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Chapter Text

A terrible smile graced Thanos' visage. "I am inevitable." His fingers snapped--and nothing happened. Confusion bloomed.

Tony Stark stared him down, heart heavy with duty. "And I...am...Iro--"

Heavy boots hit the scorched earth next to him, lightning crackling in the air. "No," Thor said. He laid a hand on the shoulder of the Man of Iron.

Steve Rogers joined them, bruised, bloodied, shield shattered and hammer heavy, but still standing tall. "We," he said, grasping Stark's other shoulder. The Stones pulsed, each to its own beat.

Thanos lunged for them, denial and wrath on his face.

"We are Avengers," they spoke, and Stark's fingers snapped.

And then things went sideways.

X

The wind whistled in Thor’s ears, tugging at his beard as he lay upon a pillow of clouds.  He felt weightless.  A chill took him, and he reached for his blanket.  

Suddenly, he was not so weightless, instead flipping end over end as he tumbled through the air.  His hair whipped at his face as he passed through a layer of clouds, and what had been a pleasant moment became a jumbled rush as he was tossed every which way.  The wounds given to him by the Mad Titan still pained him, but they were a secondary concern to the ground that was rapidly approaching.  It was an untamed land, full of colossal mountains reaching towards the sky, and covered in snow.  The chill holding him grasped him all the tighter as he fell, the cold seeping into his bones.  A flurry of snow blinded him for but a moment, and when his sight cleared he realised he was rather close to one of those mountaintops.  Moments from impact, he considered shielding his head, but could only find the will to close his eyes.  

A thunderous crash announced Thor’s arrival in this new world, echoing through the valleys.  Stone splintered and avalanches crashed down, the very land greeting him.  Long minutes passed before calm returned to the mountains.

Atop the mountain, Thor simply lay in the impact crater, staring up at the sky as he sucked in a breath.  His body felt strained, like his essence had been stretched further than it was meant to be, and his mind was tired, as he had often felt after lessons with his father as a youth.  Thanos was no more, not merely dead but gone, and the bill had come due.  There was always a price.  Perhaps if he didn’t get up, he wouldn’t have to confront it...or perhaps it had already been paid.  

He groaned, before he found the will to leverage his bulk, shifting slowly until he was sitting upright.  The hole his wake had left in the clouds was already filling in, but for a brief moment, he glimpsed a thing of rare beauty though it.  An aurora borealis, weaving through the sky, shining blue.  The stars behind it seemed to ripple and weave, distorted, but then the clouds covered the sight, and the sky was grey once more.  Thor dragged his gaze away, taking in his surroundings.  He wasn’t quite on the peak, but he was near it, on an open stretch of stone.  He brushed stone fragments off his hoodie, picking a loose stone out of the fingerless gloves he wore.  

For a long moment, he simply sat and stared, unseeing, as he looked out over the mountains.  There was a weariness in his bones, the kind that sets in after a great burden has been lifted.  Thanos was dead, but what came thence?

Thor barked a laugh, surprising himself.  Thanos was dead, he could feel it in his gut.  He had laid a hand on Tony’s shoulder, taking on the burden of the Stones, and he had felt the connection to the universe when the Man of Iron made his demand of them.  “Who is inevitable now, you great purple ballsack,” he said, and he couldn’t help but laugh.  He put on a deep voice, “I am inevitable,” he said, before snapping his fingers and putting on a look of shock, laughing again.

The cold mountain bore witness as the laughter rang out into the void, and tears spilled from Thor’s face.  With an effort of will, he brought himself under control, drowning the hysterics that threatened to erupt again.  Thanos was dead, those he had killed were returned to life, and he was stranded in an unfamiliar world.  

Well, it wasn’t the first time.  

With a grunt, Thor heaved himself to his feet, and began to make for the summit.  It wasn’t far, but it gave him time to gather his thoughts as he crunched through the snow.  He stuck his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to warm them, and gave a small noise of delight when he found a plastic package.  He retrieved the Lunchable, and peeled it open.  He carefully arranged cracker, spam, and cheese substitute into a tower, before cramming it into his mouth and chewing.  The snack barely lasted long enough for him to reach the peak, and he stuffed the empty wrapper back into his pocket, brushing crumbs from his beard.  There was a small stone outcropping to mark the very tip of the mountain, and he leaned against it.  

“Well now, let’s see what we have here,” he said to himself as he surveyed the grandeur of the mountains.  

They stretched as far as the eye could see, in whatever direction he cared to look.  He was not atop the tallest of them, and the snow lay thick upon them.  Deep, wild forests littered the landscape, still green even in the cold.  Perhaps this land was one where it was ever winter, like the realm of Canada, as Clint had told him.  

In the distance, he could faintly make out some kind of creature flying through the air, but it was far away, and all he could tell was that it seemed to be circling, looking for prey.  It resembled no beast he knew of, not of Asgard, and certainly not of Midgard or Jotunheim, but then he was hardly the Master of Hunts.  

A new scent caught his attention, and he sniffed, chasing it.  Smoke was on the wind.  Smoke and blood.  He cast around for it, and down in the valley he saw a number of small smoke pillars starting to rise from the edge of the forest that grew on the side of his mountain.  Distantly, he heard a cry.    

Before he realised what he was doing, he had taken a step towards the cry, uncaring of the sheer drop before him.  He would survive it unharmed, sure, but tumbling down the mountainside would just be undignified.  

“Mother always wanted me to look before I leapt,” Thor said.  He raised an arm, hand outstretched, calling Stormbreaker.

There was no response...until there was.  The axe set the air to humming as it sped towards him, falling from the sky to collide with his palm with a thwack.  A storm kindled anew in his chest, and overhead, thunder boomed.  

Thor stepped off the mountain, falling quickly, his hair trailing behind him.  He would have been dashed against the mountainside, but for Stormbreaker granting him the gift of flight, and he kept his distance from it until the ground neared.  From down here, the smoke was more visible, several curling pillars speaking of fire and destruction.  He landed with a heavy thud, kicking up dirt and snow, surrounded by trees.  The smoke was to the north, but the scent of blood had shifted, or at least spread, further south now.  He remembered the plaintive cry, and began to make for the scent of blood.  

The forest was old, even the smallest trees thicker than his own body several times over.  Their roots were taller than a man in places, the frost covering them giving them the appearance of grasping fingers of bone, digging into the dirt.  He leapt over them, the sound of his passage loud in the silence of the forest.  There were few animals to be seen, even to one as perceptive as he.  

Another cry was carried by the wind, a cry of pain and fear.  He was drawing near.  The forest ended suddenly, from enormous old growth to open valley, and he stared out into the whiteness.  In the distance he could make out the source of the smoke, the burning remains of what was once a village by a small river, more a stream really.  Blood was heavy on the air, sitting thick on his tongue, and he could tell dark work had been done this day.  

Between the village and the treeline, a mass of figures approached.  Some were desperate, all but falling over themselves as they fled their pursuers, while others were doggedly determined.  Some carried possessions, others children, yet more nothing at all.  Behind them came the hunters, easily keeping pace.  They hollered and jeered at those they pursued, spurring them on for the sick joy of the hunt.  They carried torches, and were clad in animal furs.  Humans.  

One of the hunted collapsed suddenly, unable to go further.  The hunters did not even slow, simply trampling the form into the ground.  

Thor’s gaze hardened.  If that was how they wished to behave, then that was how he would treat them.  

The fleeing villagers must have thought their plight had attracted the amusement of thirsting gods.  Grey skies above darkened further, becoming storm clouds in truth.  Lightning cracked, striking the forest’s edge, seemingly denying them even that futile hope of sanctuary.  Booming thunder near deafened them as the lighting struck the same place, again and again.  The warriors chasing them laughed, calling out a claim on this or that piece of meat and prey.

Then, from the woods came a figure.  Blond of hair he was, his beard braided with silver.  An enormous axe he bore in one hand, and he wore armour the likes of which they had never seen.  His eyes were not that of mortal man, an unrelenting storm held within them.  He advanced, and the villagers scattered around him, hoping that his attention would turn to someone else, not daring to utter a prayer to the gods lest they draw their eye further.  Their hopes were answered, not because he struck at their neighbours - but because he struck at those chasing them.  They streamed past the newcomer, not daring to meet his eyes.

Thor flexed his power.  Lightning arced, dancing between the hunters and cooking them in place.  By their weapons and warcries, they clearly fancied themselves warriors, but Thor would not give them the satisfaction.  Some forty savages abandoned their quarry to charge him, and he was all too pleased to meet them.  

For all their foolhardy bravery, they were not worth the truth of his power.  Stormbreaker cut four men in half in a single swing, and crushed two more on the backhand, knocking the remains of their corpses into a third.  Blood stained the snow.  

To their credit, the barbarians continued in their doomed attempt to strike him down until there were but three of them left.  The last of them tried to flee, but they had no chance.  Two were bisected as they turned to run, and the last was crushed under his boots when he leapt after them.  A cold wind blew in the aftermath of the tussle, the scent of blood drowning out all else.  Quiet descended.  

Thor turned back to the trees to see the villagers peering out from their transient safety, having ceased their flight to watch the slaughter in shock.  He waved, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.  No one waved back, but some began to emerge from the forest, and more followed.  

They were a miserable people, wearing the crudest of furs and cloth.  There were no fighters amongst them, only elderly, the young, and the infirm.  All bore the signs of a hard life, many were injured, and all were shivering in the cold.  

“Praise to Tchar!” shouted an old woman.  “Delivered we be by their whims!”

“Praise!”  “Praise!  “Praise!”

Pain lanced through Thor’s brow, as a sense he didn’t know he had pulsed in agony.  It was like looking at the sun after a lifetime in Jotunheim.  He felt his eyes glow, and he was unable to keep back a growl of anger and pain, deep in his throat.  

“I am not Tchar,” he said in the sudden silence. 

The old woman cowered, clutching her thin shawl close.  

“Who are you then?” a young man asked, brave enough to draw Thor’s attention.  He was missing an eye, a tattered bandage wrapped around his head soaked in blood.  One arm was held in a sling, and a small girl clutched at his leg, half to hide, half for warmth.  

“I am Thor, son of Odin,” he said simply.  The words carried weight to them, and the young man swallowed as he heard them.  

“Who do you serve then?” a gnarled grandfather missing a hand asked.  

“From what tribe do you hail?”

“What are you?”

“Enough,” Thor boomed, and they were silent.  He surveyed the people before him, setting Stormbreaker before him and leaning on it.  He was not just tired, he was weary.  He allowed his armour to fade away, dismissed now that it was no longer needed.  The people murmured at the seidr.  The strange pain he had felt was fading, and he had a decision to make.  “Night is falling.  Are there any foes remaining in your village?”

“That was all of them that the Hound sent,” the man with one eye said.  

The new sense pulsed again, but this time it was only a strange pressure, no pain.  He ignored it for now, his attention caught by the blue lips of the girl child.  She wore a thin shift and little else, not even shoes, and her lips were turning blue.  Her lank brown hair was already frozen.  

“Girl,” Thor said.  “Come here.”

The girl didn’t move, but whether that was from fear or because she was frozen in place, Thor couldn’t tell.  He stepped towards her, and the one eyed man who was surely her brother stepped in his way, poorly hidden terror in his eyes.  

“Your actions do you credit,” Thor said, picking him up gently and shifting him aside.  He knelt down, unzipping his hoodie.  “Come, child.  You need warmth.”

The girl hesitated for only a moment, already feeling the heat radiating from Thor’s body.  She darted in, bony limbs wrapping around his torso, and he zipped up the hoodie to keep her in place.  Her shivering eased, and she clutched at him.

“Are there any other children in danger?” Thor asked.  

A quick inspection said no, the few other children either in better clothing or still held by their parents.  They would not remain so for long though, and the temperature was still dropping.  

“We will return to your village, and then I will answer your questions,” Thor said.  “As will you answer mine.”  He received no answer, but that was a response of itself.  There were none who would gainsay him here.  

The village was the better part of a kilometre away, and they began the trek back.  Many of the survivors threaded through the gory remnants of the raiders, but some took a perverse pleasure in traipsing through their remains, many spitting on them.  After that glut of blood however, the only corpses to pass were their less fortunate neighbours, and the mood turned grim once more.  Some had been trampled, as Thor had seen, but others had been cut and left to bleed out, while others had been beheaded.  The bodies were left where they lay, none of the people having the energy to do more than lay a hand on those that meant something to them.  

In time, they reached the village.  Much of it was half burnt, or at least charred, save the longhouse in its centre.  That had been left untouched, the raiders perhaps planning on using it themselves after they’d had their sport.  A small river ran along the far side, much of the village’s buildings arranged in relation to it.  There were more corpses in the village streets, and these had died more violently, killed in the initial moments of the attack.  

For a moment, the villagers took in what remained of their homes.  Some swore, while others wept quietly.  Some were just empty, kneeling by the body of a loved one.  It was a dark scene, but none of the villagers seemed surprised.  Thor stroked the hair of the child he held.  It had been a long time since he had been witness to such butchery, even the chaotic days after the destruction of the Bifrost seeming more a skirmish in light of it.  

Ahead, a pile of corpses twitched, and Thor raised his weapon.  Any creature that attacked him while he bore the child would have little time to regret it.  It was no creature that crawled out from under the mutilated bodies, however, but a child.  

The one eyed young man swore an oath.  He hadn’t strayed more than an arm’s length from Thor since he had taken up his sister, but now he rushed forward, gathering up the child, uncaring of the viscera coating them.  He wiped the blood from their face, and a twin to the girl Thor carried was revealed.  

Thor watched the quiet moment of joy amongst the remains of their lives, and it eased something in him.  He glanced down, and saw the girl he carried peering up at him from inside his jacket.  He smiled at her, and she buried her face in his chest again.  

Now that they had arrived, the villagers seemed to mill about without direction, unsure of where to turn.  Those whose homes had not been completely destroyed were searching them for what they could find, while the less fortunate just stared listlessly at their own.  At a glance, there were nigh on one hundred people standing in the shattered remains of their lives.

“We will gather in the longhouse this night,” Thor called out, drawing their attention.  “Bring what you can find to help your neighbours.”  He looked between them all, gauging their response, but there were no complaints.  “You will survive only by the efforts of your fellows.”

He made his way towards the longhouse, and the one eyed man kept with him, holding his still bloody sister.  

“You, what is your name?” Thor asked him. 

“Wolfric,” he said, but offered no more.

Despite how close Wolfric had stayed to him, he had never left his right side, always keeping his good left eye on him.  Thor said nothing of it, approving of the dedication the man showed to his sisters.  

The longhouse was a simple building, but well made.  Its top looked like an upturned ship’s hull, and a pair of wide red doors provided entry.  Inside was warm and well lit, a rectangular firepit running nearly the length of the building in the centre.  Coals still burned within it.  

Behind him, more people filtered inside, seeking warmth, and soon every surviving member of the village was inside, taking seats at one of the several long tables on either side of the firepit.  At the far end of the hall was what could only be called a throne, the head of a twelve point buck mounted above it.  Thor eyed it with distaste, but approached it all the same.  He sat, and some of the tension in those watching him eased.  This was something they understood.  He made to detach the limpet he carried, but she refused to budge, and he didn’t try very hard.  Stormbreaker sat beside his thro--his chair. 

“You had questions,” Thor said into the hall.  “Ask them.”

“Which of the Four do you serve,” Wolfric asked.  His eye bored into Thor’s.  

“What’s your tribe?”

“Are you man, or are you other?”

More questions came, but Thor raised a hand for silence, and he received it. 

“I serve no one,” Thor said.  

“You used your gifts openly,” Wolfric argued, ignoring the people near him trying to quiet him.  “We witnessed your magics.  If you do not serve Tchar -”

There was no pain this time, but again there was the same feeling of pressure.  Thor was reminded of presenting himself to the court of his father for the first time, the eyes of all present upon him.  

“I serve no one,” Thor said, something about the question stoking his anger.  “I am Thor Odinson.  If I owe my service to anyone it is the people of Asgard, who know me as their King, for all who would threaten them have fallen before my might.  God of Thunder I am, slayer of Titans and would be kings.”  He stared out at the hall, suddenly realising that he had begun to rise to his feet, unsettling the girl on his lap.  He coughed, sitting back down.  “I’m also the strongest Avenger, which is the most important part, really.”

Mutters whipped through the hall, all repeating the same word.  ‘God’, they said, ‘god, god, god’.  

The pressure grew, and Thor pushed back.  After a moment, it eased, like a cat only leaving because it had chosen to.  He was left feeling strained in a way he couldn’t explain.  

Briefly, Thor considered asking them just who these ‘Four’ were, but something told him the question would shatter whatever relative calm there was.  He put it aside for now.  Whatever sorcerer kings had let this realm fall into such neglect were the problem of tomorrow, not tonight.  

“Now that I have answered your questions, I have some of my own.”

The villagers braced themselves, as if for something terrible.

“I want to know...what realm this is,” Thor said.  

Looks were exchanged, disbelief common.  None answered, until Wolfric spoke up.  He seemed to have been nominated spokesman somehow.

“This is Norsca, God of Thunder,” he said.  

“Ah yes, Norsca,” Thor said.  “And you are the Norscans, of course.”

“We are Baersonlings,” Wolfric said.  He was staring hard at Thor, even as he held his sister with his good arm.  

Thor began to sweat.  “Your attackers were not Baersonlings then,” he said.

Wolfric shook his head slowly.  “They were Aeslings, seeking the favour of the Hound.”

Again, the pressure, but it vanished quickly, as if bored.  

“I see,” Thor said.  He really wanted to know who these Four were, but it was definitely not the time, not after the reaction he had gotten to his questions.  “I think that will be all for tonight.  You all need to rest and recover, and we can speak on the morrow.”

The villagers began to rise, as if released from an audience, quick to see to their needs.  There was food to be distributed, and many would need to clean themselves before they could sleep, but his attention was not needed for that.  

“May I…” Wolfric swallowed, whetting his lips.  “May I have my sister back?” 

“Of course,” Thor said.  He rose to his feet, careful not to disturb the child he held.  Unzipping his hoodie, he offered her to her brother.  

Wolfric approached, holding out his arms.  “Come Elsa,” he whispered.  “Astrid needs your help.”

The now named Elsa grumbled incoherently, more asleep than not, but let go of her grip on Thor and reached out to her brother.  Thor couldn’t help but beam at the child, but by the look he received from Wolfric that might not have been the best idea.  

An old crone approached him, forcing her old bones into a bow.  “God of Thunder, it isn’t much, but we want you to have the chieftain’s room, at the rear of the hall,” she said.  “It has a bed, and a bath.”

“The children should take it,” Thor said.

But the crone was shaking her head, pale.  “We could not.  You would have to sleep out here, with all of us, or worse, be turned from our hall.”

“Ah,” Thor said.  Clearly they didn’t want him listening in as they discussed him.  “Then I shall be honoured to take the chieftain’s quarters.”  He paused.  “...what was it that happened to the chieftain?”

“His torso is by the docks, his head is in the market, and his legs are down the well,” the crone said flatly.  “The door is over there.”  She pointed to a narrow door in the wall behind the chair.  

They stared at each other for a moment.  

“I’ll just be going then,” Thor said.  He backed away, taking Stormbreaker as he went, until he reached the door.  He fumbled with it for a moment, never breaking eye contact with the old woman, until he found the handle.  He pushed at it, and discovered it was pull, and then he finally left the hall behind, putting the entire awkward affair behind him as he closed the door again.  He turned, allowing himself to slump against the door.  

The room was simple by his eye, but likely well appointed or even luxurious to the villagers.  It held a bed, covered in furs, and a table with various knick knacks on it.  A carved whalebone caught his eye, but there was also a tooth, and a claw of some unknown beasts, both larger than his hand.  

Inspecting the room further could wait.  He had had a very, very, very long day, and it was finally at an end.  He blew out what remained of a candle that sat on the table, casting the room into darkness, and then he collapsed into bed, seeking the sweet release of oblivion.  

Of course, it eluded him.  At first it was the winds that blew along the longhouse, an unfamiliar room with unfamiliar creaks keeping him awake.  Then it was the people out in the hall, some weeping now that they finally had a moment to themselves, others just trying to scrub off the blood or see to their wounds.  

Finally it was his mind, unwilling or unable to let things go.  Setting out to the past.  Seeing his mother, one last time.  Returning, and seeing Clint and the empty space at his side that should have held Natasha.  He had lost many brothers and sisters in arms over the years, but some he felt more keenly than others.

Stormbreaker’s edge, slowly being pushed into his chest, realising that he was going to die because he was too weak, because he had allowed himself to diminish, and that his weakness was going to lead to untold suf-

There was a knock at the door.  

Thor tossed off the furs, eager for the distraction.  He cracked open the door, and beheld a young woman, one of the villagers.  “Can I assist you?” 

“I am sorry to disturb you, godly one,” the woman said.  She was playing with her hair, and Thor noticed that she had changed into what passed for sleepwear.  “You - you saved my life, and that of my family.  I wanted to thank you.”

“Saving people is what heroes do,” Thor said. He had been thanked many times, by all manner of people for all manner of deeds, but he felt his spirits rise, nonetheless.  

The woman bit her lip.  “No, godly one,” she said.  She stepped on her shift, drawing it tight against her body, and her nipples strained against the rough cloth.  “I wanted to thank you.”

Thor gazed upon her shadowed form, the thin fabric hiding less than the darkness, and even that peeled away by his keen eyes, laying the full roundness of her breasts clear to him.  But no.  It wouldn’t be right, not for her, and not for him.  

“On another night, I would be sorely tempted,” Thor told her.  “But on this night, I am weary, in body and soul, and you have suffered a loss.  Your thoughts may be different under the morning sun, and I would not take advantage of your grief.”

The woman seemed disappointed, her hazel eyes dimming.  “You are kind, godly one,” she said.  She stepped back.  “Perhaps another night.”

He smiled at her, closing the door as she left.  The moment it was closed, his smile disappeared.  He turned back to the bed, and crawled into it once more.  Tonight, he only wanted to spend time with his ghosts.  He deserved a night to grieve, at the least.  

This time, sleep found him quickly.

X x X

Thor dreamed.

He dreamed of Asgard, Old and New and all at once, green fields and pleasant seas surrounding a city of towering gold.  He walked along a dirt path, frost flurries dancing before him as he approached the grand gates of the city, the wall they sat in rising hundreds of feet into the air.  Flowers bloomed in the fields on either side, and faceless children frolicked within them.  Standing before the gates, barring the way, was a familiar figure.  Their gold armour gleamed under the sun.

“Heimdall,” Thor said, coming to a stop.  No one, not even the King of Asgard, could cross its threshold without dealing with the watcher.  

“My King,” Heimdall said.  He did not look to him as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the path from which Thor had approached, tracking something unseen.  One hand rested on the horn at his belt, wary.  

Ever had Heimdall kept a wary eye on threats to the people of Asgard, and it was a foolish king who ignored him.

“What do you see?” Thor asked.  

“I see dangers on the horizon.  I see rival kingdoms,” Heimdall said.  He turned his gaze briefly to Thor.  “I see a fragile foundation.”

“Tell me of these dangers,” Thor commanded.

“Bloodlust, Manipulation, Excess, Decay,” Heimdall said.  A shadow pressed down on the two men with each word, despite the clear sky.  “You must be wary, for they know of your coming.”

Thor could feel the pressure again, and he tired of it.  He pushed back at it, as he had in the waking world, but this time it was easy, and the presences were banished.  The shadow passed, and light held sway once more. 

“The day will come where you must do more than simply avert their gaze,” Heimdall said.  

Stormclouds began to form overhead, spawning from nothing as they roiled in the sky.  Despite them, light still shone down on Asgard, and they felt more like a shield than a threat.  

“Woe be to them on that day,” Thor said.  

Heimdall smiled, a predatory thing, one that the enemies who had sought to force entry to Asgard in the past would have recognised, had they still lived.  “As you say, my King.”

Thor inspected the fields of his domain briefly, but decided against interrupting the lives of his subjects.  The way his people felt pressured to revere him was one of his least favourite parts of kingship.  Even as he made the decision, the gates of Asgard proper began to draw open, great edifices of gold and steel inviting him to walk further up and further in.  He clapped Heimdall on the shoulder and left him to his duty.

“Thor,” the watcher called, and Thor turned back.  Steve Rogers stared at him, in the same golden armour.  “You take care of yourself now.”

X

Thor woke with a sharp breath, Stormbreaker flying into his hand.  The room was empty and still, and his gaze darted around, seeking what had disturbed him.

There was a rap on the door, and he relaxed.  He rolled out of bed with a groan, adjusting himself.  It was never comfortable to sleep fully clothed, but he had been weary.  He still was, but it was no longer a tiredness of the body, but the soul, one that only time and good cheer could cure.  He opened the door, and the young woman from last night was there.

“Good morrow, godly one,” she said.  She met his eyes only briefly, looking down demurely.  

“Gooood,” Thor cracked open a yawn, “morning.  What time is it?”

“The sun has been up for three hours, godly one,” she said.  

He’d overslept then.  “Call me Lord Thor.”  He knew better than to insist on familiarity with one who saw him as a god.  “What’s your name?”

“Aslaug, Lord Thor,” Aslaug said.  In the light of day, or in as much light as the shutters of the longhouse allowed in, he could see that she was a woman grown indeed, blonde hair done up in two buns.  Her woollen dress was poor quality, but the furs she wore would have been the envy of many.  

“Did you need something?” Thor asked.

“Oh!” Aslaug started.  “We’ve set aside a meal for you, Lord Thor.  And…I wanted to apologise, for coming to you as I did last night.  I don’t know what came over me.”

Thor brightened at the idea of food.  “Say nothing of it; yesterday was a hard day.  Where is this food you mentioned?”

“At your seat, Lord Thor,” Aslaug said.  “It awaits you, I must get back to my tasks.”  Her nerves apparently failed, and she almost fled from his door.

Thor’s emergence into the longhouse proper did not go unnoticed, and the two dozen or so villagers still present did their best to watch him without making it apparent.  Caution was first in their gazes, and he couldn’t blame them.  They were the young, the elderly, and the injured, and they still had little grasp of his measure.  

As Aslaug had promised, a plate sat on the wide armrest of the chieftain’s chair that he had temporarily - very temporarily - claimed for himself.  It was surprisingly heavy given that the village had been sacked the previous day, with a freshly cooked fish on a bed of onion and leek, and a tankard of ale beside it.  Thor drained half the tankard before he had even sat down, and dug in eagerly.  There was no cutlery to be seen, and he began to pick chunks of fish from the skeleton to gobble down.  

He was halfway through his meal before it occurred to him to think beyond his hunger.  Perhaps it was simply that he had risen late, and all present had already eaten, but he could not help but notice that there were no traces of a recently eaten meal in the hall.  At one of the tables, near where the coals in the firepit were brightest, a cluster of children watched him eat with unblinking intensity.  Elsa and Astrid were amongst them, not covered in gore or touched by frost as they had been the previous night, but still far from what a child should look like. 

Thor swallowed the strip of fish he had torn off, finding it suddenly bitter.  He glanced at what was left of the fish; it had been the size of his bicep and near the length of his arm, and there was still plenty of meat on it.  He rose, taking the plate with him, and approached the children.  

The elderly and the injured had been keeping their hands busy with what small tasks they could, mending clothes or whittling arrows, but all seemed to tense as he neared the children.  They watched, and he pretended he did not see their unease.  

Of the nine children, Elsa and Astrid were the only ones who did not look away from his plate in wariness.  

“I have eaten my fill, but there is still food on my plate,” Thor said to them.  “Would you all like to share the remains?”  He set it on the table.  

There was a moment where the children darted glances between the food, himself, and each other, before the air changed and it looked like each child was going to do battle with the others.

Thor made a warning sound, and they froze.  “Share,” he stressed.  “Can I trust you to make sure your friends each get as much as you do?”

The children eyed each other mistrustfully, but under Thor’s expectant gaze, they nodded.  He beamed at them, and gestured for them to eat.  As they descended upon the plate like an orderly pack of wolves, he took a moment to inspect them.  Most seemed well enough, save for a few scratches and bumps, but one boy had a bruise that covered half his face, and he was eating slowly and carefully.  His gaze fell on the twin sisters.  Astrid looked like she had been scrubbed to within an inch of her life, noticeably cleaner than the others, and Elsa was bundled up in more furs than he thought was strictly necessary, even should she wander outside.  Still, both girls looked far better than they had yesterday.  He made to step away, when a thought occurred to him.

He had questions for his hosts, questions he couldn’t ask openly without making it clear he was more foreign than they thought.  He might be well experienced in the arts of blending in amongst new societies, but he didn’t want to push it.  Still, if he could speak with the twins out of earshot of the others…

Best not.  Beyond how it might look to the villagers if he pulled the girls aside to speak to them alone, he was wary of the pressure he felt with his new sense.  It would not do to bring that attention on the children.  He would ask Wolfric when the opportunity arose. 

“Do you know where your brother is?” Thor asked the twins.

“Outside, fixing things,” Elsa said.  

“He said he was going to look at the well,” Astrid added.  

“Thank you Elsa, Astrid,” Thor said to them in turn.  

The girls shared a startled glance, communicating without words.

Thor was struck with a yearning pang for the days that he and Loki had been like that, able to get themselves into and out of trouble with hardly a word.  Those days would not come again, and there was little use lingering on them in his current troubles.  He left the children behind, ignoring the faint hunger he still felt, and made his way out of the longhouse.  

The elders and injured still snuck glances at him, but they were less fearful, more trying to puzzle him out, like he was a bilgesnipe that had wandered into the tavern and asked for mead.  

Outside, the day was as pleasant as could be hoped, only mostly freezing instead of completely freezing.  Hints of blue sky peered through the clouds, and the wind was hardly worth mentioning.  The carnage wreaked by the raiders had been partly cleared away, or at least the worst of it had been.  The scent of death on the air told Thor that the villagers had carried the bodies of their neighbours to the south side of the village, away from the river.  Now they focused on clearing away burnt dwellings, salvaging what they could.

He headed deeper into the village, seeking the well, and answers.  Heads were bowed as he passed, and he acknowledged them with a wave.  Most were women, and the few men present were all injured in some way.  Briefly, he thought that perhaps he should have brought his axe with him, lest he have to call it through the walls of the longhouse, but faint was the chance that he would face a foe worthy of it on this morning walk.  

When he reached the village centre, he found what he sought.  Wolfric stood by the well, a stone construction with a wooden roof.  He held a pole, poking about in the well with it, and a single frozen leg sat on the ground beside him.  Nearby, a hairy dog eyed it speculatively.  

“Wolfric,” Thor said in greeting.  

Wolfric was startled by his call, and jerked his head around to pin his eye on him.  He still wore the same dirty bandage as he had the previous day.  “God of Thunder,” he said, lowering his gaze.

“Call me Lord Thor,” Thor said.  “How goes it?”

Wolfric scowled, looking like he’d very much like to spit.  “Badly,” he said.  “We’ve few enough able bodies left after the skirmishes.  If you hadn’t walked out of the forest when you did…”

“Well, I take offence to those who call themselves warriors because they prey on the defenceless,” Thor said.  

Wolfric grumbled, and returned to poking about in the well with his pole.  “Our god didn’t save us, and theirs didn’t save them.”  He looked like he wanted to say more, but held his tongue after a glance at Thor.

“What is the state of the village?” 

“Poisoned well, livestock driven off, burnt buildings, and the chance that more Aesling cunts might come when their ship doesn’t return,” Wolfric said.  He pointed his chin towards the longship that still sat in the river by the village.  Through the gaps in the village left by fire, Thor could see that it was still untouched.  

“Would they not avoid the place that their fellows vanished?” Thor asked.

“Not if they think there’s a good fight to be had,” Wolfric said.

“An execution is hardly a fight,” Thor said, but he frowned in consideration.

Wolfric grunted, and cursed to himself again as he failed to do whatever he was attempting with the pole.  “Fucking useless chieftan in life, fucking annoyance in death.”

Thor glanced down the well.  It was wide enough for two men to stand in, and just over a man’s height in depth.  He could make out what looked like another leg still within it.  “Bottoms up,” Thor said, and he grabbed Wolfric by the ankles and tipped him in.

Wolfric yelped and struggled, but stilled when his presence of mind returned and he realised Thor still held him in a firm grip.  He was lowered, and he grabbed the leg.  “Got it,” he called through gritted teeth.

Thor pulled him up easily, and set him back on his feet.  “A manly shriek is perfectly normal,” he assured the man.  “And that’s one problem solved.”

The pale Norscan looked like he wanted to grumble, but held his tongue, dropping the limb with its fellow.

“What need for a well by the river?” Thor asked.

“Can’t be sure what’s been put in the water upriver,” Wolfric said.  He pulled his wool shirt closer to himself as a bitter wind carved through the village streets, collarbones prominent under it.  

“You should eat more, my skinny friend,” Thor said.  

“Not all of us can grow fat off snow and bark,” Wolfric said, but then he froze, like a rabbit before a hawk, hoping to avoid notice.

Thor only laughed.  He slapped his gut, setting it to jiggle, but felt something strange in his pocket.  A quick investigation revealed a Lunchable, and he stared at it in confusion.  He could have sworn he had already eaten it.  “Here,” he said, peeling it open and offering it to the man.  Looking at him closer, Thor would be surprised if he was more than twenty.  “A novelty from a foreign land.”

However queer the wrapping may have appeared, Wolfric was quick to gobble the snack down.  “Praise to Lord Thor for the bounty,” he said, almost under his breath.  

Thor felt uncomfortable for a moment, a strange feeling on the back of his neck, but he waved him off.  “‘Tis but a snack.  You said the livestock had fled?”

“Bastards broke open the pens and cages as they herded us out of the village,” Wolfric said.  “Not a beast remains, and if they haven’t all been eaten or frozen to death out there I’ll take out my other eye.  It’ll be slim pickings for us in the coming days.”

“There was a bounty of food awaiting me when I was roused,” Thor said.  

Wolfric looked at him blankly.  “Of course there was.”

“I would prefer that the children are fed first,” Thor said.  

“You’re the god of thunder,” Wolfric said, eyeing him as if suspecting a trick.

“And I would prefer the children be fed first,” Thor repeated firmly.  

“I will tell the others,” Wolfric said slowly. 

“Good,” Thor said, smiling.  “Now, the well is saved from poisoning.  What next?”

“Food,” Wolfric said.  “If we don’t replenish our stores soon, Spot will be on the spit next,” he said grimly, nodding to the hairy dog that was still nearby.

Thor looked over at the happily panting dog, putting up with the attentions of two teens, taking a break from their work.  “We can’t have that,” he said.  

“We need wood to rebuild, we need to see to that longship and whatever nastiness they’ve left in it, we need to watch for more fucking Aeslings, and then we need to think about how we’re going to survive the winter if our neighbours have been hit like we were,” he finished.  “Can’t trade with the dead.”

Thor considered him for a long moment.  “You are not my people, but it would be low of me to abandon those I have the ability to help.  I will help you regain your feet, if you would accept my aid.” 

Wolfric stared at him, single eye unreadable.  “Aye,” he said at length.  “We would be grateful, God of Thunder.”

“So then,” Thor said, clapping his hands together as he considered the problem.  “What to do first.”

Wolfric offered no suggestions, only watching him think.  He made a subtle gesture of reassurance to someone out of Thor’s sight that he pretended not to notice.  

“How close is the nearest sea?” Thor asked.  “A large sea creature would be valuable for more than its meat.”

“Weeks of hard travel,” Wolfric said.  He made to scratch at the skin beneath his bandage, but forced himself away.  

“What if, I don’t know, you could fly?” Thor asked.  

Wolfric peered at him.  “Still a few days, and that’s if something with wings didn’t take you for a meal - well,” he corrected himself.  “Didn’t delay you, anyway.”

“Pity,” Thor said.  

“You might find a mammoth herd, a few valleys over,” Wolfric said.  He gestured to the west.  “Something was driving them this way; they don’t usually wander so close.”

“Then that is where I shall go,” Thor said.  He made to leave, before remembering one of his father’s lessons.  He patted Wolfric awkwardly on the shoulder.  “Good job,” he said.  

Wolfric looked between Thor’s hand, lingering on his shoulder, and his face.  He made what could charitably be called a smile, revealing yellow teeth.  

Thor drew his hand back.  “Yes, well.  Don’t go into the longship while I’m gone, seers only know what they’ve left in there.”

“The wise woman already told us to avoid it,” Wolfric said.  “I won’t cross her.”

“Smart move,” Thor said.  He thought of his mother, and the time he had upset the cooks.  He held back a shudder that had nothing to do with the cold.  “I’ll be back by afternoon.”

“As you say, Lord Thor,” Wolfric said.  

Thor turned and walked away, wishing he’d brought Stormbreaker with him.  Departures were much more dramatic when he could simply fly off into the sky. 

X x X

With his axe in hand, the landscape below passed in a blur as he weaved in and out of the valleys and mountains.  What would be a day or more on foot passed in the blink of an eye.  It was a wild, untamed land, devoid of human presence but still teeming with life despite the harsh conditions.  He saw a pack of wolves hunting caribou, and marked their location in his mind in case the mammoths did not eventuate.  

It was hard to call it a hunt with his advantages, but his task soon bore fruit, even if not in the form that he had expected.  He dropped from the sky to land easily on the snow, and took in the scene before him.

A herd of mammoths lay dead, spread out across the open valley.  Whatever had killed them had done so with a mighty blow to the back of their necks, and the way the herd was spread out spoke to it being a single beast, picking them off one by one. 

The wind whistled mournfully as Thor walked through the dead.  It was the only sound for miles around, and he apparently the only living thing.  Whatever else called this valley home was either hiding deep in their dens or had fled the predator responsible for the carnage.  Even the birds, surely too small to draw the eye of whatever it was that hunted mammoths, were quiet.  

Movement ahead caught Thor’s eye.  One of the corpses was shifting.  Without fear, he leapt towards it, his axe pulled back to deliver a mighty blow - but as he neared, he saw that it was no foe.  Rather than a hunter burrowing in the guts of its prey, there was a mammoth calf, pressing against its mother’s side in a vain attempt to rouse them.  

“Oh hey there little guy,” Thor said to the calf.  It was only slightly taller than himself. 

At his words, the calf turned to face him.  It lowered its head and rumbled a challenge, before charging.  

Thor stopped it with one hand on its head, his boots sinking back into the snow.  “Woah there friend,” he said.  “Sun’s getting real - wait, no-”

Enraged by his refusal to be trampled, the calf trumpeted its displeasure, the noise echoing over the valley.  It took a few steps back and tried to charge him again.  

He let it, again catching it with one hand against its brow.  It tried to pull back and headbutt him, but he held firm, letting it scream a mix of outrage and animal grief.  He tried to mimic the sounds he had heard Darcy make when she had accidentally stepped on the tail of her cat once, but it didn’t seem to be very effective.  

In time, the calf began to flag, what energy it had drained by its exertions.  When its umpteenth charge proved itself to be more of a slump into him, he allowed it to slip past his hand, and lean into his chest.  He ran a hand through its thick fur, scratching behind its ear.  It raised its trunk to his shoulder, and rested it there.  

“You look like you need a new home, my furry friend,” Thor said.  “I promise not to eat you, or your mother.  What do you say?”  He had never worked with the weavers or herders in Asgard, Old or New, but he was sure a mammoth would be a useful beast to keep around, and for more than its meat.  

The mammoth calf didn’t answer, but it did blow a blast of hot air right into his face.  Thor decided to take that as a yes.  

“Now, how to get you and tonight’s dinner back to your new home,” Thor said to himself, looking about.  It would be awkward, but he could manage.  

But first, perhaps, it would be wise to find whatever had killed them all.  It would not do to take to the sky with the calf and a corpse only to be attacked by the beast responsible.  The mammoths were not small creatures, and now that he was closer, he could make out the great puncture marks partially hidden beneath their fur.  

He guided his new friend back to its mother -  he would have to think of a name soon - and persuaded it to settle down, out of the wind as much as possible.  

To the sky he took once more, aiming to turn a hunter into the hunted.  Around the valley he soared, inspecting every fold and ridge he could, but to no avail.  He spied a bear cautiously sniffing the air from the entrance to its cave, but it turned and fled back inside when he passed.  His search was fruitless, until he began to think more like his brother.  Rather than search for the predator, he would force it to come to him.

Back to the mammoths he went, taking up a middling male by one of its tusks.  Encumbered, he rose into the air, and began to drift towards one end of the valley.

“Oh my, what a delicious meal this will be,” Thor called loudly.  “What luck I have to stumble across the kill of a slower, stupider predator who has done all the work for me.”

Thor waited for his cunning gambit to pay off, still drifting away.  The moments stretched out, only the wind breaking the silence.  

Then, a roar.

From behind a nearby peak, a figure rose, great wings flapping to gain height.  It shrieked its outrage at his taunts as it folded its leathery wings back, angling towards him.  He grinned, heart beating faster at the promise of combat.  This would be a fight worth boasting of.  

As the beast drew near, he could make out details.  It had the body of a lion, but twisted, and its fang filled maw was too large for its face, jaw unable to fully close.  It fell towards him like a thunderbolt through the air, whip-like tail steering its descent, talons outstretched to shred him.  

Like a thunderbolt, but not truly.  The sky darkened, and true lightning crashed, striking the beast from the sky.  It convulsed, thrown off course as it twitched and screamed, passing by harmlessly.  It was scant metres from the ground by the time it recovered, batlike wings beating frantically to catch itself.  It began to wheel about, fury brimming within it at the position of weakness it had been forced into.

Thor hit it boots first, nearly breaking its spine as its body arced with the impact.  The next impact with the ground finished the job, and the furious shrieks turned to high keens of pain.  He dealt it a mighty blow to the back of its head with the blunt side of his axe, finishing the job and silencing the beast.  

“Ugh,” Thor said, screwing his face up in disgust.  “You smell worse than a bilgesnipe, you ugly fellow.”

The baby mammoth came surging towards him, leaving the safety of its mother’s body, and headbutted the dead creature with all of its juvenile strength.  When it failed to respond, it raised its trunk and trumpeted its victory.  

“Well struck!” Thor told it as he hopped down.  “It certainly won’t dare to challenge you again.”

The calf trotted over to him, pushing its head against his chest.  It rumbled deep within its chest, and he rubbed its head.  He almost felt guilty about the plan to eat the rest of its herd.  Almost, but not quite.  

X

“This is Trumpetter,” Thor said to Wolfric and the gathered villagers.  “Because he trumpets, and he enjoys being petted.”

Sadly, they seemed less interested in Trumpetter than in the two corpses he had also arrived with, wide eyed stares flicking between him and them.  

It hadn’t been easy getting all three of them back to the village, but with Trumpetter draped across his shoulders, and the beast tied to the mammoth corpse by its tail, he had managed.  He didn’t much like the idea of eating it, not with the repulsive aura it had to it, but perhaps it would make for a decent trophy.  

“That’s a manticore,” Wolfric said.  “You killed a manticore.”

“Well, I’ve put on a bit of weight, so when I landed on its back it didn’t do so well,” Thor explained.  “It also killed Trumpetter’s herd, so now the little one is going to live here.  He’s not for eating.”

The villagers looked up at the mammoth calf.

“Could be good for the hair,” one woman offered.

“Might trample any raiders when he gets bigger,” an old man said.  

“The children will love riding on him too!” Thor said. 

As one, the gathered villagers seemed to look to Wolfric.  He set his jaw stubbornly, as if taking on a great burden.  “You are generous, Lord Thor,” he said.  “Ingrid, do you think you could take…Trumpetter, to graze just downstream?”

A woman with a nose that had been badly broken some time in the past eyed the mammoth dubiously.  “I’ll try.”

“Be gentle,” Thor admonished his new friend, before nudging him on to follow Ingrid.  Obediently, Trumpetter followed, looking briefly back at Thor as if to make sure he wouldn’t vanish.

“Erik,” Wolfric said.  “You and the lads want to get a start on the butchering?  The village will eat well tonight.”

“Aye, praise be to the god of thunder,” another man with violently red hair said.  

Thor rubbed his neck, a feeling akin to cool fingers on it.

“You’re welcome,” he said.  

Erik looked up, startled, words failing him.  He settled for lowering his head.

“So, what next?” Thor asked.

“Wise woman says the well wasn’t sullied long enough for the rot to take,” Wolfric said.  “Which is a shock, even round these parts.”

“Do you not have to worry about such things here?” Thor asked.  

“Not as much as them that worship the Unclean one,” Wolfric said.  He spat to the side, and he wasn’t the only one.  

Erik and his fellows departed to go about butchering the mammoth, and the other villagers began to filter away too.  

Thor eyed the young man who was starting to emerge as the leader amongst the villagers.  His need to question him about these ‘Four’ only grew clearer, but the time was not yet right.  

“I will inspect the well,” Thor said suddenly, “and then the longship.”

“The well?” Wolfric asked.

“The ‘unclean one’,” Thor said.  “I mislike the idea that some mischief has been left to linger.”

“As you say, Lord Thor,” the young man said.

To the well they went, Wolfric following at his back.  There was a cover on the stone rim, which was removed for him, and he stared down into the darkness.  He could not say what compelled him so, but a feeling took him, just as it had centuries ago, when his father had first handed Mjolnir to him.  Lightning crackled in his fist, and he opened it over the well.  

Softly, like the most delicate of snowflakes, sparks fell from his open hand, falling down into the water.  Ripples spread from where they touched, and wisps of blue smoke rose from the water.  His essence felt strained, just as he had when he had first pushed at the presences that lingered on him last night.  

“What did you do?” Wolfric asked, voice low and hoarse.

“Whatever sickness was hidden is now purged,” Thor said.  “Drink freely.”

“By the grace of the thunder god,” Wolfric said, and he immediately began to draw a pail.  

He drank deeply, and with those words and that action, Thor felt an easing in the strain.  “Come,” he said.  “Let us see to the longship.”

X

The longship sat in the river that ran past the village on the north side, shifting gently in the currents.  It was anchored by a harpoon that had been hurled into the frozen ground, likely by a raider as they leapt from it, and tied off near the prow.  The prow itself took the shape of a snarling dog, and human skulls had been tied to it, many still with flesh rotting off them.  

A withered woman stared at the ship, keeping vigil over it.  Thor still wasn’t the most apt judge of human ages, but despite her appearance, he would put her at barely fifty years.  

“Helka,” Wolfric said as they joined her.

“Boy,” Helka said.  Her voice was hoarse, like one who indulged overmuch in the pipe and didn’t bother to see the healer.  “Godly one.”

“Has there been any change?” Wolfric asked.  

“None,” Helka said.  “I like it not.  There’s the touch of the Hound to it.”

“Any of the Hound’s get would not have lay in wait all night,” Wolfric said.

“Mayhaps,” Helka said.  “We should still burn it to the waterline.”

“I will go aboard,” Thor said, finishing his inspection.  It was larger than the longships he had seen as a youth in his adventures on Midgard, and the oar ports on the side suggested a lower deck.  It was impressive that it had been brought so far inland. 

“Your will, godly one,” Helka said.  She wore a rough cloth satchel over one shoulder, and she clutched it tighter to herself.  

With a light jump, Thor was on the deck of the longship, axe in hand.  All was quiet.

The deck was stained with blood, new and old, but was in good order otherwise.  He paced softly along the vessel, passing by sailor’s tools where they had been dropped.  At the rear of the ship was an opening, and within a ladder that led below.  

“I’m going below,” Thor called to the shore.  “If you hear lightning, get clear.”  He didn’t wait for a response, stepping off the edge to drop down.

His eyes adjusted at different rates, leaving him to squint for a moment, before his mechanical eye caught up.  On the other side of the ladder, a hall ran the length of the ship, and on either side the hold had been divided into compartments.  Yet more blood stained the floor, this time in streaks, like it had been left behind by something dragged.  

There were five rooms total, two on each side and one on the end.  Of the first two, the one on the left was an armoury, bristling with weapons of all shapes and sizes, many of a cruel form and design.  On the right was a room of bunks, tightly packed and lacking in comfort.  The second was another set aside for sleeping quarters, but this time there was more space and greater comfort.  Opposite this was the supply room, holding both food and spare sail, as well as several kegs.  Thor cleared them all, footsteps silent, axe at the ready.  Then, only the last remained.

The scent of blood grew stronger as he neared, and it was clear that all the streaks of blood led to whatever lay beyond.  He snorted, trying to clear the stench from his nostrils, but there was no escaping it.  Thor set himself.  Whatever charnel house awaited him, he would face as a son of Asgard and an Avenger.  He pushed open the door, almost regretting that he had already slain whoever was responsible for whatever surely lay beyond.  But what was revealed was unexpected.

It was no torture room or butcher’s house, but a bedroom.  A bed dominated most of the space, red sheets messy and unkempt.  The floor at the foot of it was stained black with blood, and it was clear that hundreds had died on that small patch of wood.  A sick feeling spread from it, and Thor felt his gorge rising.  

There was movement in a dark corner of the room, beside the bed.  He squinted, and after a moment he felt his rage building all over again.  What he had done to the raiders was too easy a death.  

A woman was chained to the wall there, hands secured above her head.  She was naked and covered in dried blood and old wounds.  Before her was a skull, angled to face her, and she stared at it, uncaring of anything else.  

“Lady,” Thor called.  “I would aid you.”  He watched her carefully, but she did not respond, and as far as he could tell, did not hear him.  She did not even blink as she stared at the skull.  

Thor strode forward, seizing the manacles pinning her arms in place.  He tore them apart, and her arms dropped to her sides.  In the same moment, he ripped the sheets from the bed and covered her with them, wrapping her carefully and avoiding her wounds.  With a warrior’s gaze, he could not help but note that despite her captivity, she had a fighter’s frame, and that many of her wounds seemed to purposefully hinder her without permanently crippling her.  

As he rose, the woman in his arms, he thought about crushing the skull that had captured her mind so completely.  He knew not who the skull belonged to, nor what they meant to the woman, and the way she tried to turn to keep her gaze on it only settled his mind.  He would make no decision he could not unmake until he had more information.  

He left the ship in a hurry, thunder on his face and in the sky, stormclouds having gathered since he first went belowdecks.  Several more had joined Wolfric and Helka on the bank, and two looked to be apprentices to the old woman.  

“Give her to my girls,” Helka snapped.  “To my home, quickly.”

Thor handed the woman over to the apprentices, and they bore her away swiftly.  He was shortly left standing alone with Wolfric.  

“You are going to tell me of these ‘Four’,” Thor said, watching as the wise woman disappeared.  He looked to the longship.  He could still feel the wrongness in the air, centred on the ship.  “You will tell me all you know.  What they want.  What they hate.  Who serves them.  What burns at them.  Everything.”  Static was heavy in the air, and the clouds above only darkened.  

Wolfric buried his confusion and his fear and nodded.  There was nothing else to do.  

X

From the longship they walked north, upstream, and away from the village.  The only sound was that of their boots crunching in the snow, and the river burbling beside them.  An old man watched them leave, before hopping away on his single leg and walking stick.  Only when they had well and truly left the village behind did Thor stop, turning back to face Wolfric.  Around them was a field of white, the treeline distant.  The wind whispered in their ears.

“Speak to me of these Four,” Thor commanded.  

For a long moment, Wolfric seemed to struggle to find the words.  At length, they came to him.  “They are the gods,” he said.  “Their whims decide our fates.  We huddle to one, hoping that they will protect us from the others, but they never do.  They laugh as we struggle, and thirst for our suffering.”  Pain and helpless hatred was writ clear on his face.  

“To speak their names is to draw their gaze,” Wolfric said.

“I have felt it,” Thor said.  “And when Tchar was praised for the deeds I did in saving your people-”

Presence, sly and mocking, heavy in the air and cloying in his nostrils.

“Begone,” Thor thundered, infuriated by the attention of the foul thing, drawn by the mere mention of its name.  “I will not bear the presence of such a wretched being, capable only of corruption!”

Wolfric cowered back as Thor’s eyes shone white, turning his gaze from the painfully bright light.  Thunder boomed and lightning cracked, but not in the world about them, and he did not hear with his ears.  After an unbearably long moment, the touch of the divine faded, and he dared to look upon the Lord Thunder once more.

Thor breathed deeply, eyes closed.  His arms trembled minutely, and weariness settled about him like a cloak.  The attention of the schemer was gone, for now, but it had not been done cheaply.  “Perhaps it is wiser not to invite their gaze, as you said,” Thor spoke.  

Drawing in a shaky breath, Wolfric nodded.  “When we teach our children of them, we speak of what they do, their domains, so that they do not hear us so easily.”

“Tell me,” Thor said.

“They have many names, and more masks,” Wolfric said, “but at their heart they are each one thing.  Hunger for blood, disease and rot, schemes upon schemes, and unending lust.”

“Bloodlust, Decay, Manipulation, and Excess,” Thor said.  

Wolfric nodded, hunching and shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold, almost looking over his shoulder as if fearing what he might find there.  “They are the only gods of this land.”

“There are more than these Four?” Thor asked.

“There are soft things of the south, but they find no worship here,” Wolfric said.  “To worship outside of the Four is to become an enemy of all.”  He snorted in disgust.  “Better just to pick one and hope to draw no attention.”

“You do not have atheists?” Thor asked.  

Wolfric stared at him blankly.  “Non-believers?  What?”

The very idea was inconceivable then.  “Where do these gods reside then, that all know of them?”

“Beyond the Chaos Wastes, in the Realm of Chaos,” Wolfric said.  It had the air of an oft-repeated truth.  

“And none have ever risen up against them?” 

Wolfric shook his head slowly.  “They are not some warlord that has gained power or wizard that uncovered some secret.  They are the Gods.”

“Nothing is unassailable,” Thor said.  “No foe too mighty to be fought.”

“These ones are,” Wolfric said.  “They cannot be fought, only endured.”  There was no hope in his single eye.  

“Am I not a god?” Thor challenged.  “You say the southern gods do not tread here, but I am no southern god, and I am here.”

“I - as you say, Lord Thor,” Wolfric said.  

“You do not believe me,” Thor said.  

“I have seen your power, God of Thunder,” Wolfric said.  He bowed his head.  “I believe.”

Thor had tasted of his sincerity earlier, after purifying the well.  There was no such sense now.  “You are lying to me.”

To his knees he fell, not meeting his eyes.  “Without you I would have lost one or both of my sisters.  Please.  I believe.”

“You will speak to me with truth on your tongue,” Thor said.  “You will stand as a man, and you will look me in the eye.”  There was a strange sound, a squelch and a pop.

At first, Wolfric hunched in on himself even further, but then he put his hands on his knees and laboriously pushed himself to his feet.  Slowly he looked up, and he gaped as he saw the empty socket where Thor’s right eye had been.  

“Speak,” Thor said.  It was a command that could only be obeyed.  

A sudden madness filled him, and he ignored the display he had just seen, the cleansing of the well, the manticore, and the destruction of the Aeslings.  “I do not think you are a god,” Wolfric said, words spilling out of him.  “I think you are a daemon sent by the schemer to test and twist us.  I think you are just another chance for pain and suffering in this blighted land.”  His voice was hoarse, scarcely believing the words he had spoken.  “Gods do not walk the earth.”

“This one does.”

“Then why are you here?” Wolfric demanded.  “What do you stand for?”

“I stand for strength,” Thor said.  “I stand for storms.  I stand for the hallowed, the sacred groves where man might meet and talk without fear of betrayal.”  He thought of Ultron, of Hela.  Of Thanos.  “I stand for duty, and for the protection of all mankind from the monsters that lurk in the dark.  I stand for you, Wolfric, and your sisters.”  He met the young man’s eye with his own.  “Will you stand with me?”

“I…I want to believe,” Wolfric said.  No longer did despair alone fill his gaze, now there was fear as well, fear that Thor might be telling the truth.  

“Then do so,” Thor said.  “Believe in the me that believes in you.”  The philosophers of Midgard had surprised him in the early days, but he had come to see the value in their words.  

Wolfric bowed his head again, but not in supplication, or in terror.  This time it spoke of the faintest beginnings of something pure, and Thor felt the weariness in his spirit lift, just a little.  

Thor laid a hand on his shoulder, causing him to raise his head back up.  “Tell me of our enemies,” he said.  “Their omens, their followers, how to fight them.”  He pushed his mechanical eye back into his socket, feeling it settle into place with a whirr.  “The task seems a great one, but we must start somewhere.”

The first follower of the Thunder God spoke, and his god listened.  Though the weather worsened, and storm clouds gathered, not a hint of snow fell upon them.  He spoke, and Thor learned.  He learned of the tribes of Norsca, from the Baersonlings to the Graelings, of the god they held closest to, and what that meant for their peoples.  He learned of the Chaos Wastes to the north, the lands that none could venture to without emerging unchanged, if they emerged at all.  He learned of the petty, in comparison, raiding that Wolfric’s people had suffered under, as they tried to eke out a life in the cold and the frost.  He learned, and he pondered.  By the time they finished talking, it was mid-afternoon, and the sun was beginning to set.  

“Go back to the village,” Thor said, “be with your sisters.  I must think on what you have told me.”

“Your will, god of thunder,” Wolfric said.  He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to depart, but Thor solved that problem for him.  

With a thought, he raised his axe and shot up into the sky, quickly disappearing into the grey.  

X 

Thor drifted through the sky, high above the village, and took advantage of the solitude to think.  His brother would have said something sly and cutting about the effort involved, and he smiled faintly as he thought about the look Loki would have worn as he did.  The smile faded as his thoughts returned to the cancerous piles of malicious thought that called themselves gods.  He did not have to think overly hard, in truth, for he knew the answer in his gut when he first laid eyes on the disgusting scene in the longship.  

Loathing bubbled up within him, loathing for the abominations that preyed upon this new world.  He had thought he loathed the Jotnar, but that was a child’s hate.  The Frost Giants were merely rambunctious neighbours compared to these beings.  They were forever anathema to him and his, and the only mercy he would ever show them would come from the sharp side of his axe.

Even so, he could not simply charge out, roaring his challenge to them.  He feared no foe, but when he had forced Tchar to avert its gaze, he had been reminded of the first time he had gone with his father to inspect the troops, and stared up at them all as they towered over him in their golden armour.  There was no fortress he could assault in the morning before going out to lunch with the rest of the Avengers, no champion he could call out and take their head to end things.  He was surrounded by deeply hostile territory, and even a man who had been desperate for another choice had barely been able to bring himself to believe in him.  The four cancers would not have to send armies against him when he declared his intent, for they would rise of their own accord.  But, to bear their worship…

…as much as he would wish to crush it everywhere within his reach, he had learned his lessons well.  Flatly forbidding their worship would not end the way he wanted.  He would be cunning, and lure them with honey, or perhaps mead, and show them a better path.  He would be the god these benighted people deserved, and bring great violence upon those who would threaten them harm.  

The scent of cooking meat began to waft up to him, and his nose twitched.  His hunger, never fully sated that day, made itself known with a vengeance.  He could just make out Trumpetter romping around, a small figure riding on its back, and he smiled.  

Yes, there was a just cause here waiting to be taken up.  Duty called, and he would answer.

Chapter Text

Mammoth for dinner, mammoth for breakfast, mammoth for brunch, lunch, and tea.  Thor was beginning to regret finding such a bounty, even if Trumpetter was proving to be a boon companion.  In the three days since his arrival, the nameless village had been cleaned and repaired in the wake of the raid, burnt out husks salvaged of what wood they could, and shelter found for all.  No longer did they have to gather in the longhouse, huddling for warmth and security.  They could even stoke their fires as high as they liked, after Thor had toppled one of the gigantic trees from the nearby forest and dragged it back for the villagers to swarm over.  The longship that had carried their attackers so far east into the mountains had been looted for all it was worth and dragged ashore so it could be burnt in full, serving as a pyre for fallen family.  The raiders had received no such farewell, merely carried further away from the village, stripped of valuables, and left for carrion.  

On the fourth day, a messenger was sent to Thor, carried by the young boy with a now fading bruise on his face.  

“God of Thunder,” the boy said, puffing slightly as he came to a stop.  “Helka says the woman from the longship, she woke up.”

“Thank you, little one,” Thor said, turning from the ditch he was digging.  He wore only trousers, finding the clear day pleasantly cool.  “Now show me your fist.”

The boy made a fist, putting on a ferocious scowl.  

“Very good.  How is Trumpetter doing?” 

“Astrid and Elsa won’t let anyone else ride him,” the boy said, pouting now.  

“You must remind them to share, Brandt,” Thor said.  “And give Trumpetter a break, if he wants it.”

“Trumpetter never gets tired,” Brandt insisted.  “I’ll tell them you said they had to get off.”  He ran off before Thor could say anything else.

Thor hummed to himself as he drained a waterskin, taking in his work.  The ditch had nearly circled the village on one side of the river, and soon they would begin erecting the wall.  

“Godly one,” a soft voice murmured, growing near.  

“Aslaug,” Thor said.  

She handed over a fresh skin, taking the empty one from him.  She had been nearby for most of the day, ostensibly aiding all those on digging detail with him, but conveniently nearby whenever he needed something.  

“Are you taking a break?  Is there anything you need?” Aslaug asked, eyes flitting over his bare torso.  

“I go to see Helka,” Thor said.  “The woman we rescued from the Aeslings has woken.”

Aslaug bit her lip, concern on her face.  “Is Helka alone with her?  The Aeslings are not above fighting amongst themselves.”

“Her apprentices are with her,” Thor said, “and a healer has many options for subduing rowdy patients.”  He took a slower pull of the waterskin she had given him.  

“As you say, Lord Thor,” Aslaug said.  Her hair seemed to shine in the sunlight, and her cheeks were flushed with the cold.  

“Thank you for the water,” Thor said, as he squinted back down the line of the ditch, trying to see if a pair of women needed separating or were just horsing around.  He reached out blindly to pat her on the shoulder, but found himself with a hand full of hair.  Rather than retract his hand, he patted her on the head twice more, pretending he had meant to do so all along.  

Aslaug flushed pinker, wriggling her shoulders slightly.  She bit her lip again, but this time there was something different about it, and Thor quickly made his escape, leaving behind the awkward situation before it could grow any worse.

Most of the villagers were busy with some task or another, but given that it wasn’t safe to leave the village with anything less than an armed party or Thor at their side, these tasks were all inside the village.  Elders still determined to be of use, women who had stayed behind while their husbands went to war, younglings on the verge of adulthood but not there yet - all acknowledged  him as he passed through on his way to Helka’s home, and he did the same in turn.  Some of the wariness that had come from their introduction to him had fallen away, and Wolfric’s new attitude towards him had helped as well, even if some still lingered.  

Helka’s home was on the edge of the village, on the north eastern end by the river.  Strange smells sometimes came from it, and most of the villagers avoided it unless in need for that reason.  A wreath of herbs hung above the door.

Thor knocked, and waited.

“Yes boy?  What did he say?” Helka’s voice called out, scratchy and tired.

“He said he would come immediately,” Thor said.

There was a clatter and some quick movement, before the door was opened, revealing Helka.  Her hair was as grey as it ever was.

“Godly one,” Helka said.  “Hadn’t expected you so quick.”

“I heard our guest had woken.”

“Aye,” Helka said.  “Be welcome, come in.”  She stepped back, returning to whatever task she had been at before his arrival.

Thor entered, and saw that Helka and her guest were not the only ones inside.  One of her young apprentices was present, dabbing at the face of said guest with a damp cloth as she lay tucked into a bed on the other side of the room.  At his entrance, the woman in the bed looked over to him, meeting his eyes, and he paused for a moment.  There was hate within them, deep wells of hate and loathing, but he was not the target, and she looked away.  When he had pulled her from the longship, he had thought her hair merely stained with blood, but as she had been cleaned of the filth that had clung to her, it was clear the dark red was her natural colour.  

He approached the bed, keeping his hands visible.

“How do you fare?” he asked of the woman.  The cuts and wounds she had borne had been seen to, now scabbed over and starting to heal.

“I am recovering,” the woman said.  Her voice was low, but hard.  “Your wise woman told me what happened.”

“Do you need anything?”

“The skull that was with me, what happened to it?”

“I buried it, in a bend by the river downstream,” Thor said, watching her closely as she closed her eyes and let out the barest of sighs.  “I did not know if it belonged to one you cherished, or hated.”

The woman opened her eyes again, and for a moment there was a glimmer of a tear, but then it was gone.  It was surely a trick of the light that shone in through the window by the bed.“I thank you for getting him off that ship,” she said.   

Thor nodded slowly.  “I am the enemy of any and all who would commit such deeds.”

