"Loki," said Donald, or perhaps… Thor. "Where is Father? Is he well?"

The shift was instantaneous. The moment Donald spoke those words, he felt the crackling energy surge beneath his skin. The human surgeon was gone, buried beneath centuries of memory, fury, and war.

Thor had returned.

Loki tilted his head in false sympathy. "Ah… so you remember now. That complicates things."

He looked past Donald—for a moment, his face faltered—and then returned to his usual smile. "Our father is dead."

Thor staggered as if struck.

"No," he breathed. "That cannot be."

"It is," Loki said, his voice strained with practiced grief. "Your exile. The threat of war. The burden was too much for him. You saw it yourself—he was fading long before the Frost Giants even stirred. He passed… quietly."

A silence followed.

Thor or Donald dropped his gaze. Tears welled in his eyes. "I failed him. I let anger cloud my judgment. I thought… I thought I was ready."

Loki took a calculated step forward. "He loved you, brother. He always did. But the throne… it needed a ruler. Someone who could carry the burden. That… fell to me."

As expected, Thor looked up with a spark of hope.

"Then let me return," he said. "Let me go home, Loki. I do not seek the throne. Only the right to mourn our father."

Loki's smile slipped.

"I wish it were so simple," he whispered. "But the armistice we forged to end the war… came with conditions. One of them… was your exile."

Thor's jaw clenched. The pain in his chest burned hotter than a star. "And mother? She would not wish me home either?"

Loki's eyes flickered. "She grieves. And she fears… your return might undo the fragile peace we've barely achieved."

Thor stepped back, shaken.

"I… understand."

There was a long pause. Two brother stood on opposite sides of fate. One grieving, the other manipulating.

Loki knew he had won—for now.

He turned, prepared to leave.

Then Thor spoke again, softly. "Thank you… for telling me."

"Farewell, brother," Loki said.

The vision shattered like glass.

And in a blink, Donald was back.

Sitting in the passenger seat.

Jane beside him, still honking furiously.

The bridge was still gridlocked. The world hadn't noticed the godly conversation that had just taken place on another plane of reality.

But Donald couldn't breathe. His hands trembled. The tears that had fallen in the vision still streaked his face. He didn't know if he was Donald Blake… or Thor of Asgard.

And he didn't know which part of him would win.

But one thing was now certain—he had seen Loki.

And Loki was playing the long game.

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