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Mjolnir fell to the earth and lay there, quivering with helplessness.
Their ...no not master ... their friend, their wielder, had sent them flying to strike true against the foe and they had failed him. He fought with all the thunder in his blood, the lightning in his heart, the pain and fear that had made him think himself unworthy because he had failed once before (foolishness, foolishness, to fail was not unworthy, all creatures, mortal or god failed in time).
Failure no more made him unworthy than his new crafted weapon, bright and shining and sharp, made Mjolnir itself unworthy. But lying here, in the wreckage and dirt, unable to help — that was not a worthy fate for the Hammer of Thor.
Then they sensed it.
They sensed a spirit that was finally free of guilt, cleansed of a lie, redeemed in the end by a brother’s trust.
They sensed a soul that had released a black secret from the shadows into the bright light of truth, a flash of lightning.
They sensed a courage that rose towering above a mortal form, shining and pure as the crack of any thunder.
They sensed a will like steel, like something more than steel, like the molten star that had birthed Mjolnir and their brother Stormbreaker alike: a shield against the evil that even now strove to end the life of Mjolnir’s first and most beloved hand.
Behind all those, two things.
The greatest and purest love Mjolnir had ever sensed, love of family found, love of the innocent stranger, love of the lost and broken, love of the strong and brave. Love of life and the acceptance of death to protect that life.
And heart of a good man.
Mjolnir reached out and cried a single word into that heart, the heart that gave strength to a soldier with a voice that could command a god.
WORTHY
The solider heard.
From the dirt, Mjolnir rose.