“I would that you had spared them, so I could watch the light fade from their eyes with my own, by my own hands,” the woman said.  Despite her words, her tone was flat, and she lay still in the bed.  

Helka clucked her tongue at her apprentice, and tossed her head towards another corner of the room.  The girl, almost a woman, was quick to catch on, and hurried to fetch another chair from there, taking it from a table full of reagents.  She placed it for Thor to use, and returned to her task, smoothing her coarse dress as she sat.

“What is your name?” Thor asked the patient, taking a seat with a nod of thanks.

“I am Tyra,” she said, “of Vinteerholm.”  Green eyes watched him, ignoring the girl tending to her.  “But we never heard of one such as you.”

“I’m new,” Thor said.  “Just arrived, trying to make a good impression on the neighbours, you know how it is.”

“Your neighbours are dead or Aeslings,” Tyra said bluntly.  

“Vinteerholm was taken?” Helka asked.  

“Where do you think that ship came from?” Tyra answered.  “The Aeslings took it, and are using it as a base to raid further.”

“This bodes ill,” Helka rasped.  “They will offer us all to the Hound if they can.”

“No one shall be offered to anyone,” Thor said, a simple statement of fact.

Tyra sought to sit up, though she needed aid from the apprentice and a pillow.  “You have quarrel with the Aeslings.”  There was life in her voice now.

“I have several reasons to dislike them, yes,” Thor said.  

“Driving such filth from our lands would earn you much renown,” Tyra said.  “Many would flock to such a banner.”  Her words lacked subtlety, but none was intended.  

“I would indeed enjoy driving such men away with their tails between their legs,” Thor said.  He stroked his beard, considering.  “Where else do they raid?”

“Whatever hamlets and villages they can reach,” Tyra said.  “They husband their strength in my home.  A cunning strike could rob them of much of their strength.  You would not need many.”  Her words came faster now, eager to convince him.  

“I would not need any,” Thor said.  “But while I could strike Vinteerholm and slay all enemies within, any outside would flee like rats, free to raid as they did.”

Tyra held her tongue, but her doubt was plain upon her face.  

Thor chuckled.  “How many live in Vinteerholm?”

“Five thousand, when it swells during the worst winters,” Tyra said.  She forced herself up further, one muscled arm trembling as she used it to support herself, and the blanket slipped from her, revealing a bandaged torso.  She swung her bare legs out of the bed, and pulled the blanket further over her lap, hiding scars.  

“How many Aeslings lurk there?”

“No more than three hundred,” she said.  “But not all will be there when you strike.  Some will be out raiding, like those - like the ones that you killed here.”  She held back a shiver by force of will.  

“What of a map of the local lands?” Thor asked.  “If I would slay these foes, I would know to where they flee.”

“That is a richer prize than any settlement near here would have, and I know only my own home,” Tyra said, grudgingly. 

“Say we drive them from you home,” Thor said, “how do we ensure they never return?  Where do we strike next?”

Tyra laughed, but it was a hollow thing.  “You kill, and kill, and you keep killing until even the Lord of Murder has almost had his fill.  But they would likely flee to Skraevold, unless they have sacked more settlements between here and there, not simply passed them.”

Thor rested his hands on his belly, drumming his fingers, considering.  He glanced at the apprentice, sitting by the bedside with cloth in hand now that Tyra was focused on him.  “Young apprentice,” he said, drawing her attention, “would you mind taking care of that thing you needed to do with your master?  On the other side of the room?”

The girl was again quick on the uptake, leaving to stand by her teacher, giving Thor and Tyra the illusion of privacy.  

“Do you have surviving family?” he asked quietly.  

Tyra’s face went back to the same flatness it had held at the start of their conversation.  “None.”

“Is there anyone to be saved?”

“Many.  These are raiders, not dogs who bathe in blood for its own sake,” Tyra said.  “They come from the north, but not that far north.”

“If you cannot save your family, then I shall help you avenge them,” Thor said.  “On my oath, be done.”

Tyra looked him over, taking in his shirtless form, and the dirt on his hands.  There was power hidden in his body to be sure, but he looked like a farmer, not a great warrior.  “The wise woman tells me you are a great warrior.  If you will walk beside me as I take my vengeance, I will be glad for it.”

He nodded.  “You must rest,” he said, rising to his feet.  “Regain your strength.  I must speak with the people, and tell them of what has happened.”

Tyra accepted his words, and eased the iron grip she held on herself, almost falling back into the bed.  The apprentice hurried over, easing her in and covering her once more with the blanket.  

Clenching his jaw, Thor looked away.  He had almost forgotten the savagery of the more base forms of war.  The contests of champions that the Avengers so often fought in had taken him away from it.  He had forgotten the sentient costs.  

A hand darted out to seize his wrist in an iron grip.  “They didn’t rape me,” Tyra said, bubbling fury in her gaze.  “I bit the cock off the only one to try.  I’m not weak.”  She bared her teeth at him.  They were almost sharp.  

Gently, Thor pried her grip from him, and laid her hand on her chest.  He smoothed sweat slick hair back from her forehead.  “Rest.”

Tyra fell back, only able to keep one eye open, and she stared at him through it, watching as he left the healer’s hut.  She surrendered to sleep shortly after.  

X

The longhouse was host to a gathering of elders.  Given the state of the village, that meant over half its inhabitants.  

Thor sat in the chieftain’s chair, still no more comfortable with it than he had ever been as the supposed King of Asgard.  There had been talk of turning the manticore he had slain into a trophy to bracket the chair, but the last woman with the skill had been slain during the raid, and her sons had gone out to fight and were yet to return, leaving the corpse to be burnt away from the village.  The topic today was not on how to honour the one to save them from death or worse, but on what the presence of Aeslings in Vinteerholm meant for them.

“If they’re in Vinteerholm, they could have come up the Tobol for all we know,” one grizzled grandfather was arguing.  The elders were all sat at the tables closest to the thr-the chieftain’s chair.  

“Through Kislev?” a tiny but fierce grandmother said, derisive.  

“You think they dragged their ships through Troll Country?” he shot back.  “Past Vinnskor, and Jottenheim?”

“It does not matter how they got to Vinteerholm,” Wolfric said.  He did not raise his voice, but he was heard all the same.  “It only matters that they are there, and that they used it to raid us.”

“Our warriors are all gone to war,” another grandfather said.  “We don’t have the strength to force them out.”

There was a pause, as many looked to Thor.  

“I do not care to let such raiders live,” Thor said, “but there are many ways to bait a bilgesnipe.”  Movement caught his eye, and he realised that a pair of small eavesdroppers were listening in, crouched under one of the far tables.  He caught Elsa and Astrid’s eyes for a brief moment, before looking away.  “I could strike at Vinteerholm directly, and slay the raiders there, or I could lay in wait for them as they ventured out, picking them off.”

“If you took Vinteerholm, the others would flee and slink away like the rats,” the fierce grandmother said.  

“If you struck as they left, they might fortify and wait,” another old man said.  

“There are three other villages that are in easy striking distance from Vinteerholm,” Wolfric said.  He spoke to the group, but he was watching Thor.  “If they hit us, they have hit them.”

“I will see to the other villages first,” Thor said.  “Are they fortified?”

Wolfric shook his head, but he held his head high as he answered you.  “Much like our own home.  Some few hundred, no walls.  The closest to Vinteerholm by river is to the south, the next to the west, and the furthest to the north.  We are the third most distant.”

Thor grimaced.  The odds were good that they had been hit already.  “Once I ensure their safety, I will strike Vinteerholm.  If I am quick, they will not know of their danger,” he said. 

“If they do?” an elder asked.  “The storm comes for all, not just the foe.”

“I will give them a choice,” Thor said.  “The lives of the townsfolk in return for their own.”

There was some grumbling, but none argued.  No option was perfect.

“If Vinteerholm is razed, the coming winter will be lean,” someone said.  “We rely on them for trade.”

“I have taken responsibility for you,” Thor said.  “I will not allow you to starve.”

“Your will, Lord Thor.”  The words were not said by all, but more than a few.  He felt buoyed by their faith in him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.  

“Will you go alone?” Wolfric asked.  “I am the last warrior here, and I am…lessened.”  The words seemed to pain him.  

“I will,” Thor said.  “The skies grow cold in a way that humans find unpleasant, and it is there that I move swiftest.”

Wolfric nodded once, accepting his words, but he wasn’t done.

“Nor would I leave this village without protection,” he said.  “A warrior is needed to defend it.”  He said it expectantly, staring at the man who believed in him.

“Then a warrior it will have,” Wolfric said, though there was a grim set to his jaw.  

“From what I have seen, you will not be alone to take up arms,” he added, glancing at the small but fierce grandmother.  

She cackled.  “My daughter would go to war with you if you asked, God of Thunder.”

“This isn’t war,” Thor said.  “This is pest control.”

“When will you leave, godly one?” a particularly venerable old man asked.  

“Today,” Thor said.  He cast his eye around the longhouse, taking in the torches and the two eavesdroppers still hiding underneath the table.  

“Then we will eat, and speed you on your way,” Wolfric said, glancing at an old woman; it was the one who had asked Thor to take the chieftain’s room when he first arrived.  She gave him a nod.  

“Oh, mammoth,” Thor said, trying to show some enthusiasm.  “My favourite.”

The impromptu council began to dissolve.  They would feast to send their protector on his way, and drink to his health.  The Aeslings would know the might of Thor.  

X x X

He ventured south first, making for the village most at risk from the raiders that had made Vinteerholm their own.  Untamed mountains and primaeval forests passed beneath him, and the wind whistled through his hair.  The air was cold enough to leave a mortal frozen, but he had ventured into the depths of Jotunheim.

No craft of the local mortals could match his speed, and Thor focused as he caught sight of sunlight glimmering on the river he sought.  It was another fork of the river that Wolfric’s village lay upon, and the village he flew to check on was likewise built by it.  He dropped low, scarce metres above the water, eyes peeled for his target.  A spray was kicked up in his wake, and a curious moose looked up at his passing, but he was already gone.

He came to a stop when he found the southern village, rising up to look down on it from just above the roofline.  Stormbreaker warmed in his hand, as he inspected the land with a frown.  It was not as he had feared, or even as he had hoped.

The village had been visited by raiders, that was for certain, as the granary had been burnt and the doors of the longhouse broken open, snow blowing freely inside.  What was not present were signs of battle, or the corpses of the slain.  There were not even piles of slaughtered livestock.  A possibility occurred to Thor, and he was hopeful.

Muffled cursing caught his ear, and his gaze snapped towards it.  From one of the houses a figure emerged, a bulging sack carried over one shoulder.  It was an unkempt mess of a man, axe at his hip and a swelling black eye.  A raider.

The Aesling froze as he saw Thor, floating in the sky above the village he was looting.  For a moment, the two stared at each other.  Then, the raider’s hand blurred for his axe.

Thor was faster.  Lightning flashed, and the raider dropped, smoking.

The thunderer waited, but there were no cries of alarm, no calls to arms.  There were no more raiders here, and no villagers either.  They had clearly escaped before their coming, but he had no time to track them down.  There were still two more villages to check on, to the west and to the north.  If the fates were kind, he would find similar scenes there, though he still he worried.

He took to the skies once more, disappearing as quickly as he had come.

X

Thor landed in the centre of the village to the west, his visage grim.  It was as he feared.

Ash and rubble.  Little beyond long burnt out husks remained, the well poisoned and long furrows of what had once been winter crops made a dumping ground for corpses.  The ground had been watered with the blood of children and elders, and he bore witness to their bodies, piled like so much refuse.  There were no young men and women to be seen, however - whether because they were somewhere off fighting, as in Wolfric’s village, or because they were taken, he couldn’t say.  He turned away from the terrible sight.

His boot knocked against something hidden under the snow, and he paused, leaning down to pick it up.  Blood and mud marred the small object, and he cleaned it with snow, revealing a small wooden carving of some kind of big cat.  It was the kind of token a parent would make for a child.  Briefly, he considered placing it amongst the carnage, where its owner must surely lay, but the idea sat ill with him, and he tucked it into his pocket.  

To reach the village he had first saved required raiders to pass this one, but he did not think the ones responsible for this atrocity were those he had already slain.  From the sky, he had seen a fork in the river, and another village was said to lay at the end of the northern passage.  If he was quick, and fortunate…

Stormbreaker thrummed in his hand, and he took to the skies once more, leaving the razed village behind.  If he had anything to say about it, there would not be another.

North he flew, passing by the eastern fork of the river that led back to ‘his’ village with only a glance.  In minutes he covered ground that would have taken mortals hours, hair and beard whipping in the wind.  

In time, he grew close to his goal.  He knew this because of the rising smoke he could see, and his grip on Stormbreaker tightened.  The clouds overhead darkened, and he bent more of his focus upon his speed, hoping he was not again too late.

The village had not fallen, not yet.  He dropped altitude, falling low enough to see details of the scene.  The smoke came not from the village, but from an enormous bonfire that had been lit outside its wooden palisade.  A swarm of warriors were gathered around it, drinking and cheering.  They looked more like a rowdy party than the raiders they were, in sharp contrast to the grim and haggard faces that Thor could see behind the walls.  A longship was nearby, staked to the riverbank, and a few guards were on it.  There was an iron grate on its deck, and through it, his keen eyes could just make out a huddled mass of bodies.  

One of the raiders was shouting at the village, standing before the gates.  Whatever he said, the gates began to open, and an old greybeard stepped through.  He was armoured in steel, and his bare arms were thickly corded with muscle.  He carried a double headed axe like it was a hatchet, and he bellowed something back at the raiders, but it spurred only laughter from them.  The challenger and the old man began to circle, and Thor knew it was time to intervene.

The greybeard was strong, and as Thor watched he spilled the guts of his challenger over the snow.  Another man was already stepping up, but he trusted in the warrior to survive.  He had others to save first.

Like the Midgardian heroine Mary Poppins, Thor descended from the sky, landing on the deck of the longship with nary a sound.  The few guards were completely occupied by the fight by the village, cursing and insulting the greybeard and their fallen fellows with great cheer, as the warrior cut another one down.  They had time to wonder at what had caused the creaking of a deck plank, before Stormbreaker severed their heads from their bodies with a single blow.  Thor stepped out of the way of the arterial spray, already making for the stairs that led below.

The longship lacked the foul feeling of the other he had come across, but it was just as large.  He made straight for the underdeck where the oarsmen usually worked, currently repurposed to hold prisoners.  It was dark and cold, only a single source of light to be seen.

Thor ghosted up behind the Aesling who was looking over at the thirty or so prisoners, much in the way a farmer might inspect their cattle.  He was leering at a young woman in a torn dress, the blonde near snarling back up at him, even as her fellows clutched at her, though it seemed more to stop her from lunging at him than to protect her.  Their ankles bore iron manacles, and chains connected them.  

Most were women, but there were some men too, and some saw him approach from the darkness.  He gave them a reassuring smile, and held a finger to his lips as he came to a stop almost directly behind the raider.  He breathed lightly on the back of the man’s neck.

The raider shivered, confusion clear in his frame, and he turned with a question on his lips.  “Wha-”

“Boo,” Thor said.

He was rewarded with a shriek, and he buried his fist in the man’s gut, cutting it off and knocking him back into the crowd of prisoners.  It was like watching a side of beef be dropped to piranhas; as one they swarmed the man, biting and scratching and hitting.  Manacle chains were wrapped around his neck and pulled tight.  A dagger at his belt was pulled free and driven into every bit of flesh the wielder could reach.  He did not survive for long.  

Thor grabbed the corpse and hurled it off to the side.  “I am Thor,” he said.  “Are you ready to take your vengeance on those who wronged you?”

“Free us,” the blonde woman demanded.  The bloody knife she had seized was still held tightly in one hand, and the rags she wore, already filthy, had only become bloodier.  

He freed her first, taking the manacles in hand and tearing them apart like they were made of foam.  The blonde woman wasted no time in rushing off, heading for the lower deck.  If this ship was anything like the other he had boarded, that was where the armoury was.  He worked quickly, following the chain from person to person and breaking their bonds.  Every man or woman that could stand was quick to go below, and he could hear rummaging and cursing as the armoury was looted. 

There was one young man with a broken leg, and Thor took the arm of the one he freed after them.  “Fetch a blanket for this one,” he said,  “and perhaps a crossbow.  He shall have a fine view from the deck as we slaughter the Aeslings.”  Both men bared their teeth in response, and the less injured one hurried off to do so.  

By the time he was done, every prisoner had armed themselves, and had at least a few bits of armour.  They waited by the stairs, expectation in their eyes.  Many were bruised or bore days old wounds, and they stank horribly, but there was a fire to them, a hunger.  

“The Aeslings drink and carouse out there,” Thor told them.  “They think themselves safe, that they cannot be challenged.  Is that so?”

“No,” came the answer from dozens of throats, scratchy and dry from disuse.  

“They think themselves great warriors, raiders without compare.  Is that so?”

“No,” came the growls, louder now.

“They think their god will shield them from your wrath.  Is that so?”

“No!” they hissed, eager for vengeance.

“I am Thor, God of Thunder and protector of mankind,” he said.  “Will you do me the honour of fighting beside me as we cleanse their taint from the earth?”

There was a moment of stillness.  Then the blonde woman began to bang the base of her spear against the deck, and like a wave the others followed, willing to follow the man who had freed them and given them their chance at vengeance.  They did not believe, not truly, but they would follow, and that was enough.

Thunder rumbled and boomed overhead, loud enough for them to feel it in their bones.  Then, they began to believe.

To the main deck he led them, and they spread along the side of the ship, making no effort to hide.  Thor looked upon the raiders; the old man was still fighting, but no more did he dispatch his foes with ease, and he was conserving his strength.  The sky roared again, making some of the raiders look up apprehensively, while others seemed to think it a sign of their god’s favour, raising their arms, faces upturned, rapturous.  He felt the urge to smite them for their presumption, but refrained.  He had not freed these people only to steal their victory from them.  

A gangplank ran from ship to bank, and Thor led the way down it.  They spread out on the riverbank, drawing the eye of the Aeslings.  One of them, almost as big as Thor, clad in metal and furs and a helm with horns rising from it, began to beat his men into some form of order, rousing them from the heady sense of unearned victory they had fallen into.

“Guard those beside you, for they will guard you in turn,” Thor said, “and if you must die, you will not do so without taking three of them with you.”  He eyed the rough ranks of raiders across the snow covered field, the village behind them.  There was perhaps eighty foemen, all armed and well armoured.  He glanced at his own forces; they were not nearly so well equipped.  He would have to draw the bulk of their attention himself.

“I’ll kill five before I die,” a young man to his left said.

“Ten for me,” said a woman.

“I’m not going to die,” the blonde woman said, eyes fixed on the enemy.  “I’m going to put this spear up Reket’s arse and out through his mouth.”

Thor watched as, behind the foe and their bonfire, the greybeard buried his axe in the chest of his latest enemy, wrapping on the gates behind him.  There was movement beyond the walls, and he let out a boisterous laugh.  “If you do not hurry, I will kill them all before you can wet your blades!”  He began a slow walk towards them, and the thunder overhead began to pick up, sounding with every footstep.  His eyes began to glow.

The raiders began to look nervous now, those who had been so sure that the thunder was a sign in their favour clearly having second thoughts.  As Thor and his warriors began to move faster, so too did the thunder, each boom flowing into the next.  The Aeslings attempted to scream their defiance, but they were drowned out.  Thor began to charge, and the thunder was ceaseless, a single unending roar that seemed to shake the very earth.  

The virtues of the Aeslings were little, but at the least they did not break and flee in the face of what bore down upon them.  Their enraged victims, chains broken and intent on bloody vengeance, were as an avalanche, and the immense warrior with hair of gold at their head did not help matters.  It was only when the man began to spark with lightning to match the thunder overhead as he leapt into the sky to crash into them from above that some of them began to question the choices that had brought them here.  

Thor crashed into their ranks and lightning came with him, destroying whatever cohesion their frontline had held.  Men were swept aside with each swing of his axe, thrown into their air contemptuously.  If they were lucky they were merely broken, caught by the blunt side of Stormbreaker, but if they were not they were in pieces, spraying their comrades with blood.  All gained intimate knowledge of the crafts of Nidavellir.  

The raiders’ victims hit them a heartbeat later, shredding the disorganised line.  One woman headbutted a raider, sending him staggering and tearing his throat open with her daggers in the opening it gave her.  Bright red blood sprayed her in the face, and her teeth seemed to shine as she bared them, already lunging for another kill.  

Behind the foes, the gates of the village opened, and the defenders spilled forth, the old axeman at their head.  They charged in silence, and took the raiders by complete surprise as they hit them in the rear, cutting them down in swathes.  

There was a change in the air; the battle was already lost for the Aeslings, and they could sense it.  Not a man amongst them begged for mercy or tried to lay down their arms, and not a single Baersonling asked for it.  The ground became a mire of mud and blood, carpeted in corpses as the raiders were chewed up and spat out.

They did not go quietly, and there was only so much Thor, or the greybeard with the axe could do to draw their attention.  Some defenders fell, killed where they stood or so wounded that their fellows had to drag them out of the fight.  Thor saw as a young man was slashed across the arm, his sword dropped from nerveless fingers, and he had enough.  Lightning struck in a ring around the Aeslings, forming a wall.  Those raiders unlucky enough to be standing where the wall was made were struck dead, their corpses left smoking.  The lightning left afterimages in the eyes of all who beheld it as it faded away, and the constant thunder overhead with it.  

The remaining Aeslings drew back in the sudden silence, cowed by the display of power.  They were pinned against the bonfire they had lit to entertain themselves while they played with their prey, so sure of their supremacy.  Now it would be their pyre.  

“I would let one of you keep your wretched lives, so to spread the tale of what comes for raiders in these lands,” Thor said, “but I do not think these good people care to spare even that.”

From the middle of the compressed pack of foes, one man forced his way to the front.  It was the leader, the horns on his helm bloody and his spear wet with blood.  

“Reket,” the blonde woman hissed from Thor’s side.  Her spear had broken, and she wielded half in each hand.  She had picked up a cut across the bridge of her nose, and it bled sluggishly.

“Your magiks betray your weak will, and your girth the softness of your hall!” the raider captain shouted.  “I dedicate this battle and your death to the Hound and take your skull for his throne.”  

A sliver of a presence was felt, hungry for blood and death.  It was only barely noticeable, so well did it blend in with the carnage of the field.

Thor ignored it, focusing on the matter at hand.  “Well, I dedicate this battle to me, and I’ll point and laugh when I beat you.”  He stepped forward, intent on ending the life of the miserable cur.

“God of Thunder!” the blonde woman said, interrupted the ‘duel’ before it could start.  “Grant me this fight.  Let me kill him.”

Reket, the raider leader, threw his head back in a mocking laugh, but Thor turned his eye on the woman beside him. She was without armour, and stood barefoot in the slush, but her eyes were bright, fixed unerringly on Reket.  She was still like a hunter, breathing evenly despite the fight.

“If you wish for this fight,” Thor said slowly, “then you shall have it.  What is your name?”

“I am Gunnhild,” she said, meeting his eyes fearlessly.

He had learnt much from watching Steve, short though his years were, and part of being a good leader was positive reinforcement.  “I may not be the god of victory,” he said, “but I am the god of strength.  Go and seize victory with my blessing.”  

Gunnhilde seemed to swell with his recognition, and she turned to face her enemy.  There was a hunger on her face, an all consuming desire for Reket’s death spelt out clearly.  “Reket!” she shouted.  “My name is Gunnhilde.  You killed my sister.  Now I will kill you.”

Reket laughed again.  “Your sister was a warrior worth remembering.  I could not defeat her without killing her!  You though, you were easy to capture.  A shame you will die here, I had such plans for you.”  He turned to his men, bellowing.  “Aeslings!  We will kill this arrogant wizard, raze the village, and take the most comely for slaves!  Who is with me?”

The Aeslings shouted and hollered in return, but there was a brittleness to it, and Reket knew it.  He turned back to Gunnhild, and levelled his spear at her.  It was an elaborate thing, with an angular head and a hunting dog etched in the metal.  

The Baersonlings drew back, giving the fighters space, but the Aeslings were still pinned against the fire and had nowhere to go.  

Reket lunged forward, hoping to catch Gunnhilde off guard, but it was not to be.  She hopped to the right, light on her feet, and lashed out with the splintered end of the spear haft that she held in her left hand.  It scraped uselessly against his chain, but the force of the blow drew a grunt from him.  He spun his spear like a staff, forcing her to duck under its butt, and followed up with quick jabs, forcing her to duck and weave, parrying one with the head of her own spear to avoid being impaled.  The thrusts continued, and she may have been overwhelmed, if not for the marauder slipping in the slush, nearly losing his balance.

Gunnhilde wasted no time, darting forward, her spear blade and splintered haft seeking shoulder and leg.  Reket recovered quickly and spun his weapon, turning both blows away, and brought the head down on her heavily.  She crossed her weapons, catching the blow in the cradle, but he leant into it, pressing his full weight down upon her.  Despite his greater height and mass, she was holding, but for how long?

“You were always going to end up beneath me, Gunnhild,” he snarled, breathing heavily into her face.  “Unlucky for you it had to be this way.”

“Hey Reket,” she grunted out, straining against his wait.  “Go fuck yourself.”  And she spat into his eye.  

Reket flinched, unable to control his reaction, and Gunnhildedeliberately collapsed under him while he was blinded.  He had no time to adjust his stance, and he fell onto the spear she had waiting for him.  It entered his open mouth and exited through the base of his skull.  He gurgled, trying to force himself up, but then he collapsed, and was still.

Gunnhilde pushed his body off herself with a heave, getting to her feet and sucking in a ragged breath.  The sheen of his spear caught her eye, and she took it up, pointing it at the Aeslings.  “My name is Gunnhilde.  You killed my sister.  I will kill you.”

Battle erupted once more, but the fight had gone out of the raiders, and they were cut down without mercy, and though some defenders were injured grievously, none were slain.  Short minutes of frenzied combat ensued, until the last marauder fell, clutching at his intestines.  The fight was over, and the village was safe.  Now came the aftermath.  

The dead and the wounded had to be seen to, but there were many hands eager to speed the work, and for some reason no one wanted to see Thor doing any of it.  Every time he made to throw an Aesling into their bonfire, or carry a Baersonling to a fresh patch of snow, someone else would step forward and take on the task themselves.  

In normal times, he would have felt aggrieved by their apparent insistence that he stand around and do nothing - such was the domain of layabout princes without any idea of the responsibility they should have been shouldering - but on this day, he felt…different.  With the victorious end of the battle came a feeling of lightness, like he could float off towards the mountains, and the mountains would move from his way.  He could only recall feeling similarly on a few occasions of his long life; the first time his father had taken he and Loki out to hunt and he had speared a great beast, the moment he had risen after being struck down by the Destroyer, and upon feeling the heft of Mjolnir in his hand once more, proving himself worthy in front of his mother.

This though, this was different.  

“So then,” a deep voice said.  It sounded like the shifting of mountains.  “God of thunder and strength, wielding an axe and calling the lightning.  You must be Tor.”

Thor roused himself from his thoughts, turning to the one who addressed him.  It was the old axeman, and there was an equally old shield maiden at his side.  “It’s pronounced ‘Thor’,” he said.  “But yes, I am he.”

The axeman scratched at a thick, but short cropped beard.  His fingers were the size of sausages.  “If you have not been struck down for the claim, I will not argue with you.  I am Harad, and this is the light of my life, my wife Helena.”

Unlike her broad husband, Helena was as a willow, silver hair that was likely once blonde braided close to her neck.  She wore a shield, and had a sword at her hip.  “You have our thanks,” she said.  “Harad could have killed them all, but he would have been wounded, and he doesn’t need another scar to boast about.”

Harad grumbled, but the hand he laid on her shoulder was gentle, and Thor was struck by a memory of his parents, in the times they weren’t on display for the court.  

“I have no doubt,” Thor said.  Around them, the work continued, and the stench of burning pork began to waft through the air.  He snorted out through his nose.  “Let us move away from the pyre.”

Harad grunted an agreement, and the three of them stepped away, upwind.

“Is your village capable of hosting all these extra people?” Thor asked.

“For a few days, and then a few more if we strain,” Helena said.  “If you have coin to spare and a need to house them for longer, we might trade with Vinteerholm…” she trailed off as she saw Thor shaking his head.

“Vinteerholm is fallen.  The Aeslings occupy it now.  They have razed the village downstream, and tried to do the same for the one on the fork to the south,” Thor said.  “I have not yet checked on the village further south than that.”

“You are taking responsibility for the protection of this area,” Harad said, dark eyes observing.

“I have strength that many lack.  It is my responsibility to use it wisely,” Thor said.  

The words seemed to strike a chord in Harad.  “Yes…yes you do,” he said, more to himself than to him.  “I will have my people bring yours into the village, and we will talk more once we have rested.”

“I thank you,” Thor said.  “Gunnhild!” he shouted, turning back to the work.  

“Aye, God?”  Gunnhilde answered.  She was in the middle of impaling dead Aeslings with her new spear, and using it to hoist their corpses into the fire.  

“Have someone retrieve the young man with the broken leg from the ship,” he commanded.  “Harad and Helena have invited us to share the hospitality of their longhall.”

“Your will, God,” Gunnhilde said.  She began to give out orders, and Thor realised he had just appointed a deputy for all to hear.

“I should tell them to call me by name,” he said, more to himself.  

“You would have your followers call you so familiarly?” Helena asked.  

“Well, ‘god’ or ‘king’ just gets awkward, you know?” Thor said.  

“I don’t,” Harad said, but he sounded amused.  “Come, join me in my hall.  It is time to reassure the children, and boast of our victory.”

Thor brightened, his already good mood improved even further.  “Lead the way.”

X

A long bed of embers smouldered in the centre of the longhall, and a row of tables ran along each side.  They were full to bursting with people and food, Harad having broken open his larders for the evening, and Thor felt guilty at the thought of Wolfric and the others back at their damaged village, forced to eat mammoth meat yet again.  The hall was full of good cheer, dark fates having been averted for both parties who had come together to celebrate the destruction of the Aesling party.  Close as their villages had been, many knew each other, and they spoke and drank together as they did their best to turn their minds from the thought of friends and family that they would never share such things with again.

Harad sat in the chieftain’s chair, holding court.  It was carved from a single huge stump, and the skin of a bear had been draped over it so the head and paws framed his head.  Helena sat at his right hand in a similar chair, but with a snow leopard instead of a bear.

Thor sat to Harad’s left, making merry with the rest.  At first, many of those whom he had rescued from the longship had looked ill upon him being given the lesser seat, even if it was Harad’s hall, but he had shown no discontent and they had followed his lead.  He looked over the hall, smiling as he saw Gunnhilde laughing as she slammed down her tankard, barely defeating the woman she was racing to the bottom.  The spear she had claimed as spoils rested against a pillar behind her, within easy reach.   

Conversations paused and heads turned as Harad rapped his knuckles against the table, the sound echoing loudly down the hall.  

“We are victorious this night,” he said, voice deep and smooth enough to be heard even without raising it.  “And I saw many valorous deeds.  Now is the time for the telling!”  Many cheered, and more beat their fists or tankards against the table.  “Halvar!  Tell us of the shot I witnessed you take.”

A young man, barely more than a boy, rose and began to speak.  His voice cracked, but none called him on it.  “I put an arrow through the eye of an Aesling about to cut one of us down as they ran for the walls.  Eadric!”

Another man stood now.  “I cut down two Aeslings with a single blow, and took not a scratch in the fighting!  Alivia!”

“I dropped a rock on the head of a man trying to climb our walls, and it popped like a ripe berry!  Val!”

Around and around it went, every boast being answered with cheers and recognition, no matter how great or small the deed - so long as it protected their village, the people cheered.  Even those from the razed village were included, and eventually it reached Gunnhilde, and she stood slowly.

“I slew the man who destroyed my home and killed my sister,” she said, and there was no cheering, for this was not a boast to cheer, only bowed heads.  Then Gunnhilde started to grin.  “Then I stole his weapon and killed the rest of his men!  Thor, God of Thunder!”

The hall looked to him, anticipation in their eyes.  What would a man who called themselves a god boast of?

Thor could have boasted of his feats of power or martial might, but that was not what he was proud of.  “I broke chains,” he said, looking out over the hall, “and gave the oppressed the chance to seize their freedom.”

There was no cheering, only the drumming objects on the table.  Taken together, it sounded like the rumbling of thunder.  Those he had saved looked up to him with respect and awe.  He did not seek devotion, but there were threads of that too, and he could feel a connection between himself and Gunnhilde as she stared at him intensely.  

He did not know who to nominate next, but Helena caught his eye, and she flicked her gaze to her husband.  

“Harad!”

Harad rose, leaning on the table before him.  Thor could see him thinking, changing what he had been about to say.  “I meant to give my life today, to kill as many raiders as were foolish enough to face me one at a time.”  His people listened as he spoke, nothing but respect in their bearings.  It was obvious that this man had led them for many years, and well.  “I did not have to, because of the one we know as Thor.”  He raised his tankard.  “Skaal!”

“Skaal!” came the answer, and all mirrored him, and drank.  

“The shadows grow, and it is near time to rest,” Harad said.  “I know my old bones are tired.  My tables are open for as long as there is food upon them.”

Many raised their tankards once more, and Harad accepted their thanks.  Once their attentions had returned to the food, he turned to Thor.  “Would you join me at my home?” he asked, quietly.  “There is something we must discuss.”  Helena rose, joining her husband.

Thor nodded, and rose to walk with them, joining the pair as they left the hall.  Eyes followed them as they went, but none stopped them or inquired as to their purpose.

The cold outside the warm hall was quick to grasp them, and the snow crunched underfoot as they walked towards the largest house in the village, a loghouse of two stories.  A pair of sentries stood watch in a narrow tower by the gate, but that was an abundance of caution after their victory that day.

Harad and Helena’s home was well lived in, and everything in it had obviously been made by the same hands, from the solid walls to the table and chairs.  A ladder led up to the upper level, and a curtain hid half the ground floor from view.  There was a thick wool rug over much of the floor, and Thor followed suit as they wiped their feet by the door before stepping onto it.

“You have the look of one with ill news,” Thor said, as they took seats in the living room.

“I do,” Harad said.  “It is about Gunnhilde.  The spear she has claimed - it is cursed, and if it is not dealt with, she will fall to the same evil and ruin as the one who slew her sister.”

Thor accepted the news as well as could be expected.  “Very well.  Let us destroy it.”  He made to rise to his feet, thoughts reaching for his axe.

“Steady there,” Harad said, raising one hand.

“This is not a matter served by haste,” Helena added.

“You have experience in this matter,” Thor said, and he seated himself again.

“Aye,” Harad said.  “You saw my axe, hanging behind my chair in the longhouse?”

Thor nodded, gaze fixed keenly on his hosts.  

“It was a cursed weapon, though I knew it not when I took it up.  The Sender, it was called, and through it I wielded great strength, though through me it sought to do great evil,” Harad explained.

“It is cursed no longer,” Thor said.  He may not have divined the nature of the spear, but he was sure that the axe he had seen Harad wield was entirely mundane.

“It is not,” Harad said, “though only thanks to my wife.  Were it not for her, I would no longer exist.”  He looked down at the table, gaze distant.

Helena placed a hand on her husband’s knee, and it seemed to break him from whatever memories had grasped him.  He took her hand in his own, dwarfing hers.

“We both would have met ill fates without each other,” Helena said, and it had the ring of repetition.  

“That sounds like a worthy tale,” Thor said, ear pricking up at the hint of a saga.

“Another time, perhaps,” Helena said.  She worried the end of a grey lock of hair between the fingers of her free hand.

Thor nodded.  “At least you know how to deal with such a thing.”

The couple exchanged a glance.  

“...it won’t work on the spear, will it.”

“We purged the taint from my axe, but the way we did it will not work for the spear,” Harad said.  

“How did you do it?” Thor asked.  If nothing else, it would perhaps put him on the right track.

“I walked alone into the Chaos Wastes and slew its maker,” Harad said.  

“And we don’t know who forged the spear,” Thor said.  

“Even if we did, it may not work,” Helena said.  “No two corrupted smiths forge their creations in the same manner.”

“This would not be a problem for a god,” Harad said.  “The taint of a weapon such as this is potent to a mortal, but nothing to such a power.”

Thor raised a brow at the old man.  “You do not believe me to be a god, do you.”

“I do not,” Harad said.  “Gods do not walk the mountains as you do.”  His words were said easily, but there was a tension in his shoulders, and Helena was watching him closely.

“That’s your choice,” Thor said with a shrug.  He was no Tinkerbell. 

“You have power still, and the spear is no Daemon,” Harad said.  “I see no reason why you could not deal with it.”

Well, some of his best plans were made up in the moment.  He ignored the internal voice of his brother scoffing derisively.  “I will deal with this curse, one way or another,” Thor said.  “Though first…you said you walked into the Chaos Wastes?  The fell lands to the north?”

“I did.  I will not speak about what I saw there,” Harad said.  

“What of the Realms beyond the Wastes, where the gods of this land dwell?  Did your quest take you there?” Thor pressed.

“I will not speak of it,” Harad said again, and his tone was iron.  “They are no gods of mine.”

Thor leaned back, satisfied with the unspoken answer.  “Then I shall not pry.”  He got to his feet.  “Neither will I dawdle in dealing with this threat.”

“We will join you,” Helena said, also standing.  “One caught in the grip of a weapon such as this can be unpredictable.”

Harad joined her, grim agreement on his face, and the three of them left the home behind, making for the longhouse once again.

In their short absence, the celebration had only grown rowdier, and many of the youngest had apparently been packed off to bed.  There was a keg on a table, and a warrior was doing a graceless handstand over it, helped by friends, lowering himself to dunk his head and drink before pushing back up.  That was hardly the most enthusiastic celebration of life going on in the hall either.  Their entrance was almost unnoticed, and those that did only gave nods of respect before going back to their joy and cheer.  Harad and Helena moved off to a shadowed corner, seeking to remain unnoticed. 

Thor spied Gunnhilde easily, given that she was dancing atop a table with a young village lad.  The cause for concern was resting against the same table, its steel head gleaming red in the torchlight. The flicker of flames made it seem like the hunting dog etched on it was almost moving.  He moved towards her, threading through the staggering revellers, and she saw him as he drew near.

“My God!” Gunnhilde shouted, raising the tankard she held.  Some mead escaped, but she paid no mind, and some of the nearer and less drunk villagers heard, turning to watch.  “You have returned to us!”  The cut across her nose curved with her smile, making it seem like she had a red crescent running from eye to eye. 

“Gunnhilde,” Thor said.  “Call me Thor.”

Gunnhilde looked aghast.  “I could not, God,” she said.

“What if I asked really politely?” Thor said seriously.

“I could be persuaded,” Gunnhilde said, and her gaze traced a path from his toes to his face.  Her blue eyes were bright.

“Then please, I would greatly appreciate it if you were to do me the kindness of addressing me as Thor,” he said, calling on centuries of courtly etiquette.  Well, decades perhaps.  He had not held an abundance of patience for the court of Asgard in his youth.

“As you say - Thor,” Gunnhilde said. “Have you come to make merry with us?”

“I have not,” Thor said, a sober expression on his face.  “Would you join me outside?”

“Yes G - Thor,” Gunnhilde said instantly.  She hopped down from the table, leaving behind her dance partner who looked heartbroken, but only long enough for another woman to join him on the table.  Gunnhilde slowed only to grab her spear, before following Thor from the hall.  

Thor noted the action, pleased that he didn’t have to mention it and worried that she had done so.  Not everyone could summon their weapon with a thought, but a walk outside in a walled settlement surely did not call for going armed.  Though given her recent travails, perhaps he was overthinking things.

Harad and Helena slipped in behind them as they left the hall, and the sound of merrymaking was left behind, muted by the snow.  Their breaths fogged the air as they walked, heading for the centre of the village, an open area that perhaps saw small markets in better times.  When they reached it, Thor turned to face the woman whom he had freed.  The two old warriors stood behind her, somewhat apart, and Thor realised that they were preparing to box her in should she turn violent.  There was little chance she had not noticed, but there was a surety in Gunnhilde’s gaze that showed her lack of fear.  For all that they had met only that day, and exchanged a scarce handful of words, there was a devotion to her strong enough to feel.  She had no fear for herself then and there, for all that she held her spear near at the ready.

Thor stepped closer to her, making the scene less like a target caught between three foes.  “Gunnhilde,” he said seriously, “your spear is cursed.”

Harad visibly winced in the background, and Helena closed her eyes with the look of someone praying for patience.

“Cursed?” Gunnhilde asked, looking at the weapon she held.  She moved it off her shoulder, though she made no move to release it, the butt resting on the ground.

“If we do not deal with it, it will leave you cruel and twisted like Rekat,” Thor said.  “Will you give it to me?”

“For you, My God,” Gunnhilde said, and she handed it over without another thought.

“Thank you for your faith in me, Gunnhilde,” Thor said.  He accepted the spear, but that was not all.  With it came a weight less physical but no less real, and it joined a well of similar feeling, deep within him.  He felt bolstered, buoyed by her action.

“Just like that?” Harad demanded.  His grey brows bristled in anger, but it was aimless, and there was a sorrow at its core.  “I’ve seen good men left with a core of rot after a single battle with such a weapon, but you just hand it over?”

“My God asked for it,” Gunnhilde said.

“He is not a god,” Harad said.

Gunnhilde’s eyes flashed.  “Yes,” she said, low and cold, “he is.”

“Husband,” Helena said.  She met his eyes when he turned, and they seemed to hold an unspoken conversation.

At length, Harad grunted.  “I will not argue with you.  The weapon must still be dealt with.”

All eyes were drawn to the spear that Thor held.  Even in the pale moonlight its head seemed to shine red, and its wooden haft looked to be stained by blood.  

“Deal with it I shall,” Thor said.  He could feel it, now that he held it in his hands, but it was a distant thing.  He felt like he had grasped a branch of thorns, only to find them unable to pierce his flesh.  At its core was a touch of corruption that he was beginning to recognise.

Contrary to what many might have thought, Thor was not an unthinking brute.  To be sure, there had been a time where his only method of problem solving was to deliver a mighty blow from Mjolnir, and if that did not work, to deliver a second, mightier blow, but those days were gone.  He had learned and grown with the aid of his Midgardian comrades, and where once he might have broken the cursed spear over his knee or scorched the evil from it, now he chose a third path.  

For all the ills that she had done, he owed his sister a debt of thanks.  It was she who had taught him to grasp the truth of his nature, to wield the thunder and the lightning, to harness the storm that was his soul.  Without that lesson he may not have understood what was happening to him in this strange new land, or how to feel the changes that were being wrought to his very being.  

But she had, and he did.  

As he had when he had denied the attentions of the Four cancers, and when he had purified the well, Thor reached within himself to find his truth.  He was a god, and long had he been worshipped as such, but it was clear that this had more weight to it here.  He was strength, he was the hallowing of evil, he was the protection of mankind, but most of all, he was the storm.  He was not just a god, but a God.

From his truth, he drew power.  It was no bottomless well, no power truly was, but as the waking world fell away and he stripped away its distractions until it was just him and his power, he could feel it being refreshed.  He could feel Wolfric, the one eyed hunter, patient and hopeful, he could feel Elsa and Astrid, two sides of the same coin, their potential untapped, he could feel Gunnhilde, fervent and true, utterly sure of her choice.  There were others, distant faces that he recognised from the village or the longship, but they could not yet compare to the richness of the connections he felt first.  

With power drawn, he readied it, allowing it to billow and swell like a stormcloud heavy with rain.  His eyes were closed, but light shone out from under them, and he clenched the cursed spear tight in his fist.  He was ready.

Thor shepherded the storm within into the spear, and it collided with an unthinking thirst for blood.  For a moment it seemed it would devour the storm, taking its strength for itself, but he refused, pouring more of his truth into the fight, and the storm prevailed with a calamitous roar.  Rain prepared the ground, lightning broke the curse, and thunder forged it anew, hallowing the spear into something more.

Had he attempted this even yesterday, Thor knew that he would have failed.  Perhaps he could have purified the weapon, but greater contests required greater power, and he knew now that power was fed by deeds.  Deeds, and belief.  

The spear shifted in his grip, and Thor opened his eyes.  The quiet village square was still that, snow falling gently, the world quiet in the way that only freshly fallen snow could make it.  His audience was staring, not at him, but at the glowing spear in his hand, blindingly white, as it shifted and changed.  Harad was wary, having stepped in front of Helena, and she had a hand on his shoulder, ready to pull him back and away, but neither moved.  Gunnhilde was watching with wide eyes, drinking the sight in as he worked.  It could have taken a minute or a moment, but the glow began to fade, revealing the form of the spear anew.  

Where once the head had been angular, now it was as a leaf, and the hound motif was gone.  Instead the metal was unadorned, save for the rippling lines in the steel itself.  Its haft was like that of an ash tree, and on it were countless patterns of valknuts, but it seemed like they had been grown, not carved.  

“Gunnhilde,” Thor said, holding out the spear.  His voice echoed like distant thunder in the quiet of the night, but as if from far away.  “This is yours.”

Gunnhilde took the spear like it was a fragile glass rose, and she let out a soft sigh as her hand closed around it.  “As I am yours, Thunder God.”

There was a yawning void within him, and her words eased it some, though not nearly enough.  He felt thin and stretched, like Hulk had used him as a stress toy or sparring partner, but deep within his soul.  “It is yours to name, if you wish it,” Thor said, pushing his weariness aside.

“When it has done something worthy of it, I will,” Gunnhilde said, after a moment’s consideration.  

Thor nodded his approval.  “Now, throw it.”

“My God?” Gunnhilde asked.

Ever so slightly, Thor frowned.

“That is, Thor?” she corrected herself.

“Throw it, as far as you can,” Thor said.  “Maybe not over any buildings.”

Puzzled, but obeying nonetheless, Gunnhilde prepared to throw her spear, taking only a moment to marvel at its balance.  She eyed the lane that ran from the village square to the far side of the village to end at the wall; it was the longest distance she could see.  

Thor, Harad, and Helena watched as she took two quick steps and threw, sending the spear flying silently across the village.  It was good that none were wandering the village, for it flew straight and true and didn’t stop when it hit the wall.  

Thor made a note to apologise to Harad.  “Good!  Now, get it back.”

Gunnhilde took a step, only to stop when her God spoke again.

“Without moving.”

Though she would have very much liked to question him further, Gunnhilde held her tongue.  She had been given her instructions and she would not fail.  She just…didn’t have any idea of what to do.

“That spear is yours,” Thor said to her.  He raised his arm, and something thrummed through the air, before landing in his open hand with a meaty thwack.  His axe had come when called, and he leaned against its head, haft resting on the ground, seeking to ease a tiredness that had nothing to do with the physical.  “Reach out and call for it.”

Thor watched as Gunnhilde swung her gaze back to the wall her spear had disappeared behind, understanding crossing her face.  A look of great concentration fell over her, and she narrowed her eyes.  He felt a tug, much as he had when Steve had wielded Mjolnir, but he let it be.  There was the sound of splintering wood, and then Gunnhilde’s eyes widened in alarm.

The spear sped back towards them, metal-shod butt first, and Gunnhilde was almost fast enough to catch it.  She seized it by the middle, but she was not swift enough to stop it from nailing her right in the gut, and she was knocked back, wheezing.

“Ah, yes,” Thor said.  “You do want to remember that when you summon your weapon, you are summoning your weapon with considerable speed.”

“Aye Thor,” Gunnhilde choked out, holding her stomach as she lay in the snow.

“Good thing it wasn’t point first,” Harad muttered.

Thor glanced at the spear that Gunnhilde gripped tight even as she recovered.  He had wanted to share the enchantment he had found most useful on Mjolnir and Stormbreaker, but he hadn’t fully considered what the differences in weapon type might mean.  “You should practise before trying that in battle,” he said, pretending he had expected this outcome.

Gunnhilde levered herself up with the spear, but stood hunched and still holding her stomach with her free hand.  “I will prove worthy of it,” she swore.  

“I have no doubt,” Thor said, but it seemed something in his response was lacking.

“I will!” Gunnhilde said, forcing herself upright.  “You have freed me, blessed me with the strength to slay that animal Reket, and now you have saved me from becoming him.  I will serve you until the end, if only you will have me.”

Thor stilled.  Harad and Helena were watching him closely, but said nothing as he thought.  “I have not done what I have done because I desired service,” he said.  “You are indebted to me, but not to those heights.”

“I do not care,” Gunnhilde said.  “All my life I have wanted a purpose, and now I have found you.”

“There are other purposes,” Thor said.  “Your village will need a leader.”

“That was my sister,” Gunnhilde said, and there was pain in her words.  “I am not her.  Let me swear to you.”

“Oaths to…one such as this are not lightly sworn, girl,” Harad said in warning.  

“Lives taken and words spoken are things that cannot be undone,” Helena added.  

Their words had the weight of experience, but Gunnhilde was not dissuaded.  “My path is clear,” she declared.  “I prayed for the chance to slay that Aesling in the hold of that ship, and you appeared.  You are my God from now until the End Times.”

A weight fell upon him, and he knew instinctively that this was a moment more important than the oath of a single believer.  He was deeply weary, but this was not a thing to take lightly.  This was a request from one who believed, truly and utterly.

“Please.”

“You do not know what you ask,” Thor said, “but you will.”

Gunnhilde’s eyes brightened with hope.  “You will accept my oath?”

“Your faith is true, though in truth you barely know me,” Thor said.  

“My head may not, but my heart does,” Gunnhilde said.  She stood even straighter, though it hardly seemed possible.  

“In my home, the Valkyrie were a band of elite warriors,” Thor said.  He was committed to this path now.  “They served my father as his blade, until they were slain by my sister, almost to the last.”  He stopped, pausing in remembrance and respect.  

Gunnhilde drank in his words, blue eyes blazing.  Harad and Helena listened to the side, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

“You will be the first of my Valkyries here,” Thor told her.  “A Valkyrie is a defender of the innocent, and serves in this life, and the next.  In return, you will have a place at my hearth, at my side in battle, and in Valhalla beyond.  If you are taken I will retrieve you, and if you are slain I will avenge you.”  The words flowed from Thor, something greater moving him.  He became aware of truths that he had not known, and he remembered a dream of Asgard, Old and New and all at once.  “Will you serve?”

“I will serve,” Gunnhilde swore.  She fell to one knee, opposite hand on her spear.  “As you have done for me, I will do for others.  I will break chains and slay the cruel.  I swear it on my faith in you, Thor, God of Thunder.  Let lightning strike me down if I lie.”

Thor became aware of the thread that connected him to Gunnhilde, and he felt it as it thickened and strengthened, a current running through it, going both ways.  He could feel other threads too, but none were as strong as hers, and they only went one way.  “Then rise a Valkyrie, Gunnhilde,” he said.  He would ponder what it meant when he wasn’t running on sparks and borrowing strength from his axe.  

Gunnhilde rose, smiling so wide as to threaten to split her cheeks.  Her hair shone under the moonlight.  Then, she fell forward, face first into the snow.  Save for her breathing, she didn’t move.

Thor glanced at the others; they looked bemused.  “I think she’s just tired.”

“I’ll get her to bed,” Helena said, stepping forward to scoop her up over her shoulder with a strength that belied her age.  She hesitated only long enough to glance at Thor, questions clear on her face, but then she trooped off.  The spear trailed behind her, Gunnhilde’s grip never faltering.

The two men watched them disappear around a corner.  “I wasn’t expecting to end this night with so many questions,” Harad said in the quiet.  

“Ask them quickly, for I am almost spent,” Thor said.  He leaned more and more on his axe.

“I will ask only one, for it is the most pressing,” Harad said.  “What are your dealings with Valkia the Bloody?”

“Who?” Thor asked, puzzled.  

Something eased in Harad, a great relief making itself clear on his face.  “No matter.  I will speak with you on the morrow.  You have given me much to think on.”

Thor watched him go, the old warrior following after his wife.  A fresh wave of exhaustion hit him, though it wasn’t physical tiredness.  Hallowing the spear had taken everything he had, and he needed to rest.  

X x X

Thor dreamed.

Asgard, Old and New and all at once, opened before him, its paved streets of gold stretching further up and further in.  The enormous gates swung ponderously closed at his back, the watcher taking up his post on the other side.  An enormous city lay before him, and in the distance he could see the towering gold palace, his throne waiting within it.

He turned away from the main road that led to the palace, unwilling and unable to seek out what lay within.  Instead, he began to wander the city, walking alone through its lanes and paths.  Thankfully, not all were paved with gold, some merely with marble or quartz.  

For all its size, the city was empty, devoid of the hustle and bustle of life.  Echoes of small thoughts and old memories flitted about, darting around corners and out of sight before Thor could do more than glance at them.  He passed by a pub that Korg had enjoyed visiting, next door to a garden that Fandral had spent a few decades using to refine his poetry.  

Thor was hit by a sudden yearning for the familiar.  The city he walked was not enough, not for a god adrift from his comrades and family.  He missed the wisdom of his father, the compassion of his mother, the mischief of his brother.  This new land needed him, but it was not home.  Not yet, and perhaps not ever.  

His feet took him down strange and familiar paths, over cobblestone ways and up gravity lifts, guided only by instinct.  In time, he came to a small square, an eclectic mix of buildings lining it, but he had eyes for only one.  A shadowed tavern, squeezed in between a golden tower of Old Asgard and a community centre of New.  He had not visited it in truth for centuries, not since the last time he had bailed his brother out from his troublemaking within it and they had been forced to flee, barred from entering forevermore. 

The tavern door creaked open, and it was clear that none had crossed its threshold for some time, but he pushed forward all the same.  The interior was dark, and it smelt of old smoke and spilled ale.  The lanterns were unlit, the bar unattended, and the bottles behind it were dusty.  Upstairs, he knew, was a game room rented by a boy with green eyes and dark hair using seidr to appear as a man.  

He climbed stairs that he remembered being thrown down by an off duty Einherjar, scammed of his coin, and he passed empty rooms that he remembered ignoring, blushing at the sounds from within.  When he came to the door at the end of the hall he paused, listening for the roll of dice and the clink of coins, but there was only silence.  He pushed lightly on the door, and it swung open.  

There was nothing, as he knew there would be.  No card game run by an errant Prince seeking to grow his allowance, no soldiers and tradesmen being swindled by a trickster just learning his craft.  There was only a single faded card on an aged wooden table.  Thor stepped into the room, and took up the card.  It was Midgardian, of a type that was certainly never present when he and his brother had been young.  Joker, it read, and on it was a familiar figure in green, wearing a horned helmet and a smirk.

“The sun will shine on us again, brother.”

Thor turned, but the hall was empty.  He was alone.

X

Thor woke slowly this time.  He lay in the bed that Helena had given him, the room to himself.  He rolled over, freeing the arm he had lain on as he sought to get more comfortable.  As he did, however, something poked him in the side.  With a moment’s fumbling, he retrieved the small object, and frowned in thought.

The Lunchable that he held had certainly not been in his bed before he slept.  It looked normal enough, cheap plastic covered by a foil, and food that never failed to make Tony turn up his nose in disgust held within.  How it had found its way to him, he had only the faintest suspicions, but what to do with it?

Well, he was in no hurry to decide now.  He tucked it away in the pockets of his pants, and began the struggle of getting out of bed.  A heartier breakfast surely waited in the longhouse.

The village was already waking when he left the house, many going about the tasks that had been put aside in favour of those more urgent yesterday.  He found food in the longhouse as he had hoped, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and berries by a grateful cook, and he set to with a will, taking a seat at a side table.  There was no can of fizzy drink to wash it down with, but perhaps that was for the best.  Physically, he was well, but he still felt strained in a way that was difficult to describe, though it was better than it was after hallowing the spear.  Though many eyes and curious gazes fell on him, he was left alone in respect by most.

Halfway through his breakfast, he was joined by Harad, the man sitting across the table from him with a plate of his own.  

“My wife checked on Gunnhilde,” he said by way of greeting.  “She’s still snoring, though so are many of her fellows.”

“They went through an ordeal,” Thor said.  “What do you plan today?”

“Catch up on the work those bastards interrupted yesterday, make sure they’re all properly burned,” Harad said as he worked on his meal.  “What of you?  

“It is time for Vinteerholm to be reclaimed,” Thor said, munching on a thick piece of bacon.  “I could slay every raider there myself, but…”

“It would be better for our people to take it back ourselves,” Harad said, nodding.  “Many of us have family there.”

“I freed a captive from another longship, and she tells me that there were three hundred Aeslings in the attack on the town,” Thor said.  

“How many did you slay there?” Harad asked.

“Dozens,” Thor said.  “If we are lucky, there will be perhaps two hundred raiders left in Vinteerholm.”

Harad grimaced.  “If every man and woman fit to fight took up arms, we could muster threescore at most.  Call it fourscore with Gunnhilde’s people.”

“The village I first encountered was hit hard,” Thor said, “and their warriors were already off to war.  Wolfric could gather a dozen, maybe.”

“Fewer than one hundred, against twice as many hardened reavers,” Harad said.  “Odds I would take gleefully in my younger days, when I had less responsibility.”

“Where are the warriors?” Thor asked suddenly.  It was less apparent in Harad’s village, but there was still a lack of fighting men.  It was possible that those from Gunnhilde’s village had fallen in the attack, but Wolfric was the last young fighting man in his village, and it was a situation that predated the raid.  

“They do as all young warriors do, and die far from home for worthless causes,” Harad said, and there was a deep contempt in his words.  “Their gods called for blood, and they answered, no matter the consequences.”

Thor regarded the old warrior.  His feelings towards those who left were clear in his voice, but at its core was a hint of something else.  “There is no hope of recalling these warriors?”

“They left two seasons ago,” Harad said, shaking his head.  “Their gods only know where they are now.”

“‘Their’ gods?” Thor asked, brow rising ever so slightly.

“Aye,” Harad said, “their gods.”  He ate quietly for a few moments, gaze far away.  “I worshipped many in my youth, stupid and shortsighted as I was.  I know better now.”

“That sounds like another tale,” Thor said, thinking about their conversation the previous night.

“It’s the same tale,” Harad said shortly.  

“Settled down in your old age then?” Thor said, mopping up some yolk with a hunk of bread.  

Harad snorted.  “None of the gods are on my side, so why should I be on their side?”

“Fairly said,” Thor replied.  Discussions on religion and why he was the superior god could wait until they’d known each other for more than a day.  “Tell me of Vinteerholm then, of its defences and layout.”

“It’s a town that lasted long enough to be named,” Harad said, washing down his meal with water from his tankard.  “Even has a stone gatehouse.  Walls of strong wood, towers at the corners.  Sits on the Lynsk, just like we do, but by a bulge in the river.  Plenty of fishing, and they trade with Skogenberg to the west and the villages to the east.”

“I was told five thousand souls live there,” Thor said.  

“Before the Aeslings took it, aye,” Harad said.  

The quiet activity of the longhouse continued around them as they shared a moment of silence, thinking on what had likely befallen many of those who lived in the town.  

“How would you retake the town?” Thor asked.

“I would slip in through the docks, pretend to be one of the returning fishermen,” Harad said.  “Spend a few days killing Aeslings in taverns and dark alleys, then lead a riot against them when they realised what was happening.  Challenge their leader if I could.”

“Risky,” Thor said.

“The Aesling are scum, but they’re scum who can fight,” Harad said.  “I don’t know how they got here, but Vinteerholm is no Vinnskor.”

“Vinnskor?” Thor asked.

“Biggest town we’ve got,” Harad said.  “Across the plains from the accursed Skraevold, of the Aeslings.”

Thor tucked the name away for later.  “Then we must decide how to defeat the foes with an inferior force, with minimal casualties,” he said.  “I like your idea of challenging the big one.  They always seem to surrender after that.”

“There are few cowards amongst the Aesings,” Harad admitted, grudgingly.  “They will likely fight on.”

“Well, it’s worth a try anyway,” Thor said.  He drummed his fingers on the wooden table.  “Do you think we could draw them out of the town to kill them without any innocents in the way?”

“Depends,” Harad said.  “How sharp is your tongue, and how many of them can you insult in one breath?”

Thor laughed, sudden and boisterous, drawing eyes from around the longhouse.  “My brother could have had them climbing over the gates in a blind rage to get at him in moments,” he said.  His smile faded, as he remembered a pale face and the awful sound of - no.  “I am not much for flyting in comparison, but I will do my best.”

“Even if they accept your challenge, not all will come,” Harad said, though he didn’t seem to be warning him off the plan.  “Some will remain in the town.  There will be some yoke to keep the people cowed.  Hostages, I say.”

“Then they will die,” Thor said, like it was already ordained.  “I will not shame your people, but nor will I stand idly by while hostages are killed.”

“We Baersonlings can be a prideful lot,” Harad admitted, “but none will hold such an act against you.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a third, setting their bowl down as they took a seat next to Thor.  None had dared to join the village chief and the mighty warrior that claimed to be a god, but Gunnhilde was more daring than most.

“My God,” the blonde woman said, already almost inhaling her porridge.

“Thor,” he said pointedly.

“...Thor,” Gunnhilde said, almost like it pained her.  

“Good morning Gunnhilde,” Thor said.  “I thought you still asleep.”

“I had strange dreams, of a golden city and summer fields,” Gunnhilde said.  

“Sounds like Asgard,” Thor said.  

“Asgard?” Gunnhilde asked, trying out the unfamiliar word.

“My home,” Thor said.  “Until my brother and I had to destroy it to stop my crazy sister from conquering the universe, that is.”

Gunnhilde lowered her spoon from her mouth.  “I saw the home of the gods in my dreams?  How?”

“So it seems,” Thor said.  “Were you sleeping with your spear?” he joked.

The Valkyrie was suddenly intensely interested in her porridge.

“Helena was unable to free it from her grip,” Harad said, a hint of amusement on his face.  

Thor blinked.  “Well.  Perhaps sleep without it tonight and see where your dreams take you.”

“Aye Thor,” Gunnhilde said, still looking down. 

“I remember when I was given my first weapon as a boy,” Thor said.  “I kept it under my pillow for weeks.” 

Somehow, this didn’t seem to reassure Gunnhilde, and she only sank further down in her seat.  

Harad took pity on the woman.  “We have a plan for Vinteerholm,” he said, “but who will lead?”

“Thor should lead,” Gunnhilde said, throwing off whatever malaise had befallen her.  

“Why?” Harad asked.

Gunnhilde was taken aback.  “He is a God.”

“Is he a god of war?” Harad asked.  

“Actually, I’m a god of thunder,” Thor said helpfully.  “Lightning, storms, all that.  Not of war specifically, but the ability to throw around lightning is quite helpful in battle, as you can imagine.”

Harad and Gunnhilde turned to him with two very different expressions.  Gunnhilde was intent, but Harad was not quite wary, and he could feel his doubt like a physical thing.  

“Humans call me a god of sacred groves, hallowing, and fertility, but that’s more because of what I do than what I am,” he continued, scratching his chin, lost in thought.  “Those were an exciting few decades.”

Gunnhilde glanced back at Harad.  “Thor should lead,” she said again.  “He is the greatest warrior we have.”

“Perhaps,” Harad said.  “But I have the most fighters.  Why should I not lead?”  His words were not challenging, and seemed more intended to draw an answer from the woman than anything.

“Thor will inspire them more,” Gunnhilde said, “and he is the one who makes this attack possible.  If we are led by a god, our victory is assured.”

A flicker of a frown crossed Harad’s face.  “Putting all your hopes in the gods will lead only to suffering,” he warned.

“I do not put my hopes in the gods,” Gunnhilde retorted.  “I put my hopes in Thor.”

Harad grumbled, but it seemed he had never been intent on leading the attack himself at all, for it was without rancour.  “Then Thor shall lead us, for this battle at least.  I’ll not be giving up my chair any time soon.”

Thor held back a grimace at the thought of rulership, even of a small village such as this.  He had never acquitted himself well from a throne.  “It would be terribly rude for me to take it from you,” he said.  

“How will we take Vinteerholm then?” Gunnhilde asked, eager.  She reached out for her absent spear, not calling for it, but feeling the connection all the same.  It was a curious thing to sense from Thor’s perspective.  

“You say you can muster sixty fit to bear arms,” Thor said to Harad.  “How many of those are blooded warriors?”

“Twenty at best,” Harad said.

“Gunnhilde?” Thor asked.

“A dozen,” Gunnhilde said.  “Though more would fight if you asked.”

