Thor sits alone in a darkened room, huddled and slumped and drained. He is weak and thin, withered. His helmet is slipping down to one side, his gold locks desiccated, his chain mail armour hangs off him, baggy and oversized. He is a shadow of his former self. As he leans forward, he holds the strap of Mjolnir. The hammer itself stands upright (head on the floor) before him.
The only illumination in the room comes from a doorway to Thor's left. Shadows fall across him as three men enter (off-panel).
Strange (O/P): Thor…?
Thor lifts his head wearily and stares at his comrades. Iron Man, Captain America, Dr. Strange. We can see a little more of the background now: we are in Stephen Strange’s Sanctum Sanctorum. Thor is putting on a brave smile; his friends look grim.
Thor: So, gentlemen. Your learned diagnosis…?
Captain America: There’s no easy way to say this, old friend.
Iron Man: It’s the hammer, Thor.
Strange: A grave enchantment is upon it. Dark magics even I can’t combat…
Cap crouches before Thor and rests a hand on his old friend's shoulder.He holds tight onto his own shield as he does so.
Captain America: You need to relinquish your hammer, Thor. You need to send it far, far away...
Captain America: Before it kills you.
Close on Thor, weak but determined.
Thor: Nay, Captain. If Mjolnir and I are destined for Valhalla, we shall journey there together.
It’s a struggle for him to even lift Mjolnir now, but somehow he manages it. Holding it with both hands, the Thunder God staggers to his feet. Defiant.
Thor: Shortly... after... we have slain my damn'd brother...