“And a small handful from Wolfric’s village,” Thor said to himself.  “Forty, against two hundred.”

“A poor fight to take,” Harad said.

“Taking every man and woman who can hold a weapon will only lead to needless deaths,” Thor said.  “This also avoids leaving the people here defenceless, should some beast wander close.”

“Wise,” Harad said.  “My wife will lead here in my stead.”

Thor raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“I have been fool enough to leave my Helena behind many times to go to war,” Harad said.  “Vinteerholm will be the least of such journeys.”

“How far away is Vinteerholm?” Thor asked.  If the old warrior wanted to displease his wife in such a way, that was his business.  

“A week by foot,” Harad said.  “Two days by river, though we’ve not had a ship I’d trust to make the journey until now.”

“How kind of the Aeslings to provide one,” Thor said.  He came to a decision.  “We will leave today.  You will set sail as soon as you can gather your people, and I will return to Wolfric’s village.  We will meet downstream, at the point where the river forks,” he said.  

“Raiders gift you another longship?” Harad asked.

“We burnt it,” Thor said.  “It was corrupted and foul.”

Harad frowned.  “If we leave today we’ll spend time waiting for you to meet us,” he said. 

“You will not,” Thor said.  “I will ferry them to the meeting point myself.”

“As you say, Thor,” Gunnhilde said for the two of them.  She had no problem taking Thor at his word, despite Harad looking like he still had questions.  

“Then it is decided,” Thor said.  “We will drive the Aeslings from this land, and avenge all they have harmed in their raiding.”

“I will spread the word amongst my people,” Harad said.  He took up his empty plate, rising from the table.  “Break the news to Helena, too.”  He did not look like he was looking forward to it.

Thor raised his empty tankard to him as he departed, leaving him alone with Gunnhilde.  The woman was working through her porridge, mind obviously on the battle to come.  He was not looking forward to passing by her destroyed home, but they had little choice but to follow the river.  A thought occurred to him, and he dug about in his pockets.

“Gunnhilde,” he said, and she looked up.  “On my way here, I passed through the remains of your village.  I found this.”  He set the carved token of the great cat he had found in the blood and muck on the table.  “Do you recognise it?”

Gunnhilde’s eyes were fixed on it, and a deep pain was within them.  “I do,” she said.  “It belonged to my cousin.  I taught him how to spear fish in the shallows.”

Thor sighed.  It was as he feared.  “His parents?”  

“Dead.  I saw them cut down.”

“I am sorry.”

She was quiet.  Then, “may I have it?”

Thor pushed the small carved cat over to her.  “It is yours by right.”

Gripping the figure tightly, she returned to eating, gaze distant.  The activity of the hall did not seem to register for her, as other villagers came and went, eating and speaking with the relieved cheer of survivors.  

“You said Valkyrie are protectors of the innocent,” Gunnhilde said suddenly.  “What does that mean?”  

A memory forced its way to the front of Thor’s mind.  A blond child stood at the base of his father’s throne demanding to know what made a good king, a dark haired boy lurking behind him.  As if such a thing could be achieved with a cheat sheet.  He had been given the kind of answer one would give a boy too young to understand what he truly asked.  Then he blinked, and the memory faded.  “What is an innocent?” He asked instead of answering.

“A child,” Gunnhilde answered.

Thor thought of the dark haired boy again and held back a quirk of his lips.  “That’s the simple answer,” he said leadingly.

Gunnhilde thought for a moment.  “Someone who has done no harm to me and mine.”

“What if they have done harm to a stranger?  Are they still innocent?”

“No,” she said slowly.  “But how would I know?”

“You don’t,” Thor said.  “It is not a simple thing.  You cannot defend the innocent by seeking out monsters to slay.”  He thought of giants with blue skin and red eyes.  How naive he had been.  “To defend the innocent, you must be there.”

“Where?” Gunnhilde asked, brow furrowing.

“There,” Thor said.  “Wherever it is evil seeks to do them harm.  There are those that have no place in war.  The young, the old, the infirm.  War still comes for them all the same.  It is your duty to stand in its way, to shield them from harm.  You will struggle, you will succeed, you will fail.  You will fight by my side, and alone.  One day, you will fall so far that you will never want to get back up.”

Gunnhilde was listening intently, eyes glued to him.  

“You will do so anyway, because you are needed.  Because if you do not, innocents will suffer.  You will do this until you die, and on that day, you will join me in Valhalla,” he said with certainty.  He could not say why he knew that Gunnhilde would prove worthy of its halls, but he knew it all the same.  

“A sword and a shield then,” Gunnhilde murmured to herself, “in this life and the next.”

“Or a spear,” Thor said.  

The Valkyrie opened her clenched fist to stare at the carved token she held.  Carefully, she tucked it away in the pocket of her breeches.  “I understand.”

Thor nodded slowly.  He imagined she did.  “Gather your people,” he told her.  “Tomorrow, we share a battlefield once more.”

“I look forward to it, Thor,” Gunnhilde said.

The God of Thunder rose from his seat, leaving the longhouse behind.  Already he could feel the gossip spreading, overheard conversations being whispered of and wondered at.  He stepped out into the sun and snow, and he reached for Stormbreaker, calling it deftly to himself through the lanes of the village.  A moment later he blasted into the sky, to the wonderment of those he left behind.  

Vinteerholm waited.

Chapter Text

Thor spotted the waiting longship before they spotted him, though it was a near thing.  It was, after all, somewhat difficult to miss the uprooted tree flying through the air seemingly of its own accord.  He began to bleed altitude, coming down by the river’s edge near the longship.  The tree settled to earth with a thump, shaking off dirt from its roots and pale faced warriors from its branches.  

Wolfric was the first to ‘disembark’, the one eyed man half falling in his haste.  He lay on the snow, staring up at the sky and uncaring of the cold given the multiple extra layers he wore, taking deep breaths.

Tyra was the second, staggering off after untying the rope that secured her to the tree.  “Never again,” she swore, green eyes wild as they roved to find Thor, tearing the cap she wore from her head.  Her red hair had been shorn short, with only a few inches remaining on top.  “I care not for your power.  You will never take me into the skies again.”

“The journey was not that bad,” Thor said, laughing it off.  He hesitated as he watched the other ten warriors free themselves from their ride, many mimicking Wolfric and making as much contact with the ground as possible.  “Was it?” he asked uncertainly.

Tyra gave him a final scorching look, and not the good kind, before turning to the longship that waited just off the bank.  Those aboard had already started reacting to their presence, running a gangplank out to the shore.  “These are our allies?”

“They come from two of the other villages in the area that suffered under the Aeslings, yes,” Thor said.  

Tyra grunted, and made to help secure the gangplank.  Like the others who had taken Air Thor, she was covered in even more furs and hides than usual, but under them she wore armour looted from slain raiders.  She was not alone in doing so; the others wore better armour than any most had worn in their lives, if only for the breadth of coverage.  From what Thor could see of those on the ship, they had done similarly.  Their force would not lack for protection, at least.  

“Thor!” came a call from the ship.  Gunnhilde raised her spear to him as he turned to look, and he raised his axe in reply.  She hopped over the rail to run along the gangplank, heading for him.

“Who is that?” Wolfric asked, pushing himself to his feet.

“That is Gunnhilde, the first of my Valkyries in this land,” Thor said.

Wolfric stumbled.  “Your what?”

“My Valkyries,” Thor repeated.  “Defenders of the innocent, warriors true.”

The one eyed man gave him a queer look.  

“I’m sorry, you cannot become one,” Thor explained.  “Only a woman can be a Valkyrie.  I was heartbroken when I found out as a child.”

“Gunnhilde is your first?” Wolfric confirmed.

“There is another,” Thor said, and Wolfric tensed, “but she is not of this world.  Her name is Brunnhilde.”  He stopped, considering.  “Amusing, how that works out.  Brunnhilde and Gunnhilde.  You would like her, I think.”

“Then it must be so, god of thunder,” Wolfric said, just as Gunnhilde reached them.  

Whatever greeting Gunnhilde had been about to give Thor, she was distracted by Wolfric’s words.  “You know Thor for a God?” she asked.  Around them, the others began to approach the gangplank.  

“I do,” Wolfric said, eyeing her.  “He saved my life, and that of my sisters.”

“He broke my chains and let me loose on those who killed my family,” Gunnhilde said.

“I saw him purify a well spoiled by the Unclean One,” Wolfric said, turning to face her fully.

“He hallowed a spear cursed by the Hound and granted it to me to wield,” Gunnhilde retorted.  

Wolfric made to reply, only to stop and scowl, glancing at the fine spear she bore.  His hand lingered on the simple axe at his hip.  

A smug look was his answer, at last until a large hand was clasped on both their shoulders.  

“Play nice, children,” Thor said.  “It took the belief that you both hold for me to achieve what I have.”

The two looked away from each other, just like the squabbling children being scolded that they were to him.  “Aye, Lord Thor,” they both answered.     

Something seemed to occur to both of them.

“Is our belief that strong?” Wolfric asked, doubtful.

“We are not your only believers, surely,” Gunnhilde said.

“Astrid and Elsa believe as well,” Thor was quick to point out.  They were alone now, the other warriors going about the business of boarding the ship.

There was a pause, and Gunnhilde turned to Wolfric with a question on her face.

“My sisters,” Wolfric said to her, before glancing at Thor.  “You are a newborn god?  But…you turned the gaze of the Schemer from us.”

“I am certainly not newborn,” Thor said, puffing up.  “I have fifteen centuries under my belt!  I am only new to this world.”

“You strode fresh from the Realm of the Gods,” Gunnhilde said.  Her faith was still strong, but Thor could feel her uncertainty as she absorbed this information.

“How new are you?” Wolfric demanded.  “When did you come to our world?”

“Oh, about five minutes before I met you,” Thor said.

“...I prayed for aid from any who would listen as we fled,” Wolfric said.  

“Fortunate timing,” Thor offered.  He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

“You appeared as I prayed for a chance to slay that guard,” Gunnhilde said.  “You named yourself the protector of mankind.”

“Yeeeessss,” Thor said, drawing the word out.

“We called for help, and you answered,” Wolfric said.  

“I cannot be summoned through prayer,” Thor said, but they didn’t appear to be listening.

“Not newborn, but new to this world,” Wolfric said, sharing a look with his fellow believer.  “Our belief is truly that valuable to you?”

“You are vulnerable,” Gunnhilde said, realisation in her words.  “Faith is strength, and we are your main sources.”

“I do not control the storm through faith,” Thor said.  

The pair stared at him, frowning as they attempted to understand.  

“You fight the other gods with our faith as fuel,” Wolfric said.  “You were wearied, after you banished the Schemer.”

“And after you hallowed my spear,” Gunnhilde said.  “I was spent, but I saw.”

The pair shared another look, laden with meaning.  

“We will find you more believers,” Wolfric declared.  

“All will know the might of Thor,” Gunnhilde said, tone ominous.

Thor swallowed, unpleasantly reminded of the end of his first days on Midgard.  "Belief will come from my deeds. I will earn it, or I will not."

Wolfric shook his head.  “But what if -”

“Then I shall meet them with steel and storm,” Thor said, patting Stormbreaker.  “My believers will choose to worship me.”

“You will break chains, and protect the innocent,” Gunnhilde said suddenly.  “And they will know who to thank.”

“I will,” Thor said, “but that is not the reason I do it.”

“You do it because the innocent need protecting,” Gunnhilde said.

Thor smiled at his Valkyrie.  She understood.

Wolfric ran a hand over the stubble on his head.  “You were insistent that I acknowledge you as a god, after you turned the Schemer’s eye,” he said, seeking to understand.

“You needed hope,” Thor said,  “and you wanted to believe.  I felt your sincerity at the well.”

Wolfric nodded, thinking deeply.  

Thor watched the pair of them.  He could feel the bridge of their faith to him, still strong and true, now tempered by a truer understanding of where the world stood.  Their connections deepened, and he could feel it leading to the well within him, gradually refilling after hallowing the spear.  In time it would be full, and then it would grow.  Slowly, and not as swiftly as gaining new believers, but grow it would.  

“Lord Thor!” came the call.

Thor turned to see Harad leaning on the rail, all the warriors he had brought aboard and waiting.  The old man looked pointedly at him, before glancing up at the sun.  It was low in the sky, already well into the afternoon, and they still had a journey ahead of them.  He raised an arm in acknowledgement, and began to make for the gangplank.  

“Is that Harad of the Axe?” Wolfric asked suddenly as he followed.  

“I had not heard the title, but that is Harad,” Thor said, glancing back at him.

Wolfric spoke no further, but his eyes tracked the man as he walked away from the rail, giving orders to his men.  There was no malice in them, but they hid something all the same.  

“Come,” Thor said to the pair of them.  “The sooner we depart, the sooner we free the town.”  He led the way up the gangplank, and his believers followed.  He had a bounce in his step.

X

Vinteerholm was no city, but it was magnitudes greater than the small villages Thor had seen so far.  Nestled against a broad, slow flowing section of the river, it had clearly grown outwards as its population demanded, town planning clearly completely foreign to them.  Angled streets, untidy rows of buildings, a tannery deeper into the town than he suspected the residents would like; it seemed those that lived here had put all their efforts into maintaining the wall that surrounded their home.  From where he lurked just beneath the clouds, he could see where previous iterations had been torn down as the town had expanded in the past.  Quarried stone and thick lumber offered residents a reassuring defence, but it had not been enough when the Aeslings came to call.  

Some few rickety docks had been built on the riverside, and it was here that the Aesling longships had been berthed, three vessels tied off where there should only be small fishing boats.  It appeared that the raiders had taken the gate closest to the river by force, for they hung open, splintered, as if shattered by a mighty blow.  He could still spy bodies here and there, some hanging from the walls, some left to freeze where they fell.  The clouds, already ominous, darkened further.  Though it was mid morning, it felt closer to dusk, and the rumble of thunder warned of a storm to come.  Few walked the streets, and those that did either scurried quickly or swaggered.  In the centre of the village, a bonfire roared, and the doors of the nearby longhouse were open, a steady stream of warriors flowing in and out.  

Thor had seen enough.  He turned upriver, and flew to join his companions.  It was time to liberate Vinteerholm.

When he reached his comrades, they still waited upriver where he had left them, eager and waiting.  Two score men and women, armed and eager for blood and vengeance.  Gunnhilde and Wolfric were the first to look up, some instinct telling them of his approach, and the others followed their lead.  He set down on the deck, a small circle of space growing around him.

“What word?” Tyra asked, eyes hungry for news.  Her hand was stroking the edge of one of her axes subconsciously.

“The Aeslings make merry in the longhouse,” Thor said.  “They’ve a bonfire in the square, but few roam beyond it.”

“Numbers?” Harad asked.  He wore his sleeveless steel armour, double headed axe peeking over his shoulder, and a skullcap of iron.  

“Three dozen in the square, but more hidden,” Thor said.  “There are three longships by the docks.”

Tyra scowled, clenching a fist.  “They came with six.”

“Those three, one destroyed, one captured…one missing,” Wolfric said.  He had taken the armour worn by a man whom Thor remembered decapitating.  There was a sword at his hip and a round shield on his back.  

“How many men to a longship?” Thor asked.

“Depends how well they can get along,” Harad said.  “Could be forty, could be four times that.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Thor said.  “They’ll die all the same.”

The drumming of feet and growling cries were his answer.

“Just down the river, Vinteerholm waits,” Thor said.  “In it are raiders and murderers, preying on those who cannot defend themselves.”

“Innocents,” Gunnhilde said.  She wore splint mail, and leaned against her spear.  

“Just so,” Thor said.  “For their crimes, there can only be one punishment.”

“Death!” Tyra said, pounding a fist on the ship’s rail, and her spirit was echoed by many others.

“Our foes number less than three hundred,” Thor said, “but there were five thousand souls before they came.  No matter their ferocity, they cannot fight the entire town.”

“You think they have taken hostages,” Harad said, voice grim.

“Likely children,” Thor said.  “I have seen it before.  Easy to control, and the surest way of cowing their parents.  Killing the raiders is the lesser goal here today.”

There was some murmuring as his words sunk in, but none gainsaid him.  They all knew what it was to be at the mercy of one stronger, some more than others.

“I will rescue them,” Gunnhilde declared.  “As a Valkyrie of Thor, I will take this task.”

Thor nodded approvingly.  “Tyra,” he said, turning to the woman.  “Where would they keep their hostages?”

“The longhouse has storage basements,” the redhead said.  “Hard to get to, locks on the doors.  If they’ve claimed it, that’s where they’ll keep them.”

“The longhouse is the most defensible point,” Harad warned.

“And that is why we will lure them out,” Thor said.  “Once we have thinned their numbers, we will move into the town as a group, splitting when we hit the centre.  Harad, the square is yours to hold.  Wolfric, you will take the longhouse.  Tyra, you will guide Gunnhilde to the likely hostages, and kill any raider that gets in her way.”  The muscled woman likely would have objected to being told she was on guard duty, but she bared her teeth in a grin at his words.  It was all in the phrasing.

Nods and grunts were his answer, all accepting his directions, though some glanced first to Harad.  

“How do you mean to draw them out?” Harad asked.  He glanced up at the storm clouds, darkening still.  “Those who follow the Hound do not respect wizards and their magics.”

Thor smiled, nostalgic and sharp.  “I will do as my brother would, and ask nicely,” he said.

X

Thunder boomed, leaving silence ringing in its wake.  But then there came another kind of booming, a voice rising over the walls of Vinteerholm.

“They tell me you Aeslings worship the Hound,

So I went to the kennels, and that’s what I found!

Your father I saw, his desires unclean,

Rutting away, how I wish I’d not seen!

You’ve the face of a dog, for which no maiden could care,

With your bitch of a mother, you surely do share!”

Thor rocked back on his heels, unable to help the smile on his face.  Loki would have despaired over his verse, he was sure, but he cared not.  He would pay tribute to his memory in his own way, and if that meant hurling abuse at his foes in terrible rhyme, that was what he would do.

The quiet stretched out after his words faded away, and he could feel those behind him exchanging looks.  

“Do you think they heard him?” someone asked quietly.  

“Can’t just say it again, you’d sound a fool,” someone else answered.

Suddenly, the gates began to creak open, and a small party of warriors were revealed.  A dozen strong, armed and armoured, but some held tankards or food.  Many seemed to be steaming in anger, but when they saw the forty odd warriors waiting outside, their ardour cooled. 

“Fuck you!” one of them roared.

“You’re supposed to say it in verse!” Thor shouted back.

The man only seemed to swell further, stepping out past the gate and jabbing a finger at them.  “You fat cunt!”

Thor sighed, deeply.  “No, no…this is how you’re supposed to do it.”  He cleared his throat.

“Thy mother was akin to a hamster,

For she couldn’t keep her pants up,

Thy father was limp but merry,

And overly fond of elderberry!

You’ve many brothers, but he one son,

‘Twas your mother who had all the fun!”

The Aesling gaped at him, ale foam dripping from his beard as his face reddened rapidly.  

“Now you try,” Thor encouraged him.  

A scream was his only answer, and then the raider was charging towards him.  

Thor held back another sigh.  He could hardly expect flyting to be a tradition everywhere he went, but he would at least hope to find some culture.  “Wolfric.”

The one eyed man stepped forward like he had been waiting for it, putting himself between the Aesling and his God.  He made no move to draw his sword or pull his shield from his back, even as the raider neared and drew back an axe.  The foe gave a great bellow, all reason lost, and swung for Wolfric’s head.

Almost too late, Wolfric ducked low, leading with one shoulder.  He caught the raider in the legs, bracing himself as he did.  The axe found only air, and then Wolfric rose with an explosive motion, sending the foe hurtling over him to land in the dirt and snow, face down and rattled.  Before he could do more than start to push himself up, Wolfric was on him, seizing him by the hair to drag his head back.  A dagger appeared in his hand, and he dragged it across the man’s throat, spilling bright red blood onto the snow. 

“For Thor,” he snarled as stood and turned to the gate, holding the bloody dagger high.

There was a moment of stillness, as the Aeslings stared at their freshly butchered fellow, and then Tyra let out a shout.

“Death!” she screamed, already charging forward, crossing the last distance between them and the gate.  Harad was only a heartbeat behind her, weight of experience ensuring she wasn’t charging alone.  

It was Gunnhilde who claimed the next kill though, her spear taking a man through the chest before sliding free with a squelch as she called it back.  She spun with it, bleeding off momentum, but caught it in hand.  The rest of the Baersonlings charged with a roar.

The Aeslings had no time for fear, for Tyra and Harad were upon them, the two axe wielders bloodying their weapons as one.  Tyra was a dervish, her axes whirling with her, while Harad felled men like a lumberjack, strong sweeping blows impossible to resist.  

Thor leapt forward, crossing an impossible distance in one stride, kicking a man in the chest as he tried to stab Tyra while she had an axe buried in a man’s neck.  He was hurled back, ribs crushed and folded near in two to collide with the wall of a building within the town.  The raider next to him turned and fled, either cowardice or going to warn the others.  Either suited Thor’s purpose, and he turned for another victim.

The rest of the Baersonlings reached the gate, crashing into their hated foes, and there was only one way it could end.  The portal became a charnelhouse, the drunk and unprepared gate guards unable to match those that had come for them.  They had grown arrogant and cocksure, safe in the knowledge that the town was cowed and there were no forces nearby to challenge them.  

They were wrong.

The last foe fell, Tyra turning his head into a pulped mess as she rained down blows again and again, splattering herself with blood, bone, and brain matter.  

“Tyra,” Thor said, voice sharp and quick.  

She spun to face him, still caught up in the battle rage.

“I think he’s dead,” Thor said mildly.

“Hnrngh,” Tyra grunted.  She touched a hand to her face, and it came away with viscera on it.  She swallowed, and began to look for a rag to wipe it off with from amongst the dead.  

“One got away,” Wolfric said.  “Should we follow?”

“No, let them come to us,” Thor said.  “Catch your breath.  They can die tired.”

Low laughter was his answer, and they waited, checking their armour and wrapping what few injuries they received.  It did not take long for the man who had fled to return, and he brought friends.  A battle cry from within the town drew their eyes.

The street leading deeper into the town was narrow, paved in cobblestones and filth, but down it Thor could see a mob of raiders approaching.  Their blood was up, and they made no secret of their anger upon seeing their dead comrades.  

A shutter in a house across the street cracked open, and Thor saw a child peeking through.  He raised his axe to him, and the kid stared with wide eyes.

“Where are we?” Thor asked, turning to those who had followed him.

“Vinteerholm,” Wolfric answered.

“Who does Vinteerholm belong to?” 

“The Baersonlings,” several answered.

“Who are they?” Thor asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Aeslings!” they shouted.

“What do we do with Aesling raiders?”

“Kill!” came the roar.

Thor turned as the Aeslings neared, Stormbreaker at the ready.  The clouds above began to rumble, lightning arcing across them.  His eyes began to glow, and those that opposed him had only a moment to suspect that perhaps they had made a mistake before the mob crashed into them, and then there was no time for anything but bloodshed.

The storm above only grew, thunder booming with every swing of Stormbreaker.  Thor put himself in the thick of the fight, bellowing and laughing, drawing the eye of every raider to himself and away from his people.  They may not have been his people in truth, but they had followed him into battle, and that was enough for him.  He could have slain this unruly mob before they had reached them, struck them down without the others having to do so much as draw their blades, but that was the easy road.  To do so would be to rob those they had wronged of something important, and he was no impudent young prince, eager for gratification.  He backhanded a frothing raider hard enough to snap his neck, sending him tumbling through two of his fellows.  Every warrior with him would wet their blades, and through them those who couldn’t fight would share victory.  

The gate was a packed scrum now, each group pressing and struggling against the other.  The Aesling’s greater numbers meant little when the gate was only a dozen men wide, and the Baersonlings were reaping a bloody toll.

The Aeslings were feared for a reason though, and a woman screamed in agony as she was stabbed through the gut, scavenged armour not enough to turn the blow.  Thor shouldered a foe out of the way and trampled another as he made for her side, seizing the sword with his spare hand and snapping it off before the wielder could pull it free.  He headbutted them, caving in their skull, and put himself between the fight and the wounded woman.

“Get her to the back!” he ordered to those behind, voice heard clearly above the fight.  

The woman was pulled back, passed through the ranks away from danger, and a man stepped up to take her place, catching a blow upon his shield and leaning in to bite the enemy.  A bellow of pain followed, and red stained teeth spat out most of an ear.

The fight was packed tight now, so tightly that there was hardly any room to breathe, let alone swing a weapon.  More were doing as the ear biter had done, using any inch of space to strike however they could, pulling free daggers to strike between shield and small gaps.  Already savage, now the fight turned vicious.  

A blade snapped against the ribs of his armour, ill made iron no match for the craft of Nidavellir, but not all were so lucky.  He saw Tyra jerk her head away from a stab that would have taken her eye, and instead it only carved a line along her cheek, while another man gasped as a dragger was driven through his armour into his shoulder.  Thor reached out and snapped a man’s neck after they tried to hook his legs out from under him, finding him an immovable boulder in the midst of the brawl.  He scowled.  This fight reminded him more of an assassination attempt outside a tavern than a true battle, and he decided enough was enough.  He took a step forward, the press of bodies yielding before him.  

Unable to contest his strength, the foemen tried to give way, but those behind them had them trapped, eager to join the fight.  He strode through them, crushing or trampling those before him, until he was deep within their ranks, leaving crumpled bodies in his wake.  Those with him were quick to take advantage, pouring into the gap he had created, slitting throats and cracking skulls, as the crack became a breach.  Thor emerged out the other side, finally with room to swing his axe.  He split a howling man wearing nought but pants from shoulder to hip, crushing another’s skull on the backswing.  Wolfric was right behind him, watching his back, but they were not alone.  The scrum turned into two separate fights, the Aeslings split and dismayed after being treated like errant children by the fat blond warrior with the axe, and the Baersonlings pressed their advantage.  Victory was close enough that they could smell it, and they had precious little mercy to show their enemies.  

Thor pulled a huge raider off one of his people, and the smaller man sucked in a lungful of air, bruises already forming around his neck.  He tossed the raider upwards, and he collided with the arch of the gate with a squelch, before falling back to the ground.  He joined the corpses of his fellows, unmoving.  He was the last of them.

“Alright there?” Thor asked, extending a hand.

The man accepted it and nodded, trying to force out words, but all that emerged were rasps.  He swallowed, trying again as he steadied himself.  “Praise you, Thor.”

Thor felt a metaphorical bucket poured back into the well within him, and he beamed, clapping the man on the shoulder.  “Check your fellows,” he said, turning to the others.  “See to our wounded, and the fallen.”  

Those who had heard began to obey, checking each body.  Each body was checked, and dead or alive, any Baersonling taken away from the carnage and outside the walls, while Aeslings received a slit throat.

“This can’t be all of them,” Tyra said, breathing deeply and raggedly.  

“Fifty, perhaps?  And those who were first watching the gate,” Thor said.  

“More to kill then,” Tyra said, grinning.  There was a cut on her cheek, from cheekbone past her ear.  

Thor glanced at the work being done. They had slaughtered the raiders, but it was not without casualties. He saw four dead, and several more than that too wounded to fight on.  “We make for the town centre,” he said.  “Stay together.  They surely still outnumber us, and we will not make easy pickings of ourselves.”  He glanced at the shutters he had spied before; the boy was still peeking through them, looking thoroughly awed.  

“What of the wounded?” Gunnhilde asked.  She had been carrying them away from the scene of the fight.  Her spear dripped with blood, though she was uninjured.  

“I don’t like the idea of leaving them out there,” Harad said, stomping over to join the conversation.  He had picked up a cut along his bare arm, and likely a new scar too.

“The sooner we kill the Aeslings the sooner we can get them to a healer,” Tyra said.  “And we need every blade in the fight to come.”

“We will not leave them where any fleeing foe might make a corpse out of them,” Thor said.  “Nor will we leave them undefended, though we cannot spare many.  Gunnhilde, ready the wounded to be moved.”

Gunnhilde was already moving as Tyra gave a tsk of impatience, but she did not argue with him as he strode away, making for the house across the way.  It was a narrow home, one in a row of many, made from wood stained dark by smoke and two stories high.

Thor knocked three times, rattling the door in its frame.  He heard shifting on the other side, someone lurking in wait, but whoever it was made no move to open the door.  He was about to knock again when there was the sound of a bar shifting, and the door began to creak open, but only an inch.

A gaunt, dark eyed man glowered through the gap.  “What do you want.”

“I saw a child through your shutters, and -”

“You’ll not take him!” the man shrieked, wrenching the door open to reveal a hatchet poised to strike.

Thor caught the axe easily.  “I do not want him,” he said forcefully, staring down at the father.  

The man hesitated, and then there was a pounding of small footsteps on wooden floors.  The boy he had seen through the shutters appeared, a wooden sword in hand.  

“Pa!” the boy said, rushing forward.  

“No!” the man said, trying fruitlessly to free his weapon from Thor’s grip.

“He killed the Aeslings!” the boy chattered excitedly.  “I saw it, I saw it, he cut a man in half with his axe!”

“I told you to stay away - what?” the man said, despair giving way to confusion.

“We’re here to deal with your raider problem,” Thor said politely, letting go and stepping back, away from the door.  

The father looked past him, and glimpsed the carnage in the gate.  His eyes snapped back to Thor.  “You’re no Aesling.”

“I am not.”

“I can fight the Aeslings with you,” the boy said, brandishing his sword.  He couldn’t have been more than six.  “They took Ma away, but we can get her back!”

Thor glanced to the man, and saw a look of masked grief on his face.  He asked a silent question, and received a slow shake of his head in answer.  “I am sure you would sl-defeat many,” Thor said, “but if you come with us, who will guard your father?”  He accepted the small tragedy of the family and focused on the task at hand.  

“We can both fight, right Pa?” the boy asked, looking up at his father.

The boy’s father looked out over the street of corpses, ready to deny his child, before he was distracted.  “Is that Tyra?” he asked, spying the redheaded woman.

“She was among the first I rescued from these scum,” Thor said, “but not the last.”

“And Harad of the Axe,” the man said, more to himself.

“Pa?” the boy asked, insistent.

“No, son,” the man said.  “Warriors like these don’t need our help.”  He sounded beaten.

“But you’re a great warrior,” the boy said, trusting and sure.

The man seemed to fold in on himself at the words like they were physical blows.

“I do have need of a pair of warriors like you,” Thor said.  “We make for the longhouse, but we have wounded.  I require a strong arm to watch over them, and keep them safe.”

The father looked out over the warriors who had slain the raiders occupying his town, gaze lingering in places.  “...bring them in,” he said.  “We’ll hide them.”

“I’ll leave you some aid,” Thor said, speaking less to the child now.  “But we must move quickly.”  He turned, gesturing to the others, and Gunnhilde was already guiding the wounded over.  She had a man’s arm over her shoulder, helping him hop along with a lame leg.  The woman with a broken sword through her belly was being carried on a makeshift stretcher made from spears, and a few more came behind them.  

“Some of the lighter wounded can guard them,” Gunnhilde said to Thor.

“Aye,” Thor said, as the wounded were helped or carried into the house.  

“Son, go ahead and light the lantern in the basement,” the father said.  He was quick to help them inside, getting them off the street and out of sight, but Thor could still feel eyes on them.  Not that it would matter who saw what, but he understood the man’s nerves.

It did not take long to get them squared away, reducing their numbers to thirty.  The gaunt, tired townsman gave him a jerky nod as they departed, a cold hate surfacing just long enough to be seen.  His tale of a lost wife, a mother gone, would not be unique in this town after the depredations of the Aeslings, and Thor felt an angry tide building in his chest.  It was reflected in the clouds above them, and as they made the final march to the town centre, the storm heralded their coming.  It was an ill day to be an Aesling in Vinteerholm.

X

When they neared the square, the Aeslings were waiting.  Some seventy men were arranged in a rough group before the bonfire outside the longhouse, the time it had taken them to deal with the fights at the gate and the wounded allowing them time to prepare.  They were clad as most of the raiders had been, though at their head was a man in better gear than most.  He looked superior even to Reket, the man Gunnhilde had bested, his armour akin to that of some Midgardian knight, a fine sword in one hand.  They waited as Thor and his people approached, making their way down the street that led to them without hurry.  

Shutters and windows opened as they passed, townsfolk looking out while trying to avoid being seen.  The fight by the gate had not been quiet, and the scent of blood was on the air.  Blood and thunder.  They hoped, some even daring to pray, whispering pleas to whatever god might be kind enough to listen, even as they knew it was for nought.  There were no kind gods, not in these lands.  Lightning crashed, and the sky darkened ever further.

Thor came to a stop in the square proper, Wolfric to his right, and Gunnhilde to his left.  Harad was over on the right wing of their group, while Tyra had taken the left, each falling into place without need for discussion.  He beheld what waited for them, and the tide of anger within grew.  

The obvious leader was holding his fine sword, and its tip was at the neck of a young woman.  She was shivering in the cold, naked from the waist up, and she bore the signs of past abuse as she held herself, barely daring to swallow lest the blade at her throat slice it open.  Lightning flashed in the distance, and raindrops began to plink on steel.  

The leader smirked at the growing fury on Thor’s face, and opened his mouth to speak.

Thor did not deign to give him the chance.  The storm erupted, opening to release a deluge, and with it came a lance of lightning.  It struck the raider captain dead on with a roar, leaving all who saw it blinking away blinding afterimages.  When their vision cleared, there was only a smoking corpse in ruined armour, and a sword sticking out of the ground before it.  Thor himself was standing by the once-hostage, staring down at his defeated foe.  No one had seen him move.  He tugged at his cape, freeing it from its clasps, and draped it over the woman.  

Hisses of disgust arose from the raiders, whispers of ‘wizard’ and ‘sorcerer’ shared between them, but words froze in their throats when glowing eyes were turned on them.  

“You are safe,” Thor told the woman.  

Standing within spitting distance of the raiders who had brought fire and ruin and suffering to her life, she believed him utterly.  His eyes glowed with untold power, and the cape she was wrapped in was finer than anything she had ever seen in her life.  “Who are you?” she asked, grasping his arm.

“I am the God of Thunder,” Thor said, and the heavens rumbled with his words.  His gaze drifted over to the Aeslings, and the weight of his disregard was a physical thing.  “Tell me, who were you again?”

There was no answer, and yet he smiled.  

“Ah, that’s right,” he said.  “Dead men.”

This was too much for one man, and he ran at Thor with a bellow.  Thor backhanded him, sending him flying over the rest and into the bonfire behind them.  The burning wood collapsed under his weight, burying and entrapping him.  He gave a single tortured scream, though he continued to thrash, but to no avail.  A wave of fear swept through his fellows, awed by his might.

On another day, Thor would have faced them with a quip and an invitation.  He would have sent them on to Hel with a laugh and a quip to his comrades.  

Not this day.

He readied Stormbreaker, drawing it back and to the side.  With a thought, it would sweep through their ranks like the farmer’s scythe swept through wheat, and - 

The corpse beside him shifted.  

Thor turned, as the body of the raider captain began to swell, bursting from the remains of its shattered armour, skin reddening.  “Go,” he said to the woman in his cape, gently pushing her towards his people and away from the still growing thing.  

She stumbled into a run, disappearing through the ranks between Wolfric and Gunnhilde, but Thor’s eyes never left the mutating beast.  He watched as its cooked flesh split and tore, revealing swollen muscles as spikes of bone grew from its knees and elbows.  

“Khorne!” came a cry from the Aeslings.  “Praise Khorne!”  The cry was taken up by the raiders, and a foul joy rose within them.  “Khorne!  Khorne!  Khorne!”

Thor’s grip tightened on his axe as a cancerous presence descended on the square.  It was eager and hungry, and it fed off the cries of the raiders, directing their faith into the still growing beast.  An extra set of arms sprouted from below its armpits in a shower of blood and gore, but instead of hands they ended in blades of bone.  Yet more flesh split and swelled as it continued to grow, towering over him now, but instead of muscle, fang filled maws were revealed, snake-like tongues flicking out of them.  Its head was tiny on its new body, its eyes so bloodshot there was no white to be seen.  There was not a hint of rational thought behind them.

“Blood for the Blood God!  Skulls for the Skull Throne!” came the roar.  

The beast gave out a howling shriek, lurching for Thor on uneven legs, and its cry made him wince, but he had heard worse.  The Baersonlings were more affected, some collapsing and clapping hands over bleeding ears, many backing away in fear.  Others dropped their weapons entirely, though Gunnhilde and Wolfric only clutched at their heads, staggering.  

Thor had no time to see to his people.  He met the charge of the beast head on, Stormbreaker carving off one arm and blocking a bone blade that sought his neck, while he parried the other with his vambrace.  His boot lashed out, catching it in the belly, and it staggered back.  One of the maws tried to bite his foot as he did, though it was much too slow, and Thor brought his axe around, taking off one leg at the knee.  It fell, all of its mouths screaming in agony, and the raiders faltered in their jeers and taunts.

“Where is your god now?” Thor bellowed, incensed by the foul touch of one of the Chaos Gods.  He could feel their gaze on the fight, could sense the Bloodlust heavy in the air.  He would not have.  He would not.

His words gave his people strength, and those affected by the mental attack regathered themselves, taking up their weapons once more and stepping back up to form ranks once more.  They did not join the fight, and neither did the Aeslings, an unspoken demand forcing them to bear witness.

The mutant did not answer his taunt, thought its screams intensified, and soon he saw why.  The limbs he had removed had begun to grow back, new flesh and bone sprouting in showers of gore.  Already it was forcing itself back to its feet.  

“ KHORNE !  KHORNE !  KHORNE !” the Aeslings chanted, beating their weapons against their shields.  

“Thor!” came the sole answering cry, Wolfric sounding his defiance.  He was not alone for long, as more voices joined with each repetition.  “THOR!  THOR !”

The beast gnashed its teeth together, wary of him now.  Overlarge fangs cut into its mouths, adding to its pain and rage, and its slavering drool hissed and spat where it dripped onto the ground.  It charged mindlessly once more, reaching with clawed hands and blades of bone.  

Thor could not help but sneer.  This was what Bloodlust sent against him?  This was all it could conjure?  It was an insult.  He brought Stormbreaker back, winding up for a swing, not even trying to disguise the blow.  

Unthinking hunger and eagerness for blood was all that could be seen in the beast’s eyes as it neared him, and it was then that Thor struck.  His axe came up in an underhand strike, delivering a mighty blow to its groin and continuing upwards.  From crotch to skull he split it, and it died with that same unthinking hunger on its face as each half of it was carried on to either side of him by its own momentum.  Black blood sizzled in the dirt as the corpse halves thrashed briefly, before they went still.

Thor turned to the Aeslings.  The clamour of each side had fallen silent, and rare was the raider who could meet his eyes.  He cast his gaze over them, these small men who had used their devotion to the cancerous mass of thought they called a god as an excuse to bring terror and misery to their neighbours.  He inspected them, and he found them wanting.

“You are not worthy,” he said.  The storm had arrived in truth during his fight with the cancer spawn, and the rain began to fall in sheets.  Lightning danced amongst the clouds, and the thunder only paused long enough for his words to be heard.  

One raider found some scrap of courage, and he ran screaming at Thor, sword raised.  “Blood for the Blood-”

Thunder boomed, and lightning struck, blinding all who were looking at him.  When their vision returned, all that was left of him was a pair of smoking boots.

“None of you are worthy,” Thor said, and it had the weight of judgement.  

The raiders had only enough time to feel fear, and the heavens opened once more.  Lightning roared, shaking the ground with its might in a display that seemed to last an eternity.  An unknown number of heartbeats later, it came to an end, thunder slowly fading in its wake.  There was only silence, though that may have been because no one could hear in the wake of such elemental fury.  The storm eased, and the rain stopped.

In the quiet, Thor stared at the smoking corpses that were all that remained of the Aesling raiders.  He could see scorched faces screwed up in agony, and the ground they had stood upon had been reduced to a ring of twisted and blackened glass.  He turned away, facing the warriors who had followed him.  Many were awed, some were frightened, but it was the surety and confidence on Wolfric and Gunnhilde that drew his eye.  He had seen similar on the faces of civilians he had rescued on Midgard, but this went further.  This was devotion, and he was not sure how he felt about it.

“Gunnhilde, Tyra,” he said, looking to the two women.

“Hostages, aye God of Thunder,” Gunnhilde said, already moving towards the longhouse that bordered one side of the town square.  Tyra was quick to join her, only pausing to give the smoking bodies a look of disappointment, and several warriors followed in their wake.

“Harad, three longships still wait on the docks,” Thor said, turning to the axeman.  

“I will see them secured,” Harad said.  He gave Thor an indecipherable look before taking half of the remaining fighters, heading towards the river.

Thor turned to his first believer.  “Wolfric, the town must be secured,” he said.  “Take those who remain and scour it for any raiders that linger.”

Wolfric beat his fist against his chest and set about directing the ten men and women left to him.  It was unlikely they would find many, if any at all, but it would be irresponsible not to check.  

Thor’s eye was caught by the sword that the beast had used to threaten the hostage when he had still been a man, still sticking up out of the ground.  It was finely made indeed, and bore a green gem in its hilt.  

“Oh, Wolfric,” Thor said, reaching down to pull the blade free.  It was absent of any foul taint, and he felt confident in his decision.  His follower turned, and he tossed it to him.  “You should have this.  Call it a bonus for your deeds by the gate.”

Wolfric caught it by the handle, surprised but quietly pleased.  He held it out, narrowing his sole eye as he looked down the blade, and gave it a few swings.  He smiled.  “My thanks, God of Thunder.”

Thor gave him a put upon frown, as a teacher might a foolish student.  

“Lord Thor,” Wolfric corrected himself.  

“Bear it well,” Thor said.  “And when I regain my strength…” he trailed off, shrugging.  

Wolfric glanced after Gunnhilde.  “I will,” he swore.  He strode off, intent on his task and fresh steel in his spine.

Thor looked about the square, empty now as it was.  The bonfire had been blown apart by the force of his lightning, leaving small clusters of burning wood scattered about.  He would do no good to those he had set to work by hovering over their shoulders, so he kept himself busy by kicking the wood back into the firepit, piling it up around the half cooked body of the raider he had backhanded into it.  In short order, he had a fire going once more.  There was a woodpile nearby, and from it he dragged a large stump to use as a seat.  He planted himself by the fire, away from the glass and corpses, listening to it crackle and enjoying its warmth.  Distantly, he heard a brief clash of steel on steel, but there were no shouts, and it ended quickly.  

Footsteps reached his ears, shoes squelching through the slush that had come from his brief rainstorm, and he turned from the fire to see who approached.  It was the woman he had rescued, still swathed in his cape, and she was hesitant as she drew near.  

It was the work of a moment to procure another stump for her to use, and he set it down by his own.  At his unspoken invitation, she joined him in staring into the fire.  She did not speak, and he was in no rush to hurry her.

A thought occurred to him, and the woman gasped as his armour faded in a gleam of seidr, leaving him in his comfortable hoodie and sweats.  He began to rummage about in his pockets, until he found what he sought.  Lunchable in hand, he peeled the foil from one corner and offered it to her.  

With a bemused expression, she accepted the offering, inspecting the strange thing.  Her interest rose when she caught a whiff of its contents, and she quickly puzzled out how to get at them.  The wafers, cheese, and ham within were quickly devoured, and then she went looking for crumbs.  Thor smiled at the near rapturous expression she wore.  Truly, Clint had been speaking the truth when he introduced the Midgardian delicacy to him.  

“Thank you,” she said quietly, offering the plastic remains back to him.

“It is no matter,” Thor said, tucking the rubbish away in his pocket.  “I am glad you enjoyed it.”

She swallowed, but found the courage to speak again.  “I mean - for-” she broke off, pulling his cape tighter about himself.

“I know,” Thor said.  “You are safe now.  They can never harm you again.”

The woman inched closer to the fire.  “What if they come back?”

Thor glanced over at the corpses.  “If they do, I will strike them down again.”

“There were more,” the woman insisted.  “They left days ago, but what if they come back?”

Thor frowned at the confirmation.  He had known there was a longship missing, and the numbers they had fought were fewer than they had expected from Tyra’s information, but still he had hoped.  “What is your name?

“Kirsa, God of Thunder,” Kirsa said, glancing at him quickly.  Her eyes were brown, and full of anxious fear.

“Kirsa,” Thor said, meeting her eyes.  “If any raiders return to this town, I will smite them with the fury of the storm, and smash their vessel to splinters.  You have my oath.”

The fear receded, warded off by his promise, but still she was wary.  “Even Sigurd Twice-Slain?” she asked.  

“Even Sigurd Twice-Slain,” Thor said, marking the name.

“He killed my father,” Kirsa said, her voice small.

“Should we meet, he will never slay another,” Thor said.  He ran a thumb along Stormbreaker’s edge where it sat against his knee.  

The longhouse doors were kicked open, drawing their eyes, and Gunnhilde was the first to emerge.  She carried a small child on her hip, and her spear was wet with fresh blood.  The sun began to peak through the clearing clouds, and a beam lit upon her hair, making it glow akin to gold.  

“Who is that?” Kirsa asked, eyes wide and her tone betraying her youth.

“That is Gunnhilde, first of my Valkyries,” Thor said proudly.  “Defender of the innocent and uh, revenger upon the wicked.”

Kirsa’s eyes tracked Gunnhilde as more emerged from the longhouse, all carrying children or guiding them along.  A pair of old women came with them, squinting in the sun, as if they hadn’t seen it for days.  They too bore signs of abuse, one missing an ear and the other with one eye swollen shut.

Thor’s mood darkened.  “This Sigurd will reap what he has sown,” he said.  “He will come to regret commanding these raids.”

Kirsa glanced up at him, tearing her eyes from Gunnhilde.  “Sigurd wasn’t the one who ordered this.”

“Was he not the leader who fled in the days past?” Thor asked.

“Aye God of Thunder, he led the raid,” Kirsa said, nodding, “but he didn’t order it.”

“Then who?” Thor demanded.

Kirsa leant in, as if afraid to speak the name too loudly.  “They call him the Aesling,” she said.  “Valmir Aesling.”

“Valmir the Aesling,” Thor said, as if tasting the name.  Gone were the days where he would tempestuously swear revenge and go haring off on an adventure, but he would note the name nonetheless.  “I had thought to let some flee, and spread their fear amongst their fellows,” he said.  “I do not think I mind that none have survived.”

“Good,” Kirsa said vehemently.

They fell into silence, watching as the warriors who had rescued the hostages began to lead them towards the fire.  Tyra had a child on each hip and one seated on her shoulders, the domestic image greatly at odds with the blood splattered all across her front.  The clouds above continued to fade and a bright day dawned over Vinteerholm.  

Gunnhilde reached them first, the toddler on her hip peeking out at them from where he had hidden his face in her neck.  Thor raised his arm in a wave, brightening at the memory of the times Steve had taken him along to visit the children’s hospitals.  

“Children,” Gunnhilde said, voice raised.  “This is Thor, God of Thunder and the man who has saved us all.”

There was a doubtful silence, as the hostages took in his hoodie and sweats, faces unimpressed.  A flash of panic crossed Gunnhilde’s face, and Thor held back a chuckle.

Thor rose, calling on storm and seidr, and his armour rippled into being across his body once more.  “Call me Thor,” he said, “or Lord Thor if you want to be formal.”

Doubt turned to awe, and Thor beamed down at all the little faces staring up at him.  No one spoke, and the silence began to stretch out.

He clapped his hands together.  “Well.  Yes.  We should see about finding your families, little ones.”

“We know them,” one of the old women said, the one with the eye bruised shut.  “We can bring them.”  

“Gunnhilde will protect you,” Thor said, glancing at his Valkyrie.  She nodded quickly.  “Tyra, take the warriors and join Wolfric in cleansing the town.”  The redhead grinned, revealing bloody teeth, and he chose to believe it was from an unlucky splatter.  

“What about the children?” the other old woman demanded.  Her voice was hoarse, and there were finger shaped bruises around her neck to go with her missing, scabbed over ear.  

“The children are under my protection,” Thor said, meeting her gaze.  Stormbreaker jumped up into his waiting hand with a hum of Uru.  

The elder inspected him, gimlet eyes running from toe to crown, and she gave him a grudging nod.  “...praise Tor.”

“Ah, it’s ‘Thor’,” he said.  “Easy mistake to make, no harm done.”

She gave him a suspicious look, but said nothing, only sharing a glance with the other woman, who on closer inspection looked to be a sister or a cousin.  

“Gather round children,” Thor said, giving Gunnhilde and Tyra a nod to send them about their tasks.  They departed, leaving Thor and Kirsa alone with the children.  He took up the stump he had sat on in one hand and began slicing discs off it with his axe.  “Here, take a seat to keep yourselves dry.”  As he cut, he handed each child a disc and they sat, knees drawn to their chests to keep their feet out of the slush on the ground.  When he was done, he had used up his seat, and Kirsa made to rise to give hers to him, but he shook his head.  

The children had watched him work, eyes wide, and now that he was done they watched him still, and Thor suddenly realised he had volunteered himself to keep two score odd children occupied until their families could be found.  He glanced at Kirsa, but he was only met with more of the same.  The silence verged on awkward.

“Who wants to hear a tale of my adventures?” Thor asked brightly.  When in doubt, tell a story.  It had worked for the hospital visits, and it would work here.

The children perked up.  They looked to be in better shape than he would expect, having been held hostage as long as they were, but the worst he could see were deep bags under their eyes and dirty clothes.  The promise of a story breathed new life into them.

“Many centuries ago, in a distant land, a young and foolish warrior sought adventure,” Thor began.  “With him were his boon companions, the Warriors Three - Fandral, Hogan, and Volstagg - the Lady Sif, and the warrior’s brother, Loki Silvertongue.”

Thor warmed to his tale, beginning to pace back and forth with the fire behind him.  The attention and awe of the children warmed him more than any fire ever could, and it helped him ignore the knowledge that he was the only person from the story that yet lived.  

“This band of heroes came to a cold place much like this, filled with people much like you, and though they were hardly more than children, they did their best to aid those they found, for their admiration was pleasing to them…”

He continued speaking, talking of a feud between villages, of the stronger village that was led by a giant of a man taking advantage of the weaker.  As he did, he glimpsed figures gathering in the streets beyond the square, unwilling to come closer.  A broad gesture to emphasise the size of the strong and cruel giant let him glance over his shoulder, and he saw the same on the other side of the square, yet he continued with his story.  He had Stormbreaker in hand.  No matter what came, the children would be safe.

“...the warrior was foolish indeed, because he became very drunk at the feast marking peace between the villages, so drunk that he misplaced his hammer, a magical weapon forged by the dwarfs of Nidavellir…”

From the watchers, a figure emerged at a run.  It was a woman, and her shawl flapped behind her as she approached, heedless of anything but the child her gaze was fixed on.  She shouted a name as she neared, and the boy jumped up and turned, the tale forgotten.  Thor held back a pout as his story was interrupted, but he couldn’t complain overmuch as mother and son were reunited, the boy swept up into a crushing hug.  

The mother checked her son over for injuries with a frantic energy, but on finding none she looked up to Thor.  “Thank you, thank you lord.”

“I was happy to help,” Thor said.  He could have said it was nothing, and perhaps the effort was to him, but it was everything to her.  

“What do we call you, lord?” the woman asked.

“That’s Thor,” the son piped up.  “He’s the god of thunder.”

The woman paled, and her grip around her child tightened.

“He was tellin’ us a story,” the boy added.

“You may join us if you wish,” Thor said generously.

The woman took her son’s seat, cradling him in her lap protectively.  Though he was perhaps a little old for such, he did not protest, already looking back to Thor with an expectant gaze.

“Right, where was I…” Thor said.  He spied a number of other townsmen approaching cautiously, now that no harm had befallen the mother, but he focused on his story.  “Yes, the strong and cruel giant was unhappy with the peace he had been forced into, and he saw his chance to take his revenge upon the ones responsible.  He stole away with the magical hammer, fleeing back to his village, where he hid it away…”

His audience grew, the bravest and most desperate coming in search of news.  The glassed patch of the square and the bodies on it received a wide berth and many glances, and a game of whispers was played as small groups joined.  Thunder god they said in hushed tones, and if they believed or not they respected and feared a man in armour such as he wore, to say nothing of the axe he held and gestured with, the weapon turned into a prop to entertain children.  

“...the giant was cunning, and he knew the value of what he had stolen, and refused to reveal where it was hidden,” Thor said, his tone lowering, inviting listeners to lean in to hear him.  “But then rumours began to spread, helped by Loki Silvertongue, telling of a golden beauty from a neighbouring kingdom.  Her beauty and strength were unmatched, so the tales said, and she was in search of a husband - but only one who could provide a bride price of something greater than mere material wealth.”

Quiet reunions were taking place under his gaze as parents found their children, holding them close after being separated for who knows how long.  More and more residents approached, those who had witnessed the end of the raiders, or heard word from those who had.  Many were not sure what to think, having come expecting a force of their own tribe, only to find a strange blond giant telling tales, but questioning those with power was a dangerous idea at the best of times, and this giant clearly had power.

“...the wedding came, and Floki, the bride’s brother, demanded to see the hammer Mjolnir.  The cruel giant was besotted with his bride to be, even hidden by a veil as she was, and he brought it forth without thinking,” Thor said.  “Can you guess what happened next?” he asked the children.  Many now were in a parent’s arms, or held close to one’s side, but they still listened eagerly.  

“Was it a trick?”  “Did Floki steal the hammer too?”  “The warrior was hiding in the crowd!”

“All very close, but not quite!” Thor said, giving a booming laugh.  He had been incensed at the time, furious with his brother’s plot and with his father for the rules laid upon him for interacting with the Midgardians, but a thousand years on he felt only nostalgia.  “The bride took off her veil, to reveal the foolish warrior!  The cruel giant gaped at his bearded foe, giving him time to seize his hammer and strike him with a mighty blow!”  He swung his axe through the air, hammer side first, and distant thunder rumbled with it, simulating the blow.  

“What happened next?”

Thor spent a moment to consider his audience against the slightly debauched events that had followed.  “Ah, they finished the wedding feast, no need to waste good food, and everyone returned home afterwards to get some sleep.  The end.”

A ripple of impressed noises ran about his audience, mostly from the children, but some of the adults joined in as well.

“Are you the god of stories too?” a child demanded.

Thor’s smile faded.  “No, that was my brother, Loki.”

“Like in the story?”

“Exactly like the story!” Thor said.  “The tales my brother spun, when the mood suited him…” he trailed off, before shaking himself lest a familiar melancholy sink in.

“Does that - are  you saying you were the warrior from the tale?” Kirsa asked, hesitant.

“Gods can’t get drunk,” someone said, but they sounded doubtful.

“Not from mortal wines, but I was young and foolish,” Thor said, “and I had borrowed a keg from the cellars of my father.”

“It must have been long ago,” Kirsa said.  “You’re so -” she broke off, gesturing at him.

“To some it would seem that way,” Thor said.  “I am not so young any more, but I can still be foolish from time to time.”

Many glances were exchanged amongst the crowd, now grown to a healthy size, as something unsaid seemed to pass between them.  

“What was this land called, god of thunder?” a man dared to ask.

Thor frowned, thinking.  “I can’t recall.  It was long ago, and I’m not sure which realm it would fall within today.”

There was a pregnant pause, as many seemed to be working up the courage to question him further, but it was broken by yet more arrivals.  Not townsmen this time, but Harad and his people.  

“Harad!” Thor called, drawing attention to them.  “How did you fare?”

“The longships are taken,” Harad said, the crowd shuffling out of his way to allow him to approach.  “We freed those within.”  His voice was hard as iron, and there was blood on his axe.  He had lost no warriors, indeed his numbers had grown, as he was accompanied by a dozen hollow eyed young men and women.  

“I see,” Thor said, his tone going flat.  His gaze was fixed on the one amongst them that did not belong, a limping man with his hands bound before him, blood dripping from a broken nose.  “And this one?”

“Surrendered,” Harad said.  “Claims he has knowledge on where those that were taken went.”

An ugly mood descended on the crowd, as they turned nearly as one on the Aesling prisoner.  The promise of violence was heavy in the air, the joy of reunions and the tale all but snuffed out.

Thor approached the captive, drawing all eyes.  He stared down at the man, head and shoulders above him, and felt nothing but contempt.  Here was a man who preyed on those weaker than he, and who proved himself a coward when the consequences of his actions caught up with him.  “I will make you a deal,” he said.  “You will tell me everything you know, and I will give you a clean death.”

The raider looked very much like he wanted to spit, but after a glance at the axe in Thor’s hand decided better of it.  He still found the nerve to complain.  “That’s no deal at all.  I tell you what I know, and you set me loose downstream.”

“You will tell me everything you know,” Thor repeated, “or I will leave your judgement up to the townspeople.”

Shifty eyes darted around, taking in the crowd, hungry for vengeance.  Then he glanced back at those that Harad had rescued from the longships, and he shuddered at the looks in their eyes.  He nodded quickly, tongue stilled by fear.  

“Good,” Thor said, putting on a fake grin as he clapped the prisoner on the shoulder, nearly buckling his knees.  He caught sight of Wolfric and Tyra entering the square from a side street, roughhousing with the warriors with them.  The blood on his new sword and the smirk on her face told him they had been successful.   “Vinteerholm is liberated,” he announced, turning to the crowd, “but the work is not yet done.  Spread the good word, and give aid to your neighbour if you can.  The Aeslings are gone, but the work is not done.  We will meet in the longhouse in two hours, so you might plan for your future.”

“Praise Thor!” Wolfric shouted, having joined them.  “Protector of Man, God of Thunder!”

“Aye, Praise Thor!” Tyra called.  “A better god than those that abandoned me!”

Thor felt somewhat like that one Midgardian skald he had met, with the hype man, but the townspeople still caught on and cheered.  “Thor!  Praise Thor!”  Some were sincere, but most didn’t want to seem ungrateful, or be left out.  He couldn’t say how he knew, but he knew it for truth, knew it in his bones, just like he knew Wolfric and Gunnhilde believed, and now Tyra too.  The crowd began to disperse, the people starting the arduous process of picking up their lives, and he smiled as a rescued child waved at him over their father’s shoulder.  He waved back, feeling the first wavering flicker of a connection, warm and bright.  

Vinteerholm was free.  A worthy day’s work.

Chapter Text

The longhall of Vinteerholm was a larger affair than any Thor had seen in this land so far.  Much more than a single large hall, it had a catwalk around the walls for an upper level, and a number of extra rooms on the ends and sides for all manner of business, as well as the basement that had been used to hold the child hostages by the Aeslings.  The central feature was still the feast hall, a stone firepit running its length, long tables set alongside it.  It was full with what seemed like every town resident now, and the air was a heady mix of joy and wrath.  

As the fire crackled merrily, food and ale flowed.  The tables groaned under the bounty upon them, the stores of the Aeslings having been looted as the Baersonlings reclaimed their own stolen treasures.  Families could be seen crying tears of happiness as they spoke, while elsewhere others shouted and argued.  The hall could scarcely contain the cacophony.

Thor watched it all, keeping his thoughts to himself for now.  At his sides were Wolfric and Gunnhilde, eating heartily.  Tyra was in the thick of her people, shouting down a large bearded man, while Harad was off to the side with his own warriors.  From his position in the chieftain’s chair, Thor kept one ear and his good eye on the hall as he tucked into the meal before him with a will, very pleased that it wasn’t mammoth.  Taking the throne-like chair had only partially been his decision, Wolfric and Gunnhilde almost steering him towards it.  It was likely for the best; even up at the head table, those nearest to him were visibly checking themselves, quieter and more contained than the rest further down the hall.  

Tyra had evidently had enough of the man she was arguing with, for she reared back and delivered a mighty headbutt.  The sound of his cracking nose was audible even over the clamour of the hall, and Thor winced, laughing, as the man staggered back, disorientated.

“She is a fierce warrior,” Gunnhilde said.

Thor turned, and saw she had been watching the same conversation.  

“Will you make her a Valkyrie?” she continued.

“I do not think she would want the role,” Thor said, considering.

Gunnhilde looked so offended on his behalf that Thor couldn’t help but laugh.

“My Valkyries will be more than great warriors,” Thor said.  “More important will be their reasons for marching to war.”

“A Valkyrie is a defender of the innocent,” Gunnhilde said as she thought, echoing his words.

“You know, there are tales of one called-” Wolfric began.

There was a sudden uproar, cutting his words short, and a fistfight broke out.  Thor began to move, but Harad was already there, leaping over his table and wading into the scrum.  The greybeard dispensed slaps with great force, knocking men a third of his age from their feet and rapidly cooling the ardour of those looking for a fight.  

Wolfric’s single eye was fixed on Harad, his words forgotten.  “You’ll want to watch that one, Lord Thor.”

“Is that so.”  Thor looked between the two men, a light frown on his face.

“Harad of the Axe has many sagas sung about his deeds, and not all are well,” Wolfric said, watching as Harad returned to his seat.  

“He implied as such, when he warned me of Gunnhilde’s spear,” Thor said.  “He spoke of his axe, and the corruption that once possessed it.”

Wolfric grunted.  “That’s the tale.  I don’t know how true any of it is.  All I know is that he killed my father.”

Thor clenched a fist, smoothing his expression deliberately.  “Had I known, I would not have asked you to fight alongside him.”

“No,” Wolfric said, shaking his head.  “Looking back, as a man…he was right to do so.  Not that my uncle would agree.”

“A complicated tale, by the sounds,” Thor said, taking another bite of his meal to give him time to ponder his words.

“Aye,” Wolfric said.  He looked like he was about to say more, but he held his tongue.  

“His past is not unknown,” Gunnhilde said.  “He settled where he did for a reason, and has lived there without reprisal for the same.”

Thor hummed, considering.  The greybeard had hinted at his past when they met, but news of the corrupted spear had demanded the bulk of his attention at the time.  His line of thought was diverted when he spied a child sitting by his parents down the hall, staring up at him.  The boy was clutching at a wooden toy axe, but what caught his eye was the etchings on the head of it, roughly carved into the wood by an unsteady hand.  They resembled Stormbreaker.  He winked at the child, waving.

The boy burrowed into his mother’s side, but peeked back after a moment, and waved shyly back.  

“He sits in the chair, so why not?!  Let him who seeks to rule do so!”

The noise of the hall died suddenly, and a wave of heads turned to the head table.  Thor put on his Stern Avenger face and hoped there was no food in his beard.  The man who had spoken was glaring up at the table, though its effect was somewhat lessened by the red handprint fairly glowing on his face.  

“Our people are stolen away by Aeslings, and every moment they fly further from our reach,” the man said, raising his voice for the whole hall to hear.  “We should be planning our pursuit, not feasting!”

“We don’t have the warriors!” another man answered, pushing forward to be heard.  “Our defences are sundered, and you want to strip the town clean of what remains?”  He also bore evidence of Harad’s problem solving skills on his face.

“Easily said by one whose family is in this hall,” the first man spat.  

Violence threatened to bubble over once more, and Thor rose to his feet.  “Enough!” he boomed.  Silence fell.  “You are neighbours, not foes, and you will act like it!”

Feet were shuffled, but it did not last long.

“Then what will you do?” the first man demanded.  He was of middling size, with blond hair and one arm bandaged.  “You sit in the seat of our leader.  Do we hunt the dogs down, or cower here?”

“That,” Thor began slowly, “is not my decision.  I may be Thor, but I am a god, not your direct ruler.”

Whatever the people had expected, it was not that.  The flame in the lanterns lining the walls were visibly buffeted by the wave of noise that followed as near everyone tried to have their say at once, and Thor winced.  This was why the lustre of leadership had faded for him.  A thunderclap boomed through the hall, silencing them once more.

“Perhaps if you spoke one at a time,” Thor suggested, “you might hear one another.”

“Why do you not wish to lead us?” a woman asked.  It was Kirsa, the one he had rescued from the raider leader.  She had found proper clothes, but she still wore his cape like a cloak.  “You are so-” she broke off, gesturing to him.

“I cannot earn your faith if I am to give you orders,” Thor said, speaking to the hall at large.  “I am God of Thunder, but that does not entitle me to your worship.  I have slain your foes, but that does not put you in my debt.  I have done what has been done because I am Thor, not because I seek to rule you.”

“Then why are you here?” a frustrated voice asked.

“I am here because raiders sought to harm the innocent,” Thor said.  He shrugged, sinking back into his chair.  “Man must chart their own path.  All I can do is offer guidance.”

The man that had been for pursuit had simmered down some, though he was still frustrated, looking about the hall.  “I nominate Tyra of Vinteerholm as chief,” he said.  

A murmur ran through the hall in response, more considering than anything.  

His most vocal foe was quick to answer.  “I nominate Harad of the Axe!”

This suggestion received far more vocal a response, with some supportive, but just as many against it.  Arguments were already starting to pick up again, though blows had yet to be thrown.  Thor settled in to watch, pleased that his name was no longer in contention.  Tyra was deep in conversation with the man to nominate her, while Harad looked to be trying not to rub his temples.  His unfinished plate beckoned, and he tucked in once more.  

“We will return to your village tomorrow I think,” Thor said to Wolfric.  “Let your sisters know that you are well.”

“Thank you, Lord Thor,” Wolfric said.  “If I delayed, they would make me regret it.”

“Ah, siblings,” Thor said, reminiscing.  

Gunnhilde drained her goblet, setting it down too harshly as she stared down the hall.  

He grimaced internally.  He had not meant to remind her of her lost sister.  “I lost count of the times my brother tried to kill me,” he said.  “Mostly it involved trickery.  I was always stronger, of course.”

“You have a brother?” Wolfric asked.

“I did,” Thor said.  The hurt was old now, though it had not lessened.  “And a sister, though I do know how many times she tried to kill me.”

“Your family seems…spirited,” Wolfric said. 

“They were,” Thor said.  For a moment, he wondered again how the fight with Thanos aboard the Statesman would have gone had Hela been there with them, united in purpose, but he pushed the thought aside.  He knew well where such spiralling thoughts would lead.  “You will like little Astrid and Elsa,” he said to Gunnhilde.  “A Valkyrie would be a good role model for them.”

“As you say,” Gunnhilde said, though the thought did seem to distract her from her thoughts.

“That would be for the better,” Wolfric said, glancing between them.  “Our mother died in the birthing bed, and they have been different, since the raid.”

They fell into a conversation about the two girls, half Wolfric complaining about them, half bragging, even as the debate raged in the hall.  Half of it didn’t even seem to be about who to make chief, but more generally about what to do next.  To Thor’s ear, it seemed that the decision would come down to which choice people thought would deliver what plan of action they most desired.

He would stay out of it, he decided.  Who they chose, and what they decided, would be up to them.  He would only be so present as to guide them away from the path of cancerous gods who lorded over this land.  The ebb and flow of the two forming groups arguing, swaying and being swayed, could sort themselves out.

The feast had been forgotten for the most part, as politics took centre stage.  It was likely only those with the most status or nowhere to go who were present now and he was glad that the excess had been handed out to the townspeople earlier, those who didn’t wish to or couldn’t attend taking it thankfully.  His eye was caught by Kirsa, the young woman glancing up from her table to him and back down, on the verge of working herself up to something but unable to cross the threshold.  

Draining his goblet, Thor rose, heading for her.  His movement drew the eye of many, but when they saw that he was not approaching either nexus of arguing figures, their interest eased.  Kirsa looked up again in time to notice him approaching, and her eyes gave away her panic.  He smiled, attempting to set her at ease, and took a seat next to her in one of the many spaces vacated by the debaters.  A moment later, Wolfric and Gunnhilde sat with him, having followed in his wake.

“How do you fare, young Kirsa?” Thor asked.

“I am well, God of Thunder,” Kirsa said, looking up.  She creased his cape in her grip, running her hands over it as if to savour the feel.  “I can return your-”

“In time,” Thor said.  “Let it warm you for now.  And please, call me Thor.  Lord Thor if you must.”

“Aye, Lord Thor,” Kirsa said, drawing the cape closer about herself.  

“Have you a place to sleep tonight?” Thor asked.  Several fires had been lit in the taking and occupation of the town, leaving burnt scars dotted within its walls.

“I do,” Kirsa said.  “My mother, she is old, so she was left alone mostly.”  She shivered.  “I went to see she was safe, but I wanted to see -” she hesitated briefly “-the meeting, so I came here.”

Left unsaid was that Kirsa had not been left alone, and Thor kept his expression clear of the familiar anger he felt.  “I am glad she is well,” he said.  “Have you seen what you wished to see?”

Kirsa jerked her gaze away from Gunnhilde, nodding.  “I have,” she said.  She hesitated again.  “Only…”

“Ask,” Thor bade her.

“What does it mean to worship you?” she asked, voice all in a rush.  “You said your Valkyries protect the innocent and take revenge on the wicked. Is that the worship you want?”

Thor hummed, trying to hide the fact that he had little idea how to answer such a question.  “Well, I would ask you to be brave,” he said.

Kirsa looked stricken.  “Oh.”

The blond giant panicked.  “You do not need to be a warrior to be brave!” he said. 

“I am not brave, Lord Thor,” Kirsa said, drawing in on herself.  “I only came here because you said you would be.”

“You could have hidden in your home, could you not?” Thor asked.  He knew the answer to this malaise.  “Fastened the shutters, barred the door, and hidden your head beneath your pillow?”

“I had to come here,” Kirsa insisted, holding back a flinch, shivering.  “To where you could shelter me.”

“Across the town?  To the place where you were held captive, where you were hurt?” Thor asked.  “Kirsa.  Bravery is not the absence of fear.  It is knowing fear, and doing what must be done in spite of it.  Do not doubt that you are brave, for you have survived terrible things.”

Kirsa’s shivers eased as she absorbed his words.  “You are a kind god.”

“That’s another good point,” Thor said.  He took up a flagon of ale, and topped up Kirsa’s mug.  “Be kind to others.  Help them if you can, but even a moment of compassion can do wonders.”

“He stands for strength,” Wolfric said suddenly.  He and Gunnhilde had been listening, and now he shared his own insight.  “For groves held sacred and clear of betrayal.  For the duty of protecting those weaker.  He is the storm that scours the darkness of monsters.”  The words were an echo of what Thor had told him the day after they met, when he had felt despair, before Thor had shown him the light.  The light of the storm.  

“For being there,” Gunnhilde said.  “Wherever you are needed, to shield the innocent.”  She made to speak further, but Thor could see the moment she failed to translate her own martial experience for Kirsa’s standing.

“The old women, who watched the children,” Thor said, remembering the elders who had been rescued by Gunnhilde and Tyra.  “Their deeds are pleasing to me.  They showed bravery.”

“Even though they do not worship you?” Kirsa asked.

“It matters not to me if the deed is done in my name,” Thor said, shrugging.  “I approve all the same.  They shielded the children, and in that act they were mighty.”

“One of the raiders,” Kirsa said, gaze going distant.  “He…he liked the children.  I put a sickness in his food.”

“That sounds like a great deed of bravery to me,” Thor said gently.  

“Then I could worship you,” Kirsa said, rallying now, a fire growing in her brown eyes.  “You would not turn me away?”

“I would turn away only those whose deeds would make me their enemy,” Thor said.  A sudden thought of home.  Noobmaster69.  He scowled, dismissing the memory of the small foe.  “Those who seek to stand above by treading on the backs of those beneath them, who prey on the weak, who mistake strength of arms for strength of purpose.”  He turned his thoughts away from the many tyrants he had fought in his years, and smiled at Kirsa.  “You, I would welcome.”

“Then I am yours,” Kirsa said, earnest and sincere.

Thor’s smile grew into a beam as he felt her faith, already reaching towards him, settle in full.  A new connection bloomed.  “Excellent!” he boomed, again drawing eyes, but he paid them no mind.  “As long as your faith is true, I will be true to you, and you will find a place in Asgard when you pass from this world.”

“I will be true,” she said, fiercer now, the look incongruous on her soft features.  “What would you have me do?”

“Plant some trees?” Thor suggested.  “Groves are nice.  The town could use a place of peace.”

“I will see it done,” Kirsa said, with more intensity than gardening plans likely warranted.  

The clamour of the leadership debate rose even higher, before suddenly stopping.  Thor looked over, seeing Tyra and Harad facing one another in one of the gaps in the fire pit.  They were speaking, but between the crackle of the fire and the murmuring of the audience, he could not make out what they said.  Harad inclined his head, and Tyra inclined hers in turn, before he stepped back to rejoin the table of warriors he had brought from his village.  The murmuring of the crowd began to grow.  

“I am Tyra of Vinteerholm!” she announced, silencing the hall.  Short red hair shone dark in the firelight, the same shade as the bloodstains on her clothing that spoke to her deeds.  “I will strike the Aeslings, and take back what they stole from us!  Will you have me as your chieftain?”

A roar was her answer, tankards and fists raised high.  

“Then I will lead you!  We will hunt down the Aesling dogs, rescue our people, and make them fear the day they ever came here!” Tyra shouted.  She raised a muscled arm, fist clenched.  “Thor be with us, as we bring a storm upon our foes!”

Another roar, and many shouted his name, though Tyra was the most devout.  

“For as long as you fight to defend the innocent,” Thor said, his voice rumbling through the hall, “you will have my blessing.”

Tyra’s answering grin was more akin to a wolf than anything, but grin she did, and her people cheered, no matter the depth of their faith or if they held other gods in their heart.  

The night was young, and the acclamation of Tyra seemed to be the signal for the celebration to truly begin.  What children there were found themselves shuffled out by a parent, and somewhere someone had found a drum of some sort, and was playing it with enthusiasm and a little bit of skill.  

Thor settled in for a night of revelry, raising his goblet to Tyra as she took the chieftain’s chair.  She met his gaze, clasping her wrists where once she had been bound by iron, and raised her own.  They shared a drink.  Nothing more needed to be said.

X x X

Thor dreamed.

He walked through Asgard, Old and New and all at once, taking in the empty streets.  It should have been a place of life and laughter, but it was deserted, empty, abandoned.  After the heat and revelry of the longhall, the absence was all the more pointed.  Thor wandered, listless.  He felt tired, but not to his bones.  It was the kind of tiredness that told him he was nearly recovered after exerting himself, but it was there all the same.  

Through gardens he passed, but they held no scent of flowers, and past training halls he walked, though there was no sound of combat.  He yearned for the emptiness to be filled, but at the same time he knew that with the filling there would be tragedy to equal the joy.  He did not know how he knew, just that he did.  

He was not sure how long he walked, though it was long enough to recognise several places from his past, side by side despite the literal Realms that were once between them.  Though they looked the same, they all lacked the soul they once held, for now at least.  

Then, something caught his attention.  Crows, circling outside the city walls.  It was a sight he was familiar with.  Scavengers always came, after a battle.  

Through Asgard he ran, Old and New and all at once, until he had returned to the main gates.  The gleaming gold barrier parted before him, revealing the lands outside the city.  Heimdall was there of course, ever alert, and Thor followed his gaze.  

A scene of carnage waited.  Charred corpses and sundered bodies littered the fields on either side of the path, and this time there were no faceless children playing in them.  They were occupied only by the dead.  

“Were we attacked?” Thor demanded, Stormbreaker suddenly in his hand.  

“Were we attacked, my King,” Heimdall said, “you would have heard my horn.”

Thor eased, letting his axe lower, though he made no move to release it.  “Who did this?”

“You did.”

Thor looked askance at his guardian, and the man gestured at the bodies.

“Look, and see.”

Thor looked, and he saw.  The bodies scattered about his fields were not just any bodies; they were the bodies of his foes, of the Aesling raiders he had slain in Vinteerholm.  Parasites in life, now they watered the earth of his domain, giving sustenance, little as it was.  

It was not every man slain in the battle, for his was not the hand that had taken every life, but it was a sizeable harvest nonetheless.  The mutated beast that their leader had been reduced to was at the top of the pile, lifeless eyes staring at the sky as his blood soaked into the earth.  

“Good riddance,” Thor said, before another face caught his eye.  Ale froth mixed with blood in their beard.  It was the man he had tried to flyte, and whose throat Wolfric had cut.  “You said I did this?”  He turned to face his friend.

“By your hand, or sincerely in your name,” Heimdall said, yellow eyes piercing.  “It is due to you all the same.”

Thor rumbled an agreement, turning back to the harvest.  The corpses themselves were starting to dissolve into the ground, sinking and fading.  “Good,” he said.  “A fine crop.”

“First of many, huh big guy?” a woman asked.

His head turned quickly, and beheld Natasha, clad in golden armour.  

“Just make sure the red goes to the fields, not your ledger,” she said.  “Be seeing you.”

X 

When Thor woke, he did so slowly.  He was laid out on a hard wooden bench, and the scent of smoke drifted past his nostrils.  Without opening his eyes, he reached into his pocket, already knowing what he would find.  His fingers clasped foil and plastic, and he sighed.  Another lunchable.  

He rubbed sleep from his eyes as he forced himself up.  He had slept on a seat in the longhall, leaving his back to protest, but from his memories of the night prior it wouldn’t ache nearly as much as the heads of some.  He levered his legs over with a groan, noting that he had lost his shirt at some stage.  More memories returned.  It seemed the celebration had gotten…raucous.  He hadn’t realised Gunnhilde could bend that much. 

Retrieving the inexplicable thing from his pocket, Thor beheld the Midgardian product.  He knew it was no great delicacy, but its value and deliciousness came not from the quality of its make, but because it had been shared with him by a friend.  

But why then, did they keep appearing now?

Thor’s brow furrowed as he beheld it.  They appeared each time he dreamed of Asgard, Old and New and all at once, but how?  Was he responsible, somehow?  Were they being sent to him?

Glancing around at the longhall full of comatose and semi-comatose people, he decided that deciphering the puzzle of the reappearing lunchable could wait for later, when it was needed.

“Thor,” a voice rasped, drawing his eye.  

It came from beneath his bench, and he peered down to see who it was.  He brightened as he saw them laying on the floor, covered in his shirt.  “Good morning, Gunnhilde.  You were most enthusiastic last night.”

Gunnhilde made a sound of acknowledgement, holding her head.  “Ma always said I was too competitive.  That ‘limbo’ game was something new.”

“I enjoyed it when it was introduced to me, and thought to pay it forward,” he said.  “How do you fare?”

She made a sound of tortured disgust.

Thor nodded sagely.  “Close your eyes and rest.  I will fetch you water.”  

A grateful sound answered him.

Rising to his feet, Thor began to cast around for water, though none was immediately apparent.  Well, in the worst case she could at least have some hair of the dog.  

Fortunately for Gunnhilde, it did not take him long to find a waterskin, and one would think he had bestowed the mead of the gods upon her; she was so grateful.  Few others in the hall were stirring, and he took a seat on the bench again, sitting over her legs.  She craned her neck, sipping at it slowly with her eyes still closed.  Her free hand groped around for something, disquiet crossing her face when what she sought wasn’t beside her.

“What do you seek?” Thor asked her.

“Spear,” Gunnhilde said, voice less hoarse now.  She forced her eyes open, and tried to shift out from under the bench, though her face paled alarmingly.

“Easy,” Thor said.  “Reach out with your mind, as if to call it.”

Gunnhilde listened, ceasing her struggles, or maybe it was the nausea proving too much.  Slowly, she levered her upper body out from under the bench, and squinted up at the ceiling.

Thor looked up, following her gaze, and saw a curious sight.  The spear he had wrested from Bloodlust and blessed in his own image was lodged in the ceiling, hanging vertically.  “How did that happen?” he asked.

“I think I threw it up there when I beat Tyra in your game,” Gunnhilde said.  She raised a hand, as if to call it, but visibly thought better of it.  

“You don’t need to fear your weapon,” Thor said, guessing her thoughts.

“I almost impaled myself when first I called it,” Gunnhilde said, closing one eye so as to better glower at him.

He rubbed his head.  “Ha ha, yes, you did,” he said.  “But why should your weapon be a threat to you?”

“Because it is very sharp and moves very fast,” Gunnhilde said, speaking slowly for his benefit.  

“Why should it continue to move once you grasp it?” Thor asked.  “Try it.”

On the floor, hungover and dubious, Gunnhilde only considered his words for a moment before accepting them.  She raised an arm, reaching up, and the spear in the ceiling quivered, but only for a moment - in the next, it shot down as if launched, and landed in her palm with a meaty thwack.  Her elbow was driven down into the stone floor, and she grunted, but it was leagues better than having to use her full body to bleed off the spear’s momentum.

“See?” Thor said, beaming.  “Already you improve.”

Gunnhilde groaned, less enthused, and closed her eyes once more.  “Thank you, Lord Thor.  Please go away.”  She curled up around her spear and the waterskin, turning her face from him.  

Knowing well her suffering, Thor beat a quiet retreat and left the hall and those sleeping within it behind.  Outside, the morning sun was shining, reflecting from a soft dusting of snow and the circle of glass that was left of when he had made his displeasure known.  Someone had taken care of the corpses, and the roaring bonfire in the square spoke of how.  Some few people were moving about, and though he did not recognise them, he still waved and smiled in greeting.  They clearly recognised him, and bowed low instead.  He hid a small frown; they would learn in time.  

A face he did recognise appeared across the square, and he brightened.  

Harad carried a corpse over his shoulder, and he approached the fire, where two of his warriors waited.  The body was dumped beside a considerable pile of weapons and armour, some in better condition than others, and the two men set to work stripping it of valuables.  The three of them looked up briefly as Thor approached, but were not distracted from their task for long.  

“Harad,” Thor said.  “How goes it?”

“Well enough,” Harad said.  “No good comes from leaving the dead to rot, and I can handle my ale unlike some.”

“Watching the young suffer is half the fun,” Thor said.  The fire was pleasantly warm in the cool morning air, though some might have called it sweltering to be so close.

Harad snorted.  “Watching one youth vomit up their booze is the same as another,” he said.  

“Does much remain?” Thor asked, gesturing at the corpse, already reduced to its clothes, anything metal added to the pile.  

“Just the bodies outside the walls, where we first brought battle to them,” Harad said.  “Those by the ships, too.”

“I will help,” Thor said.

The old warrior nodded, and they set out again as the corpse was tossed into the roaring bonfire, joining the remains of others.  More wood was added as they left the square, stoking the flames.

Vinteerholm was a town renewed that day.  Shutters were open where they had been barred, and folk walked through the streets where before they had hid.  Thor spied the man who had taken in their wounded at the start of the assault, and greeted him with a raised arm, slowing to a stop.

“God of Thunder,” the man said, stopping his quick pace to bow.  He was still gaunt, but the shadows behind his eyes had lightened.  It seemed word of Thor had been quick to spread through the town.

“I did not get your name, yesterday,” Thor said.  

“Knut,” the man said in a mutter.  Those few others in the streets slowed to observe as best they could without lingering.

“I thank you, Knut, for your aid yesterday,” Thor said.  He did not project his voice, but it was heard all the same.  “You took a risk in doing so.”

“M’boy wouldn’t have let me hear the end of it,” Knut said.

“Even so,” Thor said.  He was satisfied that his gratitude had been heard by those listening, and that was where the truth of his thanks lay.  He made to be on his way.

“God of Thunder,” Knut said, words bursting from him almost against his will, “wait.  I heard word - Tyra means to pursue the Aeslings, rescue the taken.  Is this true?”

“It is,” Thor said

“Do you go with them?” 

“I do.”

Knut let out a breath, like a weight had been taken from him.  “Praise Thor,” he said, bowing again.  He went on his way, a lightness to his steps that hadn’t been there before.  

Thor felt like he had sipped from a pure mountain stream of ice melt.  It would seem he had gained another follower, and he fought the urge to bounce as they continued to the town gates.

Harad was watching him, thoughts hidden behind dark eyes.  “The people are grateful,” he observed.  

“They often are,” Thor said.

“What do you mean to do with that gratitude?” Harad asked.  Their boots crunched in the snow as they walked.  “That faith?”

“Repay it in kind,” Thor said immediately.  “Such trust is a burden to be borne responsibly.”  He had lived the results that came with failing to live up to that trust, and now that he was starting to shake off the fog of those years he would strive to never fall to it again.

Harad let out a considering rumble as he thought.  At length, as they neared the gate, he spoke.  “You are not the first.”

“The first?” 

“The first to proclaim yourself a god,” Harad said.  “Though usually they respond poorly when we don’t drop to our knees in worship.”

Thor boomed a laugh, thinking of a less suave, more unwashed version of his brother stamping his foot when denied worship.  “How do you deal with them?” 

“I crushed their skull between my hands,” Harad said.

“Well, that is a compelling counter argument,” Thor said.  They had reached the gate.  A path had been made through the gore, though the bodies themselves were gone, and they passed through.  A cold wind greeted them, unhindered by the walls and buildings.

“Couldn’t throw lightning around like you can, either,” Harad said.  

“Few can,” Thor said.  “I am the God of Thunder, not Hammers, after all.”

“I would have expected you to name yourself Tor,” Harad said.  He was watching him closely.  

“Why would I?” Thor asked.  “My mother named me Thor.”

“Tor is known well in the south,” Harad said, as they crossed the field.  The bodies of the gate sentries they had challenged when they first arrived waited for them, partially picked over by crows, though none were present now.  “A god of storms, who wields a great axe with a haft of oak.”

“Stormbreaker’s haft is not oak,” Thor said.  “Though this Tor sounds like an impressive fellow.”

They stopped by the closest bodies, Harad looking over Thor like he didn’t know what to make of him.  “You will have an interesting time in Kislev should you go there, I think,” he said.  He picked up a body missing an arm, and heaved it over one shoulder.

Thor grabbed a corpse with its intestines spilling out and folded it in half with a crack, so that he could carry it without trailing gore behind him.  One large hand held it by the wrists and ankles, and they turned for the town again.  “If ever I make it to this Kislev, I will ask after him,” he said.  

Harad let out a low chuckle.  “I would hope to see it, if it did not mean leaving Helena and home behind,” he said.  

“I had thought she might join you,” Thor admitted, glancing back at the bodies that remained.  He could have carried more, but the bonfire could only consume them so quickly.

“Someone must lead those who remained,” Harad said.  “Even when we were young, she never had my wanderlust.”

“How old are you?” Thor asked.

“I have fifty nine winters,” Harad answered.  “She has fifty five.”

“Impressive,” Thor said, and it was.  In a land where warriors died easily, few were those with the skill to grow old and grey. 

“We have almost everything we could want,” he said simply.  There was a mountain of feeling hidden behind the words.

They walked in silence, passing through the gates again, and they drew eyes as they went.  

“Faith you mean to repay in kind,” Harad said suddenly.  

“Aye?” Thor said, watching him.

“What do you intend for our home?” he asked bluntly.  “You take no insult at lack of worship, you do not claim the role of ruler when you could, but you court those like Tyra, and Wolfric.”  A gimlet eye watched him.  “Your influence grows with every deed.”

"I see much here I would change,” Thor said, and Harad’s brow furrowed.  “I have started as I mean to continue."

The old warrior’s expression eased.  “What you have done…it is good,” Harad said.  “Few are those who would do so unselfishly.”

It was not doubt or uncertainty that Thor could hear in his words.  It was more a reluctance to trust that Thor was as he seemed, an unwillingness to hope and have that hope betrayed.  He put his free hand on the mortal’s shoulder.  “You will come to see the truth of my words,” he promised.

For a moment, Harad slowed, and Thor could feel a flicker of something, but then it was snuffed out.  “I’ll not pray to you,” he warned.

“I will not demand it,” Thor said, holding back a smile.  Men such as this were rare, and he was reminded of Steve.  They reached the bonfire, and dropped their burdens to the two waiting.  They began to strip them of valuables once more, working quickly.  

In no time at all the corpses were added to the bonfire, black smoke and the scent of roasting flesh rising from it, and more wood was added again.  As they watched, another pair of Harad’s men arrived with armfuls of wood, replenishing the pile.  

“You seem on top of things,” Thor observed.  

“I lead my village for a reason,” Harad said.  “It’s not because I’m pretty.”

“Harad,” Thor said, voice solemn.  “You are very pretty.  Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.”

There was silence for a moment, and the four men nearby shared looks that spoke of their struggle to remain quiet.  Then, a strangled snort, and the battle was lost.  

Harad looked at his men with a kind of resigned annoyance as they struggled to contain themselves.  He shook his head, turning away from them, but Thor caught a glimpse of a faint smile before it disappeared.  

“What do you plan, now that the town is reclaimed?” Thor asked, following.  

“Once the town is secured, I will take my warriors and return home,” he said.  “Without Gunnhilde’s village to stop by in, it will be a longer journey, but not difficult.”

“Take one of the longships,” Thor said.  “You need not walk.”

“Generous,” Harad said.  

“The Aeslings have provided more,” Thor said, shrugging, “and I need no ship to travel.”

Harad chuckled.  “I would not favour your chances of getting your people to follow you into the sky again.”

“Yes, well…” Thor said, rubbing his head.  The passengers of Air Thor had been most vocal about the experience, and not in glowing terms.  “Perhaps a ship, strengthened so as not to shatter.”

“Good luck,” Harad said, his tone speaking volumes as to his thoughts on his chances.

Thor grumbled, but it was with good cheer.  More corpses waited, and he was of a mind with Harad in avoiding the consequences of letting them fester.  An ounce of prevention was better than expending his might in cleansing the taint.  The sun shone down on the two axemen as they went about their task, speaking of little of consequence.  The town would recover. 

X x X

The first days were the hardest, but the people of Vinteerholm were a hardy folk, and they overcame them.  Bodies were burned, buildings repaired, belongings recovered.  The damage done to the town was excised, and the process of healing began.

Some scars were too great to be healed easily, such as the block of homes that had been burnt down when those living there had refused to surrender a daughter to the invaders.  When the bodies were pulled from the ashes, the smallest of them saw storm clouds gather overhead to weep for the dead, and the town shared in the grief of those that remained.  

Not all recovery was cause for tears.  Families were reunited, new bonds were forged amongst those who had come together to slay raiders, and rebuilding began.  Seeds were planted, literal and not, as Wolfric visited home and Kirsa planted trees, while Tyra began to train warriors. Harad departed, taking his people with him. Anticipation grew as the Baersonlings hungered for revenge, but it did not come with a snap of fingers, and Thor had his part to play.

The very first day, after the Aesling corpses had been disposed of but before Harad departed, Thor met with Wolfric and those who had people to return to, back at the village.  A tree was felled, though each of them refused to strap themselves to it before certain measures were taken, and carpenters were pressed into service to make the journey less fraught.  Thor sulked as he watched the work proceed; he would have caught anyone who fell.  

In the late afternoon of that first day, it was Trumpetter who first noticed their return, sounding a shrill warning when he saw the tree approaching through the sky, although given the way he rocked Thor back as he tackled him upon landing, perhaps he had somehow sensed his approach.  

“Who’s a good boy?” Thor asked the juvenile mammoth, rubbing his large skull with enough force to rock him back and forth.  “Is it you, Trumpetter?  Is it you?  I think it is!”

Trumpetter wrapped his trunk around Thor as best he could, butting his head up against him.  Theirs was not the only reunion; Astrid and Elsa had been playing with Trumpetter when he noticed their approach and they did knock Wolfric over when they jumped at him, digging bony knees into his chest as they sat on him and demanded answers, checking him for injury.  

“Where did you get that sword?” Astrid demanded.

“Did you kill many Aeslings?” Elsa asked immediately.

“What about Thor?” “What was Vinteerholm like?”

On and on the barrage of questions went, giving him no time to answer, but he did his best, fighting his way out from under them and to his feet.  The clamour soon attracted others, and there was great joy as loved ones were reunited.  By fortune or perhaps design, none of the slain had family waiting for them, leaving the day unmarred by heartbreak.  Soon the entire village was present, drawn from whatever task they had been at.  The children joined the twins in marvelling at Wolfric’s new sword, while others sought news of how the fight had gone, and it trickled out in dribs and drabs, hindered by the enthusiasm of the crowd.  

“Yes, Vinteerholm is freed!” Thor said.  “The Aeslings are gone, though the town still bears the marks of their presence.  Some escaped before we arrived, and Tyra, the new leader of the town, means to pursue them as soon as she is able.”

“What will you do now?” Aslaug asked from near his shoulder.  In the press of the crowd, she had drawn close without him noticing.

“I will aid them,” Thor said.  “They stole people when they fled, and I will not permit that to stand.”

“How many Aeslings were slain?” “How many people were killed?” “What of the grain stores?”

Thor raised his hands to ward off the questions.  “I know you have questions, and Wolfric will be happy to answer them,” he said, throwing his worshipper under the bus.  

Wolfric did not quite glare, but there was no thanks on his face as every face in the crowd turned to him.  “We slew many.  The town suffered, but more were taken than killed.  The grain remains.”

More questions erupted, but it was impossible to tell them apart.

“Was there any trouble while we were gone?” Thor asked, rescuing his follower.  

“Scavengers about the mammoths, but nothin’ else,” an old woman said.  

“Lucky, with all the warriors gone,” Helka, the wise woman, said.  

“If the men hadn’t gone off to fight, we’d not be in these troubles to start,” another elder said.  It had the sound of an old argument, and it threatened to erupt again.  It seemed that the mood had been fractious in the absence of the warriors that remained.  

“If you go to war against the Aeslings, how will we protect ourselves?” Auslaug asked of Thor.  

“Perhaps you could come to Vinteerholm,” Thor suggested, “at least until your warriors return, and you can rebuild in safety.”

The suggestion was not received poorly.  

“Got a brother there,” one old woman said.  

“Few of us were born there,” another added.

“Tyra would not refuse us,” Wolfric said.  “She is the new chieftain,” he explained.  “It would be the safer option.”

“Once we’re there, aye,” a greybeard said.

“I can convey you there quickly,” Thor said.

“My sisters are not flying with you,” Wolfric said flatly.  The girls suddenly looked rebellious, Astrid outright glaring at the brother she had been fawning over moments before, though she didn’t move to escape his arm around her shoulders.  

“Or I could arrange for a longship,” Thor said.  The twins looked disappointed, and there was a sudden chill in the air.  

“You’re sure Tyra would accept us?” Helka asked.  

“You healed her after Thor rescued her,” Wolfric said.

Helka glanced at him, and saw him watching her.  “Godly one,” she said, ducking her head.  

“Perhaps a gift of mammoth meat might smooth the way,” Thor suggested.  “Not you,” he said to Trumpetter, the tyke still leaning heavily against him.  

There were more considering murmurs, but no one seemed to be outright against it.  Many glanced at the still partially destroyed village, and the half built wall around it, and found it wanting.

“All in favour of moving to Vinteerholm, at least in the short term?” Wolfric asked.

A general acclaim answered him, and that was that.  

“Gather your possessions as you can,” Wolfric told the crowd.  “A longship will be here tomorrow.”

Thor beamed as he watched Wolfric step up, leading more directly.  No longer the injured and battered man he had met scarcely a week ago, now he was looked to by his people, and gone was the bloodstained bandage covering his missing eye, replaced by one cleaner.  He would have to get him something nicer.

It was mid afternoon, and they spent the rest of it socialising and telling tales of the battle.  Those who had fought found themselves the centre of attention, as Thor held back from boasting.  It did not matter, as they boasted for him, speaking of his slaying of the mutated creature, the chaos spawn, that the raider had turned into, and of the insults he had goaded them with beforehand.  He pretended not to hear the children imitating him, crafting insults of their own and hurling them at each other with glee.  

When it was time to leave, hours later, Thor found that though some warriors had elected to stay, he had still picked up two more passengers.  Astrid and Elsa clambered aboard the tree, almost wearing their own weight in warm clothes, and sat patiently as Wolfric tied them down with three times the ropes anyone else was attached with, looking smug.

“I thought you said they would not be flying with us,” Thor said.  

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Wolfric said, double checking a knot.

“Even if they fall, I will catch them,” Thor assured him.

Wolfric glared, before visibly realising he was glaring at his god and dialling it back a notch.  Only a notch, though.

Trumpetter gave a forlorn hoot when they were ready to leave, but Thor had spent the bulk of his time petting him already, and he hardened his heart.  He would see him again tomorrow.

One look at Trumpetter’s large dark eyes had him crumbling.  “I will see you tomorrow,” he said.  “Don’t look at me like that.”

Another sad rumble was his answer.  Thor stepped away from Air Thor to give him one last rub behind the ears, but then he was forced to extricate himself from his trunk and turn his gaze away.  He stepped away again, but then there was a touch on his hand, and he looked down to see the tip of his trunk reaching out to him.  

Thor heaved a great sigh.  “Fine.  Get on.”

Trumpetter gave a jubilant trumpet, racing ahead of Thor and towards the passenger tree, trotting around it with happy little stamps.  Wolfric gave Thor a look that he resolutely ignored, and in short order the mammoth was straddling the trunk and lashed in place.  After a final round of farewells to the villagers, temporary as it might be, Thor hoisted Air Thor and took to the skies, two delighted screams and a trumpet left in their wake.  

The journey passed quickly, though it was impossible to talk between themselves, and they arrived back in Vinteerholm as dusk fell.  Gunnhilde was waiting for them in the square by the longhouse, watching as Thor descended and lit by the light of the still burning bonfire.  Again, those aboard were quick to disembark, some more shakily than others.  

“I hope you were not waiting long for me,” Thor said, as he untied Trumpetter from his spot.  The mammoth was quick to stretch his legs when he was freed, the twins running after him after Wolfric untied them.  

“No,” Gunnhilde said.  “I had a feeling you were approaching.”

Thor thought back to how Trumpetter had alerted the twins to his arrival, and made a noise of consideration.  “Were there troubles while I was gone?” he asked.

“Nothing, though Harad said he would aim to leave tomorrow,” Gunnhilde said.  

“He mentioned,” Thor said.  

Trumpetter came tramping past, Astrid and Elsa trailing behind him.

Gunnhilde watched, bemused, as they went.

“That’s Trumpetter,” Thor said.  “He’s not for eating.”

“I see,” Gunnhilde said.  Her tone said she didn’t.  “Those must be Elsa and Astrid.”

“Aye,” Wolfric said, joining the conversation.  “My sisters.  Hellions.”

Perhaps sensing they were being spoken about, the two ran up to join in, colliding with their brother.  

“Hello we’re Astrid and Elsa,” the two said, almost tripping over their words.

“Lord Thor told me about you,” Gunnhilde said.

“He’s the god of thunder,” Astrid informed her.  

“He’s very warm,” Elsa added.  “He saved our lives.”

“I am his Valkyrie,” Gunndhilde told them.  “He saved my life too.”

Their eyes grew huge, and they looked impressed.  

“We’re gonna be Valkyries one day too,” Astrid said.  

 “I thought we wanted to be witches,” Elsa said, frowning.

“We can be both,” Astrid told her, before pausing, looking unsure.  “Right?” she asked Thor.

“Of course,” Thor said, smiling down at the almost-teenagers.  “My brother knew subtle and cunning seidr, but he was also a great warrior.”  He noticed the fixed expression on Wolfric’s face.  “Just ah, when you’re older.”

“How much older?” Elsa demanded.

“Much older,” Thor said.

“So next year?” Astrid said, tone conveying how unfair it all was.

“When you’re grown up,” Thor said.  “As grown up as Gunnhilde.”

Two sets of blue eyes travelled over to the woman, taking in her lithe and muscled form, blonde hair coiled at her neck.  Then they looked at each other, taking in skinny limbs and wind swept brown hair, before looking to Thor, identical expressions of betrayal on their faces.  

“If you are good,” Gunnhilde said, before they could voice their dismay, “and listen to your brother, I could teach you a few things.”

“Yes!” the twins said as one.  

“I think feeding Trumpetter would be a good start,” Wolfric said.  “He looks hungry.”

Trumpetter was in fact investigating the circle of glass nearby cautiously, but the twins were swift to run off to him, faces determined.  

“I appreciate that,” Thor said.

“I just wanted to keep them busy while I find a place for us to spend the night,” Wolfric admitted.  

“Tyra helped me with that,” Gunnhilde said.  “There are…many empty houses.”

Wolfric nodded his thanks, and set off for the longhouse after a muttered ‘Lord Thor’.  Gunnhilde watched after them for a moment, before sighing and making to do the same.

“Gunnhilde,” Thor said, stopping his Valkyrie.  “This is a good thing you are doing.”

“‘Be kind to others’,” Gunnhilde said, shrugging, as if to play it off.

“You mourn your sister still, I know,” Thor said, and she stilled.  “Again you prove yourself worthy of being my Valkyrie.”

Her hand went to the pocket which he knew held a carved token of a cat.  She swallowed, blinking, before giving a nod.  “Lord Thor.”

He clasped her shoulder, and she went on her way.  Thor watched her go, as night well and truly began to fall.  There was more work to be done on the morrow.  

X

The second day, the mood was bleak.  The Aeslings had not been kind to the Baersonlings, and had stamped out any defiance with ruthless cruelty.  That day, work began on a block that had been burnt to the ground when one family within had hidden away their daughter, refusing to hand her over.  The raiders had made a statement, killing a dozen families, and no more were their demands refused outright.  On that day the remains of the buildings were sifted through, family retrieving what keepsakes they could while others salvaged nails and other materials to help them rebuild.  They were not the first to comb through the ashes.  First had been Harad’s men, volunteers all, who had recovered what was left of those who had perished.  

Thor had watched as tiny bodies were pulled free with care, and a downpour ensued, a storm threatening.  It was only when the last corpse was found, and a respectul pyre built, that the rain let up.  Little else had been achieved that day, spirits dampened as word spread as to the human cost of the occupation, and the joy of liberation faded.  The longhouse was full again, but there was no celebration, and the mood was sombre.

The third day, the skies were clear, and the townspeople were beginning to look to the future.  The worst traces of the Aeslings had been removed, and those most hurt by them that yet lived were with their families, recovering as best they could.  Thought they would always carry the evil of those days with them, in time the burden would lighten.  

Not all scars faded with time alone, however, and that was what brought Thor to the burnt scar that had been cleared the day before.  It lay on the northern side of the town, away from the river, only a few streets short of the wall.  He was not the only one drawn by it that morning, gazing across the remains in the cold morning air.

Kirsa stood at its edge, just shy of the black slurry of ash and mud, his red cape bundled around her.  Thor came to a stop beside her, and for a time, no words were shared.  A particularly bitter breeze swept past them, and neither so much as shivered.

“She was my friend,” Kirsa said, swallowing to clear her throat.  

“She?” Thor asked.

“Magda,” Kirsa said.  “The one they - the one they wanted.”  Brown eyes stared out over the small field of ashes, fixed on a specific spot.

“The pain will never truly fade,” Thor said.  “You will grow better able to bear it, all the same.”  He turned his mind from those he had lost, and allowed anger to rise to take its place.  Too many had been hurt by a meaningless raid that amounted to nothing but the spread of pain and suffering.  

Kirsa rubbed the back of her hand across her cheek.  “I want to plant your grove here,” she said.  “Magda liked the forest, and I - I want it to be something good.  For her.  If you approve.”

“Then here my grove will stand,” Thor said.  It had been centuries since he had planted anything, and even in his first visits to Midgard, being worshipped by the mortals, their devotion hadn’t been nearly as real as this.  He was making it up as he went along, but then, he often did and it usually turned out well enough.

His words seem to centre Kirsa, and she nodded, standing taller.  From her hip, hidden by the red cloak, she pulled a large pouch.  It rustled, full of seeds.  She stepped forward, the slurry squishing under her boots, but then she hesitated.  “How should I…?

“Focus on why you do this,” Thor told her.  He thought back to when his mother had led him and Loki through something similar as children.  “My mother used to tell me that if you plant seeds with care, their fruit will taste all the sweeter.”  

Kirsa nodded, firm.  “I know what I shall pray on.”

On that note…with an effort of will, he summoned his armour, though not his axe.  This was to be a place of peace, after all.  With a faint ripple of light and seidr his tunic and pants were covered by the product of Asgardian smiths, his cape settling on his shoulders.  He paused, glancing over his shoulder at it, and then to the cape Kirsa wore as a cloak.  

“Lord Thor?” Kirsa asked.

“I guess that’s yours now,” he said, gesturing to the red cloak.  “Look after it, won’t you?  It was woven by my mother’s handmaidens.”

Kirsa was almost overwhelmed.  She looked to be overflowing with questions, but she held her tongue, letting out a shaky breath.  She poured half of her pouch of seeds into Thor’s waiting hands, and they set about it.  Small holes were dug with their bare hands, and a single seed placed within before being covered.  The ground and slush was moist from the rain the day before, and though parts were close to frozen, it was not enough to slow Thor, and Kirsa did not let it stop her.  They worked away from one another, splitting up along the field, neither in any hurry.  What few clouds there were did not come close to casting shade over them, and the sun was almost warm.  

Their task did not go unnoticed.  Passersby slowed as they went about their business, distracted from their work.  Many were quick to dismiss them, thinking little of their behaviour, but others stopped to watch.  Thor beamed at these, but for some reason they tended to bow and hurry onwards.  His smile would disappear until the next one, but his pockets were heavy with seeds, and there was much ground to cover.  They were perhaps a quarter done when there came a man who didn’t flee at his smile.

“God of Thunder,” Knut, the townsman, said.  His son was at  his side, looking up at Thor with clear awe, drinking in his armour.  The boy was still as irrepressible as when they had met.  

“Knut,” Thor said.  “Good to see you again.  What brings you out here?”

“We went to see Tyra,” the boy said, beating his father to the punch.  “We’re gonna help them raid the Aeslings back!”

“It’s just a bit of provisioning son,” Knut said, patting him on the head.  

“The warriors are gonna use our supplies when they get Ma and the others back,” the boy insisted.

“Even the greatest warrior would fall without a full belly,” Thor agreed.  “And what is your name, little one?”

“Ragnar!” he said proudly.  

“Then I am pleased, Ragnar, that I will eat food prepared by you and your father when we set out to rescue your people,” Thor said.  

Ragnar grinned, gap toothed, but then his attention was diverted by the arrival of two newcomers.  The two brown haired girls inspected him in turn, before deciding he was too young to be interesting, and they turned to Thor.

“Lord Thor,” Astrid said. There was a smudge of dirt across her cheek, and she had found trousers somewhere to wear.  Elsa was more interested in the dirt on Thor’s hands and the pouch at his hip.

“Astrid, Elsa,” Thor said.  “Does Wolfric know where you are?”

“We did our chores,” Astrid said, dodging the question.  “What are you doing here?”

“Can we help?” Elsa asked.  She wore a grey wool dress.  

Kirsa was nearing now, and had heard the question.  It was her project, and Thor was inclined to let her decide, but she was clearly looking to him to answer.  

“I wanna help too!” Ragnar said.  

He was not against the idea, but some instinct had him pause.  “I don’t know, children,” he said.  “Can you?”

“What’ve we gotta do?” Astrid demanded.

“Only the faithful may plant a tree for my grove,” Thor told them, crouching down to look them eye to eye.  

“I’m a faithful,” Ragnar insisted.

Thor smiled, but his expression soon turned serious once more.  “Look to your father, young Ragnar,” he said.  “This is not a decision to be made lightly.”

The boy looked to his father, questioning, and Knut squeezed his shoulder.  “You remember the ones we would pray to when we needed help?”

“I remember Ma killed the snow leopard last winter, when it was bad,” Ragnar said.  “Cut its head right off!”

Knut grimaced, and Thor had a feeling it hadn’t been quite so easy.  “The Gods give, and the Gods take,” he said.  “The God of Thunder has been kinder than most, so far.”  He looked like he regretted the last of his words the instant he said them.

Ragnar puzzled over the words; he was only a young child.

“We’re faithful,” Elsa said.  There was not a jot of uncertainty in her words.  “Lord Thor saved our lives.”

“If I am ever unkind to those I protect,” Thor said, mostly to Knut, “I will no longer be worthy.”

The man nodded slowly.  “The Aeslings brought the Hound with them, son.  The God of Thunder threw him out.”  The words had Ragnar brightening once more.  

“We’re gonna be Valkyries of Thor when we’re older,” Astrid said, bragging.  “We’re gonna protect our people and kill raiders!”

“Valkyries protect the innocent, no matter who they are,” Kirsa said, speaking to Astrid.  

“That’s what I said,” Astrid said, puzzled.  

“I wanna be a Valkyrie too!” Ragnar said.  

“I am sorry, Ragnar,” Thor said.  He knew well the heartbreak he was about to visit on the boy.  “Only women may become Valkyries.”

Ragnar sagged slowly, lower lip not quite trembling.

“That does not mean you cannot plant a tree,” Thor said hurriedly.  

Kirsa took pity on him.  “Were you brave, when the Aeslings came?” she asked the boy.

“He was,” Knut said.

“Have you been helping your neighbours recover?” Kirsa asked.

Ragnar nodded quickly.  

“Are you thankful to Lord Thor for what he has done for us?” Kirsa asked, eyes intent.

“He kicked out the raiders and he’s gonna save Ma,” Ragnar said, utterly sure.  

“Then as long as you do nothing to anger the God of Thunder, you are faithful,” she said.  

“Yes, I’m a faithful,” Ragnar said, insisting again. 

He was young, Thor knew, too young to truly understand, but his was not a complicated creed, and it asked nothing of the boy other than that he be a child.  “Here,” he said, handing over a seed.  

Ragnar almost seemed to vibrate in place, holding the seed carefully as he looked around, searching for the perfect place to plant it.  A spot caught his eye, and he traipsed over to it.

Wordlessly, Thor looked to Knut, tilting his head in question.  The gaunt man nodded slowly, and held out his hand.  A seed was given to him, and he joined his son.

Elsa and Astrid were fairly squirming in place, gazes locked on Thor’s pockets, and he smiled.  “Would you also like a seed?”

The girls nodded rapidly.  “This is a sacred grove, isn’t it?” Astrid asked.  

“Where people can meet but can’t fight,” Elsa added.  “Wolfric said.”

“That’s right,” Thor said.  The twins shared an inscrutable glance as he handed them each a seed, a pair of matched acorns, before looking to Kirsa.  Something seemed to pass between them.

“Thank you, God of Thunder,” they said together.  Uncaring of the dirt, they knelt and dug a single hole together, placing the seeds within, before covering it up.  The next moment they were up and racing in opposite directions without so much as a word.  

Kirsa was smiling.  “Word will spread,” she said, running her hand along her cloak.  

“Children do like to chatter,” Thor agreed.  

They returned to their task, sharing more seeds with Knut and Ragnar.  There was no rush, for it was not a task aided by haste.  Some of those who lived nearby watched from doorways and windows, silently observing.  Before long, Astrid returned, rounding the nearest corner as she pulled another by the hand.  It was Gunnhilde.  

“I was told you needed your Valkyrie,” Gunnhilde said as they neared.  Her spear was slung over her shoulder by a leather strap.  Astrid was already running off again.

“Kirsa is planting our grove,” Thor said.  “Seed?”

Gunnhilde accepted it, and glanced over at the father and son.  “They watched over our wounded, after the fight at the gate,” she observed.

“We made an impression on them, it seems,” Thor said.  

“You’ve made an impression on many,” Gunnhilde said, giving him a look.  “Do I need to water this with blood?”

“No no,” Thor said quickly.  “Just a prayer if you must.”

Nodding, she knelt to scrape a hole, placing the seed within, before looking to the sky and beginning to pray.  Then she paused, suddenly uncertain, glancing between the sky and Thor.

“The sky is fine!” Thor said, eager to avoid having actual prayers delivered directly to him.  He moved on to continue planting as his Valkyrie prayed for strength and swiftness in battle as she quietly contemplated the sky.

Gunnhilde was not the last to arrive.  Wolfric was next, dragged by Elsa, but again the girl ran off after delivering her quarry.  The man took in the situation at a glance and accepted a seed with a sigh, joining in the fun.

More and more people began to arrive, not just those who were passing by on other business.  Most were those who had fought with Thor to take back the town, those from Wolfric or Gunnhilde’s villages, though the old woman who had lost an ear watching over the children joined as well, as did the child hostages themselves, arriving in a mob with Elsa and Astrid as they returned for the final time.  Their parents came with them, and many seeds were handed out, though not all partook, electing only to watch from the sidelines.  Thor did not begrudge them.  He was outside anything they had come to know or experience, and worship compelled was a poisonous brew.  

Tyra was one of the last to arrive, still sweaty from training, axes at either hip.  Kirsa handed her the last seed she had, and the chieftain planted it without ceremony near the centre of the burnt block, now a field well planted.  There was a crowd now, not large, but not small either, and they all looked to Thor, one last seed in his hand.  It was an acorn, and its size had seen him save it for last.  There was a sense of weight to the moment, and he considered his words.

“Where I come from,” he began slowly, looking out at those around him, “groves such as this will become are places where one might meet and talk without fear of violence or betrayal.”  All were quiet as he spoke, though some listened more intently than others, straining as if fearful they would miss a great truth.  “A terrible deed was done here.  It has left scars.”  He looked to Kirsa.  “By the will of one of your own, this place will be healed.  By my will, it will be hallowed and made sacred.  As long as this town is defended by those with stout hearts and strong arms, let none know fear under the boughs yet to grow.”

Thor closed his fist around the seed he held, and brought forth the storm.  It came not from the skies, but from his soul, and the scent of lightning and fresh rain was heavy in the air.  Across his mind’s eye faces flashed, most of which he knew to be in the crowd around him.  He saw Gunnhilde and Wolfric and Tyra and ElsaandAstrid and Knut and Ragnar and - he focused, drinking of the belief that flowed from them and pouring it into the seed.  White light shone from between his fingers, and the eyes of all were fixed upon it.  

From the core of himself Thor could feel an outpouring of power, of essence, greater even than when he had hallowed Gunnhilde’s spear, but weathered it, and he was not left drained - not utterly, at the least.  When the seed held all it could, he opened his fist and allowed it to fall.  It fell faster than it had any right to, still shining, and buried itself in the dirt.  

“Any who seek to repeat the evil that led to this moment in this grove will know the might of Thor,” he said, and it was like the rumble of the oncoming storm.  

“Praise Thor!” Kirsa said.  Her fervour was clear upon her face as she exulted. 

“God of Thunder!” Tyra said.  Red hair whipped in a sudden wind.  “Praise!”

“God of Groves!” Wolfric added his voice.  

‘Praise!’ came the cry of some in the crowd.  ‘Praise!’ it was repeated, louder as more took it up.  ‘Praise!’

“Protector of Mankind!” Gunnhilde cried.  “Praise Thor!”

“Praise Thor!” Elsa and Astrid shouted as one, working to make their voices heard.  

Thor felt like he had liquid lightning coursing through his veins in a way he hadn’t felt since the day he first laid his hand on Mjolnir.  It was like being at the centre of a cyclone, and thunder rumbled in the cloudless sky.  He felt like he could fly without Stormbreaker, like he was drunk and battle high and rolling in the sheets with a comely maiden all at once.  

With an effort of will, he controlled himself, pushing back against the urge to let loose the storm.  He raised his hands, calming the crowd.  “If not for you and yours, this grove would not be here,” he said.  “It is for all who would come to it in good faith.  Remember that.”

Heads were bowed, as the excitement settled and Thor’s risk of being thrown up on someone’s shoulders fell.  

“We will remember, Lord Thor,” Kirsa said, and she spoke for them all.

The crowd began to filter away, first in ones and twos, then more.  Some looked over their shoulders as they went, as if hoping to see green sprouts.  Thor kept a tight grip on the storm within as it began to settle, perhaps slightly fuller than before he had spent it on the blessing.  He hummed an old tune under his breath, one half remembered from childhood.  Soon, all that remained were those whose faith Thor could feel most strongly, his earliest, most sincere worsh- followers.  

“I thought I felt your power when you smote the chaos spawn,” Tyra said.  “That was different.”

“The beast that the raider became?” Thor asked.  He received a nod.  “I struck that down with my own power.  This was…something else.”

“It was belief,” Wolfric said.  Astrid and Elsa were at his sides, listening intently, as if they thought speaking up might risk reminding them of their presence.

“The power Lord Thor draws from our faith,” Gunnhilde said.  

“What will it become?” Tyra asked, looking at where the seed had buried itself.

“I don’t know,” Thor said cheerfully.  “We will have to wait and see.”

“Shouldn’t a God know?” Tyra asked, perplexed.

Kirsa made a sound, almost glaring at Tyra, but the redhead gave her a look akin to one a panther might give a snarling cub.  

“If anyone tries to tell you they are all knowing or all powerful, they are a fool or lying,” Thor said.  

“The Schemer is said to know all,” Wolfric said, noncommittal.  

“Then it is a fool, or lying,” Thor said.  

“Strong words,” Tyra said, baring her teeth in a smile.  

Thor shrugged, returning her smile.  He had never been one to hold his tongue.  The sword at Wolfric’s hip caught his eye, and he considered it.  He had implied that he would bestow a blessing upon it to match Gunnhilde’s spear, and had thought about waiting until the rescue raid to do so as a way of boosting the morale of the warriors, but that was perhaps not fair to the man.  “Pass me your sword, would you Wolfric?”

“Do you mean-” 

“Aye,” Thor said.

“Are you not tired?  After the seed?” Wolfric asked.  

“Nay, I am mighty,” Thor insisted.

Wolfric levelled a gaze at him that his sisters saw often.

“Those who witnessed the blessing were well impressed,” Thor said.  “I have power enough for this, never fear.”

Reassured, Wolfric handed over the sword that had once been wielded by the raider turned chaos spawn, and Thor inspected it.  It had been cleaned and honed since the one-eyed warrior had taken possession of it, fairly gleaming under the sun.  The gem was worth much even on its own.  

“You watched me slaughter scores of raiders, and then stepped between me and your sister when you thought I might mean her ill,” Thor said, speaking as much to himself as to Wolfric.  

Elsa and Astrid were listening closely, as were the others.  

“I wonder…” Thor said.  

Again, Thor drew on the truth of his power, of his being, and directed it into the weapon he held.  It was not like when he had hallowed Gunnhilde’s spear; there was no Bloodlust within that sought to devour it for him to overwhelm.  There was only an empty vessel, and the storm poured in to fill it.  He shaped it as it did, forming it to suit his purpose, to fulfil the vision he thought might best suit the man.  

The sword grew to fit his power, shifting under his attentions, and his audience watched with awe.  Where once it looked like something a Midgardian knight might wield, now it reminded him more of something forged by Asgard.  Solid knotwork decorated the hilt, the crossguard resembling the stylised helm of an Einherjar, and it had a weight to it, rapidly growing heavy in Thor’s hand.  He held back a chuckle at the unintended consequence that his changes had wrought.  

“Your sword, Wolfric,” Thor said, holding it out, hilt first.

Wolfric accepted it with reverence, taking it by the hilt and staring down the blade’s edge.  “It’s light,” he said, surprised.  

“It will accept no wielder that does not hold the faith you do,” Thor said.  “In the hands of a nonbeliever, it will grow heavy and slow.  In yours, the stronger your faith, the keener its edge.”

“Tribes have gone to war over weapons like this,” Wolfric said, still admiring it.  He gave it a practice swing, and it hummed through the air.  

“You will use it to set right a wrong,” Thor said.  He noticed Astrid’s eyes following it, catlike, and smiled.  “If your sister does not steal it first.”

Wolfric followed his gaze and turned slightly, as if shielding the sword.  Astrid didn’t defend herself, still seemingly hypnotised by it, and Elsa poked her in the side.  

“Thank you, Lord Thor,” Wolfric said.  “I will be worthy of it.”

Thor nodded, sobered by the choice of words.  “I have no doubt.”

Tyra was nearly as covetous as Astrid, staring at the sword as Wolfric sheathed it, but she made no request for herself.  Thor was thankful, for he was strained, though it was a good tiredness, not the near exhaustion that had come after hallowing Gunnhilde’s spear.  

A few streets over, there came a trumpeting call, and the twins perked up.  The hesitated only for a moment, looking to Wolfric for permission, and were off before he had finished nodding.  

“They have the right of it,” Gunnhilde said.  “I was helping Harad ready the longship.”

“If I don’t keep an eye on my warriors, someone is going to lose a limb,” Tyra said, agreeing.  

Wolfric was already following his sisters.

“I will stay here, for a time,” Kirsa said, offering nothing else.  

“If I am to fight with these warriors, I will see them for myself,” Thor decided.  

Tyra straightened, nodding.  “They’ve fought with you, or heard the tales.  Your eye will serve them well, God of Thunder.”

“Please call me Lord Thor,” he said, almost begging.  

“Lord Thor,” Tyra said, agreeing easily.  

Giving the others a nod, they set off.  Through the town they walked, making for the western gate.  It seemed word of the planting was already spreading, for Thor received many newly awed looks, though there were some scornful looks hidden amongst them.  

“How goes the training?” Thor asked as they walked.  

Tyra grunted.  “They won’t fend off another raid, not without help.”

“So poorly?” Thor asked, frowning.

“They’re raw,” Tyra said.  She ran a hand through her hair, cut short by a knife.  “We had fifty strong fighters when the Aeslings came and I was the best of them.  Most fell.”

“Recruits can be seasoned,” Thor said, remembering sneaking out to watch the Einherjar train.

“In time,” Tyra said.  “But if we wait that long there won’t be any of our people left to save.”

“If a threat emerges that prevents you from rescuing your people, I will see to it myself,” Thor said, his tone as sure as the mountains.  

Tyra stopped in the street, turning to face him.  “If you went now, could you save them?” she asked bluntly.

“I could,” Thor said, stopping with her, “if I knew where they were taken, and by which route.  The prisoner was…unhelpful, before I left him to stew.”

The warrior woman grimaced, setting off again.  “Taking back our home was one thing, but our taken people have no time for misplaced pride.”

“Preparation is key,” Thor said.  “Even if I could rescue them today, I would be alone in the wilderness with who knows how many wounded and battered.”  He gave her a sideways look.  “You have made the right choice.  An unwise ruler would have rushed off without a plan.”

Tyra gave a hmm, brow still furrowed, but seemed lighter for his words.  “I’ve got people eager to make the prisoner talk, if he’s feeling unhelpful.”

“He will speak when next I see him, or I’ll give him to you,” Thor said.  It was barbaric, but this was a barbaric land, and there were no palace cells to isolate the man in.  

“He’ll want to avoid that fate,” Tyra said.

“He brought his fate upon himself,” Thor said.  “If he does not wish to set some measure of his wrongs to right, I’ll not protect him.”

They were nearing the town wall now, passing by what tanners they had, their stench wafting over them and making them both pinch their noses as they hurried through.  

“Our gods are usually more distant,” Tyra said, after they had passed.  The gate was ahead, open but watched over by a pair of archers above it. 

“How helpful I would have been, sending blessings from afar,” Thor said.  

“I’ve seen Gunnhilde’s spear in action,” Tyra said.  “You could slay a full raiding party alone with that.”

“Even so,” Thor said.  “I could help, so I did.”

“Our gods are usually more demanding, too,” Tyra said, giving him a look.

“If I’m going to be worshipped as a god, I might as well earn it,” Thor said, large shoulders shrugging.  “Besides, those who demand veneration are rarely worthy of it.”  He thought of his sister and the rivers of blood she had spilled in her quest for the crown.  

The look Tyra gave him was searching, but she kept her thoughts to herself, and then they were through the gate.  Beyond was the training fields for the day, churned and muddy from use.  Near to one hundred men and women were assembled, most young, but some greyhairs amongst them too.  A few Thor recognised as having fought to liberate the town, but more seemed to be locals of Vinteerholm, eager to gain some measure of revenge or justice for what had befallen them.  They were not training now, most walking about to keep warm, but they bore the signs of hard sparring.  One man had a face of mud, save for the patches scraped away from his eyes and nostrils.  

“NAPTIME’S OVER YOU LOUTS,” Tyra roared suddenly, startling those who hadn’t seen her and Thor pass through the gates.  “You think the Aeslings are going to give you time to rest?!?  Pair off; if your partner isn’t bruised you’re not trying hard enough!”

Thoroughly chastised, the gathering was quick to break into pairs and spread out, hacking away and doing their level best to hurl each other into the ground.  Here and there veterans prowled through the mess, giving advice and snapping instructions.  Thor recognised the woman who had been near run through with a sword snapping at a young man, scarce more than a boy, as she limped along on crude crutches.  

Thor observed from the side, arms crossed as he conjured up what he hoped was the same stern expression his father had worn when he inspected the troops.  He was glad he was still wearing his armour; it would pick up the slack.  

“It’s a mess,” Tyra said, stepping up to his side after she had finished haranguing some poor girl.  “My man would have my h-” she choked off what she was going to say, swallowing.  “He’d give me an earful if he saw me training them like this.”

“Was he the trainer?” Thor asked.  He remembered the skull that had been placed to taunt Tyra in her captivity.  

“He wasn’t the best fighter,” Tyra said, “but he had a way of easing new blood into things.”

“You do what you can,” Thor said.  It is not how he would do it, but he was not the chieftain.  

“We don’t have the time to do it right,” Tyra said.  “Plenty of blunt weapons on hand, at least,” she added with a wince as she saw someone miss a block completely and catch a handaxe to the side.  

“How long did you plan to wait before setting out?”

“The moment I think the new blood won’t die to the first Aesling they meet, we’re going,” Tyra said.  

Thor gave a grunt of acknowledgement, watching as one pair devolved into a wrestling match in the mud and slush.

Tyra’s wince grew more pronounced.  “What would you do, Lord Thor?” she asked lowly.  “I don’t want to fail my people.”

“They need discipline,” Thor said immediately, thinking of the gleaming ranks of Einherjar that defended Asgard.  They were not as mighty as he, and had fallen against Hela, but they had served honourably and well, overcoming foes beyond the ability of any single warrior.  These townspeople were not Einherjar - but if they could be taught a touch of their discipline, they would be far more likely to survive.  

“Discipline,” Tyra said, nodding slowly, before taking a breath.  “SWAP PARTNER!” she bellowed.  She cleared her throat, spitting to the side.  “I can do that.”

For a time, the sparring continued, Tyra calling for rotations now and then, and Thor continued to watch.  There wasn’t anything approaching a uniform, and much armour bore the signs of battle and quick repair.  If the bulk of it hadn’t been looted from the Aeslings, Thor would eat his axe.  

At length, a halt was called, and shields were sent for.  Those who Tyra thought hadn’t been giving their all were volunteered, and returned quickly with arms full of round wooden shields.  Many bore images of snarling hounds, some carved on, some painted, and Thor narrowed his eyes at the sight.  He listened with half an ear as Tyra split them into four groups.  If the images had been painted with actual paint, forget his axe, he would eat nothing but mammoth for a year.

“...and if you don’t break the opposing shield wall at least once, you’ll wish you had,” Tyra said as she finished threatening the assembled groups.  She jerked her head towards one of the veterans, and they took over for her, while she rejoined Thor on the side.  

“A good start,” Thor offered.

“Look at that line,” Tyra said, groaning.  

The bowed line had already caught the eye of one of the veterans, and they were delivering a blistering tongue lashing.  

“Torygg would have their hides,” Tyra said, as much to herself as to Thor.  “What kind of fighter can’t hold a shield wall?”

“Torygg was your partner?” Thor asked.

Tyra glanced at him, as if realising what she had said.  “...aye.  He was my man.”

“Would you tell me of him?” Thor asked.  In the years after the Snap, Korg had pried many stories of Sif, Volstagg, Hogun, and Fandral from him.  It had helped, even if he had not been ready to be helped in truth.

For a long moment, Tyra did not reply.  “He was kind.  Almost soft enough to be a Gospodar, but strong still.”

“A fine quality,” Thor said.

She did not seem to hear him, lost in memories.  “He loved my hair, and I wore it long for him.  Said it brought colour to the white mountains.”

Thor listened, glancing at what remained of her locks.  

“When the Aeslings came, we had no time to ready ourselves.  I fought at his side, and it flew about like a chimera’s mane.  He died when they seized me by the hair and pulled me from him.”  She was staring off into the distance now.  “They dragged me onto their ship, and I remained there with his skull until you carried me clear.”

“Do not remember him in that moment,” Thor said.  “Remember him as he was when you last shared a meal, or spoke under the stars.”  He thought of his mother, of the counsel she had given him when he and the rabbit had obtained the Aether.  He thought of Loki, smirking in the infuriating way he did after pulling some trick.  

Tyra did not answer, though she seemed to have heard him, blinking as she was brought back to the present.  They watched as the groups pressed and strained against each other, desperate to not be the group that did not break another.  The blooded warriors went down each line, barking at them to fix this or that, or to smack someone to distract them.  

“I will mourn for him once those responsible are dead,” Tyra said at length.  “When Sigurd Twice-Slain knows true death and I have his skull for a goblet, I will mourn.  Until then I will train.”  She started towards the shield wall that had just broken their foe, moving with violent intent. 

Thor wisely decided to stay out of her way.  He let out a sympathetic ‘oof’ when she grabbed one of the shields and pulled, punching the man who held it in the face when the unexpected move opened up a hole in the wall.

Well, that was none of his business.  He had mammoths to pet and prisoners to interrogate.  Tyra seemed to have all this well in hand.

X

The captive had been kept in the same basement cell that the raiders had kept their hostages in, shackled to the wall with the same manacles they had used on those they abused.  He had a pot to hold his gruel in, a bucket to shit in, and a hope that he didn’t confuse them in the pitch blackness of the cell.  Four different people had tried to gain entry with murderous intent in the time he had been there, kept out only by the men Harad had set to watch the door.  Had it been anyone from Vinteerholm, the man likely would not have survived the first night, and Thor could not blame them.  The whispers he had heard of what was suffered by those taken off to the longships where the man had been captured were enough to set his blood to boiling.  

A torch lit his way as he entered the room.  The stench of sweat and human misery was thick in the air, and the guards outside watched him through the doorway.  He set a small stool on the ground, and sat.

In a dark corner of the room, the captive stirred.  He squinted blearily against the light of the torch, days spent in the dark leaving him sensitive to the light.  Thor had no sympathy for the man.   

“Are you ready to answer my questions?” Thor asked.  He had dismissed his armour, clad only in roughspun clothes, but there was no denying his presence.  

“I told you,” the captive rasped, “everything I know.”

“I think you are lying,” Thor said.  

“Please,” the man asked, shielding his eyes against Thor’s gaze as much as the light of the torch.  “I don’t know.”

“Then what do you know?” Thor asked.  Even sitting, he towered over the wretch of a man, curled into the corner as he was. 

“Sigurd - Sigurd Twice-Slain led us!” he offered up, desperate.  

“I know this already,” Thor said, letting his tone grow bored.

“This wasn’t the only raid,” the man said in a rush, desperation growing.  “We needed to stockpile - slaves, treasure - for tribute.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don-”

“Then what reason,” Thor said, voice rumbling deep in his chest, “do I have to keep your victims from you?”

The prisoner froze, terrified eyes staring out like lanterns from his grimy face.  “You said you’d kill me,” he said, voice suddenly clearer.  “We made a deal.”

“I said that when I thought you had more sense than a goat,” Thor said, “and a longer memory than a mayfly!”

The man lunged up and at him suddenly, fingers grasping like claws and his teeth bared.  The guards at the door started to move, but they were too far away.  There was a piece of metal in his hand, perhaps pried from the bucket, and sharpened into a shiv.  It angled for his throat.

Thor backhanded him contemptuously, knocking loose teeth and rattling his skull as he collided with the wall.  “If that’s the way it has to be then,” he said.  He grabbed him by the ankle while he was still insensate, and began to drag him from the cell, making for the stairs.  

The guards stepped from his path quickly, noses screwing up as the reek of the captive came with him.  He began to climb, dragging the captive belly down behind him, head bumping on every step.  Halfway up, the raider came to, and began to cry out in fear, trying to latch on to each step, but his grasp was far too weak.

“NO! Please!” he shrieked.  “I don’t know!  I don’t know!”

Thor ignored him, grip on his ankle tightening.  They reached the top of the stairs, emerging into a sideroom of the longhall and startling the woman digging in one of the chests within it.  Her gaze fixed on the man with unerring precision, but only for a moment, before she turned and ran from the room.  Thor followed, ignoring the fearful cries.

There were more in the main room of the longhall, their attention drawn by the captive’s panic, and they watched as he was dragged above ground for the first time in days.  Some had no good reason to be present, and their eyes were hungry as they saw who it was.  Hungry for blood.

“You said you’d kill me!  You promised!”

Thor stopped as the dozen or so spectators watched on.  “Do you have anything to tell me?”

Unfortunately, this only seemed to give the man time to think, and he heaved in a gasp, fighting his panic.  “I told you everything I knew!  That was the deal!”

That was not the answer Thor was looking for, and he turned for the door.  Pain joined the fear, as the captive left furrows in the wood floor with his fingernails in his attempts to resist.  

“Your word!  You gave your word!”

Those present followed silently as Thor dragged him outside into the light of day.  The racket drew the attention of more, and a small crowd began to grow.  For a moment, he considered dragging him through the glassed section of earth, but he put the thought aside.  He was better than that.  They reached the point where he had slain the chaos spawn, and he hurled the man forward into the dirt, leaving him sprawling.  The crowd pressed in, providing no avenue of escape.  

“I gave my word,” Thor said, “and you gave yours.  You were to tell me everything you knew.  You have not.  This is your final chance.  What say you?”

The man’s jaw worked soundlessly as he pressed himself up and looked around, searching for an escape that wasn’t there.  The woman from the sideroom returned, and with her came a group of young men and women; it was they who Harad had rescued from the longships, those who had been taken aside as the personal amusements of the raiders, and now they came for revenge.  They watched with eager eyes, a threat that needed no illumination.

“I don’t know,” the man moaned, lying.  

For a moment, Thor considered pressing him, picking apart whatever lie the man had told himself to frame his answers as the truth, but the man was right.  They had a deal.  He had given his word.  Everything he knew, in exchange for a clean death…and the man had broken his word.

Thor turned his back on the man.  

“NO!” came the keening cry as the crowd surged, reaching for the raider.  

Steve would not have done this.  

He was not Steve.  

“SKRAEVOLD!  SKRAEVOLD!  SKRAEVOLD!  SKRAEAARGHH!”

It was a name, screamed in desperation, and it was enough.  Thor turned back, opening a path to the man with a sweep of his arm.  He was already bleeding, arms and legs seized and pulled by those he had made victims of, now taking their own vengeance.  One eye had been torn out, bloody tracks down his face, and a young woman, barely more than a girl, was looking down at him with red stained fingers and an expression that made Thor want to weep.  He reached out, grasping him by the neck and snapped it with a squeeze and a shake.

A sudden quiet fell as the screams were silenced.  The corpse was dropped, and accusing eyes turned to Thor.  He met them evenly.

“He will never hurt another.  Go and be with those dear to you.”

For a moment, rage fought with grief before it was doused, and the crowd began to melt away.  Some couldn’t look at him as they left, but one old woman, face lined with worry, glanced at him with thanks in her eyes as she sheparded away her son.  All that was left were the two guards, and they waited for orders.  

“Take the corpse.  See it burned, and scatter the ashes in a latrine,” Thor told them.  

They nodded and left, passing Tyra as they went, and the woman joined him in staring at the spot the captive had died.  There was a small splash of red on the ground.

“Same place you killed the chaos spawn,” she remarked.  It seemed the recreational violence had helped her mood.  

Thor grunted.  “He deserved worse.”

“He’ll get it,” Tyra said.  “His god isn’t a kind one to cowards.”

Thor grunted again.  

“What did he cry out at the end?” Tyra asked.  

“‘Skraevold’,” Thor said.  “It has the sound of a name.”

“It is,” Tyra said.  “A village to the northwest, just south of of the Gianthome Mountains.”

“Aesling?” Thor asked.

Tyra spat, and that was answer enough.  

“Then we have our destination,” Thor said.  

“It’s not a short journey,” she said, “or a safe one.”

“We will not be stopped,” Thor said.  

It was a savage grin that Tyra wore, and she wore it well.  

“He said something,” Thor said, looking back with a clear mind.  “That the raid was to gain slaves and treasure for tribute.  What does that mean?”

“It means trouble is brewing,” Tyra said, smile fading.  “Valmir the Aesling rules.  If he has need of tribute…”

“Perhaps it was tribute to him?” Thor asked.

“Maybe,” Tyra said, but she sounded unsure.  

“Hmm,” Thor said.  “Tribute means swords to defend it.  Can we cut them off before they reach Skraevold?”

Tyra shook her head.  “Too many ways to reach it.  No way to know if they risked Kislev, or the Skaven, or the Dwarfs.”

Thor spared a moment to wonder at what the Skaven might be, but he was quickly distracted by mention of Dwarfs.  “Oh, Dwarfs, excellent,” he said, cheer returning to his face.  “Love the Dwarfs.  One made my axe, you know.”

“Dwarfcraft is prized, hard as it is to lay hands on,” Tyra said, agreeing.  

Thor’s cheer subsided as he returned to the problem at hand.  He looked up into the sky.  Grey clouds were drifting across it, starting to obscure the sun.  “If we cannot cut them off, we must assault the town itself.  How defended is it?”

“It is larger than Vinteerholm, though I know not by how much,” Tyra said.  “Vinnskor, another town of my people, clashes with them most often.”

“Would they lend their strength to an attack?” Thor asked.

“...maybe,” Tyra said at length.  “They face many threats.  I do not know if they would leave themselves vulnerable.”

“Then we must still rely upon ourselves,” Thor said, rubbing at his beard.  “This is not a simple question.”  How best to go about things, he wondered.  When was the best time to leave?  How many fresh warriors could they take, how many veterans should they leave?  There were no easy answers.

“The longhall would be a better place to discuss such things,” Tyra said.

“Aye,” Thor said, before smiling.  “Perhaps the chief might give us access to her cellars?”

“I think she might,” Tyra said.  “The day’s work has gifted me a powerful thirst.”

They turned for the longhall, the spirits of both more settled than they had been, intent on upending a different kind of spirit.  They had difficult questions ahead of them, but they were moving forward.

By the time the sun had started to set, Tyra was pleasantly buzzed, Thor was still stone cold sober, and they had a plan.  Word had well and truly spread of the events of the day, and a determinedly festive air descended on the longhall as all found cause for cheer, whether it was the planting of the grove, the beginning of their training, or the death of the last raider.  An impromptu feast broke out as it came out that Harad and his warriors would be leaving the following day, all thankful for their aid and eager to show it.  

Time would tell if their plan would pay off, but that night they looked forward with optimism, and their course was set.  The victims of the Aeslings’ raid would not be abandoned to their fate.  

Not while Thor drew breath.  

Chapter Text

The rivers of Norsca were perilous things, at turns still as glass and then tumultuous as the storm, but that would not stop the group on the longship that day.  Only the very strongest had been chosen to accompany Thor on the venture to retrieve those stolen from them, their party barely half a dozen strong.  It was not even enough to properly crew the longship, certainly not enough to row against a current should it be necessary, but with Thor leading them, it never would be.  

Tyra stood alone at the rear of the ship, shading her eyes against the setting sun as she kept a hand on the tiller, taking her turn to steer.  She had been quiet in the days since they had left Vinteerholm, seemingly happy for a break from the constant responsibilities and discussion that came with being chief.  She would be relieved soon by Gunnhilde, the Valkyrie even now sleeping below decks.  

The sun’s light was weak that afternoon, and the chill in the air spoke of overnight snow.  Wolfric wore a mammoth hide cloak as he polished his sword, still enraptured with it as he had been since Thor had blessed it.  The bandage that had covered his missing eye had been replaced by a leather patch, and on it was scratched a lightning bolt.  He was speaking quietly with Eirik, one of the two warriors who had been deemed worthy of accompanying them, a big blond man who bore a bigger axe - though not as large as Stormbreaker, of course.  

The other warrior, Halvar,  was sleeping below as well; a slight man, more akin to a fisherman than a fighter at first glance, though that would be remedied the the first time he was seen in battle, opening throats with his dagger and handaxe with an uncanny speed.  His red beard had received an appreciative nod when Thor had first seen it, though again, it was of course not as impressive as his own.

Thor himself stood at the stern of the ship, axe in hand, speeding the vessel on with his flight.  There had almost been an accident as they were leaving Vinteerholm, the ship and its steering not quite able to keep up with his strength or speed, but there was little need to talk about that in his opinion.  The wind tugged at his beard as they coursed down a wide river, lessening the distance between them and those who had been stolen by the Aesling raiders.  

The journey would be dangerous, but it would be undertaken nonetheless.

In hopes of making the voyage less dangerous, they had taken a longer route to their goal, first sailing upstream, past the remains of Gunnhilde’s village, before following a smaller offshoot west that Thor was shocked their longship could navigate, threading through the thalwegs of mountain valleys that perhaps would have been impossible without Thor propelling the ship onwards.  The effort had been driven by an ill-omened area to the south that none of his companions had wished to speak of, telling only of the despicable ratmen who were said to dwell there beneath the earth, and of the fate worse than death that awaited those foolish enough to risk it.  

A brief portage had been needed, but then they had made it to Lake Lagodash, and blooded warriors they might have been, none of the Baersonlings had been shy about showing their relief to leave it behind them, much preferring the dangers of their chosen path.  That had been two days ago, and it was that day they had left the lake behind in turn, now sailing west, more than halfway to their destination.  

Soon it would be time to discuss their plan of attack, but for now, Thor found himself enjoying the journey despite its dangers.  There was something to be said for quiet contemplation - though not too much - and it had a way of steadying the mind.  He had done much pondering of his circumstances during it, the quietness of the streams and rushing of the rivers giving him quiet moments that had been absent for the most part since his arrival in this new world.

A whistling in the air broke his line of thought, and before he knew it, a bolt had pinned his beard to the prow of the ship.  It had once bore a dog’s head, but no longer, not since Thor had taken it for his own.  He blinked at the bolt as it quivered there, sticking out of the wood.  

“Lord Thor?” Wolfric asked, breaking off from his conversation with Eirik by the middle of the ship.

“My beard!” Thor said, indignant.  He pulled the quarrel from the defaced head of the ship, and a few hairs drifted free.  He ceased his flight, and the ship began to slow, his feet returning to the deck.

“We are attacked?” Eirik asked, taking up his axe.  His voice rumbled, low and deep.  

The banks of the river were quiet, and there was not a sign of whoever had fired the bolt.  

“Alright, who did that?” Thor shouted, startling birds from nearby trees as his voice echoed across the water.  He stormed down to the middle of the ship, the mast at his back.  

There was no response.  

The ship continued to slow, carried on only by momentum, and Tyra lashed the tiller to the stern.  Her hands were at her axes, and she joined him in scanning the banks.  

“A warning shot?” Wolfric wondered, hand on his sword.  He was half crouched, ready to duck into cover.  

There was another whistling in the air, and Thor snapped his head to the side.  Rather than pin his beard to the mast, it only severed a few strands on its way, thudding into the post with a thunk.  Thor was starting to have flashbacks to the first time he had grown his beard out, before Loki had waged his war against it and he had settled for something more sculpted.  

Over the years, Thor had gained a hard earned sense for when someone was trying to kill him, when they were trying to scare him off, and when they just wouldn’t mind if he died.  This was probably the middle option, but he wouldn’t rule out the last.  That didn’t change the fact that his ears were near to steaming at the repeated insults.

“What kind of base envy drives someone to assault another man’s beard?” Thor shouted at the silent banks, leaning over the side of the ship and causing it to rock.  “To stoop to such a low act?!  Let it be known that Thor, Defender of Beards and Mankind, challenges such small people to show themselves!”

He had barely finished speaking when three more bolts erupted from the trees from completely different locations.  All were aimed squarely at his beard, and would have pinned it to the side of the ship had he not jerked back with an outraged shout.

Steam began to whistle from Thor’s ears, and Stormbreaker rushed to his hand.  “Seven strands you took from my beard, and seven strands I’ll have from you in turn!  Best pray to your gods that they’re from your head!”

Over the rail he went, leaping the distance between ship and bank in a feat impossible for any normal man.  He landed amongst the trees, ready to deliver a hiding with the blunt side of his axe - but there wasn’t so much as a hint of a foe to be seen.  Not a disturbed leaf to be seen, nor a snapped branch to be heard.  It was like the trees and stones themselves had been the ones firing bolts at him.  

The others watched from the ship as he prowled through the trunks, seeking but not finding.  Loki would have found them in an instant, he was sure - or been invisible at his back, ready to strike.  He spun, swiping through the air with the back of his hand, but there was nothing.  No invisible foes, no beard envying-enemy.  Just the forest, and him.

After a minute of peeking around trees and poking at stones, he began to feel a touch foolish, conscious of the eyes of his companions upon him.  He gave a dismissive scoff, and leapt back to the ship, setting it to rocking as he landed.  

“It seems they wanted the beard, but could not handle it,” he said, projecting his voice.  “I suppose that’s only to be expected-”

Again, the whistling of a quarrel, but this time Thor was ready.  He turned and seized it between his teeth as it flew past, snapping it with a crunch.  Head and fletching fell to the deck, and he spat out the middle of the bolt to join them.  

“Let that be a lesson to you!” he said, stroking his beard protectively.  “Time to go,” he said to Tyra.

She nodded.  “Best not pick a fight with the dwarfs we don’t need.”

“Dwarfs?” Thor said.  “Surely not.  The dwarfs I knew would never resort to such small and petty-”

“Let’s really not pick a fight with the dwarfs,” Wolfric said.

“My grandchildren don’t need that,” Eirik agreed.  He was covering his own short blond beard with a large hand.  

Thor grumbled, but frankly he had put a lot of time into his beard, and wasn’t eager to see it gone before he was ready, not when it had been so many centuries since he had the chance to grow one unhindered.  Tyra went to the stern, and he to the stem, and they resumed the journey without further incident.  If he tucked his beard into his shirt as he put his weight against the prow of the ship, that was no one’s business but his own.

X

In time, they came to the lands of the Aeslings.  By Tyra’s reckoning, Vinnskor, the northernmost village of the Baersonlings, lay a ways to the south, and they sailed on the main body of the River Groene.  Skraevold was perhaps only two short days away, and if they were fortunate, the longship carrying their stolen people lay between them and it.  There was no time to seek information in Vinnskor, and to sail on as a group would commit them to an assault and rescue on the town itself.  

After much discussion, a third option had been chosen.  Their ship, even pushed by Thor, could not likely catch their prey in time…but Thor could certainly fly ahead and catch them himself.  It was this decision that found him hovering high in the air one cold morning, eyes fixed on the river below.  Skraevold was to the north, a smudge in the distance.  If he concentrated, he could feel a thread of malignance at its heart even this far away, but his attention was rightly fully on the river below.

He was high enough that the ship he was watching appeared akin to a child’s toy, and he could make out the trophies and coloured shields that decorated its sides.  The prow was carved like a hound’s head, but he could not say if this longship was the one that had raided Vinteerholm or not, not with any certainty.  All he knew was that there were Aeslings aboard.  

They were Aeslings, and likely had poor souls suffering beneath their deck.  That was enough for him, and he allowed himself to fall, wind whistling past his ears.  A flex of will had his armour glimmer into being, and it brought the storm with it to darken the sky.  The earth rapidly approached, and he could see raiders on the ship looking up in wary confusion at the sudden storm.  Some squinted up at him, but there was nothing they could do to stop what was coming.  

Thor slammed into the longship near its stem.  It was smaller than the ship he had commandeered, with the oars on the topdeck, and he slowed enough to ensure he didn’t crash through.  Even so, the impact set the ship to bucking like a ship in foul seas, launching the oarsmen from their benches every which way.  Some were thrown overboard, but most landed in a mess across the deck in utter disarray.  

The Asgardian let them recover, but only so they could gaze upon him and what happened next.  As they were struggling to comprehend his arrival, the heavens roared, and a bolt of lightning descended to strike the hound’s head, its brightness casting his features in shadow, save for the glow of his eyes.  The Aeslings shied away, shielding their eyes from the sudden brightness.  When they looked again, Thor was waiting, and the symbol of their god was aflame.  They roared in anger and outrage, and rushed him.

Thor cut the first man in half at the waist, sending intestines flying across the deck.  The next man sought to tackle him before he could bring his axe back around, but that would be a challenge even for Steve, and this man was no super soldier.  His head was pulped with the backswing, and he kicked the next man between the legs, prying an agonised squeal from his throat as he was launched into the air.  

More Aeslings rushed him, and more died.  He killed five in the seconds it took the airborne man to return to the ship, and he kicked him again, shattering his chest and sending him flying once more.  He could feel the corruption dripping from these men, sense their dedication to the pile of cancer that called itself a god, and he knew them for the scum they were.  

The sky darkened further and the deck grew slippery with blood as Thor worked.  The sail was splattered with blood as he carved a man from hip to neck, and he spiked another into the deck and through it on the backswing.  

“Sorcerer!” they accused as they died.  “Witch!”

Thunder boomed, drowning out their wails.  Lightning flashed in his eyes.  “NAY!” he cried.  “I am Thor, son of Odin, God of Thunder!”

“Fake!” a bear of a man bellowed, catching Stormbreaker’s haft between two axes, the effort forcing him down on one knee.  “Imposter!  Praise Khorne!”

Thor leaned in, putting his strength against the man’s own.  It was no contest.  “I see no god here,” he growled, “other than me!”  

He backhanded a raider that tried to take advantage of his distraction into the ship’s rail, the impact upending him and sending him into the water with a splash.  The big man was forced down onto both knees, and Thor kneed him in the face, smearing his nose somewhere above his eyebrows and flipping him onto his back.  The enemies were dwindling now, and Thor stomped towards them, crushing the big man’s skull as he went.  

By the time he was finished, his beard was flecked with blood, and there was not a single living soul on the deck.  The silence after the slaughter was sudden, and the ship shuddered as it scraped against the river shallows, grinding to a halt.  There was only the flap of the sail in the wind, and fearful murmurings coming from below.  

There was a square hole in the deck below the mast, a ladder set within, and Thor stepped down it.  Fearful murmurings had turned to screams at his coming, but they choked off when he made no aggressive moves.  The hold of the longship wasn’t high enough for a man of his height to stand upright and so he hunched over as he looked around, axe kept low.  As he looked, his expression darkened.

The hold was full of captives, all in chains.  The adults, women all, were chained to the hull, while the more numerous children were chained to them.  Every woman bore signs of violence, but they stared him down despite the fear writ clear on their faces, clutching the children to themselves.

“I am Thor,” he said, his words filling the hold,  “and I am here to protect you.”

None spoke to him, so he made to put words to deed, approaching the nearest captive and reaching for their manacles.  She shrank back, pulling the two children chained to her with her, and Thor slowed.  The children shared no resemblance with her, but still she held them close, one hand clutching at her torn dress.  

“Every raider above is dead,” Thor told her.  “There is no one here to hurt you.”  He let Stormbreaker float beside him, and held his hands out towards her, waiting.

Every soul in the hold watched as the woman shivered in cold and fear, eyes fixed on the giant of a man who had suddenly appeared.  They had all heard what he had bellowed out above during the orgy of violence, but they had suffered, and trust came hard or not at all.

Slowly, like she was expecting to be hurt, the woman extended her hands to him.  Thor took them in his own and conjured a warmth in them.  From her hands it spread, and colour returned to her pale face.  He took hold of the manacles and pulled them apart like they were made of cloth, before doing the same to those of the children.  They looked up at him in cautious wonder, and he moved on to the rest.

As he went, a fragile hope spread through them, a hope that their nightmare might be over.  It strengthened with every broken chain and manacle, eyes darting between him and his floating axe.  When every last one of them had been freed, he stood as best he could to regard them once more.

“The scene above is not one fit for the eyes of children,” Thor said to the hold.

“They’ve seen worse,” one young woman said.  

Thor’s jaw clenched.  “Even so,” he said.  

“What will we do now?” another woman asked, anxious.  “If more Aeslings come…”

“Should the entire town of Skraevold descend upon us, you will be safe,” Thor promised.  “I will slay them all before any of you may come to harm.”

“Where will we go?” 

“Will you take us to safety?”

“South,” Thor said.  “And yes.  I have come to rescue those stolen from Vinteerholm, but I will not deny you my aid.”

“That’s a Baersonling name,” one woman said, rocking the young child in her arms.

“It is,” Thor said, regarding her.  “Is that a problem?  Where are you from?”

None answered, until the woman Thor had freed first gave a reluctant answer.  “Narberg,” she said.  “We were from Narberg.”

“And…the people who lived in Narberg were..?”

“Sarls,” someone said, one of many giving him odd looks.

Thor was accustomed to such looks.  “You are innocents in need of aid,” he said, looking around.  “Where you were born is of no matter to me or mine.  The quality of mercy is not strained.”

The words seemed difficult for them to comprehend, but then wisdom rarely came easily.  They were safe for now, moral discussions could come later.  He needed to decide what to do next.

The important thing was to get moving.  

“Does anyone here know how to steer a longship?” Thor asked.

A number of scoffs answered him, showing the already recovering spirit of the captives.

“We are Sarls,” one woman said.  

“Good,” Thor said, hoping that their tribe meant they had some knowledge of ship handling.  “Those of you who can, I need your aid to clear the deck…”

A sudden energy filled them all, and they were quick to get to work.  The still quiet children were herded into the grasp of a dozen odd women, while two dozen odd more climbed up into the open air to remove what remained of the raiders from the deck, tossing it all overboard.  They seemed enthused, pointing out this or that raider to each other with some small glee at their messy deaths, and spitting on their remains.  There was little that could be done for the blood, but when the task was done it was a much cleaner sight than before, and Thor was quick to push the ship from the shallows.  Soon they were underway, heading south and away from Skraevold.  Between the current and Thor’s help, they did not even need to row, only pulling the oars in as one woman manned the tiller.  

The storm clouds that Thor’s anger had summoned had dissipated, and the sun shone down on the freed captives.  The children were brought up on deck, and all basked in the first sunlight they had seen for weeks, uncaring of the cold wind.  

Then, in the distance, another longship approached.

It was larger than the one they were on, and bore signs of hard battle, perhaps only half of its oars in use.  Many looked to Thor for reassurance, and he was already raising his axe.  It carried him up and towards the enemy longship, crossing the distance swiftly, and he cut off the hound figurehead on his way past.  It clattered noisily across the deck as he landed, drawing the eyes of the ten or so raiders upon it, conjuring a fury in them as they looked between it and him.  He spread his arms, inviting them to do something about it.  They obliged him.

Thor spun, cutting the nearest man’s head from his shoulders.  Before it could hit the ground he had completed the spin, twisting Stormbreaker in his hands to hit the head with the blunt side and whacking it into the navigator’s face at the far end of the ship.  He cut two more men in half, and then another dropped down on him from the mast with a dagger in hand, only to be backhanded back up with enough force to fold him around the yard, spine audibly snapping.  The corpse fell back to the deck as Thor pulped the torso of the next man.  Lightning surged around him, chaining between the few smart enough to rush him as a group and they dropped, twitching.  Then he was at the rear of the ship, just in time for the navigator to recover from the skull to the face and deliver another, headbutting him hard enough to cave in his forehead.  

Rushed footsteps could be heard from below, and Thor made his way towards a nearby opening, dropping down without care for the ladder.  A man with an inferior beard blinked at him stupidly, and then Thor seized him by the skull and squeezed, popping his head like a grape.  Thor grimaced in distaste, wiping his hand on the man’s tunic, and looked about.

He was on the rowing deck now, and the Aeslings working at the benches stared at him in disbelief, having witnessed his latest deed.  The deck was cramped for one of his size, so he threw his axe, sending it spinning down one side and back the other.  Not a man had the time or space to get clear, and what had been rows of oarsmen were now rows of bisected corpses, torsos flopped to the ground while the waist down still sat at their oars.  

There was still one more level below, and so Thor ventured onwards, almost whistling.  He took little joy in slaying inferior foes, but there was some to be found in the knowledge that they would never hurt innocents ever again.  

The lowest hold was without even the scant light of the first longship he had taken, lit only by a few scattered flickering candles.  As his eyes adjusted quickly, he could make out the forms of those unlucky captives looking up at his arrival.  

“Fear not,” Thor said, setting his axe to float at his back.  “I am oof .”

Something small and heavy collided with his gut, driving the wind from him even through his armour.  

“You’ll not have me for a prize, Umgi scum!” a woman roared, voice loud in the closeness of the hold.  Again he was struck in the side, but this time he was prepared, and was less phased by whatever had struck him.  

“I am not your enemy!” Thor said.  “I come not for prizes, but to free you from a foul fate!”  His eyes were adjusted now, and he could make out the hold, and the very short woman menacing him.

“I’ll show you a foul fate you cockless hill dweller,” the woman growled.  “I’ll put a claw hammer down your throat and pull up your guts with it.”  

“That seems a bit harsh,” Thor said.  He parried another blow, stepping back.  “Instead, how about I free you all and we go up on the deck?”

The short woman paused, fist cocked back.  Her ginger hair had once been set in plaits, but now only one remained, the left side shorn off, along with the lower half of her ear.  Dried blood stained her neck, and there was a ring of old bruises around it in the pattern of a rope.  “Plenty of room up there to throw a net, isn’t there?  Make it easier to club someone over the back of the head with a broken oar?”

Thor had a moment to feel puzzlement over the specificity, before there was movement behind him, and someone clubbed him over the head with a broken oar.  It shattered into splinters with the force of the blow.  Slowly, Thor turned.  

A blond giant of a man, almost as large as Thor, stood behind him.  He was frozen, the remains of a broken oar in his hands and an almost sheepish expression on his face.  His beard was short, but his braided moustache fell almost to his collarbones.  Shirtless, his musculature was a thing to be envied, and Thor fought a frown.

“I’m going to go back up to the main deck now,” he announced, breaking the breathless silence of the hold.  He could see now that they were only pretending to be bound by their manacles.  “Once you see what I did to the oarsmen on the level above, you may join me if you wish.”  The man who had attempted to ambush him stepped aside as he made for the steep stairs and ascended, feeling a little put out.  Their reaction was understandable, but he much preferred it when he was known enough to avoid such misunderstandings.  

It took perhaps ten minutes for those below to gather the courage to climb above, joining him in the sun and the breeze. It was not yet midday, but Thor found himself humming, pleased with the work of the morning.  The first ship he had liberated was drawing near, carried by the current, and they would reach him without need of assistance.  He turned to the more recently freed.

The short woman and the large man were at the head of the group, and it was not as that from the smaller ship.  Men and women all, not a child to be seen, and they eyed him cautiously, sunken gazes flicking from him to the carpet of bodies he had made of the deck.  

“Hello,” Thor said to them.  “As you can see, there is no one lurking about with a broken oar, waiting to club you over the back of the head.”

The short woman glowered up at him, gaze mistrustful.  There was a sack slung over one shoulder.  Despite her height, there was a core of muscle to her evident in her stance.  “Who are you then?”

“I am Thor, son of Odin and the God of Thunder,” Thor said.  He bounced on his heels a little; already this was going much better.  “Who might you be?”

Blue eyes narrowed, but reluctantly she answered.  “Eseld.  This is Bjorn.”  She jerked her head to the blond giant looming behind her.

“I am Bjorn,” Bjorn said.  Despite his large frame, his voice was steady and quiet.  He raised his right hand, palm towards Thor, and then lowered it.

“Hello Bjorn,” Thor said.  He waved back.  

“Who is that?” Eseld asked, eyes fixed on the approaching ship.  The women and children on the main deck were visible, likely the only thing that was stopping her from suspecting foul play.

“Those I have already freed this day,” Thor said.  “Sarls, they call themselves.”

There was some grumbling from the three dozen or so gathered on the ship.  

“You would not be the same then?” Thor asked.

“We are Aeslings,” Bjorn said.  He glanced at Eseld.  “Well.  Most of us.”

The joviety faded from Thor’s face.  Floating at his back, Stormbreaker drifted forward to within easy reach.  “Aeslings,” he said. 

Something about his tone made them nervous, and some tried to step back, but there was only so far one could go on a ship.  

“You’d be Baersonling then?” Eseld asked.

“No,” Thor said, “but I have lent them my aid, in the wake of an Aesling raid that saw many wronged.”

“Would that we had you to aid us before now,” Bjorn said.  There was a sadness in his face, highlighted by the faint lines around his eyes.  

Thor’s gaze flicked to Eseld.  “Infighting?”

“We could not afford the tithe,” Bjorn answered in her place.  “They found another way to take it.”

A considering hum was his answer.  It seemed that the tribes were not as monolith as he had assumed.  A foolish thought, in hindsight.  “Did you raid?” he asked.

“We farmed,” Bjorn said. 

Thor’s gaze panned over the small crowd.  Though they all had a certain hardness to them, it was the kind that spoke of a hard life and hard choices, not of raiding and reaving.  “Then you will have my protection.”

Eseld was still glaring at him mistrustfully.  “And we’d have to do what for you in return?”

“Well, you’d need to stay nearby,” Thor said.  “I mean to slay more raiders and free more captives, but I cannot protect you if you wander off.”

Grumbling, the short woman continued to glare at him, though she didn’t disagree.  The first ship drew near, and the woman at the tiller did something that slowed its speed.  Thor clapped his hands together.  

“Perhaps we should move to the other ship?  This one is rather messy,” he said.

Some eyes went to the carnage on the deck, while others glanced to the stairway leading below, remembering the charnel house Thor had made of the rowing deck.  He hid a wince; it was possible he had been overly enthusiastic.

“Reclaim any of your possessions-”

“Already done,” Eseld said, hand tightening on the sack over her shoulder.

“-and let us be off,” Thor finished.  He gestured to the women on the other ship, and they came alongside, rocking the ship with a splash.  

The captives looked to Bjorn, and Bjorn looked to Eseld.  She nodded, grudgingly, but began to climb the side of the ship, clambering into the other one.  It was smaller, but there was no salvaging the larger one after what he had done with it.  The last of them were soon clear, and he eyed the ship itself.  He took up his axe, and with a casual swing, cut down the mast near the base, letting it topple over the open side.  Then he threw the axe down through the deck, punching through another and another.  When he heard a splash, he called it back, and the deck lurched as the ship began to sink.  A quick hop had him free of it, and he landed easily on the deck of the other.

Both groups were eyeing each other uneasily, though the Sarl women were outnumbered.  

“I won’t have any fighting,” Thor warned them.  “If you have cause to disagree, you will use your words.”

“Aye, god of thunder,” the Sarl woman at the tiller said.  

“Don’t start none, won’t be none,” Eseld said.  

“Excellent!” Thor said, beaming.  The ship beside them chose that moment to knock loudly against theirs as it began to sink in truth, and soon it was disappearing beneath the water, dragging its detached mast down with it by the ropes.  “We will continue south until we reach the fork in the river, and lay anchor,” he said to the tillerwoman.  “If any raiders wish to get their ill gotten gains home, they will have to go past me.”

They set off once more, the sun overhead and the freed prisoners settling in as best they could, taking the chance to eat their fill for the first time in too long and see to their injuries, of which there were many, though none life threatening.  Thor hummed a tune as he set his strength gently against the stem of the ship.  He did enjoy doing good works.

X

The ship he sank was not the last to fall afoul of him that day, or the second last, or even the third.  All told, Thor butchered the crews of eight more ships, and not a one of them offered him a challenge.  By the last, it felt more of a chore than anything, and a frown had set in on his face.  Some of it was that he did not care to feel such a way about the bloody work, and the rest due to the state of the captives he had freed.  The afternoon sun shone down on the decks of nine ships anchored in a circle at the fork of the River Groene, their decks full of people.  There was ample room below on even the smallest longship, but few wished to go down when the alternative was the sun on their face and breeze in their hair.  

Thor could not blame them.  Some, like the Sarls he had freed first, had been abused only thoughtlessly, the cruelties they endured the grim reality that came with sundered defences and slain warriors.  Others though, had been subject to greater malice.  It had taken considerable restraint not to paint the decks red on the ship that had bound a young man to its figurehead, hands and feet hacked off.  At the least, he had avenged the young man and freed his family, allowing him to die in what comfort could be conjured.  

Those taken for slaves were not all from the lands of Norsca, either.  Some were from the south, from lands called Kislev and Nordland, and they were at turns skittish and belligerent.  It had led Thor to leave each group on the ship he had freed them from, unwilling to be distracted by policing their behaviour, though for the most part his presence was more than enough.  Few were those willing to argue with the man who flew from ship to ship and slaughtered the raiders upon them, clad in armour of a kind they had never seen, and bearing an axe of kingly quality.  Not when he had all that, and had spared them from a dire fate besides.

Few, but not all, and Thor glanced over at Eseld on the next ship along.  Her ear had been seen to, after some unspoken nagging by Bjorn, and she had armoured herself in plate and chain that was evidently custom made for her.  She was still glaring at him.  

“East!”  came a faint cry, though it was quickly taken up by more.  “East, east!”

The warning of another longship approaching spread through the gathered ships, and Thor took to the air once more.  When he caught sight of the ship though, his frown was wiped clear.  He knew that ship.  He descended upon it with a smile and a glad heart; Wolfric and Gunnhilde were there to meet him.

“Lord Thor,” they said as one.  

Thor clapped them on the shoulders, and looked past them to see Halvar, the slight man at the tiller.  Mismatched eyes looked back, and he lowered his head in respect, tugging at his red beard.  “How was your journey, my friends?”

“Easy, with the wind and the current behind us,” Gunnhilde said.  

“Tyra rests below now,” Wolfric said.  He looked over at the ring of longships that they were approaching.  “You have had some luck.”

His frown returned for a moment.  “Some,” he said.  

“But not as much as hoped,” Gunnhilde said. 

“No.  I have freed some Baersonlings, but none from Vinteerholm.  I fear we were too late.”

“Shit,” Wolfric said.  “They couldn’t be behind us still, on another path?”

“Not if they’re still coming,” another voice said.

Thor blinked, looking around, and saw Eirik, the big blond man from Vinteerholm.  He had been curled up by the ship’s side, head resting on a rolled up cloak.  

“If they are not here yet, they were waylaid,” he said, deep voice rumbling.  “If they were lucky, it was the Kislevites.  To be a slave there is not so bad, given the other.”

“We will assume they beat us to Skraevold before I begin searching elsewhere,” Thor said.  “What I have seen this day has made me disinclined to allow it to stand.”  Despite the clear sky, there was a distant crack of thunder.

“The slaves,” Wolfric said, his gaze going to the ships.  The people on them were watching as they neared, intent, after Thor did not greet them with violence.  “The Aeslings are not kind.”

“Given I found Aesling victims amongst them, they are not kind even to their own selves.  What they did to those under their power…there will be a reckoning,” Thor promised.  

“And the innocents?” Gunnhilde said.  “We cannot bring them with us to Skraevold.”

“Some have fire in them,” Thor said thoughtfully.  “And of those, some can fight.  But no, we cannot bring them to Skraevold with us.”

“Vinnskor is near enough,” Wolfric said.  “Three days, four at most with them.  How many did you rescue?”

“Close to five hundred,” Thor said.  “But that is four days that those in Skraevold must wait.”

“Six, with the return,” Wolfric said.

“Four, with a tree,” Thor countered.

Wolfric pulled a face.

“Too long,” Gunnhilde said.  “But we cannot bring them with us either.  A hidden camp, to collect on our return?”

“They could aid us, after the attack,” Eirik said, getting to his feet.  “Pick through the ruins, help the rescued.”

Thor felt his frown returning.  It was not an easy decision.  “Their safety is our priority,” he said, “but so is that of those yet in the grasp of the raiders.  We will make a shelter for them as best we can, and then strike Skraevold this day.”

“This night, I think,” Wolfric said.  

The thunder god looked up at the sky, taking in the sun.  “Aye.”  They had reached the other ships now, and an anchor was dropped as they lay alongside one of them.  It was the ship of those from Nordland, and they looked upon the four of them with a defiance that sought to hide their fear.  “Pass the word.  We will put to shore, and establish a camp in the forest for the night.  We will strike Skraevold, and collect you in the morn.”

Those close enough to hear wore looks that said they would very much like to argue, but they had also just spent the better part of the day watching Thor gather the ships present now, and rescue them besides.  Word was spread around the ring of ships, and slowly they got themselves in order, aiming upstream towards the town.  Thor helped where he was needed, nudging ships and pulling them along, and soon they set out.  

Progress was slow, but it was progress all the same.  Despite their pace, no more Aesling longships came up behind them as the sun began to fall lower in the sky, taking on a red haze.  Thor called a halt when they reached the site he had sunk the longship earlier, and the vessels were pulled ashore, snow and dirt crackling as hulls scraped across them.  

There was much talk as all disembarked, carrying with them everything they could.  Many of those who could fight had taken weapons and armour from the fallen raiders, some bloodier and in more pieces than others, while others carried sacks of food and valuables, often the same that had been stolen with them from their homes.  

Tyra gave Thor a nod as she emerged from the ship, fresh from her sleep, and she set about giving directions and whipping the mass of people into some semblance of order.  Wolfric and Gunnhilde joined her, Halvar and Eirik with them, and soon they were all marching towards the edge of a nearby forest, only a middling walk away.  Snow crunched underfoot, and every breath brought with it a crisp coldness.  

“Would that my brother were here,” Thor said as he took in the procession, mostly to himself.

“The one that tried to kill you?” Wolfric asked, walking nearby with a bundle of sailcloth over one shoulder.

“The same!” Thor said. “The work to come, I am most suited for, but he had a cunning that would have aided greatly.”

“We could use someone like him to infiltrate the town ahead of time, find the captives,” Wolfric said.  

Those around them were listening as they walked, but Thor did not mind.  He found he liked the idea of spreading word of his brother’s quick wit.  “Such a thing would be child’s play for him.  He could have woven a spell around the ships to hide them from sight, or made our camp-to-be appear as nothing more than an empty clearing.”

“A powerful wizard,” Wolfric said.

“He was,” Thor said, a sad smile crossing his face.  “The most.”  That petty conjurer Strange would not have compared had the Odinsons approached him with violent intent.  “Had he still lived, I would not have been shocked to find him hidden as a raven in the woods ahead, waiting to ambush me.”

Some of those listening looked to the woods worriedly, and Thor felt his lips twitch at the thought that even from the grave, the mere mention of his brother could bring worry.  

“Ravens are of the Schemer,” a man with a thick accent said nearby, not quite accusing.  His hair was black, and lay thick on his cheeks and his arms.  

Distant thunder sounded.  “Ravens are servants of my father,” Thor said, deliberately not turning his scowl on the man.  “And the Schemer wishes he could conjure a trick capable of fooling my brother.  Loki Liesmith, Loki Silvertongue we called him, God of Mischief.”   His ire cooled suddenly.  In the end, there was one thing he could not trick his way out of.  

Whatever his cause for speaking up, the dark haired man held his tongue now, and the crowd walked on in silence.  Their goal grew closer, and a faint snowfall began to drift down from the sky.  

When they reached the treeline, many were eager to enter the otherwise forbidding shadows, if only to get out of the wind.  They were not so large as those around Wolfric’s home, but they were still tall, and large enough to conceal a good number of people comfortably enough, as such things went.  The longships had held material enough to construct shelters for the night, and many were happy to sleep in a place that wasn’t the cramped and damp hold of the longship that had ripped them away from their homes, to say nothing of the other, darker acts perpetrated upon them.  

There was no dividing into groups by place of origin here, but Thor’s even gaze was enough to dissuade any who might wish to bring up old slights or grudges against their neighbours.  There was not a scrap of belief amongst them, not truly, but he was still a large man with a large axe who could fly and hurl lightning.  They would bear the presence of each other for the night at least.

Sailcloth was strung up between trees, forming sloping roofs and walls, furs and spare clothes piled for bedding, and Tyra supervised as the gathered food was shared evenly.  Thor was using his finger to tap a metal stake into a tree as an anchor point when he was approached by a small group.

Eseld was at the head, Bjorn following her, and a dozen more followed Bjorn.  Thor ceased his work and turned, gaze sweeping over them.  They were a mix of folk, most from different ships, men and women, but they all had one thing in common as they came to a stop before him.  A certain look in their eyes, and weapons at their sides.  Thor’s lips thinned.  

“You want to join me,” he said, preempting them.

They stilled, but only for a moment, looking to Bjorn, who looked to Eseld.  

“Aye,” Eseld said.  “We want in.”

“You were captives until recently,” Thor said.  “You are weakened, wounded.”  He looked from person to person, noting small injuries and the hints of missed meals.  Bjorn was still shirtless, though the cold seemed to bother him not.  

“I’ve a grudge to settle with Skraevold,” Eseld said, squinting up at him, “and you’re in no position to knock back volunteers.”

“I could raze the town alone, and be back in Vinteerholm for lunch,” Thor said.  

“Could you save your people, though?” a man asked.  It was the dark haired man who had had questioned him on ravens earlier.  “You’ll need hands for that.”

“And you will help with that?” Thor asked.  He swept his gaze across them again.  “I see the truth in your eyes.  You seek revenge.”

“Some need it,” Bjorn said, and his quiet voice drove home the point more than any argument could. 

Stormbreaker floated at his shoulder as he thought.  Eseld’s eyes darted to it, but she wrenched them away, focusing on his face.  At length, he spoke.  “If I allow you to join me, there will be a condition,” he said, voice slow and measured.  “Those in Skraevold are responsible for great evil, and the gods they follow are a cancer, but if you harm a child, I will slay you myself.  Do you understand?”

“Kids can pick up a dagger,” one woman said.  There were a series of cuts on her cheek, barely scabbed over, like someone had carved the same design into place again and again.  

“If you cannot subdue an armed child without killing them you are not fit to join me,” Thor said.  “That is my condition.” 

“Done,” Eseld said.  She ran her thumb over the hammer at her hip.  It was a claw hammer.

“I agree,” Bjorn said, and slowly the others nodded.  

“Good,” Thor said.  “Eat.  Rest.  Soon, we fly to Skraevold.”

Bared teeth were his answer, too far from mirth to be called grins.  

“Do you not mean sail?” the dark haired man asked.

“No.”

X x X

That night, a storm came to Skraevold.  Sheets of rain doused lanterns no matter the cover, and rolling thunder made it near impossible for those dwelling there to hear their own thoughts.  Lightning roiled amongst the clouds that had blown in with unnatural swiftness, and anyone who had cause to be outdoors hurried on their way.  Those working the docks, sure that more victorious ships carrying tribute should have returned, were finally driven from the piers and the empty ships that lined them.  Sentries and guardsmen were quietly miserable, hunching over in whatever little shelter they could find on the walls or by the gates, cold and shivering.  

The only ones not praying for the storm to ease were the prisoners, those unfortunate souls beaten, whipped, and kicked into the dog kennels four to a cage, where they could be tormented by the hounds kept on either side of them.  The rain had even the mutts curling up in misery, but to the captives it was a sweet relief, cleansing them of filth they wore like a second skin.  Elsewhere, in a deep pit with standing room only, hundreds of faces turned upwards, mouths  open to taste rainwater so sweet that it should be gracing a prince’s table.  

At the main gates, on the side of the town opposite the river, a guard peered out into the darkness from atop the walls.  The pouring rain had eased for a moment, and he swore he had seen a figure approaching on the road.  He shook his head, pulling his cloak closer about himself.  Only one cursed by the Gods would be fool enough to travel that night.

Night turned to day as a colossal bolt of lightning struck to the north, and a deafening boom followed it.  It seemed to echo on forever, and the guard pulled his hands from his armpits to plug his ears, squinting at the sudden brightness.  

There was a figure on the road.

His pulse quickened as darkness returned, the hammer of rain muted after the thunder.  “Did you see that?” he asked the man at the other end of the gate.

“What?!” the man replied, shouting over the rain.

“I said did you see that?!?”

“WHAT??”

“DID YOU SEE THAT?” 

“Fuck, no need to yell,” the second man said.  “See what?”

“On the road, a man.”

“In this weather?  Fuck off.”

The first man would have replied in kind, but two pinpricks of blue-white light out on the road caught his eye.  There were about where he had seen the figure, but closer, and drawing closer still.  “There!  See?”

Squinting, the second man was about to tell him to fuck off again, before he paused.  “I see it,” he muttered.  “But what…?”

Again, night became day, but something was wrong.  Lightning erupted from the ground to strike at the sky, and the force of the thunder was a physical thing rushing through them.  Blue forks covered black clouds, arcing and spreading without fading.  The guards looked up into the sky, and they quailed in terror as it looked down at them in turn.  An enormous figure was writ in lightning, and it was not pleased with what it saw.  

Thunder boomed.  The heavens roared.  

“THOR!  ODIN’S SON!  PROTECTOR OF MANKIND!”

The figure pointed down at the earth, and the guards at the gate cowered, but then there was only blinding white and a noise like the end of the world had come, and they died, unknowing and afraid.  

X

Under the cover of trees near the northern gate, Tyra blinked the afterimages away as the giant in the clouds dimmed, though he didn’t disappear.  She thought she had witnessed Thor’s might before, but she was beginning to realise that she had only seen the first hints of it.  Her heart raced.  That was the God she had chosen.  That was the God that would stand with her.  A sharp grin stole across her face, and her eyes grew bright with battlelust.  

She turned, and saw that her look was mirrored by those at her back, Wolfric and Gunnhilde first amongst them, but also Eirik and Halvar.  Even those who didn’t believe were hungry for blood and revenge, the dwarf woman Eseld holding her claw hammer like she wanted to pry open an Aesling’s skull with it.  Only Bjorn was calm, but there was something lurking in his eyes that spoke of violence.

“In the name of Thor,” Tyra said, axes slipping into her hands, “we will purge this village.”  For a moment, it seemed the stormy giant above glanced her way, but the lightning that made it up shifted and the moment ended.

“For Thor,” Gunnhilde said, eyes fixed on the gate ahead.  There was a watcher atop it, but they had turned to gawk at the destruction of the west gate, and they were exposed by the lightning writhing across the clouds overhead.  Gunnhilde cocked her arm back, took three skipping steps, and hurled her spear.

The guard staggered as the spear took him low in the back, and would have toppled from his perch had Gunnhilde not called her spear back to her, dragging him screaming with it.  The spear slipped free partway, leaving the Aesling to tumble across the muddy ground, screams ceasing as he ragdolled.  

“ Khazukan Kazakit-ha! ” Eseld roared as she charged past them all, and her words were punctuated by a ground shaking blast of thunder.  

Within the town, a building erupted, stone and wood and corpses launched up into the sky, and they were illuminated by the repeated flash of lightning from below.  Before they could hit the ground, the rest of the group of warriors was charging in the dwarf’s wake, heedless of the sheets of water pouring down.  

Despite her short stature, Eseld’s head start saw her reach the gates before the rest of them, and she did not slow, introducing herself to the wooden gates shoulder first.  They splintered inwards with a great crack, though they did not break entirely, and Eseld stumbled back, already setting herself for another charge.  

Eirik got there first, bringing his battleaxe down on the bowed portion in a mighty overhead blow.  Whatever was still holding the gates up broke, and then bare chested Bjorn was there, shouldering them open.  He held a morningstar in his right like it weighed nothing, and Tyra pushed forward on his left, ready for battle - but there were no defenders.  There was only the rolling shadows, cast back here and there by rippling lightning overhead and in the town, and the pouring rain.  

“Where to?” Wolfric asked, stopping beside her.  His mammoth cloak kept the rain from his shoulders, but it was trailing down his scalp and over his eyepatch.  

A lightning bolt fell from the sky to strike near the centre of the town, away from where Thor was apparently rampaging.

“That way,” Tyra said, pointing to where the bolt had fallen. 

None questioned her, and they set off at a jog, Tyra leading the way.  The town was starting to stir, the thunderous bellow earlier making clear that it was no mere storm that had descended upon them.  A man emerged from a house as they passed, struggling with armour, and Tyra hardly paused as she buried an axe in his neck, her momentum wrenching it out as she continued.  The Aesling fell, choking on his lifeblood as it spilled out into the mud, only to be swiftly washed away by the ever falling rain.  

Onwards they ran, deeper into Skraevold, even as the tempest that was Thor grew more violent.  Those familiar with it could hear the thrum of his axe as it spun through the air, and thunder boomed unnaturally in the rhythm of battle.  Something unholy screeched a challenge, but it was cut off abruptly, only for more to rise in a chorus in its wake.  Onwards they ran, through dark muddy streets and crooked alleys.

A group of Aesling raiders running the other way stopped as they saw them, but only for a moment.  They howled battle cries, and Tyra felt a rage stoked in her heart as they invoked their wretched blood god.  

“THOR!” she screamed in return, falling upon the leader.  In his face she saw the face of the man who had slain her beloved and taken her captive, and she hooked his shield out of the way with one axe so the other could hack into his face, again and again.  

Gunnhilde’s spear pierced two men before knocking over another as it was called back, and Eseld was there to break his skull open like an egg with her hammer.  Swift and slight Halvar darted around the fight to get at those behind, axing a man behind the knee and opening his throat with his dagger before he could hit the ground.  Soon the Aeslings were all dead or wishing they were, and they continued on, nearing the centre of the town. 

From a side street they emerged into a square of sorts, though it could not be called so.  Instead of an open space, there was a pit, and around its edges was a wooden cage rising up taller than a man.  Torches were spaced around it, but all had gutted out, extinguished by the rain, and the only illumination came from the godly figure above, looking down on them all.  

Their arrival did not go unnoticed.  Whatever the pit held, it was guarded, a score of Aeslings having emerged from nearby dwellings to defend it.  These men were not responding in haste, and they were quick to form up against their arrival.  Their numbers were about even, but that did not last, as another dozen arrived across the pit, having been on their way towards the clamour and furor that was Thor.  Both groups began to advance around each side of the pit, aiming to fall upon them like hammer and anvil.  

“ Do Tor! ” a black haired bear of a man cried, raising his axe in challenge, but his response was not the one that drew the Aeslings’ eye.

Bjorn had yet to bloody his morningstar, but now he let out a great bellow, charging the larger group.  Rain had soaked his hair and moustache, and his features were half cast in shadow by another bolt of lightning from the west.  His bellow turned into an unending wordless scream as he fell upon the Aeslings, and with a single mighty blow he caved in the head of the first to stand against him.  The corpse began to collapse, but he seized it with his left hand and wielded it as a shield as he laid about, tearing the next man’s face off with the spikes of his weapon.  His ferocity cowed the Aeslings back, but only for a moment, and they pushed forward, threatening to swarm him.  

Eseld was there before they could, jumping into them and bringing the claws of her hammer into a man’s crown.  They cracked the bone and lodged themselves in, and as she landed her victim was brought down, twitching and convulsing.  Dawi curses filled the air as she shattered knees and splintered ribs, outright ignoring blows that fell upon her armour and only catching those she needed to.  More joined them, the Kislevite first amongst them, and the Aeslings found their advance stymied.

They were not the only foes, however, and Tyra turned on the other group menacing them.  Wolfric and Gunnhilde stood with her, and though they were outnumbered four to one, she knew no fear.  

“VINTEERHOLM!” 

Gunnhilde claimed three lives before they clashed, her spear beyond lethal at the middle distance, and the blessed weapon made the Aeslings hesitate for a crucial moment as Tyra and Wolfric met them.  A raised shield was no defence to his sword, cleaved in twain and the arm wielding it with it, taking the next man’s head on the backswing.  Tyra hacked and spun, little thought given to defence, only to opening bellies and skulls.  The Aeslings fell before their ferocity and the righteousness of their cause, and for a moment Tyra swore she saw wisps of blue-white light steaming from the eyes of her fellows, but then her axes splattered blood across her face and the moment was gone.  

The last of the twelve fell, clutching at Wolfric as the man drove his sword through his heart.  Wolfric snarled in his face, no mercy to be found for one of those who would have raided his home and slain or stolen his sisters, and he kicked the man away, not bothering to watch the light leave his eyes.  But the fight across the pit was not yet over.

“From behind,” Tyra said to them, gesturing on.

“Thor’s groves will be well watered this night,” Wolfric said, eye roving for his next foe.  

Gunnhilde only grinned, lining up her target across the pit.  She threw, and her spear did not stop until it pierced through the melee to hit the timber of a house on the other side.  When she called it back, it was dripping with blood, though the haft was soon cleaned by the ever present rain.  Blood seemed to cling to the tip.

“Where are your gods now?!” Gunnhilde screamed, filled with a savage joy, and then she joined her fellow believers as they rejoined the fight.  

The Aeslings might have been fearsome raiders and cunning warriors, but they fell all the same, unable to withstand the fury of those they had wronged.  One woman accepted a spear through the shoulder to open her foe’s throat, and another man’s arm hung limp, bleeding sluggishly, but that was the worst of their wounds.  Bjorn bore a cut across his collarbone, one that would add to the latticework of scars across his chest, but none were dead.  They could feel eyes watching them from the wood and stone buildings around the square, but none emerged to challenge them, and they gathered on the carpet of corpses they had made, catching their breath.  

“What now?” a woman with a shaved head asked.  There was a scar upon her cheek  that was bleeding again, though it looked like it had been opened deliberately to mar the scar pattern that had been there.  

“I have seventeen more debts to collect,” Eseld said, wiping her hammer clean of brain matter.  

“We could go to - to that one,” a wiry man said, gesturing to the ongoing chaos that marked Thor’s presence.  

They looked over in time to see some kind of fell creature thrown up into the sky, illuminated by the lightning that struck it.

“I think he has it handled,” another said.  

“Look,” Gunhillde said.  She was pointing down into the pit, and the rest followed her gaze.  

The pit was three men deep, and the sides were slippery with mud, but that was not what drew the eye.  Hundreds of faces looked up at them, unblinking in the rain.  No, not at them - at the lightning writ giant in the clouds.  

“We must get them out,” Gunnhilde said.  

“And take them where?” Eseld said.  Her remaining braid was dripping, soaked, and blood not her own dripped with it.  “We’ve Aeslings to slay.”

“We can’t leave them in there,” Gunnhilde said.  “Not in this weather.”

“Thor would cease before they were endangered,” Wolfric argued.  

“We’re here.  We will help them,” Tyra said, bringing the argument to an end.  “The Aeslings would sooner slay them than see them freed.”

None could argue with her words, and thought was turned to deed.  Some saw to their wounded, while the rest worked to find the mechanism by which prisoners entered and were removed from the pit.  Through it all, the captives were silent, though many began to shift restlessly as they sensed freedom nearing.  

Eseld was the one to find it, giving a loud ‘Ha!’ and striking a section of the cage wall around the pit.  Something came loose, and a piece fell straight down into the pit, creating a wide ladder to be climbed.  There was a ripple of turning heads across the pit as every man and woman looked towards it as one.

“Hold!” Tyra commanded, though her words were ignored by many.

Again, Eseld was the one to solve the problem, calling something in Reikspiel, and the imminent rush to escape was strangled.  Slowly, the captives began to climb up the wooden lattice.  Many were weakened by hunger and exposure, but still they climbed doggedly, rising to freedom.  Gunnhilde and Wolfric were there to pull them up at the last, and they spilled out onto the ground around the pit, making room for others to rise.  

Another building erupted in the background, man and beast thrown into the sky with a thunderous roar, though that might have merely been the continuing storm.  The chorus of unholy screeches had been ended, but something still fought the God of Thunder as he prowled Skraevold.  

“Who - what?” a man asked, as Wolfric pulled him up.  

“That is Lord Thor, God of Thunder,” Wolfric told him.  The man’s clothes were ragged, but had once been fine indeed, the mark of a southerner.  

“Protector of Mankind,” the man said, more to himself, his eyes fixed on the sky.  He was slim, his features almost too pretty for a man, and he spoke like he had learned the language from a book.

Wolfric nudged him on his way, making room for the next.  Soon, every last man and woman had been freed from the pit.  Some looked unnaturally clean for their ordeal, the rain cleansing them beyond reason.  The storm raged, and some great beast howled, but there was no fear.  The filth began to slip from more and more of those that remained so, as if it was suddenly falling on them for the first time, and all shared a look of awe and fearful wonder.  The giant above seemed to look directly down on them, approval in his bearing.  

The crowd began to mill, directionless, and Tyra took action.  She climbed up a portion of the cage that still stood, shouting for attention.  “We go to the docks!  Stay behind us, and we will forge a path!”

Again, there was little comprehension, but then one of them began to shout in turn, repeating her words in Reikspiel.  It was the overly pretty southerner, projecting his voice to be heard by all.  

“You!” Tyra called, pointing at him when he finished.  “What is your name?”

“I am Stephan the Bard, of Nordland and at your service,” Stephan said, almost managing to sound grand despite his waterlogged state and gaunt frame.  Black hair hung to his shoulders.  

“If I give an order, you will translate,” Tyra said.  

Stephan bowed, though he had to stop halfway through, holding his ribs and wincing.  

Tyra leapt from the cage, already moving to leave the square and head back into the streets.  The river was their goal, the river and the longships docked there that might provide shelter from their god’s fury.  Eseld was the first to follow, Bjorn following her, having thrown off the sudden rage that had taken him, though by the look in his eye and his grip on his morningstar it was only temporary.  

There was no protecting the hundreds of people they had found themselves escorting, not with less than a score of fighters, so they relied on speed.  Gunnhilde took the rear, the scar faced woman and bearlike Kislevite with her, while the rest of them acted as the sharp tip of the spear for the wave of humanity that snaked through the shadowed and muddy streets.  Only twice did they encounter Aeslings, and both times they were ragged groups, either running towards or away from the ongoing chaos that was carving a path through their home.  They were dealt with swiftly, by Tyra and her fighters if they were lucky, by the freed prisoners if they were not.  Eyes could be seen and felt watching their progress, but they belonged to those too wise or too cowardly to venture out, and soon they reached the docks.  

Whatever guard had been on the ships had long since fled, leaving them free to herd the rescues aboard.  Some may have been torn from their homes in the very ships they were now finding shelter on, from the storm and the sight of the Aeslings both, but there were no raiders aboard now, only the captives, those that had freed them, and a rising tide of fervour for the god that had made it possible.  

Wolfric stood on the dock as he watched a ring of lightning bolts strike within the town, and he knew that his god stood at its centre.  He gripped the hilt of his sword, wishing he could fight by his side.  “We should be there,” he said.

“What would we do?” Tyra asked, watching as another ship grew full.  She pointed at the next, directing the slowing flood of escapees.  

Wolfric grunted, but didn’t argue.

“We should be where he is not,” Gunnhilde said, joining them.  “There are more in need of help within.”

“More Aeslings to kill too,” Eseld said, Bjorn ever present at her shoulder.  

Tyra glanced between dwarf and man, and Eseld flapped a disgruntled hand at her.  

“Well?” Gunnhilde asked, pressing Tyra.  The blonde woman was coiled, tense, and it was clear she was on the verge of venturing back into the town alone.  

As much as she agreed with Eseld, she knew Thor would want otherwise.  “There will be more slaves,” she said.  “We go to free them.”

An isolated lightning bolt struck the town, and Gunnhilde pointed towards it.  “Lord Thor guides us,” she said, already walking away along the dock.  

Wolfric followed, lightning glinting from his wet eye patch as he passed her with a grim smile.  

Tyra turned to Eseld.  “There will be more foes,” she promised the dwarf.  

“If there aren't, I'll go looking,” Eseld said, like it was a threat, before following, Bjorn shadowing her.  

Tyra was quick to detail five of her fighters, the wounded included, to stay with the ships.  Those of Skraevold had more pressing matters to deal with, like the ongoing calamity making his way through their home, but she was not going to take risks, nor take safety for granted.  Not again.  She hefted her axes to follow, when a voice called out.

“Wait!” It was Stephan, the southerner, almost slipping as he hopped from a ship to the dock.

“What?” Tyra asked, impatient.  

He swallowed, one hand held to his ribs.  “May I come with you?”

Tyra gave him an incredulous look.  “You don’t have the wind.”

Like a rooster he puffed up, only to deflate.  “Not to fight,” Stephan said. “To see.”

She narrowed her eyes, taking in his hunched posture and sharp, underfed features.  He was a pretty one, yes, and looked like he could be quick with a knife, but only after a good meal.  “You want to see the ones who wronged you brought low.  See them hurt as you were hurt.”  She understood the desire.

Stephan coughed.  “Yes, but…I also need details for my song.”

“Your song,” Tyra said, voice going flat.  

“I am a bard, after all,” he said, trying to smile in a winsome manner.  

Tyra was little impressed.  “Southerners,” she said, like it was an insult.  

“My father was Norscan, actually,” Stephan said, a hint of sharpness to him.

What little credit his fire earned him was lost by his lack of understanding.  Tyra snorted; it was just like a southerner to treat every tribe of Norsca as one.  “Come if you must, but I cannot promise your safety,” she said.  “Here.”  She handed him a dagger, a cheap iron thing.  

The southerner took it with an ease that suggested he might even know how to use it.  “How kind,” he said, though his tone belied his words.

Tyra had no more time for him, turning and striding from the dock, heading after those who had already left.  Stephan was quick to hurry in her wake, and she found herself annoyed, knowing that Thor would be disappointed if she didn’t protect him.  The clash of steel on steel and the pained cries of dead men sounded briefly through the storm, and she hurried on.  She would not miss out because a skald wanted a story.  

When she reached the fight, it was just in time to see it end, watching as Bjorn beat a man’s face against a stone wall until it was naught but pulp.  He turned, unthinking savagery in his gaze, searching for another foe, but there were none, yet the lust for blood would not dim.  For a moment, it seemed that the blond giant would attack one of them, but then he blinked, mastering himself.  He picked his gore covered morningstar up from the ground, returning to his place at Eseld’s shoulder.  

Nothing was said about the man’s bearing as they continued onwards.  They all knew what it meant, had guessed from the moment they saw the countless scars across his chest and belly, and the few across his back.  Baresark.  To be so was to be blessed and cursed in equal measure, and it was better to have one such on your side than against, though at times not by much.  

They only came across isolated Aeslings now, lone men skulking about for whatever ill purpose as Thor’s presence in the town only intensified.  What he fought, they did not know, but by the furious screams and tortured roars, it was not going well for them.  The rain hardly bothered Tyra and her force now, but it seemed to sting and lash at the Aeslings, leaving them to squint and shield their faces, easy pickings to the dozen or so who stalked through their town.  

When they reached their goal, many were unpleasantly reminded of their time under the power of the raiders.  Kennel cages were laid out before them under the open sky, maybe thirty all told, unpleasant things of iron and spikes waist high at best.  It was not only hounds within them, but humans too in half of them, and never fewer than three to a cage though by scant mercy not together.  The moment they entered the small open area, the canines began to uncurl, misery at the rain overcome by anger at the intruders, hackles rising.  They were ugly beasts, black furred and sharp toothed, and there was only a feral hunger in their eyes.  

“Help,” someone croaked.  Perhaps the anger of the dogs was enough to make them seem trustworthy, or perhaps it was something else, but they saw in them a fragile hope.  “Please.”

“Get them out,” Tyra commanded.  Several moved to obey, before she spoke again.  “Wait.  Kill the hounds first.”

Some of the dogs had started to snarl at her first command, but now they began to snap and growl as they were approached.  The bites and wounds on the people crammed into cages where they couldn’t avoid the dogs made it easy to dispatch them, and they were unable to avoid a spear or sword thrust into their cages more than once.  Even as they died, they didn’t stop snapping and snarling at their cages, some even frothing at the mouth.  Those yet to be killed started throwing themselves at their doors, not to escape their imminent death, but so that they could attack those approaching them.  There was no thought beyond violence in their minds, and to kill them was to put them out of their misery.  

There were fifteen of them, and it was after the seventh was killed that things began to go wrong.  Instead of a rattle and clang, there was a tortured groan of metal as one bashed its head against the gate again.  Another got its jaws around the bars of its cage and began to squeeze, and the bars started to groan and give.  They began to swell in size, fur bursting as the muscle beneath rippled.

“Kill them, kill them quickly!” Tyra shouted, and she was not alone in her words.  

Gunnhilde speared one and then another, but only the first died, the second one only gurgling, still living despite the spear that was thrown down its gullet.  The captives beside the mutating beasts began to scream in fear and panic, but there was no time to see to them, only to try to kill, but they were too slow and it was not enough.  The first of the mutated chaos hounds burst from their cage, and it lunged at Eseld, even as great horns sprouted from its head in a burst of blood.

Bjorn was there, and he caught the beast under the chin with a mighty blow, but it did little to dissuade it.  A second swipe with his morningstar was caught between its jaws, and the hound snapped the weapon in half with a contemptuous bite.  Bjorn was ignored, bowled over and trampled as the hound again lunged for Eseld.

Another cage ruptured, the hound struggling through the door, and Wolfric hacked at its neck as it sought to escape.  Even his sword took two strokes to cleave its head free from its body, and in that time two more had bashed their way free, covered in gashes from the cage spikes and those striking at them, but the wounds were not mortal, and one man found his leg seized and torn off with a single shake of its head, his screams ringing in the night.  

Eseld had set herself, hammer cocked and ready, but she was sent flying by the sheer mass of the beast, unable to deliver a telling blow.  She disappeared beneath it, screaming curses, but there was no time to help her, no one free to go to her aid as more beasts escaped.

No one but Bjorn.  He had been trampled, but not left behind, grabbing onto the tusks that had burst from its jaw, and he was between Eseld and it.  Now he reached up to seize its snout as well, muscles flexing as he roared, seeking to tear its jaw open, to stretch it beyond its limits.  All was chaos, a mad struggle to kill the hounds before they could all escape and tear them apart, and above it all rose the howls of what once had been dogs, hungry for blood.  

There was no clever strategy to be had, no formation to take that would hold the beasts at bay.  Gunnhilde finished killing her target, but two more were free, and they were amongst them like a fox amongst hens.  Wolfric saved a man’s life when he tackled a leaping hound, sword taking off one leg effortlessly, but he could not be everywhere.  One woman menaced a hound with her spear, trying to force it away from the man whose leg it had torn off, but she found herself victim in turn, spear ignored and her guts torn out with one swipe of a heavy paw.  She spun and fell, screaming in agony as her intestines spilled into the mud.

Two of the beasts were still in the cages, but not their own.  Rather than escape, they had gone sideways, into the cages occupied by captives beside them, and there was only blood and a fading gurgle as they feasted on the poor souls locked within.  

Tyra rushed the beast that had good as killed two of the warriors under her care.  “Thor strike you!” she bellowed, one axe rising high, the other held low to slash its throat.  The hound turned to face her coming, blood dripping from its canine grin.

Her hair stood on end, and it felt like she was floating.  Shadows were thrown back as she closed on the hound, and it almost seemed to quail before her.  Thrice the weight of a man, red eyed and with a neck frill of bone spikes, and it knew fear as she brought her axe down.

The force of the blow was such that thunder boomed in its wake, and her axe parted the hound’s skull in twain.  Pained yelps sounded from the others as they flinched, and that was enough for Wolfric to thrust his sword down the gullet of the one he had wounded, finding its heart before it could clamp its jaws down on his arm.

A sickening snap sounded, and Bjorn gave a bellow of triumph as he succeeded in tearing the jaw off the beast that had him pinned atop Eseld.  His torso was a mess of bloody gouges, but his strength was undiminished and he began to hammer blows into the belly of the beast with his bare fist, breaking ribs such was his fury.  The hound was not dead though, not nearly, trying to bring its horns to bear against him.  It succeeded, one wicked spike driving through Bjorn’s shoulder, and it reared back to deliver another, lower jaw flapping uselessly.

The dwarf woman seized the respite to get out from under the great weights atop her, and she was just in time to catch the hound with her hammer, claws biting into the roof of its mouth.  She turned with a great heave, hammer over her shoulder, and she hiked the hound off the man who had saved her life.  A gauntleted fist met it as it came, stunning it.

“Khazukan -” she tore her hammer free with a shower of blood, “Kazakit -” she raised her hammer high, “ -ha! ” and brought it down, shattering its skull with a single blow.

There was still one hound menacing them, but it was being kept at bay by the others, though they could not slay it.  Gunnhilde had trusted them to survive, leaping atop the kennels so that she could stab down into them, striking at the hounds tearing into the defenceless captives.  They had shredded one cage apiece, but their hunger was not sated, and they had almost broken through to more.  

Gunnhilde would not have it.  She stabbed down six times in four seconds, abusing her control of the blessed spear to have it rise up with ease.  Trapped in the cages as they were, there was no escape for the hounds, and they died whimpering.

A single hound remained, Tyra and Wolfric joining the half circle around it, harrying it against one of the buildings that lined the kennel square.  It snapped and snarled, but there was no escaping for it.  There was a pause, a breath before they would fall on the foul creature, punctuated only by the storm and the agonised moans of those who had fallen victim to it behind them.  

Then, the building exploded.  

Stone and wood sprayed outwards, though miraculously not a single human was hit by more than small fragments.  An entire slab of stone crushed the hound before it could so much as flinch, but then there were more pressing matters calling for their attention.  

Thor was there, wreathed in lightning, so much that it seemed he was as much power as he was flesh and bone.  There was joy upon his face and he was laughing, though perhaps that was merely the boom of thunder.  In the cratered remains of the building he stood, and he was not alone.

Against him stood a daemon.

Like a twisted mockery of a man it stood on twisted limbs, a crown of bone rising from its skull and red skin splitting and healing with every movement.  It roared and gnashed its needle like teeth as it traded blows with the laughing god, and for a moment even the faithful trembled as they tried to comprehend what kind of power it must wield to do so and survive - but then the moment passed, and they began to understand just what they were seeing.

“Stop hitting yourself!  Stop hitting yourself!” Thor shouted, laughing, lashing at the daemon with a severed arm.  His great axe floated at his back, and his beard was flecked with blood.  

The daemon screeched in near mindless fury, five arms bearing weapons of steel and bone all seeking to strike the god, but none succeeding.  The stump that had been the sixth bled freely, and the ground steamed and spat where black droplets fell. 

“Come Sigurd!” Thor said, slapping the daemon with its own arm hard enough to stagger it.  “Was my skull not to be offered up?  Were you not going to devour my heart?  What would your god think of such lowly efforts?”  He laughed again, but there was a core of anger to it, a thread of rage tightly leashed and controlled.  

The daemon noticed the mortals then, and it feinted at Thor before rushing at them.  Tyra, Wolfric, and Gunnhilde stepped forward without thought, putting themselves between daemon and the others, but it was unneeded.  They were given front row seats as the daemon’s eyes widened in sudden fear, a very human expression, and then its face met the ground as its leg was pulled out from under it.  Like a toddler with a doll, Thor heaved the malevolent, otherworldly being back and forth, slamming it into the ground again and again.  Five arms scrambled about for purchase, but they could find none, and it was only freed when Thor hurled it back the way they had come, down a street on the other side of the destroyed building.   

Thor turned from it as it recovered, looking to his faithful.  Above, the giant in the clouds did the same.  “How do you fare, brave warriors?” he asked.  The flickering lightning around him faded, but the glow of his eyes remained.

For the first time since the fighting had begun, they took stock of themselves.  They were breathing hard, and splattered with blood, but little of it was their own, and they were eager for more.

“We are well, Lord Thor,” Wolfric said.  He glanced back at those who had come with them, searching for revenge, and the other two looked with him.

The woman whose guts had been torn out was twitching faintly as she was cradled by the scar faced woman, clutching weakly at her hand, while Stephan knelt by the man whose leg had been torn off, fashioning a tourniquet as best he could with what was on hand.  Others were working at the cages, bashing at locks to free the increasingly panicked captives, ignoring their own injuries.  Eseld was holding a flask to Bjorn’s mouth, almost forcing him to drink it.  

“Others, not so much,” Tyra admitted.  

The scrape of claws on stone came from behind Thor, as he regarded them seriously.  “Then it is time to be done with this place.  Will you lead them to the ships, or do you wish to test yourselves against this pathetic creature?”

For a moment, they were tempted.  Two of them bore weapons blessed by Thor, and seeing the daemon being battered and slapped around had a way of boosting their confidence.  But then cooler thoughts rose, and the knowledge that there were people depending on them prevailed.  The daemon rising from where it had been thrown, murder and a palpable menace in its movements, also helped.  There was little to be gained from fighting it, and peril unneeded.  

“We will escort the captives,” Gunnhilde said, speaking for them.

“Then I will meet you at the docks,” Thor said.  Without looking, he hurled the arm he held, and it hit the daemon in the face, staggering it once more.  “Go now.”  He turned, and advanced towards his foe.  His axe he left floating at his back, knuckles cracking as he formed fists.  

Moving with haste, they joined the others in freeing those trapped in the cages.  Though not as many as had been trapped in the pit, there were still nearly three score to be helped, and then there were those who could not make their own way.  Too wounded or too weak to walk, they were helped by others, though there was no helping the poor souls in the cages that the hounds had gotten into.  The scar faced woman bore the corpse of the disembowelled woman, glaring at any who might tell her to leave it in favour of another.  

Behind them, they left only blood, corpses, and silent, fearful witnesses to their deeds.

X

Thor felt pride in his chest as his faithful departed, leading those who had only just begun to believe.  There was something strange about the belief of one, a distant feeling to it like an echoing shout over still water, but now was not the time to consider such things.  Now was the time for good deeds, for the might of Thor to fall upon the foul and the wicked.  Now was the time for violence.

The daemon that had once been Sigurd Twice-Slain glowered at him with impotent fury as it cast its severed arm aside.  “You think this a victory,” it hissed, forked tongue darting through needle teeth.  

“I know this to be a victory,” Thor corrected it.  

“Fool,” it said, laughing, an echoing thing that carried with it the screams of the weak.  “This town is nothing.  The people are nothing.  It means NOTHING! ”

“It means everything to those we have saved,” Thor said.  Lightning began to flicker over him once more.  “They will love, they will laugh, they will live long lives…but you?  You will die here.”

More mad cackling was his answer.  The daemon hurled its weapons away, spreading its arms wide.  “Think you that I can be slain?”

Thor only smiled, a hard thing lacking in humour, and continued to advance.  Something in his expression made the daemon hesitate, but only for a moment.  “I do not know if the soul of your mortal shell is still there,” he said as he neared, “but know that I do this for Kirsa.”

Clawed hands lunged for Thor’s throat, but arcing lightning left them writhing nervelessly.  More tried to stab at his armpits, but were unable to so much as scratch his armour.  Thor’s fists unfurled, and he reached for the daemon’s skull, seizing it by jaw and bone crown.  Then, he began to squeeze.  The storm, having fallen into a lull, came roaring back.  So too did the giant roar.

“ IN THE NAME OF THOR!  PERISH, DAEMON! ”

Bone began to crack and shatter as he squeezed, and the daemon screamed, not in pain, but in true terror.  Its head exploded in his grip, brain and viscera splattering everywhere, yet its scream echoed on.  A bolt fell from the heavens, striking Thor, and in its wake there was sudden silence, not even thunder.  

Thor allowed the corpse to drop, discarding the useless thing.  Lightning sparked across his gore covered hands, and it began to blacken and flake away, leaving them clean.  He looked around.  He was the only living thing to be seen, though he could sense a mother cradling a babe watching through a basement shutter, and a boy alone in a house peering around curtains.  

Stormbreaker came to his hand, and he stepped up into the sky.  His work was almost done here.  Almost, but not quite.  

The god came to a stop just below the clouds, looking down on the town of Skraevold, as did his avatar above.  He could see the path of ruin he had carved through it, starting from the west gate and ending to the south.  Buildings full of raiders and evil men he had razed to the ground, and there were still glowing pits and craters where he had smote particularly offensive foes.  Now the town and those who remained held its breath, as if sensing the weight of his judgement upon it.  

“People of Skraevold,” Thor said, voice rolling out over the land, rolling like thunder.  “By the whims of your gods, you have raided.  You have enslaved.  You have spread suffering.” Censure was clear in his voice, a bridled anger that could erupt at any moment.   “You have drawn my eye .”   

Lightning crashed, the left eye of the avatar above glowing bright.  Wrath it wore, and those with the courage to step out and look up found themselves tested. 

“Your town is sundered, your chieftain and the daemon wearing his skin are slain.  Your gods have led you astray, for they do not care for you.”   He let the echoes of the condemnation fade.  “But there is another path.  A path that offers succour to those who would but ask for it.”

Suddenly, he could feel Four gazes intent upon him, where before there had only been one, and that lazily.  A pressure built, but he pressed back at it, and he could feel new reserves of strength responding to his will.  Stormwinds whipped at his hair and his beard.  

“I stand for strength and storms,” Thor said, building with the storm around him.   “I stand for groves held free of betrayal, for duty, for those who cannot stand for themselves.  I am THOR, God of Thunder, and I stand for the protection of all mankind!  ODIN’S SON I AM, AND TO THE FOUR CANCERS OF CHAOS, I SAY THEE NAY!”

Uncountable bolts of lightning roiled in the clouds, and a cacophony to shame all those before it roared to life.  Voiceless bellows and shrieks of rage, of denial and accusation and twisted desire rang out through the immaterial, but they were drowned out by the thunder.  In that moment, there was only Thor.  His avatar exploded across the sky, racing off into the darkness and over the horizon in all directions.  

“Come to me if you are willing,” Thor finished, already descending from the sky.  He made no threat to the alternative, for he neither needed nor wanted one.  Those who followed him would be faithful, not fearful, and he would stand at their sides through whatever struggles they faced, from now ‘til Ragnarok comes.  

He could do little else for he was Thor, God of Thunder.

Chapter Text

Atop a mountain, on the wooden roof of a stone drum tower, two men watched the sky. Bald heads tattooed with intricate blue patterns were shiny with rain, and the water dripped down into their beards, brown and blond. Lightning flickered and crashed across grey storm clouds, but the pair showed no fear.

"Should Tor strike us," the blond bearded man said, "we will deserve it." He wore the pelt of a grizzly around his broad shoulders.

"Courage is rewarded," his companion said. He was the slighter of the two, but still could not be called small. His eyes remained fixed on the sky as he spoke, his own furs shielding him against the cold.

"Foolishness is punished," the first man replied, eyes fixed the same.

"You can go down and sit by the fire in the hall with the others, if you like," the man with the brown beard said.

The other man made no move to go through the trapdoor that led below, even as a long, low, echoing rumble of thunder reverberated through the air. The rain intensified, becoming sharp and stinging in its force, but neither moved, still watching the sky. Minutes passed, and the clouds overhead grew black, stretching from horizon to horizon above the mountains. The lightning began to slow, then faded, and both men frowned, not quite disappointed, but confused. Then -

The sky turned white as the clouds above their temple exploded with lightning as one. The thunder that followed did not so much roar as drown out all sound. For a heartbeat in the clouds, it seemed there was a figure etched in the lightning, glancing down on them, but then it passed them by, continuing east. The silence lingered in its wake, and neither man dared to breathe.

"Thor!" came a distant bellow. "Odin's son!" It grew louder, nearer. "CHAOS, I SAY THEE NAY!" The rain was buffeted sideways, and the mountains seemed to shake. Slowly, the echoes of the voice faded.

The sounds of wind and rain and the roar of a bear in the stable below returned to the world, but the two men were stock-still.

"I'll get my axe," the blond man said.

"Aye."

X

The scent of woodsmoke was heavy in the air, and what had been a peaceful day of work in the fields had become a night of terror within the walls of the village. A brother and sister were dragged through the streets of their home by the shoulders, feet trailing in the dirt. The man had been struck about the skull, and his head lolled forward, blood staining his dark hair and homespun tunic. The woman was silent as she glared at their captors, not by choice but by the gag tied harshly across her mouth. Her dark hair matched his, and her rough dress was from the same simple cloth. Torches lit the night and dark figures moved through the village, joining the procession towards its centre. The fact that she recognised them all only made it hurt all the more.

"Are you sure about this, holy sir?" the headman asked, almost fretting. He was thick built as a woodsman must be, but he sounded more like he was unsure about the need to slaughter a prize cow than the true business of the night. "They're a mite strange, unmarried at their age and all, but we never had strange happenings or-"

The dark figure that they were following did not so much as pause his stride. "A Witch Hunter of Blessed Sigmar does not err in matters such as this. The stench of their heresy cannot be mistaken." His voice was a dry drawl, and as they approached the village centre, his shadow grew long, stretching over the captives behind him. The scent of smoke grew stronger.

The sister began to struggle in truth as she saw what awaited them. A pyre had been built, a stripped down trunk at its centre, and around it was the rest of the village, bearing torches and dark mutterings. She tried to bite at one of the men dragging her, but received a heavy slap for her troubles, sending her reeling with a noise of pain. She knew him, had kissed him in the cornfield when they were children.

At the sound of pain, the brother jerked, struggling to focus, but his body was weak, and answered his will only sluggishly.

"Ready them for the holy flames," the witch hunter commanded. "Bind them to the centre by foot, body, and neck."

"Is that right needed, holy sir?" the headman asked. "He's conked and she's only a woman."

The witch hunter turned to him, and the torches of the crowd cast his face in shadow. "I once burned a witch who revealed dark gifts from the ruinous powers in their final minutes, and broke free from the stake. I fought them as they burned, and the fire spread through the village. Only ash remained. Would you like to take that risk here?"

With a dry swallow, the headman relented. He looked to the four men carrying the captives and gave them a jerky nod.

Brother and sister were dragged to and up the pyre, surrounded by the curses and invectives of their neighbours. She struggled again, but was overpowered with ease, and soon they were being lashed to the stake. Overheard, dark clouds gathered, concealing the moon.

Back to back they were tied, rope wrapped around them both at the waist, their hands already secured. Next their captors - one of them a cousin - made to bind them by the neck to the stake. Perhaps thinking them disarmed, one was not ready when the brother took his chance to bite him by the hand, clenching his jaw with all the fury he couldn't think straight enough to express, tearing and worrying at it like an animal.

The man screeched, bringing back his other hand to rain blows on the brother's head until he was knocked loose. Even then he did not stop, continuing to strike him.

"Enough!" the witch hunter commanded. "The flames will have their due."

Thunder underscored his words, and rain threatened. The sister cursed them despite the gag, furious tears streaming down her face. Their necks were bound to the stake, near strangling them.

"Quickly now, before the rain can save them," the witch hunter said. One hand was resting on the pistol at his hip, stroking its grip.

Again, thunder echoed in the distance, and it sounded angry. Lightning coursed through the sky above. Torches were brought forward from the crowd, and the mutterings rose into a clamour as they were pressed to the tinder and kindling stacked at the base of the pyre. Flames erupted, and a fight broke out at the edge of the crowd, fists flying and drawing the witch hunter's eye. His features illuminated by the growing flames, the scarred and grizzled man glanced sharply at the brawl, pistol half free from its holster.

The sister tried to stamp at the flames before it caught in truth, but she could not reach, and her brother fought to focus his eyes. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the village such was its intensity. Anger, righteousness, fury, despair, all were thrown into stark relief, and everyone within missed the figure depicted in the clouds for a bare instant. Everyone, except the siblings.

Then came a noise. It was faint, almost too faint to be heard, but just loud enough to make one turn their head. "Thor!" came the call, behind the crackling of the fire. "Odin's son!" it rose above the clamour of the crowd. "CHAOS, I SAY THEE NAY!" Lightning struck at the pyre, not at the tree at its centre, but at the two lashed to it. Wood and rope blackened, but did not burn.

Energy filled the brother and sister, and their eyes began to glow. A pistol rose, swift in its judgement but still far too slow.

"NAY!" screamed the sister, gag crumbling to ash in her mouth, and she pointed at the witch hunter who had torn her from her bed and turned their village against them. Lightning surged, connecting her hand to his pistol, and the man was thrown back, his pointed hat flying free.

Clamour and curses were replaced by fear, and torch wielding villagers turned to flee. The sister wasted no time, tearing herself loose from what remained of her bindings, and turning to help her brother with his. The flames licked at their heels as they leapt from the pyre, lurching as they landed, clutching at one another.

"Come, hurry!" the sister said, tugging at her brother.

"No, not there - this way," the brother said, pulling at her in turn, and his tone was so certain that she followed without question.

They turned away from the path that would lead to the closer south gate, instead making for a smaller gate farther away that pointed north, disappearing into the shadows. They had lost near everything that night, but as the heavens opened to drench what had been their pyre, they could be thankful at least that they still had their lives, and each other.

X
What had once been a village was little more than ash and mud, mute evidence to the weakness of those that had lived there. Jarrod paid little attention to his men as they did as ordered, focus instead on the small wooden block he was carving away at. His seat twitched feebly, but it was ignored.

The morning sun was weak, and if one looked to the north the shifting auroras could be faintly made out, though his band knew better than to do so. This far north, gazing too long at the border between realms invited ill things. There were better ways to seek blessings. He blew on his carving, blowing wood shavings away, turning it this way and that. The head was starting to emerge, and slender fingers continued to carve away at it with sharp nails.

"Boss," came the deep rumble of his second, footsteps crunching deeply in the mud and snow.

"Dax," Jarrod said. The big man had been with him since they left their village, though his size had only come in after their first raid.

"We're done," Dax said. His nose was blunter than a warhammer, and almost as wide.

"Boys finished having their fun?"

"Girl killed herself," Dax said, uncaring. "So I guess so."

Jarrod stopped in his carving, looking up with a raised eyebrow. "How did she manage that?"

"Got a dagger off Nokel while he was busy with her."

"Well, good for her," Jarrod said. Eyes that had once been blue but were now the colour of ice went back to his carving. "Nokel?"

"He's fine. Girl turned it on herself first."

The flicker of approval he felt faded like a cinder in snow. "The rest?"

"All done," Dax said, something almost like contentment in his voice. "What do you think?"

Jarrod looked up to where his man was gesturing, and took in the pile of skulls. An appreciable portion of the village were now piled in a pyramid. Well, their heads were, anyway. All wore slack expressions of pain and terror. "Very good. How about you?"

His seat moaned, but didn't shift.

"I asked you a question," Jarrod said, chiding, and he grabbed the man by the ear, nails piercing and twisting, forcing him to look. He would have grabbed him by the hair, but such a thing was hard given his lack of a scalp.

The seat looked with empty eyes, but still he saw.

"That's your son in pride of place, no?" Jarrod asked.

He didn't answer, but Dax did with a chuckle. "Said he was going to give my head to the Axefather," the hulking man said.

"I'm sure he is happy, being at the top of the pile," Jarrod said. He let go, flicking blood from his fingers, and returned to his carving.

Dax shuffled, but didn't leave.

"Was there something else?" Jarrod asked, not looking up.

"Some of the boys were wondering, about last night," Dax said.

Jarrod carved deeper than he meant to, and he put the block away, tucking it within his furs. "What of it." Forcibly, he held back a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold wind of the morning. The entire camp waking in fear had left things shaken. It was the entire reason he had taken them on this pointless diversion.

'Thor!'

"Are we fixing to do anything about it?" Dax asked.

'Odin's son!'

"You want to get between the Gods when they fight?" Jarrod asked. Only a fool drew the gaze of those his greater before he was ready, and whatever was responsible for the storm that flowed over them last night was still his greater.

'CHAOS, I SAY THEE NAY!'

Dax looked uncomfortable for a moment, shifting like his father had caught him doing something he shouldn't. "The Blood God called for Blood."

"So he did," Jarrod said, as if he had dreamed the same dream his men had. "And we will give it to him."

The brute found his balls, setting his shoulders. "Some want to turn south."

"Some?" Jarrod asked, as if he didn't know exactly who was muttering where they thought he couldn't hear them. Only a small part of his band was made up of those he had left his village with, so many months ago, to venture north into the Wastes. Others had been picked up on the way, and they didn't have the right kind of loyalty.

"No one important," Dax said.

"Then fuck 'em," Jarrod said. "We'll turn south when we're good and ready, and I've got what I came here for."

That seemed to settle Dax, and he nodded. "Blood for the Blood God."

Jarrod smiled, a thin thing more cutting than the wind about them. "The blood will flow. Get ready to leave. We march north."

Dax hesitated, but then turned and left, doing…whatever it was he needed to do.

The carving was retrieved, and Jarrod began to work on it once more. He couldn't return home without a gift for his nieces, after all.

Chapter Text

Thor dreamed.

In the fields of Asgard, Old and New and all at once, he watched over the latest crop. The land drank greedily of the corpses and the essence of those that he had slain and seen slain by his faithful. A warm summer's breeze caressed his hair as he walked by the fields, carrying with it the scent of flowers and the buzz of bees. On his left was the city wall, and he followed a small dirt path that meandered just outside its shadow.

His nose twitched as a foul scent came to it, overpowering the pollen, and he saw from whence it came. Amidst the carpet of corpses, one stood out. The thing that had been Sigurd Twice-Slain was an ugly creature even in death, and it was bled of its essence more slowly than the others, even the few chaos spawn littering the field.

"It is as I told you," Thor said, though he knew there were none to hear his words.

Or perhaps there was. In the distance, he glimpsed a dove fluttering, alighting on the branch of a sapling across the corpse field. Its feathers were white, and it glanced only briefly at Thor as it settled itself, before regarding the bodies that lay before it.

To walk through the field would be to leave him up to his ankles in gore and battle muck, and so he didn't. With deceptive ease, he took a powerful step that sent him soaring across the field, skimming over the bodies, and landed in the untouched grass of the meadow beyond, skidding slightly. He left faint furrows in his wake, but the dove was not startled as he came to a stop by its small tree. It only watched the bodies, an air of sadness about it.

"Do not spend your sorrow on these ones," Thor said. "They are not worthy of it."

"Every death is worthy of sorrow," the dove said. "Even ones such as these." Its voice was as a woman's, gentle yet firm.

"Had they lived, they would have spread more," Thor said, turning to survey the field with her. "Sorrow was all they knew."

"Now it is all they ever knew," the dove said. "You have stopped them from spreading more, but only by causing sorrow in turn." She seemed to point with her beak. "That one left behind a son. Even now he huddles in his father's basement, waiting for his return. Soon he will start praying."

The sunshine dimmed as a cloud passed before the sun. "Praying to whom?"

"The Enemy," the dove said. "The only gods he knows."

"I offered him a different path," Thor said.

"Would you have offered it to his father?" the dove asked, looking to him with eyes far too knowing to belong to a bird.

"...not without earning it," Thor said. "Forgiveness is not offered lightly, and worthiness comes even harder."

"A difficult thing to judge," the dove said.

"Is it?"

The dove made a considering noise, a strange thing partway between a dove's coo and a woman's hum. "The boy's path is his own. He might follow his father's gods, or he might follow you."

They watched the bodies of the slain as they were leached away, silence broken only by the rippling of wind through the grass. At length, Thor spoke.

"What brings you here, Lady Dove?"

She gave a tinkling laugh. "You made such a racket moving in," Dove said. "Others have come, but you were absent."

"I had work to do, as we left Skraevold," Thor said, feeling vaguely like he had his mother giving him a reproving glance over his manners. "The humans needed sleep, but I did not."

"You treat them well," Dove said.

"Of course I do," Thor said. "They believe in me, so I believe in them."

Dove cocked her head at him. "Is that how you came to walk amongst them so freely?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Perhaps not," Dove said, though her tone said she did not much care.

Before Thor could question her, something about her bearing changed. Where once there was a dove simply resting on a branch, now she was fixated on something like a hawk on its prey, and her talons cut into the wood. She gave an ominous coo.

Thor's hand was ready at his side, Stormbreaker waiting to be summoned into being with a thought, but he waited. He could not see an enemy, and Heimdall's horn was yet silent.

Dove swept from her perch, swooping down towards the bodies. She landed on one man, unassuming and half consumed, and uncaring of the filth of battle, spread her wings across his chest. Blood stained white feathers, and tears welled in her eyes.

He did not know her goal, and so he watched, inspecting the rest of the crop yet to fade and ready to respond to any threat. A dove was vulnerable on the ground.

Red earth, stained by the blood of the man Dove now wept over, began to bubble and boil, and a black foulness rose to the top. Each bubble rose and popped with an oily sheen, some coming perilously close to splashing Dove. He could not say why there was peril, only that there was, and in the next instant his will responded.

Within a heartbeat the blue sky was gone, replaced by dark storm clouds that roiled out from nothing, but golden Asgard still gleamed. A bolt thicker than Thor's belly lanced from the sky and struck the Thunder God's crown, shrouding him with its light. He knelt, and seized the foulness in hand. It writhed like a living thing, but there was no escaping his grip, and he squeezed it without mercy. Like shadows before the dawn, his lightning burnt away at it, and soon nothing remained. The bolt connecting him to the heavens faded, and thunder rumbled belatedly in its wake.

"Of all those that spread misery and pain," Dove said, struggling back to her talons, "he is the one I will find hardest to forgive."

"He?" Thor asked, though he knew the answer as he spoke.

"Nurgle," Dove hissed, and the sick scent of the battlefield intensified just for a moment. She breathed heavily, not attempting to flutter skywards just yet.

From the pocket of his Asgard woven clothes, Thor retrieved the cure to her ails. The lunchable was new, and the foil crinkled pleasingly as he opened it. Cheese went on 'ham' went on biscuit, and he took a bite, before holding it out to Dove.

Dove gave him a Look. "Do you wish to be this generous?"

"'Tis but a snack," Thor said, swallowing his bite.

"'Tis an expression of your power," Dove corrected him.

Thor thought for a moment, but shrugged. Dove had noticed and rebuffed a threat he - and Heimdall - had missed, so he would be generous. He wiggled the remainder of the snack.

Dove wasted no time, pecking at the snack in several small, precise bites. Despite her small beak, not a crumb was wasted. She shook her body and gave a testing flap of her wings. A moment later, she was fluttering up to his shoulder. "Thank you, Odin's son."

"You are most welcome, Lady Dove," Thor said, rising steadily to his feet, careful not to unsettle her. "What do you mean by 'an expression of your power'?"

Dove gave a shrug that looked curious on her avian body. "As you give to your Realm, so too can you build from it."

"Anything?" Thor asked, curious.

"No."

Thor was hit by a sudden yearning for his brother. Loki would have known what she meant. Loki would likely already have figured it out.

Dove pecked at the mess that was his hair, preening some out of his face and behind his ear. "You will grow, and learn," she said, and her voice was soft, like she knew his heartsickness.

Before Thor could summon an answer, she burst into flight, up and away from the battlefield. He watched her go, white form disappearing into the sky against the backdrop of fading storm clouds, blue peeking through once more.

The Thunder God turned back for the city gates, his curiosity as to the state of his crop sated for now. He thought on Dove's words as he walked, turning them over in his mind. Were a foe ever suitably penitent, he could consider accepting their worship, even if only after they had proven themselves, but one of the Enemy?

No. Even new to the fight as he was, not them, never one of them. Someday in the future they would have a reckoning, and there would be no forgiveness on that day.

That day was not today. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to enjoy the scent of flowers, and the warm breeze.

"Thor," Gunnhilde said.

Thor blinked, shifting around, disorientated. "What are you doing in Valhalla? You're early."

"Valhalla?" Gunnhilde asked, tone wondering. "The halls of the worthy dead?"

Thor rubbed sleep from his eyes as he rose, levering his legs out of bed and taking in his cabin. It had been foisted upon him despite their lack of space, but he was thankful for the bed and the privacy. He was no longer in - wait. He had been in Asgard, Old and New and all at once, so why had he said Valhalla? "No, well yes, but - I was dreaming of Asgard."

"The home of the gods? I thought it destroyed," Gunnhilde said.

"I appear to have made it anew," Thor said, still pushing back at the fog. The cabin was small, with only a bed and a chest in it. Why had he said Valhalla? He tried to trace the thought, pulling at the thread and seeing what else came with it, but frustratingly understanding remained elusive. Were they the same?

He wondered if that was why it was empty.

"Lord Thor?" Gunnhilde asked. "The city of gold, that is Valhalla?"

Thor frowned in thought. "Perhaps," he said at length. "It is Asgard Old and New, but Valhalla…if it is, I should not be able to roam there."

"But you are its God," Gunnhilde said.

"Valhalla is for the dead," Thor said. "Those slain in battle, or doing righteous deeds. It is not for the living."

"What is it like?" Gunnhilde asked. She hesitated only briefly before sitting on the chest across from him.

"Green fields and feasting halls, filled with heroes and kings," Thor said, but something about the words was wrong. "No - that is not right…Asgard is for my faithful, and all will be welcome, but Valhalla yet stands empty." The words were said with certainty, though where that certainty came from he could not say. "It will be filled by those who fall, if they be worthy."

"Like Valkyries," Gunnhilde said

"So long as they choose to remain worthy, yes," Thor said. "It is not an easy thing." His gaze went to his belly, and he scratched at it absently, old memories crossing his mind.

The look Gunnhilde gave him said clearly that she couldn't imagine choosing otherwise.

She would learn.

"What about the dead at Skraevold?"

"The Aeslings?" Thor asked, looking up at her with a raised brow. "Oh, they went to Asgard." He pushed back thoughts of a child in a basement, waiting for his father.

Gunnhilde took one look at the face he wore and decided to think on what it might mean later. "No, not them. Those that fought alongside us and died for it. What we saw…they must have believed."

Thor shrugged. "Some did. Do. But just believing isn't enough. If they hold another god first in their hearts, they will go to them." The knowledge came from the ether, but he could support it with reasoning. He could feel the hold, the connection, that he had with his faithful. He knew those that were his first, and those that were another's.

"I have heard whispers," Gunnhilde said. "They wonder about you. Wolfric and I have done our best to answer."

Thor made an agreeable sound, thoughts elsewhere.

"Would you have otherwise?" Gunnhilde said, uncertainty in her blue eyes. "You said they would choose to worship you, and we did not seek to convert, but-"

"You have done no ill," Thor said, favouring her with a smile. He forgot her youth at times. "They cannot make a choice unknowing, after all."

The answer caused her spine to straighten. "I understand, Lord Thor."

Perhaps he should have chosen his words more carefully, but he was still throwing off the last of his confusion, thinking back to his dreams. He made to get up, but something poked him in the stomach - or rather, his stomach was sitting on something pointy, and he regarded it with a frown of discontent.

He would have to do something about the record of his malaise soon.

But not now. Shifting his bulk, he found the cause of his discomfort, and looked over the lunchable that he found. It was not packet pristine like the one he had shared with Dove, but crumpled and battered. It had been waiting in his pocket for some time now, ever since the day after Vinteerholm's liberation.

"Here," he said, holding it out to her.

She took it with a faint frown of confusion, turning it this way and that. "What is it?"

"Something a friend once shared with me," Thor said. An expression of power, Dove had said…well, Wolfric and Kirsa were fine. "Food may be tight, but your efforts deserve it. Those in the kennels spoke of your actions freeing them."

"Thank you, Lord Thor," Gunnhilde said, looking down, ears flushing. She figured out how to open it, and peeled back crumpled foil, before pausing. "What is this?" Gunnhilde asked, holding it out to him.

Thor felt his brows rise as he took in the white feather that had been inside the packet. Now that it was open, he could feel it, a presence that had been missing before. Gently, he reached out to take it. There was a sturdiness to it that no feather should have, and he turned it over by its stem. It was soft, yet warm.

"A dove visited me in Asgard," he said at length. "I see she left me a gift."

Gunnhilde did not understand, but she did not let that stop her from eating the lunchable. She made a queer face as she swallowed it down, as if pleased to be eating it but not at all ready for the strange taste. "It is…different."

"I find myself liking them for the memories they carry, not the taste," Thor said, confiding in her as he tucked the feather away in his pocket. "One of my battle brothers refused to touch them, and another would only accept it to be polite."

"My sister…" Gunnhilde said slowly, "...she would refuse to eat dog. Even when it was the only meat we had, she would go out and hunt a rabbit before touching it."

"Was she fond of them?"

"No, she just really hated the taste."

Thor's lips twitched. "A fair response then."

Gunnhilde only gave a slow nod, staring at the cabin wall without seeing.

"But what brings you to me this morning? It is morning, yes?"

The Valkyrie started, rising automatically to her feet. "Yes Thor. We're near the stretch where Eseld wanted to leave us. She asked to speak with you before she does."

Thor thought for a moment. "That would put us in the region where my beard was subject to that dastardly assault, yes? Is she sure she wishes to depart here?"

"She claims the dwarfs will accept her," Gunnhilde said.

He brightened. "Oh, the dwarfs are here? Perhaps she will introduce me to one."

Gunnhilde took a moment to reply. "I see no reason why she could not," she said slowly.

Thor was already rising, straightening his rumpled clothes absently and threading his fingers through his beard in an attempt to tame it. "I have slept long enough. Come."

It was all she could do to follow in his wake. Her God could be a strange one at times, but he was the God for her, and she would have no other before him.

X

The journey back to Vinteerholm was not proving an easy one, nor was it quick. Where one longship had cut a swift path through the mountains in short weeks, their procession of fifteen captured longships and almost nine hundred rescued souls moved beyond sluggishly. Skraevold was three weeks behind them, but they had yet to reach Lake Lagodash. They could fish as they travelled, supplementing their stores, but they still had to stop each night. Even if every soul aboard were to have grown up together, there were just too many of them across too few ships.

Thor surveyed the procession as he emerged onto the deck of the largest longship, Gunnhilde at his back. Though there was room below, those not on oar duty were crowded on the deck, taking in the cool air, and he could not blame them. Each and every one of them had been shackled in the hold of a ship much like this, and they were not eager to subject themselves to it anew. His arrival on the deck drew many eyes, not just on their ship but on those near it.

"Was there any trouble as I slept?" Thor asked. He had remained awake for the first days after the raid, napping here and there, but eventually he had been persuaded to rest.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Gunnhilde said.

"What manner?" Thor asked, as they approached the ship's rail. There was little space, but space was made for them, and he gave a nod of thanks to a man with a healing gash across his nose.

"Old feuds, worry over food," Gunnhilde said. "The Nordlanders still fear we mean to eat them, or take them for slaves."

"So long as you have it under control," Thor said, trusting in his people. He raised his hands overhead, stretching, and his back cracked loudly.

"Tyra almost threw the bard overboard, but Wolfric distracted her," Gunnhilde said.

"What did he do this time?"

"Threatened to immortalise her in song," she said, amused.

"There are worse things," Thor said.

"Not to Tyra's mind."

Briefly, he was reminded of Fandral badgering Sif, plucking at a lute missing two strings, and he smiled. "And…the Aeslings?"

Even faithful Gunnhilde could not help a frown. "Bjorn's people are well, but those from Skraevold…" she trailed off. "There was an incident."

A score of Aeslings had approached the ships before they could depart the ravaged town, acting more like terrified deer than people, but approach they had, and by Thor's word they had not been turned away. No, not deer. Like a wolfdog, too often beaten by its master.

"Did they start it?"

"No. It was our people," Gunnhilde said, grimacing. The blonde woman hesitated, but still spoke her mind. "Do you not fear that some are false? They may have come to spy, agents of the Schemer."

"Perhaps," Thor said. "How did you handle it?"

"I put a stop to it," Gunnhilde said.

"Why?" Thor asked.

She seemed bewildered. "Because many of them are children?"

"But they may be agents of the Schemer, and are Aeslings besides."

"That does - they are still children and their mothers, mostly," Gunnhilde argued.

Thor glanced at her, waiting, aware that their conversation was not private.

"Oh," Gunnhilde said. A look of realisation crossed over her sharp features. "Innocents."

"Just so. There may be one amongst them with ill intent, but equally there may be one somewhere else on these ships with the same," Thor said, gesturing to the river. "You acted as a Valkyrie ought to," he finished, tone approving.

His words seemed to lift her. "I understand, Lord Thor."

"That is why I accepted your oath," Thor said, clapping her on the shoulder. That, and he didn't have the heart to deny her. "Now, where is Eseld?"

"Here, manling," came the response at their backs.

The two of them turned and looked down to see Eseld standing on the deck behind them. Even on the full deck, she was afforded space, none wishing to crowd her, but that might've been the armour she wore and the hammer at her hip. A pack hung low on her back, tightly packed.

"Eseld," Thor said. "How do you fare?"

"Well enough," she said grudgingly. What remained of her left ear had scabbed over and started to flake off, revealing scarred pink skin beneath. Her hair, though, had a way of distracting from that. The blow that had taken half her ear had also taken her left plait, but rather than trim it back and let it grow out once more, she had shaved the hair on the side of her head clean off. A short and tight braid ran along the edge of her new hairline. Seeing his gaze, she raised her chin in challenge.

"That is most punk," Thor said, approving. He remembered a party somewhere in the lands of Europe with people who wore a similar style, having wandered off after the destruction of another Hydra base. "You will strike fear into the hearts of your enemies."

"Thank you?" Eseld said. There was a strange look on her face.

Thor accepted her thanks with a nod, as was proper. "I hear you wish to take your leave from us."

Eseld nodded, fingers drumming on the hip of the armour she wore. Even with Skraevold behind them, she still wore it daily. "I was taken on my way to begin an apprenticeship. Vengeance was had, but I must still take word to the families of the fallen."

"We cannot spare time to escort you," Thor warned.

"I wouldn't ask for it," Eseld said. "Let me off between here and the lake, and I'll find my own way."

"Are you sure?" Thor asked. "There are some disagreeable sorts in these woods. Seven strands they shot from my beard." He glowered out at nothing, still upset over the matter.

"I will manage," Eseld said.

"My companions say they were likely dwarfs, but I do not believe them," Thor said. "The dwarfs I knew would not be so rude."

Gunnhilde coughed.

"Perhaps…they were simply wary of an Aesling ship passing through their lands," Eseld said, a complicated look on her face.

"I suspect someone was using dwarf weapons to rouse my ire," Thor said, leaning down slightly, though of course his voice was still loud enough to be heard across the whole deck.

"I will ask them for you," Eseld said. "The least I can do, in light of what you have done for me and the debt I owe you."

"Do you suppose you could introduce me?" Thor asked, perking up. "I should like to meet a dwarf in this new land."

Slowly, Eseld looked to Gunnhilde, but the woman only looked skyward. Her gaze returned to the blond man. "I do not think many would care to travel, given the troubles stirred," she said at length.

"A shame," Thor said. "The dwarfs of Nidavellir were boon allies under the rule of my father…" he trailed off, remembering their ultimate fate. He shook himself. "As for your debt - there is none."

Eseld opened her mouth to argue, but he was having none of it.

"If your honour compels you, then I would ask you to pay it forward. Help someone in need in my name, and I will consider the matter settled," Thor said.

The short woman gave a noncommittal grunt, but didn't argue. She looked to Gunnhilde. "And…Bjorn?"

"I'll tell him when he wakes," Gunnhilde said, nodding.

"If he wakes," Eseld muttered. She ran her fingers along the bald section of her head, scratching at ginger stubble.

"He will," Thor said. "His wounds were great, but so is his will."

The blond man had been wounded grievously by one of the hounds, but had clung stubbornly to life, aided by a herbalist found amongst the Nordlanders.

Eseld pursed her lips, but nodded. Something caught her eyes on the bank. "Here will suit me, if we could slow for a moment."

Thor turned, following her gaze, but there was nothing on the river bank that stood out to him. "You're sure?"

"Aye."

"Very well." He called his axe, and it soared up carefully from below, settling onto his back. "Take my arm," he said, offering it.

She gave him a narrowed gaze, but did as he asked. "If you even think about tossing me, we'll be having words," she warned.

"I would never," Thor protested. When he was satisfied her grip was secure, he looked to his Valkyrie. "Back in a moment."

The ship dipped and rose briefly as he leapt from the deck, Eseld's grip suddenly much tighter as she sucked in a breath, but she didn't so much as curse him. A moment later, they landed on the bank, and she released him quickly.

"You absolute wazzock," Eseld said. Her hand twitched for her hammer.

Thor hid a grin. His brother was a terror at times, but even before everything, there was humour to be found in his mischief. "Until next time, Eseld. I hope it will involve fewer broken oars."

Eseld grumbled wordlessly. "Until next time, Thor Odinson." She turned, marching deeper into the trees, and in no time at all she had been swallowed by them.

The woods were quiet, and Thor gave a suspicious look to them, one hand coming up to cover his beard. He chose not to loiter, and a moment later he was airborne, quickly catching up with the ships. He landed easily on the ship he had claimed, mind already turning to what tasks would need doing.

"Lord Thor," Gunnhilde said, as they rounded a bend. "Eseld is a dwarf."

"What?" Thor said, bewildered for a moment, before shaking his head. "No. She's far too short."

The Valkyrie opened her mouth, only to close it. "I see," she said, though her tone said she did not.

"Come, we have things to do," Thor said, stepping away from the rail to approach one of those who had emerged as a leader since being rescued from the Aeslings, and Gunnhilde followed, as she always would.

X x X

Their approach to Vinteerholm did not go unnoticed under the early afternoon sun, and when they neared the fishing docks, they were greeted by what felt like the entire town, crowded on the shoreline. The last time ships had approached the town so, they had spread fear and misery in their wake. This time, canine figureheads had been struck off, and a red haired woman stood at the prow of the first, fist raised towards them.The crowd knew her, and they responded, joyous and celebratory, but curious and wondering too. More ships approached, packed with more people than could be explained by even the rescue of every single person stolen from them.

The ships reached the docks, but they were not meant to host such a force, and most ended up gliding into and onto the shore. Tyra leapt from the first, boots hitting the wood of the dock, and there was a sudden hush. It did not last long.

"Victory!" Tyra roared, and the crowd roared in answer, hundreds of voices echoing off the town walls and across the water. More and more clambered from the ships and onto land as the cheers continued, building and growing.

Thor watched from the rear of the rearmost ship. He had placed himself with the Aeslings, both Bjorn's people and those from Skraevold, so that there would be no misunderstandings. And perhaps also so he would not be the centre of attention, and expected to do things.

The cheers and roars died down, and Tyra began to shout once more. "Their raiders, dead! Their slaves, freed! Their gods, HUMBLED!"

More roars, but this time a chant rose with it. "Thor! THOR! THOR!" It did not come from every throat, but it rose up all the same.

Thor didn't duck below the ship's railing, but it was a near thing. Vinteerholm hadn't been nearly this devout when he left, so what had changed? He spied Kirsa further back in the crowd, his red cape worn like a cloak, and there was a small group of men and women around her. He had a growing suspicion he knew.

"NAY! NAY! NAY!" the faithful in the crowd continued to chant, somehow growing louder still.

"Oh, they heard that," Thor mumbled to himself.

"Many did, Lord Thor," an old woman said. She was positively ancient by the standards of the Norscans, and it was she that had led three generations of her family from Skraevold to flee with them. "Your voice is…thunderous."

"Yes thank you Wioleta," Thor grumbled. She had the same lack of fear that came to all bristly elders, and had been quick to divine the manner that pleased him most. By the missing fingers and ear, it seemed a lesson hard earned, but she had not survived to such an age by being slow of wit. Her faith was a small thing, still a spark, but it was growing.

The rescued were streaming from the ships now, whether they were Baersonling or not, all were happy to leave them behind, and the crowd swelled and rippled as two became one. Friends and families, lovers and strangers, all found arms to fall into as it hit home that they were truly free, that Skraevold was behind them. Thor beamed as he saw little Ragnar dart through the legs of the crowd to leap into the arms of a woman, his father Knut weaving to catch up, sweeping up his wife and child, tears flowing unashamedly.

A mammoth's trumpeting cry rose up above the celebration, two young girls on his back using him to get closer to their brother when the crowd proved too thick. One - Astrid - launched herself from Trumpetter to land on Wolfric, and the other scampered down to press her face into his side.

Yes. This was a worthy deed.

X

There was no chance of measured discussion by the rivershore, and so those with cause to talk found themselves in the feast hall of Vinteerholm. It was not the bulk who had come; most had returned to their homes or found a place to rest, overcome by the high of their return, but there were some for which that return had brought with it mixed feelings. The hall was host to these people now, the leaders of disparate groups local and not. Some were angry, some were worried, others fearful, but under Tyra's sharp tongue and Thor's stern eye they gathered peacefully.

Tyra had taken her seat in the chieftain's chair, surveying the packed hall. The various groups were sharply delineated, those of Vinteerholm and other Baersonling settlements sitting on her right, while everyone else sat on the left, clustered in their own groups. The Nordlanders in particular seemed overwhelmed, finding it hard to understand how they had come to be guests in a Norscan hall.

"...not our people," one man said, standing as he spoke to the hall, gesturing at those across from him. "We can support those of our tribe, but even that will be hard, to say nothing of Sarls and Nordlanders and Aeslings."

"Fuck you, don't forget we Kislevites!"

Jeers and laughter rose up as some of the seriousness was sapped from the speech, and the speaker sat, fuming. Thor looked down the head table, and raised a tankard to Tyra. The woman would strangle the armrest of her chair if she wasn't careful, and she pulled a face at his gesture.

"We just finished killing Aeslings!" another man spoke, almost shouting as he rose up on the right. "Why do these still live?"

Before anyone on the left could give voice to their response, a loud slurping sound rose above the growing mutterings. It continued on, drawing many eyes, going and going until finally Thor had drained his mug. Deliberately, he turned to Tyra, attentive.

Tyra rose. "These Aeslings," she said, "are not those who raided us. Their baresark lies wounded even now, brought low by beasts of the Hound. He slew many raiders, and his actions speak for the presence of his people." She surveyed her hall, short red hair illuminated by the torchlight.

"Some are of Skraevold," the man said, challenging. He bore scars from the occupation, and his voice spoke of a hatred for Aeslings far clearer than his words. "What of them?"

"You mean the old crone, her daughters, their children, and those like them?" Tyra asked. "You fear their swords?"

The challenger flushed, but did not stand down. "They can't be trusted. Kirsa put a rot in the belly of an Aesling. They could do the same. Why are they here?"

Thor's gaze flicked to Kirsa, sitting to his left. He had been pleased to be sat near her, eager to speak and catch up after being away, but he had not considered what it meant for her to be seated at the head table. Gunnhilde was to his right, two spots from Tyra, but also present were Halvar and Eirik, the two warriors first chosen to accompany them to Skraevold, as well as a few town elders. He suspected room would have been made for Wolfric, had his sisters not claimed his attention. It spoke of a certain intent from Tyra.

"We're here because we were invited," an old voice croaked, interrupting his thoughts. "No, I'm not getting up, my knees hurt," Wioleta said to someone near her.

"By whom??" the man demanded.

"The god sitting at the table with your chief," Wioleta said, almost cackling.

The man swallowed, looking to the god in question, and sat down.

"Aeslings worship the Hound," someone called, accusing.

"What has the Hound ever done for me?" Wioleta said, smacking the table. "He took my husband against the Graelings, two of my sons on raids, another to Sigurd, and my eldest grandson-" she cut herself off, the sorrow of years in her voice. "No more. Lord Thor offered us another path. We're taking it." She glared across the hall, as if daring any of them to disagree.

"Lord Thor," Tyra said. "Some of us were there when you slaughtered the Aesling raiders. Baersonling, Aesling, Sarl, and aye, even soft southern Nordlander," she said, smirking down at one Nordlander in particular. "We heard your words after you slew the daemon-ridden Sigurd, but many here did not. Will you share your wisdom with us now?" She sat, and now it was her turn to wait on him to speak.

Thor narrowed his eyes at her, but she had a warrior's composure, only the left side of her mouth curling up in tell, hidden from the hall. He couldn't even sip at his now empty mug to gain time. Slowly, he stood.

He began to speak, voice filling the hall, rumbling like an oncoming storm. "Before I went to Skraevold, the people there had Four choices." His gaze swept along the tables, down the left, and up the right. "Before I came to Vinteerholm, the people had Four choices. Now, you have more." It all came down to choice, in the end. "I do not demand you choose me - but there is a difference between choice, and no choice at all." Thor sat, and there was silence.

A chair squeaked as it was pushed back, loud and drawing the gaze. It was the man who had called for dead Aeslings. "Praise Thor," he said, but he was glaring across the unlit fire pit in challenge.

"Praise Thor," Wioleta said to the man. It sounded like a curse word.

"Praise Tor!" one of the few Kislevites called, the one who had fought in Skraevold.

More and more voices were raised in praise, and Thor felt a fixed smile - almost a grimace - spread on his face.

"Praise Thor!" Kirsa shouted beside him, wearing a much more sincere grin, a light in her eyes. "Praise!"

Thor did his best not to shrink into the chair. He blamed Tyra for this. And his displays of godly might, he supposed, but mostly Tyra. He brightened as a thought occurred to him, and he rose swiftly, clapping his hands above his head. Thunder echoed through the hall, bringing silence in its wake. "I may be another choice, but remember, it was you and yours who chose to take it! You and yours willing to put old feuds aside!" If they were going to praise his name, he was going to nudge them away from tribal rivalries while they were at it. "And it was Tyra who led the rescue raid on Skraevold!" He raised his empty mug. "Tyra!"

"Tyra!" came the answering shouts, mead and ale raised skyward. There was a pause to drink, and then dozens and dozens of mugs were slammed onto the tables with a crash.

"Now feast and be merry, for your chief has returned those thought lost, and brought new neighbours besides!"

It was not the smoothest of speeches. Loki could have had them move beyond seeing each other as enemies without anything nearly so hamfisted as telling them clearly, and had them thinking it was their own idea besides, but he was the Thunderer, not the Silvertongued, so it would have to do.

Despite his clumsy tongue, there were none present who would argue, not openly, not in the hall of their chief, and not against the one who named himself a god with the power to support it. Those not of the tribe had not been accepted, not even in part, but there would be no putting the cutlery to any use but to eat, not that day. For now, that was enough.

Thor though, he suddenly had more pressing matters to attend to. He could already see figures from all parts of the hall eyeing him as food was brought out, questions and concerns on their minds. He glanced at the main doors, halfway down the hall, and currently unguarded - but now wasn't the time to flee. Now was the time to feast and be merry as he had said, and he would do so.

For many, the feast was their first chance for food that wasn't caught and cooked without ceremony for at least a month, and they brought with them a strong hunger and a powerful appreciation for a meal that wasn't seared over a campfire. Thor was just thankful it wasn't mammoth, and a dull roar filled the hall as people spoke and argued and laughed, a tension that had lingered ever since the town was first liberated finally easing.

Even so, it was not without snarls. Many were the divisions, each group keeping to themselves, wary of those around them. If those divisions were to be erased, he would have to guide the people he had adopted through it, and this was a battlefield on which he could not wield his axe. He pondered the empty surface of his third plate, contemplating his plan of attack. What would Steve do?

Of all the groups, there was one that was most wary, more than just turned in on themselves, they were huddled as if expecting an attack, the youngest at the middle of their section. Unlike the other groups, it seemed as if every one of them was in the hall, none allowing themselves to be separated from the herd. He nodded, setting down another emptied mug as he rose from his seat, clapping Gunnhilde and Kirsa on the shoulders as he went. The hall was busy now, people coming and going, and his movement did not draw as much interest as it otherwise might.

He approached his target, snagging another mug on his way, shifting between small groups and leaning away from those stumbling, already drunk. He had to suck his gut in to squeeze between two, and then he was at the far end of the left table, squeezing in between two groups to sit. He gave a quick smile to the Sarl woman on his right, but then turned his focus to his target.

"Ah, Lord Thor," Stephan said, having eyed him warily as he made his approach. "What brings you to our fine part of the table?"

For a moment, Thor only stared. The similarities to his brother were too great to be ignored, but he pushed aside the familiar ache of loss. "You do, Stephan," he said. "Or rather, your people do."

Those closest, battered women with hands newly accustomed to weapons, were obviously listening in, and they tensed at his words. One did not; it was the woman who had joined the fight in Skraevold, head shaved and cheek a mass of scars. She had no fear, but even she watched him warily.

"I wish to ensure you settle in without issue," Thor explained, seeking to ease their worries. "You are far from home, with an unfamiliar people."

"Not unfamiliar," the woman said. "We know Norscans."

"Ah, but these are not only Norscans," Thor said. "Here you have Sarls, there you have Baersonlings, and there you have Aeslings," he said, gesturing to groups in turn.

"Norscans are Norscans," she said, grimace pulling at her cheek.

"Some are," Thor allowed, taking her meaning, "but some are not only that. I wish you to know that you will be welcome here, and need not worry that you or yours will come to harm." Like many of those taken, they were mostly women and children, the raiders having been deliberate in their choice of victims.

He received no answer, none close wishing to speak their thoughts, though all along the bench there were those watching, trying to listen in.

"You saved a life, binding that man's leg as you did," Thor said to Stephan. "Have you experience in such things?"

"Very little," Stephan said. "I am a bard first, but in my wanderings I have picked up a thing or two."

"What do you play?" Thor asked. He was rapidly approaching asking about the weather, but hid his panic.

"The zither, the glockenspiel," Stephan said, before scowling suddenly. "Those bastards used them for kindling."

"Better your toys than your family," the woman said, tongue almost barbed.

Stephan winced, regretful.

"I am sorry to raise ill memories," Thor said. "I know revenge is a weak salve."

The woman turned her tongue on him next. "Lost a lot of family, have you thunder god?"

"Yes."

She swallowed, and those on either side of her leaned away.

"And so I speak from experience," Thor said. "I know what it is to lose a home, but I also know that it is the people that make a home, not the place." He looked down the table. There were a score or so present, but more had retired to one of the other rooms in the hall after eating their share to make room for others, unwilling to be truly separated from each other. "Were you all from the same town?"

"Weren't taken from a town, thunder god," another young woman, more a girl, said. She was sitting beside Stephan. "They picked us from villages near the mouth of the Schaukel."

"Not all of us," the scarred woman muttered, unable to keep quiet.

Stephan sighed, but said nothing.

Thor looked between the two outspoken Nordlanders. "You don't care for each other, do you."

"Oh, I'd never say a word against milord," the woman said, almost dripping with mockery.

"I'd be happier if you never said a word at all," Stephan said, mostly to his mug.

"Oh I'm sorry milord, I'll just go sit in the corner milord," the woman said, affecting an obsequious voice.

"You might as well tell me," Thor said to him.

Stephan sighed. "My mother was the daughter of a Nordland noble." He turned on the still unnamed woman. "And I am not a noble, because she was disinherited when she was caught in bed with a Norscan skald and the North Star grandmaster's daughter."

"No, you're just the fool who thought he could traipse into Norsca without even a prayer to Ulric," she said scathingly.

Stephan muttered something to himself that even Thor's keen ears missed.

"You came to Norsca yourself?" Thor asked.

"I wished to see the land of my father," Stephan said. "Obviously, things have not gone as smoothly as I might have wished."

"You are alive, and you will one day return with tales to share," Thor said, shrugging. "But…I would perhaps be polite to the lady if you wish to remain so."

"'M no lady," the woman muttered.

"I would never insult you so," Thor assured her. "May I have your name, to avoid such an insult?"

She squinted at him, her own rough fire overcoming whatever wary caution she had for a man that held such power that she had witnessed. "...Hildur," she said, once she was sure he wasn't mocking her.

"Hildur," Thor said, toasting her. "You fought well in Skraevold, and your people will be looked after here in Vinteerholm."

"What if we don't want to stay in Vinteerholm?" Hildur asked. "What if we want to go back to our lives?"

"Then you may leave as you wish," Thor said simply. "Though I would advise caution. It is not I that will block your way home, but the journey."

"We could go through Kislev," Hildur said, more to the others than to Thor.

"With what supplies?" a woman said.

"They keep slaves in Kislev," another muttered.

"Like Norsca doesn't?"

"It is not a decision that need be made today," Thor said, interrupting the brewing discussion. "Eat. Rest. Come to terms with your ordeal."

"Couldn't you fly us to Nordland?" Hildur asked, earning looks askance at her boldness. "Like you did at Skraevold?"

"I could," Thor said, nodding in acknowledgment. "But such is a venture of weeks or months, not days, for I would not leave you in the husks of raided villages to struggle, and that is time I am not here to defend Vinteerholm in its time of weakness."

Hildur subsided, holding back whatever reply she had been about to make, and stared at her plate. She held her cutlery like she wanted to gut someone with it.

"I'm no warrior," Stephan said, drawing attention away from her, "but I've something of an education. I'm sure I can earn my keep somehow."

"Tyra is the one you want to speak to about that," Thor said quickly. "She is the chief, and in charge of such things."

Mention of her had them glancing to the high table, where Tyra was in the middle of a spirited discussion with one of her people. Though the hall was too loud to hear, their voices were clearly raised, and then Tyra headbutted the man abruptly. He staggered back, scowling in turn, but then their conversation continued more calmly, the man rubbing at his head.

"I might wait," Stephan said, looking conflicted.

Thor laughed. He knew the signs of what Tony had called a 'fear boner', and he clapped the young bard on the back. "Best of luck to you," he said. He rose, draining his drink and raising the empty vessel to the Nordlanders.

Some of them jerked, trying to hurry to their feet to bow, but he was already turning away, deliberately taking the false expectation of servitude with him. The rest had settled for bowing their heads, and even Hildur had given him a stiff nod. He would keep an eye on that one. She had shown spirit at Skraevold, and just now.

The Nordlanders were not the only newcomers to Tyra's hall, however, and there were more he wished to speak to. One group in particular, smaller than most, had drawn his eye - or rather, his ear. He plonked himself down in the middle of the half dozen men, interrupting their conversation and seizing their attentions.

"Mighty Tor," one said. It was the heavily furred man who had fought in Skraevold. "You honour us." He held out a fresh mug of mead, offering it to him.

Thor's expression perked up as it always did when offered such things. "Ooh, thank you," he said. He took a long draw, enjoying it. It was no Asgardian brew, but it would do, and he made a sound of contentment.

The Kislevite beamed through his thick black beard. "When I return home, I will make an offering of the finest mead in the oblast."

"Well, make sure you enjoy some of it first," Thor said, taking another sip. "Be a shame not to."

The other men shared looks, only slightly wide eyed. "You would have your faithful share in the offerings they make?"

"I appreciate the thought, but it is the thought that matters," Thor said. He slapped his gut. "Besides, I won't be able to work this off if I'm kept in honey and mead without effort."

They seemed to take that in with deep thought, deeper than Thor felt it merited.

"I do not have your names!" he said, breaking them from their introspection.

"Ivan."

"Mikhail."

"Ivan."

"Vasily."

"Ivan."

"Grigori," finished the man who had offered the mead. Again, they had responded like he had asked them a question of great solemnity. "We are all of Kislev, and now all of Tor before any others." They were also all solid, dark haired, and bearded.

"A fine thing to meet you," Thor said. "But first - what is this 'Tor' business?"

The men shared looks, looking past him to do so while trying not to be rude. "Do you wish to test us, Mighty Tor?" Grigori asked after a moment.

"Not at all," Thor said. "I have little time for such games - that was my brother." He fell silent, again reminded of Loki's death.

"You are Tor," one of the Ivans said. He differed from the others by dint of having larger ears. "God of thunder and lightning and war."

"Brother?" another Ivan muttered quietly to himself. This one still had a broken arm strapped to his chest.

"It's pronounced 'Thor', actually," Thor said. "But I would wager that to be a matter of accent, so little matter."

"Mighty Thor," Mikhail tried out.

Something occurred to Thor. "A moment - this Tor fellow, you say he is god of thunder and lightning and war, but what weapon does he wield?" He could remember Harad speaking to him of this Tor before Skraevold.

"A great axe, with which he cleaves the sky to summon thunderbolts!" the third Ivan said. His beard was thinner than the others, but grown out longer.

"I wager it has some manner of rough wooden haft?" Thor asked.

"Oak, taken from a lightning struck tree," Grigori said.

Each man looked up to the head table, where Stormbreaker floated behind the chair Thor had left behind. As one, they took a pull of their drinks.

"Does he loathe Chaos, and smite the wicked with wrath from on high?" Thor asked, glancing each way.

"Aye," Ivan of the large ears said. "When his faithful are in need, he lends his power."

"And does he have a cunning brother that he sometimes quarrels with, but who always returns in the end?" Thor pressed.

"Er, no," Grigori said. "Not that one."

Thor sagged, but he rallied. "Hmmm," he said, stroking his beard as he pondered the chances of there being a god named Tor that shared his domains and his weapons and his attitude towards Chaos. "Clearly, time travel is to blame," he said decisively. For a moment, long habit had him suspecting his brother, but no. Time travel was the simpler explanation.

"Time…travel?" long beard Ivan asked. "What, like travelling back through time?"

"Yes, that's it, well done," Thor said, giving him a nod of approval. "I know of other gods whose domains intersect with mine own, but none so closely. More likely that I will venture back in time at some point in the future, and seed the legend of Tor."

Grigori's brows furrowed at this. "Then…you do not know yourself to be Tor?"

"I have only fifteen centuries under my belt," Thor told him. "There are many queer sights and strange aeons on the limbs of Yggdrasil that I have yet to encounter." He took a sip of his mead. "Time travel is the simplest answer, and if I am wrong, I am sure this Tor fellow will attempt to strike me down."

Grigori looked up to the rafters, as if expecting clouds to form or thunder to boom, but Thor had no interest in causing such a thing, and so there were none. "I suppose that Tor would suffer no imitators," he said slowly.

"I understand your caution," Thor assured him. "I am very imitable."

It took Grigori a moment to wrap his head around that one, and in that time Ivan of the broken arm spoke up.

"You say your brother is one to play games?" he said. "You surely do not mean Ranald, aye?"

"I have not heard of this Ranald," Thor said. "What manner of god is he?"

"A tricky one," big eared Ivan said. "Like as much to trip you and laugh as ignore you, and even then you might've landed face first in shit or gold." He took a drink, fingers crossed on his tankard handle.

"He's trouble," Mikhail said. "Better to follow Handrich if you deal rightwise."

"Right, of course," Ivan big ears said, winking as he did.

Mikhail grumbled at him. "Not this shit again."

"I'm just saying-"

"And you've said it before so let's pretend you did and I told you to fuck off already," Mikhail said, though there was little heat to his words, more an exhausted amusement.

"These are gods of the south, then," Thor said. "Not worshipped here."

"There are only Four gods worshipped in these ill lands," Grigori said, before hesitating. "Well, used to be."

"But your brother, Mighty Thor?" broke arm Ivan pressed.

Thor let out a sigh. "My brother…" he trailed off, tapping his fingers on the table. "One would struggle to speak of a single page of his life in one sitting. He was a maker of mischief, his tongue getting him into much trouble, and then usually getting him out. So many tricks he would play for the sake of the trick itself, and woe to the one who made a deal with him without clear eyes." Despite his words, he wore a reluctant grin. "He fooled me many a time, but just as often required my strength to save his hide…"

"Does he walk the land as you do?" Ivan asked further, leaning across his benchmate.

Grigori winced at the question, bowing his head.

"No," Thor said. "He died." There was a moment of silence as those he spoke with, and some of those nearby listening in, shifted back at the sorrow in his voice.

"To kill a god…it would take one with strength beyond reckoning," Mikhail said, troubled.

"It did. So I cut off his head," Thor said, and there was a weight to his words, thunder without sound. "And then I erased him from existence with my battle brothers." His hands twitched, as if holding something. He came back to himself as a brindle cat twined its way through his legs, and shook himself, putting on a smile. "But enough about me; from where do you hail?"

The subject changed lacked subtlety, but a god such as he needed that little with those who would believe.

"Erengrad," long beard Ivan said. "We were on a voyage to Marienburg when we were taken."

"Ship sunk with half the cargo on it too," Mikhail grumbled. "Its loss will hit my family hard."

Talk turned to less weighty things, as Thor questioned them about their lives and troubles, learning about the world to the south. The men of Kislev found themselves speaking of worries they would usually keep for the priest, and they were rewarded for it as the man who might be their god gave advice in turn. By the time Thor left them to their own devices, he could sense five tentative new connections, distant and filtered just as Grigori's was, but there all the same.

The gathering carried on, locals and new arrivals taking the chance to feel each other out as what little formality had been present was shed. Thor made sure to speak with each different group, not lingering overlong with any, and he began to form an understanding of each. The Nordlanders wanted to return home, but recognised the dangers of such a journey, while the Sarls were split, their focus on the children amongst them. The Aeslings wanted to start a new life in Vinteerholm, but not if they would be looked down on or mistreated; their pride would not allow it. There were others from more disparate groups, but not enough to form a dedicated faction, and these had banded together even when they would usually have scorned each other.

Through it all, Thor noted as Tyra directed some of her people to approach the leaders of each group - it was wrong to call them servants, for they did not fetch and carry and do chores, though they did fetch and carry when Tyra desired - to speak with them about matters of food and lodging, and as the afternoon drew on the gathering began to shrink some, not quite enough to be noticed. Thor was picking at his teeth with a fishbone and finishing another mug of mead when he saw the chief finally find a moment to breathe unbothered, dispatching a final messenger with a flurry of other departures. One of those to leave was Kirsa, a swish of red marking her wake as she departed the hall, though she walked alone, waving off one of those who Thor had noted as her followers.

The talk he wished to have with Kirsa was not one to rush or have with another waiting, so Thor ambled his way back to the head table, sitting himself down in the chair just to her left. She looked up at him as he did, eyes narrowing briefly.

"This is your fault," she said. Green eyes swept the hall, strained and tired.

"Oh?" Thor asked. He liked that she did not censor herself out of respect.

"All this," Tyra said, gesturing with a pewter goblet. "You put me in charge of it."

"What a terrible thing to do," Thor said, reaching over to pick at some of the food Gunnhilde had left on her plate.

"I just wanted to kill them that wronged us," Tyra said, sinking into her chair with a mournful sigh. "Now I have to fret over grain and seeds."

"Into all life some rain must fall," Thor said philosophically. He knew well her troubles, even if he had escaped the trials of leadership himself. Mostly.

Tyra near glowered at him, but glanced at the few people close enough to hear their conversation, checking her words. "Mayhaps I should speak with the god of storms about that rain."

"I hear he is very wise," Thor said. "Perhaps you should." The clank and clamour of the hall drowned out the quiet expletive Tyra muttered at him, but he read her lips all the same, and his own twitched upwards.

"The greyhairs tell me we'll starve before winter is out unless we find another food source," Tyra said. She pulled a dagger out, resting its needle tip on the table while she moved the pommel about with a single finger.

"I could hunt," Thor suggested. "Another mammoth herd, though no, Trumpetter would not…perhaps wha-"

"Stopgaps," Tyra said. "We need something reliable."

"Are the newcomers truly such a strain?" Thor asked.

"It's not just them," Tyra said. She began to push the pommel in circles. "We lost many in the occupation, but two of the four splinter villages returned, and the Aeslings took much of our winter supplies and spoiled more."

A commotion broke out down the hall, and there was the sound of splintering wood and angry shouts. Tyra took her dagger in hand, leaning forward in her chair as she looked to see if her intervention was necessary. Thor looked with her, but it was only a pair of Baersonlings fighting, and those around them were jeering and cheering them on rather than seeking to separate them. She slumped back into her chair.

"Should you not ration your stores then?" Thor asked. The feast that had been put could not compare to Tony's, and certainly not Asgard's, but for their means it had almost been lavish.

"We needed to celebrate the victory, and if we had started on rationing the moment we took in strangers, there would be trouble," Tyra said, "your word or no." She took a breath. "We can't trust raiding to find what we need, even if we had the strength for it, so that's out too."

"And because it would be doing to others what has caused you such trouble," Thor reminded her.

Tyra waved him off. "Aye, and that, Lord Thor. But that's an issue in itself. I thought we had strength before, even if I was proven wrong, and now we're a shadow of what we were. Greenbloods and grey veterans can't hold the walls."

"You have time to change that," Thor said. Unspoken but not unheard was the implication that he would not always be there to defend Vinteerholm.

"And even then," Tyra said, starting to work herself up, holding her dagger by its blade and waggling it at him, "even then, when I kick them into shape, we're still relying on walls that fell to the first foes worth the name-" she cut herself off, breathing harshly out her nose.

There was a quietness between them as Thor considered what she had said. "It seems to me," he started slowly, "that you have two - three - two problems."

Tyra tilted her head at him, frowning in thought.

"Your supplies," Thor said, raising a finger, "your strength of arms," he raised a second halfway, "and the strength of your walls," he finished, raising it in full. "Each could be said to be the most important in their own way. How fare your supplies?"

"If we don't ration, we starve in two months," Tyra said. "If we do, three and a half."

"Rationing comes with its own problems," Thor said, nodding. "Men can be trained, walls can be raised, but what are your plans for food?"

Tyra's full lips thinned to a line as she pressed them together. "We don't have one." She must have seen something in Thor's expression, because she flushed in anger and embarrassment. "I told you I just wanted to kill my enemies," she said. "I'm not good at all…this."

Thor looked at her, unblinking. He took in the faint scar on her cheek, sharp eyebrows, ragged mess of blood red hair, her strong shoulders and the awkward way she sat in the chief's chair. She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly reminded that for all the man by her side drank and joked and held odd values, he was still the man - the god - who had gone to Skraevold a giant in the sky and given true death to a daemon. She swallowed.

"It is a cruel thing, leadership," Thor began slowly, gaze shifting away and granting her a reprieve. His eyes were distant, looking down the busy hall without truly seeing. "Once I feasted, fought, and fucked without care. I was a Prince; I wanted for nothing and in return all I had to give was a vague promise of 'someday'. 'Someday' I would serve as King, 'someday' I would change my ways and put my own desires second to the needs of my people." He frowned, brows creasing harshly. "It took much to teach me the lessons a good King must learn."

The sounds of the feasting hall seemed to fade away as he turned back to Tyra, and her breath caught in her throat. His right eye was a void, black as coal, and his left glowed with inner light. She blinked, and his eyes had returned to normal.

"Killing - death - is easy," Thor said. "Light as a feather is. Duty is heavier than the mountain, but it must be borne all the same." He smiled at her, not in humour but as an elder might to comfort a child. "You have the heart to be a good leader. That is what matters. The rest will come with time."

Tyra swallowed, but nodded. Her God believed in her. She could do this. She would do this. She took a breath. "Then, will you help me as I learn?"

There was a bare moment of hesitation, but then Thor grinned broadly. "How could I do anything less for one who has faith in me?"

Her shoulders eased, like a weight had been lifted. "How then can I find food for my people? We cannot raid, winter crops are not enough, hunting is a stopgap."

Thor thought about it for a moment. "Have you considered trading?"

"Trading?" Tyra asked, like he had suggested painting the pigs blue. "With who?!"

"The Nordlanders," Thor suggested, nodding towards them, "or the Kislevites."

"Nordland is too far," Tyra said, shaking her head, but then she paused. "But Kislev…maybe." She tapped the pommel of her dagger on the table. "We are not rich, and our luxuries are few. We have no mine. What could we trade?"

"The furs you wear," Thor said, nodding to the mantle she wore about her shoulders, "how much do you suppose some southern noble lady might pay for them?"

"A few silver?" Tyra guessed.

"Gold," Thor said. "More the further south you go."

Tyra looked down at her furs. "No."

"Yes," Thor said. "I imagine Kislev has no shortage of furs for their traders, but I would wager there are creatures in the mountains of Norsca that they lack… mammoth, perhaps?"

"Bones too, and their tusks," Tyra said, eyes narrowing in thought. "Such things would be rare in their markets."

"There you go," Thor said approvingly. "You are not so ill suited to this as you might think."

"A party could go, but the town would be weakened," Tyra said, mind elsewhere. "Food and defence." She focused on him, eagle-like. "How would you do it?"

"Give me your thoughts, and I shall share mine," Thor said.

"I will have to lead the party into Kislev," Tyra said. "Those men of Kislev can pay their debt as guides and give introduction. You could stay here, and there would be no fear of attackers."

"I did have some thoughts on how to quickly improve the town walls," Thor said.

"A blessing?" Tyra asked.

"Not quite," Thor said. "I saw some rather large trees on my arrival to this world, but I feel my axe is up to the challenge."

Tyra glanced at the still floating axe that was very obviously beyond the craft of mortal hands. "Right. With you remaining here, I could take more strength south - Gunnhilde, at the least - and trade furs for gold for food. An agreement for future deals could be made."

"A fine start," Thor said.

His words buoyed her, and she smiled faintly. "What would you suggest?"

"I think you should lead a party south, with numbers enough to deter threats and ensure you are dealt with fairly, while I remain here and ensure the safety of the town with my presence," Thor said. "I could occupy myself with improving the defences of the town, and beginning to work off this," he finished, tapping his belly.

Tyra blinked at him for a moment, brows furrowing. "That is what I suggested."

"Clearly, you had a good idea," Thor said. "I told you that you are not so ill suited to this as you think." His tone was teasing.

Tyra's ears reddened, but she put on a scowl. "Then it will be so. I will speak with the elders."

"As you say, Chief Tyra."

Tyra shuddered like something cold and wet had slipped down her back. "You're lucky you're a god," she muttered.

Thor clapped her on the shoulder, laughing, as he rose from his seat. "It does come with its perks," he admitted. "I hope you enjoyed your reprieve."

A puzzled look was his answer, before it was replaced with one of hunted dismay. The moment it had become clear that Thor was leaving, a visible ripple had passed through those who happened to be loitering nearby as Tyra's attention went up for grabs once more. He slipped away as the first began to besiege her, heading down the hall and towards the exit.

Elsa and Astrid darted past him as he went, engaged in a game with some Sarl children, and he briefly found himself caught up in it, Astrid sticking out her tongue at a boy as she used his bulk as a barrier. They circled around him, pursuing and fleeing, before the stalemate was broken and they darted off, giggling. Elsa was chasing her own target, menacing him with a short stick that had a black feather attached. Thor could remember well when he had first laid eyes on the two sisters, one near frozen, the other covered in gore. It was good that they had overcome the events of the day, and could now play as children ought to. He did not care to linger on what might have happened in his absence.

The doors parted easily before him, and he emerged into a square shaded by the setting sun. The section he had glassed had been dug up and carted away, little evidence but memory of the spawn and raiders he had slaughtered.

There was a huff and a shifting of bulk to the side, and when Thor glanced to it he smiled at what he saw. Trumpetter lay there on a patch of dry earth free of snow by the edge of the hall, and now he got to his feet, already trotting towards him. Mammoth met man with enough force to plough through a shield wall, head butting into his chest affectionately.

"Hello little one," Thor said, hands going up to rub behind his ears. "Are you taking a break from the children?"

Trumpetter rumbled in response, his trunk wrapping around Thor's waist in a hug.

"Yes, I know," Thor said, apologetic. "I have been away, but I have returned, and will not venture out again for a time."

The juvenile mammoth chuffed, pleased, and began to lean even more heavily as Thor continued to rub at the base of his skull. The Asgardian braced himself against the weight, lest he be tipped back into the hall.

"You know you cannot do this with another," Thor warned him, though he did not stop his scratching.

Another rumble was his answer, Trumpetter's eyes beginning to roll back and his trunk going slack.

"We're blocking the door," Thor said. "Will you come with me to check on the grove?"

Trumpetter gave a low whurr of agreement, but made no move to stop leaning into him.

"Well, if that's how it has to be," Thor said. He ceased his ministrations, but before Trumpetter could do more than start a plaintive whurr, he found himself picked up and carried.

The whurr became one of excitement, as Thor hoisted him against his chest, arms under his legs and barely able to see over his hairy back. He began to walk towards the grove, and those whose path they crossed gaped until they realised who it was they were watching carry a mammoth through the town. They still gaped afterwards, but became more polite about it, and it was not long until the two of them came to the grove, where Thor halted in sudden surprise.

Thor would disagree with any who said he gaped at the sight that met him, but he certainly raised a brow in measured surprise, setting Trumpetter down to get a clearer look at it. When he had left Vinteerholm near two months ago to fall upon Skraevold, the 'grove' had been an open space of ash and slush, but no longer. Now it was a carpet of green, filled with saplings of all kinds, knee high and growing strong. It was not a thick carpet of plantlife, but it would become one in time as they grew, and growing it was in defiance of the season.

The carpet was not what drew his eye most, however. He lay a hand on Trumpetter's shoulder as he gazed at what lay in its centre, Kirsa kneeling beside it. Already as tall as himself, the young ash tree swayed to its own breeze, one that did not touch any other plant in the grove. Something about it called to him.

Slowly, carefully, man and mammoth made their way into the grove. Trumpetter held Thor's wrist lightly as he followed behind, large eyes looking about with simple curiosity, until they reached Kirsa. He knelt beside her, and Trumpetter took that as an invitation to lean into his back, inspecting Kirsa's brown locks with his trunk, the two heavy braids resting forward on her shoulders.

"Kirsa," Thor said.

"Thor," Kirsa replied.

Whurr, Trumpetter sounded, giving up his investigation of Kirsa's hair and slumping down onto his side, still leaning against Thor's back.

They were quiet for a time, the afternoon sun starting to shift to a burnt orange, as both watched the tree.

"I knew you found victory," Kirsa said at length. The red cape she wore as a cloak was firm around her shoulders, warming her even as the temperature began to fall.

"Because you had faith?" Thor asked, but she shook her head. "Did you have a dream, a vision?"

"I saw you in the sky as your power raced across it," Kirsa said, smiling lightly. "The mood was low that day, but then your words came to lift it, and we knew you had triumphed."

"Not just I," Thor said. "Many fought that night."

"You want the newcomers to be accepted," Kirsa said, nodding. "I will see it so."

Thor turned away from the tree, his beard tugged at by a slight breeze. "You have grown since I left," he noted.

Kirsa glanced towards him, the hint of uncertainty lingering in her brown eyes testament to her youth.

He smiled at her. "Growth is good. I am pleased to see it."

A shy smile was his answer. "When you left - Tyra nominated elders, but none would speak about you. People started to come to me with questions of you."

"And you answered."

"I did my best," Kirsa said. "Some listened. Some didn't. Some…hold to other gods." There was a shiver of disgust in her voice. "But then we saw you in the sky, and the next morning, we found this." Her eyes returned to the ash tree.

"It grew overnight?" Thor asked.

"Not as you see now, but much of it," Kirsa said. "Two months since the planting, but near a year of growth, and in winter."

"And so people came to believe," Thor said, finding the explanation he had sought for his reception at the docks.

"That and another thing, but you will see with your own eyes soon."

Thor gave her a curious glance, but she only smiled, and he accepted it. Quietness fell once more, and the sun continued to set.

"Was I right to speak of you?" Kirsa asked suddenly. "I tried to be true to the words you shared with me, but I am only…" she looked down as she trailed off, one hand fidgeting with the material of her cloak.

"Only?" Thor said, chin lifting in challenge.

Her mouth twisted, and she did not answer.

"More than most, I think, you know what I stand for," Thor said. He contemplated the ash tree before them. "Anyone might repeat my words, but it takes a stout heart and a hopeful soul to truly share them."

"Your words are kind," Kirsa said, though still she looked down.

"Did I not spy some followers of your own?" Thor asked. "I wager they would agree with me."

Now she looked up, frowning, though it had all the rancour of a bear cub. "I answered their questions and they started following me!" she said, almost disgruntled.

"How terrible," Thor said, stroking his beard to hide the twitching of his lips.

"They brought me nuts and berries!" Kirsa said, on the verge of throwing her hands up. The doubt she had worn was cast back like shadows before the bonfire.

Thor made a sympathetic noise. "Were they tasty?"

"I don't know! I said we should share them with those in need, and now they think that Th- that you would have them do so every week!"

"Such a thing is worthy of praise," Thor said.

"They think it a Thorite ritual! What do I know of your rituals?!?" She reached up to grasp each of her braids, pulling on them to steady herself.

It was clear that for all Kirsa had been improving and doing well for herself, she was not without her stresses. Trumpetter's trunk came up to rub at her shoulder, though he didn't shift from his position, comfortable.

"Do you have rituals?" Kirsa asked, turning to him. "Or ceremonies, or, or, prayers?

"Well," Thor said as he considered, looking upwards. The clouds were cast in orange, and the first hints of stars were beginning to shine above them. "I do appreciate it when someone dedicates an undertaking to me." He had known, at Skraevold, when Tyra and the others had devoted their deeds to him, the declaration buoying him.

"Undertakings?"

"Righteous battles, deeds pleasing to me, that sort of thing," Thor said. "The sharing of food with those in need is a worthy one." He wondered if he could make Thorsday a thing again.

"But how do we worship you?" Kirsa pressed. "Would you have a temple, or rites?"

"This is my temple," Thor said, gesturing broadly at the grove around them. "And to worship me is a thing of deeds, not pomp or ceremony. The farmer working the field to feed the town, the smith forging a spear for defence of home…the woman who answers questions put to her about her faith in me," he said, teasing.

Kirsa flushed prettily, but met his gaze all the same. "I just wanted to do right by you, as you did for us."

"That is enough," Thor said. "Do worthy deeds. Keep my groves free of betrayal. Help your fellows as best you can."

"That's it?"

Thor was quiet for a moment, remembering a time when he himself had not met such standards. "It seems a simple thing, and perhaps it is, but that does not make it easy."

His words seemed to resonate with the young woman, and she nodded slowly. "Not the scale of the deed, but the one doing it," she said, almost to herself.

"Yes, exactly!" Thor said, pleased, snapping his fingers. "You understand."

She straightened at his words, and the cloak she wore became less a thing shielding her from the world, and more a simple part of her. She glanced back at the ash tree, then at the setting sun as if waiting for something, but whatever it was had not come yet.

Behind them, Trumpetter had drifted off to sleep but now he stirred, legs twitching as he dreamed, as if running. Thor reached back to rub his side, and he calmed.

Kirsa gave a sudden sigh. "I just got them to stop calling me your priestess, too."

"Oh?"

"Those who wished to know you," Kirsa said. "They thought that since I could answer their questions, that I must be your priestess."

With great solemnity, Thor placed a hand on her shoulder. "Good luck," he said. He knew well the travails that came with having titles bestowed upon one unlooked for.

Kirsa sighed again, gloomy, but then stopped as a thought occurred to her. "But now that you've returned…I can tell them to ask you."

"I'm busy that day," Thor said. "Trees to cut down, walls to build."

"Wolfric then," Kirsa said, undeterred. "He believes."

"Not Gunnhilde?" Thor asked.

"Oh, I couldn't bother her," Kirsa said, shaking her head. "I will manage."

Thor gave a hum in response. He hadn't had anything like a priest in centuries, besides some odd folks in Scandinavia, but the situation in the Nine Realms was…different. Perhaps the day would come when he had need for priests and priestesses, but it was not this day. Helpful Kirsa was more than enough.

They sat in silence for a time, as the light continued to fade. The stars shone brighter, glimmering in a tapestry of purple as the sun continued to creep below the horizon. Trumpetter woke, and shifted around to sit at Thor's other side, not quite leaning on him.

"This is my favourite part of the day," Kirsa said. There was a serenity to her, a calmness that had eluded her when Thor had last seen her.

"Dusk is a peaceful time," Thor said, speaking quietly.

Kirsa shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. "You'll see."

They were no longer alone, as others began to arrive, filtering into the grove. They came from all directions, not many, but enough to feel like a gathering, though they did not join them. They found places within the grove to sit, scattered amongst the young growth, all arrayed around the ash tree in its centre. There was no conversation, and it was clear they were waiting for something. Thor recognised little Ragnar squeezed between Knut and his mother, one of those rescued from the hound kennels. She was not the only one, but most seemed to be locals. The crescent moon hung low in the sky, gleaming white.

Finally, the sun set in truth, the last of its rays disappearing. There was a moment of anticipation as nightfall spread across the village like a blanket, and then Thor saw just what had drawn people to his grove.

From the blessed ash tree came motes of golden light, drifting from its leaves like snowflakes from the sky. There was no mistaking them for fireflies, not with the coronas of soft light that flared around each of them as they drifted towards the earth. Warmth that had nothing to do with the physical bloomed, and unbidden, he thought of his mother, of the way her body had lain limp on the stone floor after she was stabbed through the back. The pain that usually followed was absent this time, replaced by brighter memories. He remembered lessons of her home, of advice when he struggled with a new weapon, of scoldings when he and Loki had raided the kitchens and become too round to escape. He remembered the warmth of her hand on his cheek, of advice given when he most needed it. A knot of grief, long buried, eased ever so slightly.

A sound like a sigh swept through the grove, and the golden light began to fade, the last motes falling to the ground. None spoke, and even Trumpetter was quiet. Wet eyes were not uncommon, though they did not come from pain, and none sought to hide them. The moment was soon over though, and there were those who took their leave, though some stayed.

"We didn't know what it was," Kirsa said, voice a whisper. "But we know it came from your blessing."

"A boon unlooked for," Thor said. Something about it reminded him of Yggdrasil, but the sapling before him was no world tree. Not now, likely not ever. But still the thought was there.

"One that has helped heal the scars left by the raiders," Kirsa said. "It has helped many."

"Then you should be proud," Thor said.

"Me?" Kirsa said, surprised.

"You," Thor said. "Intent matters. Remember what spurred you."

"Magda," she said, and she fell into silence, lost in memories.

Thor let her be, observing the tree. More of those who had come went on their way, little Ragnar waving at him as he went, seated upon his mother's shoulders, and he waved back. Eventually, it was only the three of them left in the grove once more.

"Sigurd Twice-Slain," Kirsa said, speaking the name as if to prove a point to herself. "Tyra said you killed him."

"I did."

"He's truly dead?" Kirsa asked.

With a name like his, she couldn't be blamed. "He is," Thor said, "and to a fate worse than any I would care to conjure."

"Good," Kirsa said, a vicious twist to her words. "How did he die?"

"Like a coward," Thor said. "He surrendered his soul to a demon before I did more than slay all his men, before I had even torn one of his arms off. I beat the daemon that possessed him with it, and then I crushed his skull and delivered a true death to it."

Kirsa smiled like he was telling a pleasant bedtime story, and perhaps he was. For all that she was no warrior, she was still a child of Norsca. She had suffered, but now she listened to tell of the vengeance taken in her name by her god, and it was good.

Even after the tale was told, neither felt the need to move as they sat in companionable silence. Gentle snow drifted down on them, almost too sparse to see, but Kirsa was kept warm by the cloak she had been gifted, to say nothing of the furnace that was Trumpetter. She was hardly aware of it as she drifted off, slowly leaning into Thor. By the time her head came to rest on his shoulder, she was already asleep.

Gently, Thor took her up in a princess carry, and left the grove behind. Tomorrow was a new day.

Chapter Text

Timber groaned mightily as it fell, cracks echoing through the forest, and another tree too large for ten men to circle their arms around fell with an almighty crash.  Any wildlife in the area had long since fled or hidden away in their burrows, driven by the sharp, repetitive blows of an axe.  There were only two beings comfortably walking the primordial forest that day, the uneasy shadows cast by its thick canopy proving no hindrance to them.  

A mammoth trumpeted in victory, having helped in giving the tree the last push needed to topple it.  Beside him, a blond bearded man wiped sweat from his brow, bare chested despite the snow, a mighty axe resting on his shoulder.  He breathed heavily but evenly, large gut rising and falling.

“Well done, Trumpetter!” the man said to his companion.  

Trumpetter near pranced in response, even as he shovelled more stripped foliage into his mouth, heavy teeth grinding it down.

“Are you ready to return to the town?” Thor asked.  He received another trumpeted blast in response.  “Then let us go.”

He made his way towards the centre of the fallen giant, judging the thicker base against the length of the trunk.  When he reached the spot he was happy with, he let go of his axe and it hovered, waiting.  He eyed his chosen spot, sizing up the tree.  

With a grunt, Thor punched both hands into its side, driving his arms in almost up to his elbows.  Setting himself, he took a deep breath, preparing.  Trumpetter gave a noise of encouragement, low and rumbling.  With a sharp exhale, Thor lifted the entire massive tree, grunting with the effort.  His face reddened as he stepped forward and held his burden overheard, arms extended.  They trembled slightly, but held steady as he slowly lowered the enormous thing onto his shoulders.  Deeply and evenly he breathed, growing accustomed to the weight.  When he was sure he had it, he began to walk.

“The hours approaching, just give it your best,

You’ve got to reach your prime.”

He sang under his breath as he walked, carefully threading through the outer reaches of the forest.  The trees were smaller on the path he was taking, but in the sizes he was dealing with, smaller was relative.

“That’s when you need to put yourself to the test,

And show us a passage of time,”

Trumpetter ambled along beside him, happy to be out of Vinteerholm and on an adventure.  He did enjoy playing with the children of the town, but there was only so much to see and do within its walls.

“We’re gonna need a montage,

Montage

Oh it takes a montage

Montage”

One unlucky tree was toppled as Thor didn’t quite manage to manoeuvre around it, but it hardly slowed him.  The ground grew uneven and he slowed, stepping carefully lest he fumble the lift.  Some of the words he had forgotten, and he hummed the tune for a time.

“Anything that we want to go from just a beginner to a pro,

You need a montage

Montage

Even Rocky had a montage

Montage”

The forest began to thin somewhat, and before long he had emerged from it onto an open white plain.  If he looked back he knew he would see the mountains looming over the forest, disappearing into the clouds overhead, but he was focused on the weight he held, beginning to feel the burn.  

“Anything that we want to go from just a beginner to a pro,

You need a montage

Montage

Oh it takes a montage

Montage”

In the distance, he could see his destination.  Not the town itself, but a section of flat ground outside it, swarming with townspeople as they worked.  He could already see them taking notice of him, an enormous tree carried horizontally hard to miss, even if he was likely too small to draw attention so far away.

“Always fade out in a montage,

If you fade out, it seems like more time

Has passed in a montage,

Montage”

His pace remained steady, his steps even.  In time, he would incorporate lunges and squats, but he knew his limits, and for now simply shouldering his burden was enough.  He continued to hum as he walked.  

“Montage

Montage.”

By the time he reached the makeshift lumber yard outside Vinteerholm, his shoulders ached fiercely and his arms burned, but he pushed on.  Workers were sure to clear the way as he was guided to a set of stones, pairs of them laid out in a long line.  He sucked in a breath and exhaled, extending his arms and raising his burden with a controlled slowness.  For a long moment, he held it, until his arms began to tremble once more.  Almost snarling with the effort, he began to lower it forward onto the stones, new muscles straining, until he could set it down gently.  Even prepared, the stones sank under the weight, but still they did their job, keeping it off the ground.  Thor let out a relieved breath, shaking out his arms and stretching.

The chief woodsman inspected it with a sharp eye, even as others ran along it, checking each stone.  Shouts of confirmation came with each one, word travelling quickly, and the chief nodded.  “Clear!” he bellowed, and like a swarm of locusts, the workers that had been waiting and watching descended upon it with axe and rope and saw.

Thor stepped back, clearing the way in turn, accepting a water skin offered to him.  He drained it in a single long pull and accepted the next, already waiting.  The teenage girl offering them to him had another three slung over her person, and he would drain them all.  

“Thor,” a familiar voice said.  “No trouble?” 

“Wolfric,” Thor said, turning to him.  “None.  The beasts of the forest do not seem to wish to bother me.”

“Strange,” Wolfric said, tone putting lie to his words.  Unlike most, he had no tools of lumber or carpentry on him, only his sword and his shield.  With so many of their people outside the protection of the walls, a wary eye was needed.  

“I see you were persuaded,” Thor said as he finished another skin, nodding towards where Astrid and Elsa were already clambering up Trumpetter. 

“They did their chores, and helped Helka with her work,” Wolfric said.  He grumbled something to himself.  “Will you fetch another today?”

Thor glanced over at the tree he had felled early that morning.  It was afternoon now, but already it was much worked over, every branch stripped from it, teams of men working with long saws to chunk it into smaller pieces.  The same would be done to the second great tree he had brought, in time.

“No,” Thor decided.  “Not until the first is dealt with further.”

They watched for a time, taking in the orderly chaos.  Thor’s solution to the failure of the walls of Vinteerholm was a simple one:  he would simply aid in building bigger, better walls.  If it also served as an opportunity to induct the newcomers into the community as they shared sweat, and provide another trade good with the excess, that was all the better.  

“It will keep us occupied, for a time,” Wolfric said.  Gone were the days when his words were filtered through fear and worry, of Thor or of more mortal concerns.  It was a sentiment shared by many others, now that the malaise of the raid no longer hung over them, and that they had begun to take steps to prevent such a thing happening again.  “Three more like those?”

“More,” Thor said.  

“You think there will be that much demand for northern lumber?” Wolfric asked, doubtful, but expecting to be proven wrong.  “Tyra didn’t take any as a sample.”

Tyra had led the trading expedition south some few days prior, taking with her a force that included Gunnhilde, Eirik, and Halvar, but also those others who wished to prove themselves in some way, or were too restless to stay, like Hildur.  To Thor’s surprise, Stephan had not asked to join, his eyes seemingly fixed on Norsca.  The Kislevites had gone with them as guides, save Grigori, but his motivations for staying were harder to divine.

Thor gave a shrug that was as much an answer as it was a way to loosen his shoulders.  “If there is not, we will find a use for it here.  We will do more than replace the walls.”

“Expansion?” Wolfric asked.  “I think they did that in my father’s time.  Built a new set of walls around the town, then tore down the old.”

“Aye, but more.  Bigger,” Thor said.  He gestured to the south, towards the river across the town.  Just downstream it grew broad and shallower for a time, but the town itself was nestled against the point where the river began to widen.  “It would be well to grow across the river.  No longship will sail up to the docks if we place a barrier across it.”

Wolfric squinted, as if trying to picture it.  “That would be something.”

Thor found himself feeling like a child playing with sticks, but even though the grandeur of Asgard might be out of reach, he could at least see that the lives of those that lived here were safe, comfortable, and without shit in the gutters, even if that last one was just a command to dump it outside town.  An actual sewer system was rather out of reach.

“It will do,” he said.  “Once Tyra returns with what we need, more plans can be made.”

“So long as they are let past Zenilev,” Wolfric said with a grumble.  

“Even if they are not, they can trade there,” Thor said.  Zenilev was the nearest Kislev stronghold they knew of, and trying to sneak past it would send the wrong message.  Even if they were not permitted further, there was still trading that could be done.  

“Likely they refuse them just so they can make a profit for themselves by selling it on,” Wolfric said.  “All the best furs and mammoth bones that she took with her.”

“They do have reason to be wary of Norscans,” Thor remarked.

Wolfric grumbled again, but did not gainsay him.  

The work continued, branches almost as thick as some trees being sawn off and dragged away for further rendering down, mobs of children old enough to join in the work falling upon them as their parents saw to the harder tasks.  Thor watched as young Ragnar clung to the end of a branch his mother was carrying over her shoulder, giggling with each step she took as he dangled and swayed.  The woman herself was fighting back a smile, pretending not to know where her son had disappeared to.  It was clear that the townspeople had the matter well in hand.

Thor gave a decisive nod.  “Keep an eye on the skies.  I have business to see to.”

“The other village…?” 

“Aye. They’ve still not made contact,” Thor said.  Before Vinteerholm had been retaken, he had checked on the other villages that had splintered off.  Of the four in the region, only one had escaped the raiders, evacuating before their coming, but it was only now that he had time to check on them again.  “I mean to drop in on them.”

“Then they are the ones who should watch the skies,” Wolfric said, quirking an eyebrow at Stormbreaker, still floating at his god’s shoulder.  “Unless you mean to walk?”

“It would take more than a short walk such as that to make an impact on this,” Thor said, slapping his gut.  Perhaps when the need for trees was no more, he would carve a tunnel into the mountains, and juggle the boulders that came from it.  The time saved by taking to the skies was worth more than the benefits of the walk, though a thought occurred to him, and his own gaze strayed to his weapon.  Stormbreaker bestowed more than one method of travel…

…but now was not the time to test it.  Some unnamed worry, some half forgotten instinct told him that to use the Bifrost would not be a simple matter of summoning the rainbow and strolling through.  What it might result in he did not know, and one day he would discover it for himself - but not this day.

“You would have to walk to the deserts of Araby to make an impact on that,” Wolfric said, unaware of his god’s thoughts.

“Ha!” Thor said, barking a laugh.  He was pleased his people could finally bring themselves to shed their awe, even if they would only do it in private conversations.  There were those amongst the town who still wouldn’t address him with lesser respect than ‘godly one’.  Even now the workers flowed around them if they had to get by, none willing to intrude on what was surely an important conversation.  “By the time I am done, men will envy my form and women will fight for the right to drape themselves over it,” he added, boasting.

Wolfric opened his mouth to respond, then visibly rethought the wisdom of whatever he was about to say and closed it.  

“Hmm?” Thor prompted him.

“Nevermind,” Wolfric said, shaking his head.  “They would kill me.”

“Wise,” Thor said, having an inkling as to his thoughts.  “I will see you upon my return.”

“Lord Thor,” Wolfric said, bowing his head.  

Thor considered returning to the town to retrieve a shirt, but the day was fine enough despite the clouds clinging to the mountains, and he desired to feel the cool breeze upon his bare torso as he flew.  He inclined his head to Wolfric in turn, and then his hand closed around his axe.  A moment later, he was rocketing up into the sky and away, Vinteerholm a swiftly receding dot below him.  

That day, the sky was his and his alone, and he spiralled and spun as he flew upwards.  He did not know why those with the luck to be born aloft by him on a tree were so loath to repeat the experience; to fly was one of life’s great pleasures, even more so than wine and women.  He shocked an eagle as he blew past it, the regal beast’s yellow eyes widened as it almost squawked.  Its gaze followed him, and it attempted to do the same, but there was no hope of a mere animal doing so, and he quickly left it behind as he turned east.

The journey was not a long one, even when he took the time to enjoy it, and the sun still shone when he neared the unnamed village that he had visited so briefly two months ago now.  He could make out the burnt down granary, now partially reconstructed, and some movement in the village.  He just needed to choose his manner of approach.

Setting down outside the village, a ways along the sole road - path really - that led to it, Thor took a moment to stretch.  Stormbreaker settled onto his back, as if in a harness, its haft peeking up over his shoulder.  The path was a narrow thing, crowded by the trees on either side, and only the sound of the flowing river carrying through them for company.  The cry of an eagle made a lie of that, and Thor glanced up to see another bird much like the one he had startled earlier soaring high above.  It couldn’t have been the same one, not at the speeds he was flying, but still it looked similar.

It did not take long to reach the village.  When he did, he was first met by a boy in a watchtower, looking out over the trees.  They had been cut back away from the village, itself a circular assortment of dwellings and other buildings.  So focused on whatever it was the boy was watching, he appeared to have missed Thor’s approach completely.  The village was larger than Harad’s, but lacked its walls.

Thor coughed.  

Up above him, some three tall men high, the boy gave no indication it had been heard.

Thor coughed again, louder this time.  

The boy frowned now, looking over his shoulder and back into the village, but after seeing nothing, quickly looked back to whatever it was that so firmly held his gaze.  

“Ahem,” Thor called up.  

With a violent startle, the boy almost fell out of the chair he sat in atop the watchtower, more a raised platform than anything, only to recover at the last moment.  He looked down, and when he beheld Thor, his jaw fell in shock.  

“Good afternoon,” Thor said politely.  

The boy continued to gape, showing off a broken canine.  

Thor began to feel vaguely self conscious.  Perhaps he should have worn a shirt.  “Might I enter your village?”

He jerked at the question, as if roused from a torpor.  “What,” he said.  He was either a small teen or a large child.  

“Might I enter your village?” Thor repeated himself.  

“But the outlook didn’t catch ya,” the boy said, more to himself than Thor.  It was like he was questioning his very eyes.

“I am very sneaky,” Thor offered.  

Boy stared at Thor.  Thor stared at boy.  

Slowly, the boy reached for something hanging from the rail of the tower.  It was a leg bone of some kind, with another shorter bone dangling from the end of it by a strip of leather.  Without breaking eye contact, the boy began to spin it overhead, and an unsettling thrumming resulted, rising and falling with the speed of the spin.  It set Thor’s teeth to rattling, and he couldn’t imagine anyone in the village had missed it.  Well, it was one way to sound an alarm.

Heavy footsteps approached rapidly, pounding in the dirt.  A large man, though of course not as large as Thor, burst around the corner of the lane that ran into the village, a woodsman’s axe in hand.  

“What is it son?” the man demanded, bushy brows furrowed in concern as he looked up at the boy.  “More raiders?  How many?”

Mutely, the boy pointed at Thor.  The man followed the finger and blinked when he saw him.  

“One man?” he asked of the boy, though his eyes didn’t leave Thor.

“No signal Pa,” the boy said.

The man gave a grumbling sigh, and nodded.  “You did right.  Sound the all clear.”

The boy spun his implement again, three quick spins with the last slowly fading out.  

“Who’re you?” the man demanded of Thor.  “What do you want?”

“I come from Vinteerholm,” Thor said.  “I bring word that the raiders are gone.”

“And your name?” the man pressed, hefting his axe pointedly.  Its handle was well used, and its blade sharp. 

“Thor,” he said, even as he threaded his fingers through his windswept beard.  The flight over had done it few favours.

The man nodded, hardly giving it another thought, before stopping still.  “Thor, you say,” he said, taking him in with new eyes, looking over his bare feet, work-stained pants, bulging gut, and messy hair.  

“I do say,” Thor said.  

“...right,” the man said.  “I’m Halvdan.  What word do you bring?”

“The raiders have been repelled, and Skraevold raided in turn,” Thor said.  “Those that could be retrieved were, and then some.”

Off the path, a short ways into the trees, there was movement.  Thor spied a slim man with a spear, ready to throw but waiting.  He made no indication that he had noticed him.  

“All is good,” Halvdan said.  “Is that the only reason you have come?”  His brows were furrowed, and he spoke like he was caught between belligerence and caution.  

“I came to check on this village,” Thor said.  “When the raiders first came, I made to check on you, but the village was empty, save one.”

“You’re the one that split him in half then?” Halvdan asked.  

“He was whole when I left him, if smoking,” Thor said.  

“Hrngh,” Halvdan said.  Behind him, a chimney smoked steadily, but the village was otherwise quiet, the few sounds of life that had come from it before Thor’s approach absent.  “Thor, then?” he demanded.

“I am he,” Thor said.  He was not one to shy away without reason, even if he felt no need to appear in his full regalia.  Though perhaps he had picked up some of Loki’s penchant for mischief, given the amusement he felt as Halvar looked him over dubiously once more.  

“Just here to check on us then?” Halvdan asked.  

“I would offer my help, if it is needed,” Thor said.  He was well used to the side quest as a method of earning trust.

Halvdan glanced over at the man still hiding in the trees, disguising it as a look at his son up in the watchtower.  Still the village was quiet behind him.  “Two hunters went missing this last week.  There’s a bear den needs checking.  One like you could do it, no trouble.”

“I could do that,” Thor said, shrugging and scratching at his gut.  He had to hold back a perhaps unworthy giggle as Halvar was visibly torn between what his eyes showed him and what his brain told him.  “What are their names?”

Halvdan blinked.  “What?  The hunters?”

“Aye.”

“Rand and Bain,” Halvar said.  “...will that help you find them?”

“No, not at all,” Thor said.  

“Right,” Halvdan said.  “Well.  Old Hang-lip is an ornery old bastard, and he should still be asleep at this time, but Rand mentioned seeing tracks the day before he vanished, and Bain was headed out that way too.”

“How far away is it?” Thor asked.

“Close enough to get there and return before dark,” Halvdan said.  He shifted his grip on his axe.  “Wouldn’t suggest it if not.”

“Will your friend be joining us?” Thor asked, tone casual.

Halvdan only hesitated for an instant.  “My boy will be staying right where he is.”

“Of course,” Thor said.  “But what of your friend, the one with the spear?”

“...he’ll be coming,” Halvdan said.  “Can’t trust strangers, no matter their name.”

“Then let us check on Hang-lip, so we are no longer strangers,” Thor said.  

Again, Halvdan looked him over, and again Thor had to push back his amusement.  “The mountains are dangerous.  Are you ready to walk them?”

“I appreciate your concern, but I am sure I will manage with your help,” Thor said.  

Halvdan gave him a long stare, brows somehow furrowing even further.  “Vali!” he called.  

There was a pause, and then the sound of grumbling and light steps through the underbrush.  “What?” Vali said as he emerged.  He had an unfortunate face, and a chin that could only be partly hidden by his short and thick beard.  

“We’re going to Hang-lip’s den.  Thor here is coming with us.”

Vali looked him over, keen eyes missing nothing.  “Nice axe,” he said.  

“Thank you,” Thor said.  “Its forging almost killed me.”

The two men shared a look.  Vali nodded, as if confirming something, even as doubt lined Halvdan’s shoulders. 

Halvdan sighed.  “Let’s go then,” he said.

“Do you need to tell your fellows?” Thor asked.  “I would not want to make them think I am absconding with you.”

“They know,” Halvdan said.  Without waiting for a response, he headed past Thor and back down along the path, expecting him to follow.  

Thor did so, uncaring of the way Vali waited until he did, before falling in behind.  The walk would be dull, but there were worse things.  Overhead, an eagle gave a hunting cry.  

X

The den of ‘old Hang-lip’ was not deep in the mountains.  It was barely in the foothills to the north, but it was still more of a trek than a walk, enough of one that Thor would have taken to the sky had he been alone.  There was little conversation, and Thor found his thoughts straying elsewhere, away from the task at hand.  He could not simply leave Vinteerholm, not when it depended on him for protection and especially not when Tyra was away, but nor did he wish to become bound to it, overseeing petty problems.  Perhaps once he had returned himself to form, some challenge would come along, though he knew his mother would chide him for tempting the fates like that.

Ahead, Halvdan came to a stop.  They joined him on the edge of a ragged copse of trees, grey shale stone ahead, and in the side of a hill not too far away, there was a dark entrance to a cave, or a tunnel.  

“That’s it,” Halvdan said.  “He should still be hibernating, but if something stirred him, it might be he took Rand and Bain for food.”

Vali shivered beside him.  Even with their furs, they still found it cold.  “Can’t see any tracks, and last night’s snow covered any there were.”

Halvdan grimaced.  “Only fools stick their face into a b-”

“Then the only thing to do is check on the den,” Thor said, already starting forward.  The loose stone crunched beneath his bare feet as he left the trees behind.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Vali called from the trees.  Halvdan was noticeably silent.  

Thor was halfway across the open ground when he saw movement in the darkness of the opening. A moment later, an enormous brown bear began to emerge from its den, and he saw where it got its name from. Half of its jaw had been broken off along one side, what remained hanging down, and it was an old wound. What would have been a life ending wound for another beast seemed to have not slowed it at all, being almost too large to fit through the entrance to its home. Thor noted that the jaw was not its only injury. Still dark with old blood, a broken spear protruded from its shoulder, looking more like a stick than a weapon. He also noted that the great shaggy mass of fat and muscle was looking straight at him, snorting and sniffing in a rage.

“You’re a big boy, aren’t you,” Thor said.

The bear gave a roar, rearing up high.  It was already charging as it dropped back down.

“That spear can’t be comfortable,” Thor said.  “Let me take care- oof,” he said, as nearly a ton of apex predator slammed into him, bowling him over.  

His back prickled and stung as he carved an unwilling furrow through the loose stone, the bear charging after him, swiping at him with its paws.  Its breath was rank.

“Calm down now - sun’s getting real - no, bad bear-”

Slavering jaws sought to close around his head, only to be stymied by his fist reaching down its throat to seize the root of its tongue.  The bear choked out a protest, splattering him further and spreading a rancid stink all over.  Thor’s face screwed up in disgust; it was nearly as bad as the time he had been forced to pass through a bilgesnipe den.  Sickly yellowed teeth chewed on his arm, scoring his skin but little more, and it reared up once again.  He was brought with it, and he lost his grip on its slippery tongue, going airborne.  The bear roared again as it drew one heavy paw back, almost as large as his torso.  It meant to strike him as he fell, apparently helpless.

Thor was upside down as he fell, but he brushed the blow away and struck with one of his own, punching the bear in the skull.  Still standing, it was driven staggering back, and he landed unsteadily as it tipped over backwards, groaning in pain.  

“My patience thins,” he warned it, finding firmer footing in the shale.

The bear began to roll off its back, and the spear in its shoulder was driven in deeper as it did, before snapping under its bulk.  It didn’t so much as groan in pain, only snarling at him, apparently not noticing the wound at all as it shook off the last of its dizziness.  Closer as it was now, he could see that what should have been brown eyes were instead shot through with red, and the yellowed teeth were not decayed, but stained.  Its fury did not come from sleep deprived grumpiness, but from something else.  Something it had eaten.  

Whatever the cause, it was beyond any help he could give it.  Thor pursed his lips as it charged him again with unthinking ferocity, seeking again to bowl him over to rip and tear at him.  He let it near, but this time he did not permit it to knock him over.  The bear made no sound as he uppercut it with great force, lifting it off its feet.  Before it returned to the ground, it was already dead.  

Halvdan and Vali emerged from the trees and began to pick their way across the shale, slowly coming to join him, and Stormbreaker returned to his side after getting away from him in the bear’s first charge.  For the best, he thought; the stone may have pricked at his bare back but landing on his axe would have been something else entirely.  

“Guess we know what happened to Rand,” Vali said, investigating what was left of the spear in the bear, a short foot of wood protruding from  its shoulder.  “That’s his spear.”

“We can tell his family, at least,” Halvdan said.  His gaze was fixed on Thor, somehow warier yet more settled after witnessing the display.  “Hang-lip probably got Bain as well.”  He glanced over at the den entrance, but only for a moment, quickly returning to Thor.

There was a flutter of wings, and the eagle that had followed them from the village alighted on the remnants of the spear, wings out for balance, before it tucked them in.  It seemed unbothered by the three of them, and it made no move to peck at the soft flesh of the fresh kill beneath it, its amber eyes fixed on the treeline they had come from.  

“We should at least check the den,” Vali said.  “Might be something o’ Bain’s in there.  Can’t see anything else livin’ in there.” 

Thor turned his gaze away from the eagle.  It would be well to find some token for those the hunters had left behind.  

The entrance to the cave was larger than it appeared from a distance, looming over them as they neared.  The two men were happy to stay at Thor’s back, and the god approached it without fear.  As they reached it, however, his face screwed up in disgust at the rank scent drifting out from it.  

“That is foul,” Thor said, snorting in a vain attempt to clear it from his nostrils.  

“Maybe we should keep an eye on things out here,” Halvdan said.

“Awful dark in there,” Vali added.  “Might trip, get in ya way.”

Thor gave them a look.  If he was to suffer the stench, he would share his misery.  “But how am I to recognise a token of Bain’s?”

“You knew him better than I did,” Halvdan said to his friend.

“Not a fucking hope chief,” Vali said flatly.  

Halvdan grumbled, rubbing at his face.  “Fine.  I’ve got my flint, we’ll-”

“No need,” Thor said, and he conjured a spark in his fist, bright even in the light of day.  The two men stared at it, fixated, and when he turned to proceed into the den they followed almost without thought.

Thor made it three steps into the den before he pinched his nose shut, trying not to breathe too deeply through his mouth.  He could feel the horrid stench on his tongue, it was so heavy in the air.  He raised his hand, letting the light of his power illuminate the cave.  It was a bending passage they followed, marked by old blood and other leavings, but soon it came to a large cave hollow.  The smell only got worse, and the men began to heave and retch.  

“Search swiftly,” Thor said, before spitting to rid his tongue of the taste of the air.  

They did, and Thor helped as best he could.  The remains of various beasts cluttered the cave, more than a few human bones amongst them.  Here and there were items made by mortal hands, dagger handles or carved tokens, but they didn’t get a second glance from the men.  The cave was searched quickly, until only the worst of it was left, the large depression to one side that was the bear’s bedding.  The reek grew worse as they reluctantly neared it, enough to set mortal eyes to watering.  

It seemed Hang-lip had kept the fur of his prey for comfort; what chunks remained after his feeding, at least.  Most of it was black or brown, fine and thick, but what manner of beast it came from Thor did not know or care.  Vali used his spear to dig around in the matted mess, before seizing something and turning immediately for the exit, already scurrying out.

No time was wasted in following him, and they quickly returned to the outside world, taking in heaving breaths untainted by the foul stench of the cave.  

“You’d best have found something,” Thor said to Vali.

Vali held up a leather thong, a small tooth attached to it.  “From Bain’s first hunt,” he said, spitting and coughing.  

“And…for Rand?” Thor asked, reluctantly looking back at the cave.

“His spear will do,” Halvdan said, nodding at the bear.  “I’ll pull it out with my teeth before I go back in there.”  He put this thumb to the side of his nose and snorted mightily, before repeating it with the other nostril.

“Good,” Thor said, with feeling.  He approached the bear, cautious of the eagle still perched atop it.  The bird watched him with wary eyes, but made no move to strike at him.  It was a handsome thing, plumage full and beak wickedly sharp.  

As he neared and set a hand on what remained of the spear in the bear’s shoulder, however, its face screwed up in almost human disgust.  It shrieked, wings flapping as if to ward off the lingering smell.

“Yes, I know, I know,” Thor said.  The spear came out, and so did a flow of bile and sickness.  He stepped away quickly to avoid it, but there was no avoiding a new flavour to the horrid stench.  

The eagle screeched at him, scornful, taking to the air with a hurried flapping of wings, hovering before him.

“I couldn’t have known that would happen,” Thor argued.  “You cannot blame me for that.”

The eagle shrieked, swiping him across the face with one wing.  Apparently it could. 

“Would a fine fish, caught with mine own hands, serve as sufficient apology?” Thor asked.  

Landing on the ground away from the slowly spreading pus and filth, the eagle surveyed him imperiously, judging him.  Even standing awkwardly, it was quite a size, its head almost of a level with his waist.  Inspection completed, it gave a dubious crawk.  

“You doubt my ability to catch a suitable fish?” Thor asked, affronted.  

The eagle gave an insouciant shrug.

Thor found his eyes narrowing.  “Challenge accepted, my feathered friend.”

There was a cough, breaking the developing staredown between god and bird.  

“Is…what is she?” Halvdan asked, gesturing at the eagle like it might take offence if he pointed.

Thor looked between them.  “She is an eagle,” he said. 

“You’re talkin’ to her,” Vali said, as if that might clear things up.

“I speak with Trumpetter, my mammoth friend, all the time,” Thor said, dismissive.  “Rare is the being that I cannot share words with.”

The two men shared a glance.  “Right,” Halvdan said.  He swallowed, eyes flitting to the bear and the fist that had clenched lightning.  “Godly one.”

“Lord Thor is fine,” Thor said.  He glanced up at the sky; it was still fair despite the odd grey cloud.  “Do you require an escort back to your village?”

“Go- Lord Thor?” Halvdan asked.  He stood as if expecting the shale beneath him to give way at any moment.

“I understand this venture was your way to determine my intentions,” Thor said, patient, “but if you were confident enough to leave your people, then you must be faring well enough.  Am I wrong?”

“No, Lord Thor,” Halvdan said with a swallow.  Vali seemed more than happy to let his chief do the talking.  

“Then I will not presume to burden you with my presence,” Thor said.  “If you find yourselves in need, reach out to Vinteerholm.  I am minding the town while its chief is away.”

“Bad history with the chief,” Halvdan said, lip curling.

“Not this one,” Thor said, shrugging.  “It is Tyra of the red hair and two axes who reigns now.”

Vali grew interested, feeling safer now that topics of godhood had been put aside.  “Fierce fighter.  Wouldna picked her as a chief.”

“She promised to pursue those taken,” Thor said, “and she did so.”  The eagle gave an impatient flap of her wings.  “Now if you will excuse me, I have a fish to catch.”

Axe flew to hand, and he took to the sky, the eagle following in his wake with several mighty wingbeats.  Before long, both were small dots in the sky, heading south.

Back on the ground, Halvdan and Vali shared a long look.  There were some things that a man couldn’t be expected to deal with absent a strong drink, and neighbours claiming godhood dropping in to check on them were one of them.  They turned for home, and the spirits waiting for them there.  An empty hillside was left in their wake, only the rustle of trees in the wind and the squeak of a rat as it fled the bear den to break the quietness.  

X

Thor was not a renowned fisherman, but he was a god, and there was little the river denizens could do in the face of his might.  He stood in the shallows of some swift flowing rapids, form still and intent, waiting for the right moment.  Movement caught his eye, and he struck.  

“Ha!” Thor said as he pulled a creature the length of his arm from the white waters, unmindful of the cold or how they left his beard and hair soaked.  “For you, noble eagle.”

Nearby, perched on a low hanging branch of a tree that extended over the rapids, the eagle inspected his catch critically.  The scales glimmered silver, and its jagged teeth tried fruitlessly to chew through the thumb Thor had hooked into its mouth, powerful body flexing about in vain.  A moment later, she turned her nose up and away, as if sniffing.  

“What?” Thor asked in consternation.  “This is a fine catch.”

The eagle turned back to him, yellow eyes judging.  She looked from him to the fish and back deliberately, before turning away again with a disapproving clack of her beak.

Mismatched eyes narrowed in response.  It was clear that there was something more about this eagle, a superior specimen indeed, but that was no excuse for such unreasonably high standards.  “This is as large a catch as you might find in this river,” he protested.  

This time a derisive screech was his answer, and the eagle stretched her wings, as if measuring.

“I cannot provide you with a fish larger than the river allows,” Thor said, frowning, free hand going to his hip.

The eagle squawked, taunting, stabbing her beak towards him.

“What, you - you think it my effort that is lacking?” Thor asked.  “This is a fair bounty when you were not so much as splashed by the bile!”

An offended screech answered him, and the eagle flapped her wings, taking to the air and leaving the river behind.  

“Fine,” Thor said, grumbling to himself.  “But this challenge is not yet over!” he shouted up at the bird.  He would just have to find a larger fish to uphold his word.  But even so…there was something queer about that eagle.  He would have to keep an eye on any of its like he saw in the future.  There was something about this one, but he knew not if it was to be expected of their kind.  She had not come to him in a dream and purged filth from his domain, at least.  

Glancing down at the weakly flopping fish he still held, he considered it.  Perhaps Kirsa would appreciate the catch, even if an overly picky eagle hadn’t.  

X x X

A routine fell upon Vinteerholm, a mundane backdrop to the business of recovery for those wronged by the Aesling raiders.  Wounds physical and not were adjusted to; sometimes they healed, others they lingered.  The work upon the town was a welcome distraction either way, both for the knowledge that they were making their home safer, and for the spectacle that was watching the local god doing squats and lunges with the massive tree trunks he brought to the town to be worked at.  

The trunks themselves were impressive things, even if they were beginning to become accustomed to seeing them approach from the forests to the north.  Trimmed, hacked, and sawed into useful forms, they would serve as formidable new walls for the town, slowly beginning to stretch around the old walls and gates that had been blitzed during the raid.  Half again as tall as the old walls and five times the thickness, even the gates were an upgrade, less gateways than passages cut through the new walls.  From the river they began to stretch north and around, and with each furrow dug and trunk placed, the people felt a little safer.  

Though of course, that could have been the result of watching their protector set the walls in place with his bare hands, nudging and pushing the multi-ton sections to his satisfaction.  

The spectacle lasted most of the day, long enough that the hunters and fishers would return in time to catch a glimpse of it themselves as they bore their takings away to be smoked or dried.  Come the evenings, many found themselves gathering in the young grove after mealtime, or even just passing by, seeking just a glimpse of the golden light that sprang from it.  

Routine came, and with it came recovery.  Two weeks passed, the wall growing.  Thor spoke with all who would gather the courage to approach, though he found that those tended to be the ones who had fought at his side.  He would speak with Wolfric at work of a day, and with Kirsa in the grove come dusk, the Kislevite Grigori watching much but saying little.  Distance and deeds had a way of intimidating the rest.  

Then, one grey morning, he returned with his harvest to find Wolfric absent, and worried murmurs in his place.  

X

The medicine woman of Vinteerholm had been strung up and butchered by the Aeslings, but the town still needed someone to see to its ails, and so Helka had been moved into her old home and workplace with little fuss.  The frail woman and her two apprentices lived and worked in the tall and narrow house, pressed tightly to its neighbours, and it was that house that Thor found Wolfric pacing before in the late morning, hand clenched tight around the hilt of the blessed sword on his hip.

“Wolfric,” Thor said, coming to a stop in the slush of the street.  He wore a threadbare shirt and ragged trousers, both stained by sweat, but the concern in his visage lent him a regal bearing that no peasant garb could mar.  “I have heard ill whispers.”

“They’re sick,” Wolfric said, his worried steps unceasing.  He still wore the armour he had donned in readiness to defend the lumber yard if needed, but now it was almost mocking, useless for the trouble he found himself set against.

There was only one ‘they’ that could set him to worry so, and Thor nodded, grave.  “What has Helka told you?”

“Nothing,” Wolfric snapped, their roles as god and faithful worth little in the face of sick sisters.  “They were shivering last night, so I put them to bed and stoked the fire because they had snuck off to play with Trumpetter all day after their chores with Helka, but then this morning I could hardly wake Elsa and Astrid didn’t stir and-”

“Wolfric,” Thor barked, “cease.  Breathe.”

Wolfric stopped, back to Thor and his knuckles white around his sword.  He let out a slow, ragged breath, and turned.  His eye bore into his god.  “I’ve seen fevers like this before.  Will- can you help them?”

He had no skill in the healing arts, and gone were the days where he could seek his mother’s aid.  His were hands to kill and defend, not to mend.  “They will be healed,” he said simply.  He was no healer - but he was Thor, and he would see it done.

Something eased in the worried young man, and he nodded.  “I can’t lose them,” he said, quieter now.  “They’re all I have left.  My uncle - it’s not the same.”

“I know,” Thor said.  He remembered all too well, the feeling of loved ones cut and carved away, each loss worse than the one before like a dagger to the ribs twisted around cruelly.  

The creak of a door interrupted any response Wolfric might have made, his head snapping towards it.  A comely young woman, one of Helka’s apprentices, peered out, stuttering when she found herself the subject of their attention.  “Helka is ready for you,” she said, voice soft and scratchy, like it was seldom used.

Wolfric wasted no time in entering, and Thor followed.  They stuck close to the young woman’s heels as she led them inside, down a dark and narrow hall lit by a single candle.  There were two doors on either side, and they made for the door at the rear of the house on the left, just before a rickety staircase that led up and down.  She opened the door, but did not enter, stepping out of the way.

The room they entered was better lit than the hall, though not by much.  Tallow candles burned in the corners of the room, casting a flickering light, and a row of wooden shutters were half open at the top of the back wall, letting in some small measure of fresh air.  Shelves around the edges bore reagents of all kinds, plant and animal, living and not, and the wise woman herself was bent over a mortar and pestle as she sat at her worktable, thin grey hair bound up out of the way.  

“What word?” Wolfric demanded the moment he saw her.  “Where are they?”

“You were right to bring them,” Helka said, clearing her throat with a wet rasp as she ground away at some powder.  “Another day without aid, and they would have been beyond my help.”

“Then you can heal them?” Wolfric asked.  He stopped beside her, just short of looming, while Thor took up a spot against the door frame, leaning.  

“I know how,” Helka said.  The croak of her voice seemed to have gotten worse since the last Thor had spoken with her, but she still handled the pestle with a wiry strength.  “I could heal them this day…if I had the ingredient I needed.”

Wolfric had straightened as she spoke, hope starting to fill his frame, only to still at the end.  “What do you need?”

Helka looked up from her work, rheumy gaze flicking over to Thor as she noticed his presence.  “Godly one,” she said, dipping her head, before looking back to Wolfric.  “I need the heartblood of a dragon.”

The young warrior sagged, hope seemingly torn from his grasp.  “None have slain a dragon for generations.”

“That seems a mighty ingredient,” Thor said, mind turning. 

“It is a mighty sickness,” Helka said.  “The girls will have to stay with me to prevent its spread.”

“You would endanger yourself?” Thor asked.  

“I have the knowledge and remedies to keep a person hale,” Helka said, “though it not be cheap.  Not a solution for the town entire.”

“Generous,” Thor said.

“The twins have been good helpers, taking over the smaller chores for my girls so I can teach them more,” Helka said, waving a bony arm.  “I like them.”

“So I just have to slay a dragon, and bring you its heart,” Wolfric said.  He already seemed to be rallying, tapping his thumb on the emerald in the hilt of his sword.  The danger of dragonslaying seemed to come up short when measured against the lives of his sisters.  

“We,” Thor corrected him.  “I’ve no doubt the beast would fall before you, but I’ll not invite the wrath of the twins for your injuries.”

“You would do this?” Wolfric asked, turning to him.  “I thought- a test of faith, or a quest-”

Thor snorted.  “I know well the quality of your faith, Wolfric,” he said.  “I can feel it with every beat of your heart if I but look to see.”

“Then we just have to find a dragon,” Wolfric said, the beginning of a smile casting aside his worry, even if it was a cautious, wary thing.  

“Just a dragon,” Thor said, and if a younger version of himself wasn’t perking up with glee at the thought, he kept that to himself.  A thought occurred to him.  “Heartblood of a dragon cannot be a common ingredient.”

Helka laughed, a short, mirthless thing.  “It is not.  I have the recipe from my great grandmother, who used it to end a plague that near ended Vinteerholm in her time.”

Wolfric’s brow furrowed as he thought.  “But that was when-”

“Aye,” Helka said.  “When the wings of The Crow swept over us.”

A sickly sweet odour drifted by Thor’s nose, and he snorted, trying to clear it. He recognised that taint.  He had also seen it cleansed once before, and his mind went to Dove’s feather.  “There may be a swifter option,” he said.  He did not always carry it on his person, but it was always with him, and he drew it forth now, cradling it like it was something precious - and it was.  It almost seemed to glow in the darkness of the room, bright without casting light.  

“That, that would do it,” Helka rasped, swallowing.  “For one of them.”  She shaded her eyes against its gleam, but could not seem to look away.

Wolfric was shaking his head, horror writ clear across his face, eye wide.  “I can’t make that choice.”

“You will not have to,” Thor said.  “One will receive the feather, and the other I will hallow as I hallowed Gunnhilde’s spear.”

But Helka was shaking her head, finally looking away from the feather.  “I fear for the twin chosen if you do so,” Helka said.  “The sickness has burrowed itself deeply, as much part of them as it is harming them.  To burn it out is to burn them.”

“Then how will your potion work when Thor’s might will not?” Wolfric demanded.

“That is what the heartblood is for,” Helka said, unbothered, “to strengthen them for the fight.”  She seemed to take pity on Wolfric.  “You might leave the feather with me while you seek the dragon.  I will make the choice for you, and when you return, I will brew the cure for the other.”

The young warrior opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out, and he closed it, staring off at the wall.

Helka pushed herself up with a groan, bony hands patting at Wolfric’s shoulder as she stepped by.  “Think on it.  I’ll check on little Astrid and Elsa while you do.”  She left, leaning heavily into the door to see it closed properly in its uneven frame.  A scroll fell from a shelf, its wooden roller tumbling to the ground with a clinkclinkclink, clinkclinkclink, clinkclinkclink, enormously loud in the quiet of the workroom, and then they were alone.

Thor stared at the scroll,  expression neutral but mind awhirl.  An old scar, one given to him by Loki with a taunt and a grin, was itching.  Something was not right, but he knew not what.  He pushed off the wall and approached it, feet thudding heavily on the wooden floor with each step.  Wolfric sank into the chair that Helka had vacated as Thor took up the parchment; it was a simple thing, rolled around a wooden scroll.  He unfurled it, and began to read.

“Even if we use the feather, I’m still making a choice,” Wolfric said, head in his hands.  “Astrid would make a wildcat look tame if she wakes to see her sister ill, and Elsa wouldn’t speak to me for a year if she is chosen.”  His hands tightened in his hair, and if it was any longer he would be tearing at it.

“Important decisions are rarely easy,” Thor said, tone absent as he continued to read.  It was a list of ingredients and their properties, written over time and by different hands.  He stopped when he came to a particular entry.

Blood of Beast ~ From common rat to mighty dragon, blood has value.  Blood to suit the drinker, blood to bolster purpose, blood to grant power.  Should blood you need, do not cry poor.  Better to drink of a bear than a sheep when a wolf would do.

He read through the rest swiftly, but nothing caught his eye as the entry on blood.  Everything about it seemed to support that which Helka had told them…and yet he was wary.  

“Thor?”

“Hmm?” Thor asked, tearing his eyes away from the scroll.  Wolfric was staring at him like he had answers.  

“If it was your sisters, what would you do?”

Thor pictured a pair of small Helas, young and smiling and wearing the same horns that his sister had.  He shivered.  Put the boot to them while he had the chance - but no, even if he were faced with Hela herself as a child, he knew he could not.  “If it were my sisters,” he said slowly, “I would - what would hurt them more?  To languish under the touch of Decay, or to wake and watch as their sister did?”

“To watch,” Wolfric said, a grim weight falling upon him.  “They slumber now, but that is all.  It could worsen, but-” he cut himself off.  

It seemed that Wolfric had made his decision even if he still wrestled with it, and he began to reroll the scroll, placing it back from where it came.  “How long has Helka served as a wise woman?”

“Longer than I have lived.  She delivered me as a babe, the twins too,” Wolfric said.  His elbows rested on his knees now.  “They were lucky to have her go with them, uncle said, when they left Vinteerholm.”

“She is skilled, then,” Thor said.

“Aye.  I do not know if another town would have the knowledge to brew a cure like the one she speaks of.”  Speaking the words seemed to lighten him, affirming the knowledge that there was a solution.

Still he was suspicious.  He had little cause, and much proof otherwise, but he could not help but be wary.  The thought of letting the feather leave his possession sat ill with him, but did his neck prick only at that, or at something else?  He thought back to the few times their paths had crossed for more than a moment.  Helka had nursed Tyra back to health after her captivity, had seen to the wounded after retaking Vinteerholm, had aided with all manner of small hurts and ailments since then.  And yet he was suspicious. 

“If there is a dragon to be found,” Thor said at last, “then we will find it.”

“Thank you,” Wolfric said with feeling.  For the promise, for the deed, for not leaving him behind.  

He would not leave blithely, however.  Kirsa had grown fond of the twins, and he was sure she would volunteer to help watch over them if asked.  They would gain the heartblood of the dragon, and he would deal with what came after, after.  Whatever the truth proved to be.

When Helka returned, she did so with a damp rag clutched in her bony hand and expectant eyes, shifting between Thor and Wolfric as they stood in the middle of the room.  “Made a decision, have you?”

“I have,” Wolfric said, mouth set in a thin line.  “We will find a dragon, and take its heart.”

“Don’t want to use the feather, then?” Helka asked.  She stepped past them, falling back into the chair at her workbench.  A wooden bowl was pulled over, and she began to wring the rag into it.

“Neither would accept it if it meant the other still suffered,” Wolfric said.  

“They’ll suffer either way,” Helka said, resigned to it.  “I have them across the hall, if you want to see them before you leave.”

Her words did not sit well with him, and he gave an abortive nod, leaving the room without a word.  Out in the hall, another door creaked open slowly, Wolfric’s steps quiet by habit as he entered the room that held his sisters.  

Thor glanced at the medicine woman, but she seemed content to ignore him as she focused on wringing every last drop of liquid from the cloth.  She looked as she always had since he had first saved her amongst those that fled from Wolfric’s village, fleeing mindlessly into the wilds.  The same worn lines and thin grey hair and ragged stamina - but that meant little, and he turned for the door.  He wished Loki were here.  

“I can only keep the sickness at bay for so long,” Helka said, stopping him in place without so much as looking up from her task.  “You have weeks, godly one, not months.  If you return too late…”

“I will not,” Thor said.  The echoes of his voice seemed to linger in the room like fading thunder, and he left the woman to her work.  

Out in the hall, the door to the room across from the workshop was still open, and Thor saw Wolfric sitting at the edge of a bed, both his sisters within it.  They could have been sleeping normally, if not for the fitful expressions they wore and the shortness of their breaths.  Wolfric held a damp cloth, dabbing at the forehead of first one, then the other, his back to the door.  He was not alone, having taken over the task from the second of Helka’s apprentices.  The young woman looked up from the scene, meeting Thor’s eyes, and he inclined his head in silent thanks.  She near flinched, swiftly looking down and hiding behind a curtain of dark hair.  There was a likeness between the two apprentices, both dark haired and thin of limb, and he had never seen them out in the village unless it was on the business of their teacher.  Shy or run ragged he did not know, and now was not the time to ask.  He moved on.  

His departure was waylaid, however, by the opening of the door on his left and the appearance of the apprentice who had first greeted them.  She looked up and hesitated at the sight of him, and he stepped to the side of the hall, sucking in his stomach to let her pass, but to his surprise she did not, approaching him hesitantly.  

“Lord Thor,” she said, hands worrying before her.

“Young apprentice,” Thor said, trying to remember if he had ever been introduced to her.  “How may I aid you?”

“If your business with my master is done, our other patient has asked to speak with you,” the young woman said.  Unlike her probable relative, she wore her hair in a loose braid.  At Thor’s curious look, she expanded.  “The Aesling, Bjorn.”

Thor brightened.  He had heard that the man had survived the wounds he had taken in Skraevold, finally waking, but between settling in the newcomers and seeing to his own tasks, he had not the time to meet with the warrior.  “I should like that,” he said.  “Is he…?” he pointed to the open door.

“He is,” she said.  It seemed she was about to ask something, but she only nodded, swallowing.  “Lord Thor.”  She squeezed past him, making for the basement stairs.

Perhaps there would always be some made uneasy by his power.  He did not like it, but now was not the time to address it, and so he stepped up to peer around the doorframe.  Inside was a large man on a small bed, looking out the shutters as he lay atop the covers.  A recently snuffed candle still smoked on a small table beside the bed.  

“Lord Thor,” Bjorn said, looking away from the small glimpse of the sky he had.  “It is well to see you.”

Thor inclined his head.  There was no place to sit, not with the big blond man almost overflowing from the bed, so he leaned against the wall across from him, looking towards the shutters.  Even so, he could have stuck his leg out to rest it against the bed, so small was the room.  “I was pleased to hear of your recovery.”

“It goes,” Bjorn said, looking down to his chest.  The savage gouges given to him by the Chaos touched hounds were near swaddled in bandages, and the thick scent of some poultice filled the room.  He would forever bear the scars, writing over the records of battle he had already borne from more human weapons, but he was breathing easily enough, and spoke without pain.  “It will go for a time yet.”

“I wager you would make the same choice again,” Thor said.  For all that he and Eseld seemed to have been new acquaintances, the man had been protective of the diminutive woman.  

“I would,” Bjorn said.  He reached up carefully to stroke his moustache, unbraided and hanging free, near to his collarbones.  His beard had grown out as well, no longer trimmed short.  “Some think it strange, to protect one such as her.”

“Some might,” Thor said, shrugging.  “But her strength and the youth of your friendship is no good reason to do so.”

Bjorn hesitated a moment, but nodded.  “Aye,” he said.  “She reminds me of my daughter.”  His tone was closed off, gaze unfocused as he stared at his feet.

Thor was quiet, watching him.  The seconds ticked on.

“I wanted to give you my thanks,” Bjorn said, coming back to himself.  “For all that you have given us.  There are no others who would do what you have done.”

A raised brow answered him.  “They were worthy deeds, but I am not the only one who would have done so.”

“You are the only god,” Bjorn said, deep voice low and even.  “No other god would walk beside us as you do, and for that you have my worship.”

Thor looked, but not with his eyes, and he could feel the connection between them now that he cared to see.  It was a steady thing, settled and sure.  He nodded slowly.  “And I am pleased to have it, knowing your quality.”

Bjorn bowed his head, contentment worn plainly.  “Lord Thor.”  He looked back up.  “How would you have your worship?  I have asked, but Sunniva nor Selinda can answer.”

“Kirsa has the answers you seek, and the growing wisdom to share it,” Thor said.

“Kirsa,” Bjorn said, frowning as he thought.  “I have heard her name.  She is your priestess?”

“No,” Thor said, holding back a smile.  “That is not a title she desires.”

“I understand,” Bjorn said.  “I will ask her when I am free of this…place.”

“You don’t enjoy being confined to a small bed in a small room, too injured to rise?” Thor asked.  

Bjorn gave a displeased rumble, deep in his chest.  “I do not.”

“I will have some mead brought to you,” Thor said, shifting his weight on his legs.  “Your deeds in Skraevold surely earned you that.”

“Sunniva asked me to abstain,” Bjorn said, gloomy now, “and Selinda threatened me.”

“I will not be a hypocrite and tell you to obey the words of the healers, but perhaps you should consider the words of the healers,” Thor said.  

A small laugh came in response, though Bjorn winced afterwards.  “At least there is little but lumberwork to be done.  I would not fare well were my strength needed.”

Thor coughed.  

Bjorn perked up, for all he tried to hide it.  “There is a fight to be had?”

“There may be…a quest,” Thor said.  

“What manner?” Bjorn asked.  

“It may involve a dragon.”

A curious look of excitement and dismay crossed Bjorn’s face.  “I could - I could keep a watch on the skies, to give warning should it come.”

“It does not come for the village, unfortunately,” Thor said.  “We must find it instead, and take its heart.”

“Ah,” Bjorn said, sagging back into his too small bed.  “Perhaps that is for the best.  I should not be so eager for the fight.”

For a moment, Thor eyed the man.  He had heard tell of his actions during the raid on Skraevold, and of the affliction he bore - baresark - but he was no young warrior to be counselled.  He was not that much younger than Harad.

“Do you mean to hunt the beast in its lair?” Bjorn asked, cutting through Thor’s thoughts.

“If we find it, we shall,” Thor said.  “The lives of Wolfric’s sisters depend on it.”

“And so the heart,” Bjorn said.  “A powerful ingredient for a powerful elixir,” he said.  Then he frowned.  “How do you mean to track it?”  

“There is a village nearby, led by an old warrior,” Thor said.  “Well, old as humans go.  If any close to hand know of a dragon, it will be Harad.”

“Harad?  Of the Axe?” Bjorn asked.  

“He is called so, yes,” Thor said, not quite cautiously.  He hoped that Harad had not also killed Bjorn’s father.

“I fought him once,” Bjorn said.  “I was young.  He nearly took my head.”

“I won’t demand you work with him,” Thor said, “though he does live nearby.”

“No, there is no ill feeling,” Bjorn said.  “I was about to kill his skald brother.  The man had near put a dagger in my spine.”

“A spirited meeting,” Thor said, thinking of the night he had first met Steve and Tony.  How close they had come to killing each other!  

“It was,” Bjorn said.  “There is no way to join you in your quest?  I cannot run, but a brisk walk I feel I can manage.”  Despite his words, his tone said he had little hope of joining.  “I would surely heal as we travelled.”

“Next time I venture out to slay a great beast, I will bring you with me,” Thor promised him.  “I would do you no favours to bring you now.”

Bjorn sighed.  “You are right, Lord Thor.  If there is any way I can serve from this bed, I pray that you tell me.”  

There was a pause as the expected platitude failed to eventuate, and Bjorn looked up, gaze sharpening.

“There is something you might do for me,” Thor said slowly.  He glanced to the open door, but there was no activity in the hall.  He could hear Wolfric murmuring to his sisters, and Helka puttering around in her workroom.  “While we are gone, I would have you watch over the twins.  I have…concerns.”

“Your concern is not the sickness,” Bjorn said.  For all that he was large and slow to speak, he was no more slow of thought than Thor himself was.

“No,” Thor said.  He spoke lowly, deep voice hardly more than a whisper.  “My concern is the healer.”

Bjorn was silent, thinking deeply.  “I will watch her,” he said at length.  “What do you suspect?”

“Nothing definite, nothing sure, or this would not be needed,” Thor said, crossing his arms over his belly.  “I only know that her words prick at my mind.”  Her interest in Dove’s feather was no condemnation; he suspected that it was one many healers would share.  “It is enough that I mislike trusting Astrid and Elsa to her without caution.”

“I understand, Lord Thor,” Bjorn said.  He began to shift, grimacing, pushing himself to sit upright against the wall.  “The apprentices I will watch also, for all they have been kind.”

“Give them no reason to suspect you,” Thor told him.  “All medicines are poison, given poorly.”  His mother had told him that.

Bjorn nodded, and the sounds from the next room fell quiet.  Footsteps on creaking floorboards announced movement.  

“It is good to see you recovering,” Thor said, louder now.  He pushed off the wall, offering his arm.

“By your will, Lord Thor,” Bjorn said, raising his arm to accept it, mouth tightening at the effort.  His arm trembled finely but he clasped Thor’s arm tight all the same before releasing it.

Wolfric came to a stop at the door, looking in and offering Bjorn a nod before turning to Thor.  His eye had a fire to it, and his dark eyepatch glinted with the light from the shutters.  “I am ready,” he said.

Thor gave a final nod to Bjorn, and they left the healing house behind, stepping back out to the brisk outdoors.  It was a relief after the stillness of the house.

“We go to speak with Harad,” Thor told his first follower in this world.  “If any close to hand know of a dragon, it will be him.”

“It will be a short flight,” Wolfric said, his fear of the skies not even a blip in the face of swifter aid for his sisters, nor did he blink at the news they went to the one to kill their father for aid.  

“We will leave soon,” Thor said.  “I will meet you by the longhall, once we have spread the word and readied what we need.”

Wolfric’s hand went to the sword at his hip.  “I have all I need,” he said, but still he bowed his head.  “I will see Knut for supplies.”  He was on his way without a reply, purpose in his step.  If a dragon were to fall suddenly from the sky, he would not hesitate a moment.  

With one last look at the house of healing, Thor left it behind, his suspicions and worries a dark weight at the back of his mind.  This was not a problem he was made to deal with, but deal with it he would, in the only way he knew how.  He missed Natasha’s skill for such things.  He missed Clint’s wary cunning.

He missed Loki.

X x X

Harad’s village was much as he remembered it, a small settlement by a river, protected by a ringed palisade wall.  His arrival, descending from the sky carrying a tree trunk on his back, did not go unnoticed, but by the flying of his blond hair and the axe he bore, he was known, and heralded with joy.  

The trunk was set down carefully, and Wolfric stepped stiffly from a small section that had been hewed into its side, large enough for a man to sit and be shielded from the wind.  He swayed as he walked towards the opening village gates, but found his feet quickly.

The second man to stumble from the tree did so with a laugh, eyes alight with near childish glee.  “That was – !  Mighty Thor!  To see it all!” Grigori said, the Kislevite unable to contain his joy.  “The flight to Skraevold was one thing, in the dark as it was, but to witness the world from the sky above!”  He laughed, a ringing thing from such a bearlike man.  “I cannot believe it!”

“I am well pleased to hear it,” Thor said, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed.

“I thank you,” Grigori said, quick to follow after him.  “You have blessed me this day.”

“It is a small thing in the face of your presence with us, on this quest,” Thor said.

A scoff was his answer, though the man quickly coughed after, as if to hide it.  “Had you made the offer in Kislev, blood would be shed to win the honour.”

“Dragonslaying is popular in your lands?” Thor asked, as they neared the gates.  

“Not quite,” Grigori said, frowning now, the excitement of flight starting to fade.  “Tor - you - there are many devotees of the Thunder God in Kislev.”

“I see,” Thor said.  “It is good that you have joined us.  You will have the chance to question me and set your mind at ease.”

Grigori made a noise of agreement, already falling back into the taciturn manner he commonly wore around Thor, brow furrowed in thought.  

Thor left him to it, and they caught up to Wolfric, the man falling in behind as they stopped at the gates.  A woman with a bow greeted them, one he remembered from the defence of the village and the liberation of Vinteerholm.  She had been stabbed in the stomach, and he was pleased to see she had survived.  There was the faintest stirring of worship from her, nothing solid or real, unlike the awe in her eyes as she took in his plain clothing and magnificent axe.  A few words were exchanged, their purpose for coming revealed, and she was quick to answer.  

They were not directed to the longhall, but to the far side of the village, where a smaller gate was propped open.  The sound of an axe at work carried in the air, and children passed them in dribs and drabs, carrying split chunks of wood.  Through the gate was the man they sought, using a simple iron headed axe to split large logs with little effort.  Despite the coolness of the air his heavily muscled arms were bare, a simple jerkin apparently enough to ward off the weather.  He worked by a large pile of logs, felled and trimmed, steadily reducing the stack.  

“Thor,” Harad said, setting another log in place on a cutting stump.  It was the length of a man’s arm, and near as thick as his thighs.  He cleaved it in two with a single blow.  “You are well.”  His voice was as deep and low as ever.

“Harad,” Thor said, coming to a stop just out of splinter distance.  “The same to you.”  Both of the men at his back had shifted at the simple address, but at Thor’s response they settled.

One of the two halves of split wood was placed back on the stump and split again, one handed this time.  “We saw your show in the skies,” the greybeard said.  He placed the other half and repeated the act.  “Skraevold fell, then.”

Three children hurried from the gate, pushing and playing, and took up the split logs.  One boy, not quite a teenager, took up two, the others one apiece, on their shoulders like it was a great trunk.  All couldn’t help but stare at Thor as they did, nothing subtle about their awed gawking.

“It did,” Thor said, grinning at the children at work as they scampered off.  “We rescued many who were taken, and then some besides.”

“They hit Vinnskor too then, did they?” Harad asked, taking up another log.  

“I do not believe so,” Thor said.  “We freed those of Sarl and Nordland and Kislev, even a few Aeslings.”

Harad snorted, giving him a look.  “I suppose I am not surprised,” he said.  “Many?”

“Nine hundred,” Thor said.

The next strike was less than perfect, though the strength behind it still saw it split the log in twain, if unevenly.  “Many mouths,” he said.  “You come for aid in feeding them?”

“No, Tyra has led a group south.  They mean to trade with Kislev,” Thor said.  

“That is good,” Harad said.  “Our stores are not what they were.”

“The celebration did not drain your reserves so much, I thought,” Thor said, frowning.  

“It did not.  Rats in the food stores,” Harad said, splitting the last of the log, “but we know how to sort them.”  He stepped back to let another group of children take it away.

Grigori and Wolfric both spat to the sides, and Harad nodded, as if agreeing.  

“If not for food then, what brings you back to my home?” the axeman asked.  

“Dragonblood,” Thor said.

Harad frowned now.  “Food we could have managed, but what dragonblood I had is long used.”

“No, we-” Thor found his train of thought diverted.  “You had dragonblood laying about?”

“It is a powerful ingredient, useful to bolster the strength of many brews and potions,” Harad said.  “Even to break curses, though some are too terrible for even the heartblood of a dragon.”

“I see,” Thor said.  At least it seemed that they had not been sent on a wild dragon chase.  “Then perhaps you might know where we can find a dragon.”

Harad stopped cutting, setting the head of his axe into the dirt and resting his weight on it.  “And for what do you need such a thing?”

Thor glanced back at Wolfric, unwilling to speak of his troubles without his word.

“The touch of the Crow lingers on my sisters,” Wolfric said, blunt and terse.  “I mean to purge it.”

Rather than answer, Harad’s gaze lingered on Wolfric, narrowing as it flicked to the eye patch and away.  “Have we met, boy?  Before Vinteerholm.”

Wolfric didn’t blink, cool grey eye fixed on the greybeard.  “You knew my uncle, and my father.”

Harad looked away, sighing, and for a moment it seemed a great weight pressed down on him.  He straightened and set the tip of its head into his cutting stump, where it stood once he took his hand away.  “Come inside,” he said.  “We will speak by the hearth.”

The old warrior stepped past them, heading back into the village.  Thor and Wolfric shared a look, and then they followed, Grigori a beat behind.  

X

The longhouse was as Thor remembered it, a long stone fire pit running its length and tables on either side of it.  Harad led them not to the chieftain’s table, but to the end of one of the long tables.  A nearby section of the pit was active, embers and coals smouldering without smoke and casting warmth.  

“Bide here a moment,” Harad told them, “I must speak with my Helena.”  He turned and departed the longhouse as quickly as he had arrived, leaving them to sit and wait.

They were not alone, a pair of young women - girls, really - sitting further down the hall as they whittled away at thin blocks of wood with a strange flexible material, making arrow shafts.  They were not as subtle in their interest as they might have thought, and Thor found himself sharing an amused look with Wolfric as the mood was lightened when one dared the other to approach them.

“Your ear,” Grigori said, speaking suddenly, “it is the same as your speech?”

“My ear?” Thor asked, nonplussed.  

“At first I thought it knowledge,” Grigori said, “but when you speak, all hear, no matter their mother tongue.  Is your ear the same?”

“It is,” Thor said, with him now.  “We call it All Speak, and it allows us to understand and be understood wherever our paths may lead us.”

“And all gods have this ability?” Grigori asked.  

“I cannot speak for all gods,” Thor said, shrugging, “but for me and mine, yes.”

Grigori fell silent again, pondering what he had learned.  No other conversation was forthcoming, and the two girls did not quite manage to gather the courage to approach before Harad returned.  

He was not alone.  The axeman and his silver haired wife joined them, bringing chairs from a smaller table to sit at the end of their own.  

“You are sure it is the Crow?” Helena asked, wasting no time.  Her eyes were intent, laugh lines by her eyes narrowed and intent.

“Our wise woman says it is so, and Helka is rarely wrong,” Wolfric said.  “My sisters sleep and cannot be woken, and if we do not return swiftly with the heartblood of a dragon they never will.”  Under the table, his hands clenched helplessly.

“I remember Helka,” Helena said, tapping a finger against her lips as she thought.  “We were young girls together.”  

“Do you know of any dragon nearby?” Wolfric asked, impatient.  “I do not care for childhood friendships.”

“Patience,” Helena said, laying a hand on her husband’s knee as if to settle him, though he had done little more than blink at Wolfric’s words.  “If she is brewing the elixir she ought to, it will be the work of a week, and the dragonblood is not added until the last.”

Wolfric mastered himself, but it was not without effort.  

“You say you once had dragonblood, Harad,” Thor said.  “How did that come to be so?  Did you slay one?”

“No,” Harad said, shaking his head once.  “I slew a man who claimed to have done so, with the blood to prove it, but I suspect he came across the scene of a contest, and merely gathered what was shed.”

“Then it may yet live,” Wolfric said as he leaned forward, hopes rising.  “Where was this?  How far north?”

“It was not north,” Harad said.  “It was in these very mountains, three decades ago.”

Rising hopes were dashed, and Wolfric sat back in his seat, sagging.  “There has not been a dragon seen here in my lifetime.”

“There has not,” Harad acknowledged.  “But I recall my grandfather speaking of that same dragon, and it was not seen in my father’s lifetime either.  Like bears, they hibernate.  This one may yet live.”

“Where?” Wolfric demanded.  “What do you ask for in exchange?”

Harad and Helena shared a look, and she gave a slight nod.

“You are strong,” Harad said to Thor, slowly, “but even so, it is a dragon.  Were your need not great, I would refuse.”

Wolfric near strained in his seat, but he held his tongue.

“I will tell you,” the greybeard said to Wolfric now, “and in return, I ask that we have a conversation.”

“A conversation?” Wolfric asked, wary.

“Aye,” Harad said.  “There are things I must tell you.”

“I know you killed my father,” Wolfric said, and Harad nodded, a grim set to his mouth, having expected the answer.  “I do not care.  Tell me where the dragon is, and we can speak all you wish once we have its blood.”

The couple shared another, longer look. 

“East,” Harad said at last, “past the flow of Ursfjord, then a little further.  Then south.  That is the range of the dragon, if it still lives.”

“My thanks,” Wolfric said, already turning to his god.  “Lord Thor?”

“Aye,” he said, rising.  “Much as I would like to stay and share your hearth, this is not a deed to do slowly,” he said to the couple.

“I understand,” Harad said.  His solemn gaze remained on Wolfric for a beat, before he looked fully to Thor.  “In my youth, I wore those same boots, though my foe was not so mighty as the Crow.”

Wolfric was already turning for the door, and Grigori stood, having followed Thor’s cue.  

“A tale to be shared when you arrive at Vinteerholm,” Thor said.  “Should you leave soon, you ought to arrive shortly after we return.”

“We will be there,” Helena said.  She was tugging lightly on the end of her silver braid, thinking.  “To see Helka, if naught else.  It has been…years.”

“Tales for another time,” Harad said, placing his hand on hers, taking it away from the braid.  “Good luck, Thor.”

Thor inclined his head.  Now was not the time for talk, as much as he felt his interest stirring at words left unsaid.  He turned and departed, following after Wolfric, Grigori in his wake.  They had their heading.

Again they took to the skies, the mountains below flitting by swiftly.  They did not look small, such formations never could, but they did serve to make the two mortals feel so as they soared over peaks that would have taken weeks to climb.  The day was fair, with only some few clouds to dodge in avoidance of a wet chill, shadows of the mountains stretching out before them like grasping, languorous fingers.  The trunk soared gracelessly through the sky as the afternoon burned on, and Thor spared a moment to be grateful that none of the others were there to see him.  He really did need to obtain a more dignified method of chauffeuring his followers around.

The shadows grew longer, and they passed over what must be Ursfjord, fading light glittering on its surface.  He could spy some few scattered villages along it, the smoke of bonfires and chimneys rising from them, but he ignored them for the diversion they would surely be.  A shift of his grip on Stormbreaker’s haft and a thought saw them begin to descend, aiming for the edge of a forest just east of the fjord as they began to shed speed.  They set down on a frozen patch of dirt by the treeline, near swallowed by the gloom of its shadow.  

“Why have we stopped?” Wolfric demanded, before he had fully extricated himself from his seat and the rope keeping him secure.  “We are not far enough past the the Ursfjord to have reached the dragon’s territory.”

“We have not,” Thor said, “but if we wish to build a shelter and prepare food, we have little time to spare.”

His face was mulish.  “But we are so close, surely-”

“Do you wish to hunt and fight a dragon in the dark?” Thor asked, giving him a look.  

All at once, Wolfric sagged.  “No, Lord Thor.”

“Remember Helena’s words,” Thor said.  “We have a week until the heartblood is needed.”  He put his hand on his shoulder.  “We will return in time.  You will save your sisters.”

Wolfric swallowed and nodded, placated but not content.  Without another word he turned and made for the forest, walking alone into the embrace of a domain that most would avoid in all but the strongest parties.  Were it not for the troubled set of his shoulders, he might have seemed eager, sword already half drawn.

Grigori had freed himself now, and he made to follow the one eyed man.

“No, Grigori,” Thor said.  “You lack the advantages I have bestowed on Wolfric, and I would have your aid in preparing our camp.”

“Aye, Mighty Thor,” the Kislevite said.  He seemed to have settled on a term of address, for all he seemed unwilling to commit to calling him as his worshippers did. 

They had not left Vinteerholm without supplies, though they had made a point of not taking what they could get for themselves while on their quest.  That meant they had a sack full of skins of water and booze, as well as some roots and vegetables, but no meat.  Wolfric would see to that, and in the meantime, they would see to shelter.  

Grigori began to gather kindling for a fire and Thor ascended, lopping off branches as he went.  The trees were easily twenty men thick, and the branches were themselves near as thick as normal trees.  He let them fall to the ground with a clatter and crash, material to build a small dwelling with.  It would not be pretty, but it would serve them well enough for the night.  He only stopped when he reached the top, easily three hundred feet from the ground.  He looked down at what had fallen, judging.  Then he dropped, taking out the branches on the other side.

By the time Wolfric returned, the creeping cold of night was starting to make its presence known, even if the last rays of a pale sun still fell upon the land.  He brought with him a pair of elk haunches, slung over each shoulder by the leg, and a bloody cut along the back of his arm.

“The elk fight back, did it?” Thor asked, even as he used his axe to trim a branch into a more ideal shape, gouging a channel in it.  He was working along it carefully, the other end propped up by a small pile of branches already done.  

“No,” Wolfric said, “but the ice-tiger that thought to steal our dinner did.”  His time away had settled him some, helpless urgency no longer sitting quite so heavily on his shoulders.  

Thor huffed a laugh, but Grigori looked up from where he was coaxing a fire to greater life.

“Ice-tiger?” he asked, interested.  “They be little, but fierce.  And tasty.  Uh, small angry beast, good taste?” he added, his Norscan stilted and broken.  

“Aye.  Yes,” Wolfric said, almost exhausting what Kislevite he knew.  “But I did not, uh, hmm.  I did not - fuck,” he finished, exhausting the rest.  “I did not slay it.”

“Then how did you get away with the meat?” Thor asked.  He took up another log.  

“I cut it, and took the meat before it could gather its courage again,” Wolfric said, setting the haunches down on a stretch of material they had brought.  “It took the offering rather than hunt me.”  He took up a sharp knife, and sat on a stump to start rendering his prizes.  

“You are sure of that?” Thor asked, nodding to the forest.

Both men looked to the treeline, only a stone’s throw from where they worked, and froze.  From the shadows, a pair of luminous yellow orbs could be seen, almost hidden behind the roots.  Then they blinked.  

“...we make a strong shelter tonight, yes?” Wolfric said.

“Yes,” Grigori said, with feeling.  Some sentiments were beyond mere language.  

Matters were not helped by the glowing eyes blinking closed once more, only to then fail to reappear.  

Both men looked to the pile of logs that Thor was preparing, then to Thor himself, expectant.  The god could not help but chuckle, but he did begin to work faster, manhandling timber that would have taken four strong men to carry.  

By the time the sun had fallen below distant mountains, there was a roaring fire going, throwing back the shadows, and meat sizzling on a metal dish propped up by rocks at its edge.  There was also a triangular cabin, complete with roof and door and mats of pine needles to place their actual bedding on.  It was downright comfortable, and the presence of a solid place to hide in case of prowling ice-tiger had the two mortals at ease as they sat by the fire, chewing at hunks of roasted elk.  Skins of ale and spirits added to the warmth they felt, and by the time they were licking the juices from their fingers, the moon had risen in truth.  

The night was quiet, save the rustling of the wind in the trees, and the three felt themselves growing drowsy.  But then Thor happened to look up.

“What in the Nine Realms is that?!” Thor exclaimed, staring at the heavens.  A sickle of a moon, green and sickly, was perched high in the sky, sitting like an unwanted guest a distance from the more familiar pale moon.

“Lord Thor?” Wolfric asked, puzzlement in his voice.  “That is the Black Moon, the cursed moon.”

“Morrslieb, we call it in the south,” Grigori said.  “It has been shy of late,” he added.

Thor scowled up at the thing, misliking the faint ripples of power that wafted from it, like stink from a carcass.  “What cycle does it follow?  In the months since my arrival, this is the first I have seen it.”

“It goes where it will,” Wolfric said, shrugging and drinking deep of spirit.  “Save two nights.  Ill nights.”

“Twice each year, it shows its full face,” Grigori said.  “Both are nights to seek shelter, and pray.”  He stared into the fire for a long moment, remembering something, and took a slow swig from his skin.  

Wolfric had squinted in concentration as he listened to the other man, trying to discern his meaning, but the purse of his mouth said he was unsuccessful.  “When we took to Skraevold, it showed its face over Vinteerholm, though it fled the night before our - your - return,” he said.  

“I do not like it,” Thor said, still staring up with narrowed eyes.  

“You do not…” Grigori started, swallowing, “you do not know of Morrslieb?”

“I have seen many moons, and other strange things on the branches of Yggdrasil,” Thor said, hand twitching for his axe, “but never one such as that.”

“Should a god not know?” Grigori asked.  He shifted on his stump, like a man standing on the edge of a windy cliff.  

“A god should know many things,” Thor said.  “Not all things.”

Wolfric stirred.  “If anyone claims to know all, they are a fool, or lying.”  Then he tsked, knowing his words were not understood.

“Just so,” Thor said, tearing his gaze away from the sickly moon to give his follower a small smile.  “If one claims to be all seeing or all knowing, they are mad, or lying,” he repeated for Grigori’s benefit.  

“But, Morrslieb?” Grigori said, unable to wrap his head around it.  He made as if to drag his hand through his beard, only to hesitate, fingers still sticky.  “All know it.  Even the smallest child knows its danger.”

“Perhaps you can tell me of it,” Thor said.  “What are the dangers of Morrslieb?”

“Mutants, necromancy, and other evil things,” Grigori said.  The fire crackled and popped, spitting sparks.  “Even a good man caught under its full light might fall to madness.”

“When the grinning face of the Black Moon is close, so is the touch of the gods,” Wolfric added.  “When one sought to dedicate themselves to Chaos, the desperate would walk under its face and become godtouched.”

“Chaos,” Thor said.  Pinpricks of light glimmered in his eyes, and his expression grew wroth.  His gaze returned to the skies.  “Perhaps something should be done about it.”

“To be spared its attention would be a boon,” Wolfric said, nodding.

Thor was touched by his easy faith, but it would not be a simple matter, not if he wanted to spare the planet the likely consequences.  He would have to know more about its celestial course, and what it was that made it come and go, hiding from him.  It was clear there was some intrinsic property of it that made it so inimical to mortal life…his father would have-

“But how do you not know?!” Grigori said, the words almost bursting from him.  “Even if you are not- even if you were a man, you would know.  You claimed fifteen centuries!”

Something about his tone clued Wolfric into his meaning, and his eye began to slant down into an impressive narrowed stare.

“There is no Morrslieb in my own realm,” Thor said, shrugging.  Not the full truth, nor a lie.  “Just as you know nothing of Yggdrasil, the World’s Tree, I knew nothing of Morrslieb.”

“Ygg- it is a tree?” Grigori asked, temporarily distracted.

“Of sorts,” Thor said.  “It has many branches, paths one might follow through the cosmos.”

Grigori shook himself.  “That is not - no.  You are-” he cut himself off, frustrated.

“Speak what you will,” Thor said.  “Take your time, and know that I will not hold your words against you.”

The dark haired man was quiet for a long moment.  “I saw your power over Skraevold,” he said at length, “but I have seen a Beastmen herd frozen by a lone Ice Witch, also.”

“You feel that my might does not prove my claim,” Thor said.

Wolfric glared at the Kislevite now.

“Many have there been that would claim to divinity, to our worship,” Grigori said, grim, shaking his head.  “Never were they pure of heart.”

“Ah, Grigori,” Thor said, laughter in his voice now.  “I do not claim a right to your worship!”

“You claim to be my god,” Grigori said, gaining confidence now that he had not been smote for his words.  “If you are, I owe you my devotion gladly.  If you are not, I must deny you.”

“I disagree,” Thor said.

Grigori near goggled at him.  “What?”

“I am Thor,” the thunder god said simply.  “I do not claim to be your Tor.  I may be.  I may not.  Though I do find it vanishingly unlikely that there is a god so similar to myself in this land if he is not connected to me in some way.”

“But that-”

“If I wished to trick you, I could have,” Thor said, cutting through his frustration.  “There is little I can do to prove myself to you that the cancerous Schemer could not.  I will tell you what I have told those that follow me - if ever I break their trust, I will have proven myself unworthy, and you ought to turn from me or strike me down.”

Silence fell, sudden and gloomy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the sighing of wind through the trees and over the plain.  

“Gods are…gods are not like this,” Grigori said at last.  He sounded lost.

“Other gods, perhaps,” Thor said.  “But they are not Thor.”  He gave the man a crooked smile.  “Watch me.  Judge me.  In time, you will come to know the truth of me, and you can decide if I am deserving of your worship in my own right.”

“Lord Thor,” Wolfric said.  “Tell him - ask him that even if you are not his Tor, what does it matter?”

Thor considered him, and relayed his words.

“What does it matter?” Grigori asked, taken aback, looking between the two of them.  “It matters because - because-”

“Thor stands against Chaos,” Wolfric continued.  “Thor stands for mankind.  What more can we want?  Tell him that.”

Thor could not help but beam at his follower - he had finally dropped the ‘Lord’! - before doing as he asked.  

Grigori was silent in their wake, brow furrowed in deep thought, the firelight dancing across his face.  Again the quietness of the wilderness crept in.

“I cannot answer this,” he said at length.  “This is a question for the priests.”

“Then when we find one, we can ask,” Thor said.  “Until then, be true to yourself and your god, whoever they may be.”

Wolfric nodded, firm and secure in his belief, while Grigori nodded slowly, uncertain.  

The matter was not settled, but such a weighty thing would not be solved in one night by the fire.  There was little more talk that night, and only of small and inconsequential things.  Their bedrolls beckoned them, and they turned in, leaving the fire to burn itself out.

If Wolfric double checked that the door to their little cabin was wedged firmly closed, the others said nothing, just as they said nothing when he twitched at a distant yowl.  The mortals slept with their weapons close to hand that night, old habits tough to shake, even when sharing a room with a god that snored.

X

The next day, they reached their destination.  Thor could not say how he knew, for Harad’s directions had only been vague, but as he looked down on the land below him, he knew it was the place.  A river stretched from the coast, through a plain until it reached the feet of the mountains, and then a little further through their valleys.  The river was not so large as the Ursfjord they had passed, but it was large enough to host all manner of fish should a hungry beast grow tired of the herds of elk he could spy evidence of.  

Thor set down near the river’s headwaters, giving the others the chance to disembark from the tree and stamp their feet, warming themselves up.  For all the sky was clear and blue, the sun seemed to provide little warmth, and the morning’s travel had not helped matters.  

“This is the place?” Wolfric asked, looking around.  The land around them was flat, a thin layer of ice and snow as far as they could see.  

“I feel it is,” Thor said.  He drummed his fingers on Stormbreaker’s head.  “I see no clear signs of the creature, but Harad did say it has slumbered for many years.”

“How does one track a dragon?” Grigori asked.  If theological dilemmas still weighed on him, he hid it well.  “Even the greatest hunter cannot track a raven on the wing.”

“We could bait it with meat,” Wolfric said.  “Surely it would be hungry after hibernating so long.”

“If the smell could reach it, perhaps,” Grigori said.  “There must be some evidence of its passage, a mountain lair that animals do not venture near.”

Thor remembered the manticore he had fought, how he had drawn it out with taunts.  Infuriating dangerous beasts was a talent of his…but then another thought occurred to him.  A dragon was sure to be a beast of power, and perhaps that power would serve to lead him to it.  If he could figure out how to see it, of course.

“I have an idea,” Thor said, loosening his shoulders.

“Will you taunt it, as you did the Aeslings at Vinteerholm?” Wolfric asked, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.  

“I,” Thor said with great gravity, “will look for it.”

Wolfric and Grigori shared a look.

“How?” Grigori asked.

“With my eyes,” Thor said, unable to help himself.  “And perhaps something a little deeper.”

Since coming to this new world, Thor had been shown just how far he had to go to truly grasp the truth of his power.  Perhaps it was the fundamental reality of this world, or perhaps he had always had this potential, such that the lightning he had wielded against his sister was the bare fumblings of it.  That fumbling growth had been spurred by the rage sown on the Statesman, only to be abandoned to rot in the wake of the battle at Wakanda.  

Now though, he had begun to grow once more, learning and rising with each deed.  Spears hallowed, swords blessed, groves sanctified, daemons slain, Gods defied, worshippers gained - all of it served to stoke his might, but such things were reactions, of mostly blunt power.  It was time for something more subtle.

Long had he known the worth of visions, for all that he had not seen clearly enough, swiftly enough, to divine the truth of Thanos’ coming.  What he sought to do now was nothing so complex, but it would take focus and skill all the same.  He closed his eyes, calling on his power, and it answered, coming eagerly to hand.

There was a tingle in the air, like that in a thunderstorm the moment before a lightning strike, and he eased off.  He did not wish to saturate himself with power, he wanted to see, to glimpse the hidden things and that which went unnoticed by those without the eyes to look.

“Ty Tor,” Grigori breathed.

Thor opened his eyes, and saw.  Light shone forth, and he saw the currents of the world.  He saw hazy arcs of something like his own power but not in the sky above, green threads of some great root system beneath his feet, even a faint aura of heat and passion around the three of them.  There was more, but he had not the discernment to see, not yet, for all that what he could see was enthralling.  But not all was pleasant.

Here and there were patches of greasy sickness, of darkness, carried and buffeted by the currents he could see.  Sometimes they were cast onwards and away, but others they would infect the currents they touched.  Some few times they popped like an overripe cyst.  He noticed that they all trended southwest, but why he could not say.

“What do you see?” Wolfric asked, aura pulsing a darker red with his words. 

Thor had to blink.  The currents were beginning to overcome the mundane world.  He opened his mouth to respond, only to pause.  There was another current.

This one did not so much flow as suffuse, laying lightly upon the land, the other currents drifting through and around it, though perhaps that was a trick of the eye due to its brightness.  As he watched, a cloud of sickness touched upon a thick section of it in a fold of the land, only to burst, fading away.  His gaze sharpened.  

“A curiosity,” he answered.

That thick section of bright lightness was not the only one, and he turned, following it.  His mechanical eye began to throb with phantom pain, but he ignored it, searching, seeing, finding.  It did not sprout from nowhere, but flowed slowly down the mountainside until it pooled, and his gaze followed its path.  The higher he looked, the fewer patches of sickness he saw, until he found himself looking at a peak that gleamed brightly even under the light of the sun.  

“The dragon?” Wolfric asked.

Thor glanced to him, but found himself looking not at a man, but a blurred form of one, colours and currents forced into shape and barely restrained.  His eye throbbed again, and he closed them in pain, loosing the hold he held on his power, letting it drift away.  

“Aye,” Thor said, as the mortal world returned.  For a second there was an overlay of both, but then he blinked and it was gone.  He pointed up at the peak he had observed, the source of the bright current.  “If that is not the beast’s lair, whatever is there will know where it is.”

Wolfric was already moving, as if he meant to climb the mountain by himself.

“Ah, my friend,” Thor said.  Wolfric turned, and Thor glanced meaningfully at their tree trunk transport.

“Right,” Wolfric said, turning and approaching the trunk like that had been his intent all along.  His hand rested eagerly on his sword.  They were close.

Though the peak was their goal, Thor chose to set down just short of it, eagerness tempered by caution.  His days of rushing into the lair of some dangerous beast with only the barest of preparations were over.  He was a more canny and wise warrior than he had been in his youth, more even than he had been a scant decade past.  

“What is the plan?” Grigori asked, slipping from the trunk.  He kept his voice low and hoarse in the quietness of the mountaintop.  

“We shall go in there, and I will slay the beast,” Thor explained, likewise speaking quietly.  Well, as quietly as a god of thunder could.  “I will rely on the two of you to ensure we are not ambushed by any small drakes.”  It was an ill thing to strip the agency from those who would follow him, and he was no longer so arrogant as to dismiss the idea that he was beyond their help.  

“We will keep them off you while you slay the dragon, Lord Thor,” Wolfric said, checking his sword belt and adjusting his mammoth hide mantle.

Grigori shifted his grip on his axe, looking between them.  “Right,” he said, nodding, waiting for Thor to lead the way.

There were times he feared he would not live up to the devotion of his followers, but that would not stop him from giving it his all.  They were a short scramble from the peak, and there was a definite nip in the air as they climbed.  The mortals shivered, but neither complained, cold nothing new to them.

They reached the peak with minimal fanfare, certainly less than an entrance atop a flying tree trunk would have caused.  But what they saw was not what they had expected.

“There’s nothing here,” Wolfric said, frowning as he looked around.  

Thor had been expecting a lonely cave entrance, but what they found was a bleak plateau, hard grey stone swept by cold winds and the occasional tendril of snow.  The only break in the flat visage was a rounded boulder, seemingly half buried in the ground near to the centre.  

“What made - what drew your eye here, Mighty Thor?” Grigori asked, drawing his furs tighter as a particularly bitter wind swept across the empty space.  

“There is a power flowing from this peak,” Thor said, “and I would not wager on a dragon and such a power existing here unrelated.”  He found his gaze fixed on the boulder.  A flat peak, and a single boulder sitting upon it?  He had seen strange and unlikely natural formations in his time, but this was perhaps not one of them.  He stepped forward.

Snow piles had grown around the edges of the boulder, but the wind still tugged and pulled at it, preventing it from building up past a certain point.  With a hide boot, he swept a portion away, revealing the point where the boulder was set into the peak, peering at the seam.  Nothing jumped out at him, no evidence of tool use or sign that it was more than an oddly placed rock.

A sound of surprise and the slip of a boot came from behind.  “Fuck me,” Wolfric said, more startled and annoyed than anything.

Thor turned to see his follower on one knee, up to his calves in snow.  What had seemed another path of ice and snow resisting the pull of the winds was more than that, instead a small crater.  He narrowed his eyes at it.  An entire peak cut flat as if by some great sword, except for a small boulder and a crater of suspiciously similar size?

“Step aside,” Thor said, turning back to the boulder, considering.

Wolfric was quick to do so despite his lack of understanding, sharing a look with the Kislevite, but Grigori was no more sure than he was.  They turned to watch as Thor seemed to size up the boulder.

It was no perfect orb, for all that it was quite round, and Thor made several false starts before apparently finding what he sought.  He stepped forward, arms outstretched as he knelt, and attempted to take the boulder in a bearhug.  His full reach just managed to round the thing, and he took a deep breath, holding it tight.

Thor grunted as he rose, bringing the boulder with him.  Stone scraped on stone as it rose, loud and discordant against the harsh serenity of the mountaintop, and he almost stumbled as he took a step back, unbalanced.  Rock splintered and cracked at his hands, his grip sinking into the boulder as he turned with the ungainly thing, stepping carefully over to where Wolfric had stumbled.  Slowly, carefully, he began to sink into a crouch, back straight and knees bent.  He flexed his belly, pushing the boulder forward and out of his arms into the crater, where it fell with a dull whump, a cloud of snow kicked up by its fall.  It did not roll or shift, only settling into place as if the crater had been made for it.  

With a noise of satisfaction, Thor turned back to where the boulder had come from, joining his followers in staring at the dark hole that had been revealed.  The bare beginnings of a twisting tunnel could be seen, the sides worn unnaturally smooth, before disappearing into darkness.  

“I’ve heard this tale before,” Grigori said, staring down, keeping his feet as far back from the edge as he could.

“A tale of adventure?” Thor asked.

“Child’s fable,” Grigori said.  “‘Don’t go exploring down strange holes in the ground or you’ll never be seen again’.”  His mouth was set in a resigned grimace.

“We’ll need rope,” Wolfric said, more to himself than anything.  “Maybe some metal stakes…”

“Ah, my friends,” Thor said, replying to them both.  “You forget with whom you quest!”  And then he took them both by the shoulders and stepped off the edge and into the tunnel, allowing gravity to do its work.  They fell.

They did not scream, but only because Thor was quick to clap his hands over their mouths, trapping the no doubt manly yelps of fright within their throats.  Stormbreaker was quick to slip from his back to catch him, and he perched on it well enough, one foot on the blunt side of its head, the other halfway up its haft.  Their fall was arrested just in time to avoid crashing into the wall as the tunnel turned, beginning to spiral.  

‘Do a trick,’ he could hear the shadow of Tony say, and his lips quirked in a smile.

The etching on Stormbreaker’s head began to glow, casting light about the tunnel as they descended, and his companions settled, no longer so frantic now that they could see.  He eased his grip on them, focusing on the task at hand.  His beard fluttered up around his face as they followed the turning path, and slowly it began to widen.  Where before it was scarce wide enough to accommodate Trumpetter, now it could fit a grown mammoth, should one find itself capable of flight or of climbing a dark, twisting tunnel in the upper reaches of a great mountain.  The smoothness of the walls began to lessen as well, more and more natural cragginess showing through.  Here and there he saw stalactites, and at one point he had to swerve alarmingly to avoid sitting on a stalagmite that suddenly appeared around the bend.  

As they went, Thor looked with more than his eyes once more.  The brightness he had seen was all about them, almost drowning out the faint wisps of red that came from his companions with every excited breath.  Outside, he had seen the - the tides, the currents, the winds - whatever they were, flowing through the world, but within the mountain, it was different.  It was like stepping from the shallows to the depths, not crushing, but omnipresent.  If his instinct was correct, and the dragon was at the source of the bright wind that purged the sickness it touched, then they were surely on the right track.  He wondered if it had taken some mighty artefact for its hoard.  

The descent was not over quickly, but it did come to an end.  Wider and wider the tunnel became, until at its end Thor could have wrestled Hulk within it and not brushed the sides if they did not want to.  It opened into a large chamber, devoid of anything but more stone.  He let his companions go as he stepped off his axe, taking in their surroundings.

Wolfric and Grigori both stumbled, shaky, as they found their feet again.  Their eyes were wide, their breathing heavy, but they said nothing as they shared a look, jaws clenched with what Thor was sure was the effort of containing their excitement.  

There were two passages from the chamber they were in, rounded and tall, each at opposite ends.  Stormbreaker floated back up to rest at his spine, its glow fading, but there was still light enough for even the mortals to see by, if barely.  The passage to the left had a soft yellow gleam coming from around its bend, while the one to the right disappeared into darkness.  The bright current had only gotten stronger, though it was impossible to tell from whence it came, here near the source of it.

“Let us search out the light,” Thor murmured.  The sound of his footsteps were soft on the smooth stone floor as he made for the left passage, Wolfric and Grigori slightly louder as they followed.  

The passage, for it could not be called something so base as a tunnel, was not a natural formation.  It had the same unnatural smoothness he had noticed in the tunnel from the peak, though this seemed more deliberate, the walls almost glossy, uniform rather than smooth in patches.  The soft light rose as they walked, leaving the dark chamber behind, arcing right.  

In time, the passage ended, and they stopped, stupefied.  Before them was a set of stairs that led down into an enormous cavern, the size of Asgard’s throne room and positively glowing.  Some manner of stones were set into the walls and ceiling, putting off a soft white light, intricate carvings covering every inch.  But it was not the light or the carvings or the scale that drew their eyes.  

It was the gold.

The white light put out from the walls fell upon the gold and was reflected in turn, a yellow glow rising from what could only be the dragon’s hoard.  Treasures of every kind could be seen, from stacks of neatly ordered coins to rows of statues to piles of precious gems, even a section of portraits made not from paint but from mosaics of precious metals, all separated by lanes wide enough for five pegasi to ride abreast.  It was a staggering amount of wealth.

“This is the wealth of empires,” Grigori said, scarcely breathing.  

“There is more gold here than in all of Norsca, surely,” Wolfric said.

“Ehh,” Thor said.  

Wolfric stepped forward, only to find Thor’s hand grasping his shoulder.

“Hold,” Thor said, gaze sweeping around the room once more, looking with more than his eyes.  The brightness of the pure current he could see, but it flowed around much of the treasure, as if flowing against something else he could not quite see.  It was no corruption, for he had seen how that fared against the brightness, but there was something.  His eyes lingered on the neatly stacked coins.

“Do you see it?” Wolfric asked.  His sword rasped slowly as he began to draw it from its sheath.  

“No,” Thor said, still looking around the hall - for it was nothing so simple as a cavern - and finding only more treasure, no hint of somewhere a dragon might hide.  On the far side he spied another small passage, but this one was a rough tunnel as best he could tell.  “There is something off.”

“The gold is a trick, a fake?” Grigori asked, still unable to take his eyes off its gleam, and Thor remembered that he had been taken by raiders while part of a merchant voyage.

“No, it is real,” Thor said, fighting the urge to summon his armour.  He could not tell what was pricking at his instincts, only that something was out of place.  He had not his brother’s eye for traps, so it was likely not that, and yet…  “We will check the other passage.”

Carefully, they crept back from the top of the stairs they stood upon, leaving the hoard behind, and ventured back into the growing darkness.  After the gleaming of untold riches, the shadows seemed deeper, and Thor stoked the glow of his axe to throw them back.  His companions kept close, ears pricked for the faintest sound, but there was only the scrape of their shoes on stone and the shallowness of their breathing.  The light of the treasure faded, and then they were surrounded by the dark.  

The passage seemed more sinister now, even though they had only just come this way, but they pressed on, emerging into the chamber they had first found after leaving the peak tunnel.  A lesser man may have faltered, knowing that a dragon lurked somewhere out in the darkness, but he was Thor, and he had ventured into places steeped in greater evil than the lair of some scaly beast.  

Down the dark passage they went, and like the other it was smooth and glossy, reflecting the light of his axe.  It too arced to the right, though ultimately in the opposite direction to the other passage.  When they reached its end, what scant light was put off by Stormbreaker was not nearly enough to illuminate whatever immense cavern awaited them, and for a moment they stood at the threshold.  He could feel the attentions of his companions on him, waiting for his guidance, but he waited, reaching out with his mundane senses.  So great was the room beyond that it even had its own air flow, slow and regular, almost like a great bellows was keeping the mountain ventilated.  Had the dragon moved into an old manmade structure?

Thor’s nose twitched, picking up a scent, and he frowned.  Realisation dawned.  The airflow was too slow, too regular.  It was no breeze.  He looked deeper, and the darkness was thrown back by sudden brightness, though again he could see it flowing against and around something invisible to him, like there was another current he could not discern.  

That was secondary, however, to the dragon in the room.

Larger by half again than the manticore he had slain months past, it was bathed in the bright current he could see, and with each breath it would set the current to billowing.  Its scales were a blue so pale they were almost white, while sky blue wings were tucked into its sides, sharp spikes at the wrists of its wings.  More spikes came from its frill, and they were akin to jagged icicles, though they were not as fearsome as the curling horns of black that grew from the back of its skull.  Its eyes, though, its eyes were the most terrible of it all, the colour of glaciers.

Thor knew this, because the dragon was staring right at him.

“Wolfric, Grigori,” Thor said evenly, looking around the chamber as if he were a darkness blind mortal, “I want you both to turn around and leave, carefully.  When you reach the next chamber, bunker down and wait.  If you hear anything before you reach it, run.”  

The dragon blinked, unmoving from where its head rested on its foreclaws.  Its nostrils flared.  

For a moment, the two men hesitated, but something in his tone and the way he did not turn away from the darkness that was all they could see before them convinced them.  They began to retreat as quietly as they had arrived.  

White eyes followed them, and the dragon raised its head, languorous.  Its chest swelled as it inhaled, and it loosed a great sigh.  It was laying on a bed of skins and furs of all manner of great beasts.

Something again pricked at Thor’s instincts.  He was missing something, some implication, but he had not the time to think on it deeper for the dragon was opening its mouth, revealing rows of fangs sharper than any mortal blade.  Then the dragon did something that stopped Thor cold.

“What is this?” the dragon asked, low and slow, like it had been woken from a deep sleep.  “More food, come to my door?”

Thor blinked.

“The others were too skinny, too hairy - but you look like a tasty little morsel,” the dragon said, head rising even higher as it did more than look up, neck extending to its full length to settle at twice Thor’s height.  It sniffed again.  “No metal to pick from my gums, and you may even be free of taint.  What a treat.”  Its tongue snaked out, testing the air.  The air grew colder.

“I would taste most awful,” Thor assured the dragon, before his mind caught up.  “Oh, you talk.  This will perhaps be awkward.”  This was what had been niggling at him - not a trap or a curse, but the signs pointing towards the dragon being more than a simple beast.  It was sapient.

“Why would I not?” the dragon asked.  He? She? was a ways into the cavern, not nearly close enough to take a swipe, and they made no move to stand or lunge closer.  

“You are a dragon,” Thor said.

“You are a human,” the dragon said, before yawning, showing off just how many fangs it had in its maw.  “I am impressed you can speak at all.  Well done.”

“I am an Asgardian, I will have you know,” Thor said, pointing at the beas- at the being.  

“Oh?” the dragon asked.  “I believe I met one of your kind, once.”

Impossible hope leapt in Thor’s breast.  

“They said they had come to slay me in the name of their lady,” the dragon mused, eyes half lidded in thought.  “Their lance caught in my teeth for weeks, but their horse was a fine delicacy.”  They tapped a claw on the stone floor by their nest, as if remembering.  “Bretonnian, that was it, not Asgardian.”

Thor strangled the wave of feeling that followed, keeping his mind in the moment.  “You will find my axe does more than inconvenience you, should you attempt to eat me,” he warned.

“Perhaps,” the dragon said.  Its scales seemed to ripple as it shifted, and so did the brightness of the winds, like it was manipulating them.  

No, not like, Thor realised.  It was manipulating them.  The dragon itself was the source of the power.  

“Perhaps,” the dragon repeated.  “For what cause have you intruded upon my lair, stolen upon me as I slept with your weapon bared?”  It began to stand, head rising higher again, and even at their distance Thor had to look up to meet its eyes.  “Do you come a thief, thinking to take from my peerless hoard?  A would be dragon slayer, seeking renown?”  Its voice began to thrum, on the verge of shaking the mountain walls, outrage and amusement blending together.  Already cold, the temperature began to plummet, enough that Thor could feel its unpleasantness.

“First of all, in Asgard we gilded our rooftops with more gold than your hoard contains,” Thor said, his breath beginning to mist.  “Second - well, yes.  I really must apologise, but I came here to take your heartblood.”

“I see,” the dragon said, near hissing.  “Then you will die.”  Then it opened its jaws wide, and a torrent of ice roared forth.

Lightning answered, shattering the relative quiet of the chamber.  The ice was shattered, the pillar thick as two men turned to shards and splinters.  They were sprayed around the room and down the passage, and Thor spared a moment to be grateful that his companions had left.  

“Not a simple knight, are you?” the dragon asked, taking a step forward, out of its bedding.  Dark claws carved grooves into the floor as it flexed.

“I am Thor, the God of Thunder, son of Odin,” Thor proclaimed.  “You challenge me at your own peril.”

“Gods,” the dragon said, disgusted.  “My kind were here before your coming.  We will be here after your fall.”  Its tail flicked, and its eyes began to shine white.  

Thor felt his own eyes glow as he called on his power.  His form rippled with eldritch light, his armour called by seidr, and silver glinted in his beard.  Lightning sparked along his arms, and he hurled a bolt like a spear.

A band of light formed above the dragon’s head, intercepting the bolt.  The glow of the band intensified, almost painful in its brightness, and a moment later three spears of light lanced out.

Stormbreaker was already in his hand, knowing it was needed, and Thor caught them all on its head.  The first shattered, but the second ricocheted off into a wall, cracking it, while the last slipped past and glanced off his arm.  He grunted.  That was going to leave a bruise.  

The brightness of the chamber grew once more, harsh all around, driving out whatever else had been present.  Thor’s grip tightened on his axe.  He would not slay a thinking being to harvest them for parts, but he found himself in a fight all the same.  

Ice again lanced out, and a ring of lightning crackled and whirred, blasting it apart.  

“Hold!” Thor called.  “This is a mis-”

“Yes, it was,” the dragon said, all hints of lethargy gone from its voice, though its tone was still low, almost reserved, as it sought to slay him.  “A mistake to enter my lair, a mistake to lust for my blood, and a mistake to think to denigrate my hoard!” A web of light spat from its mouth, growing as it flew, grasping.

Thor shot into the air to avoid it.  “I would never!” he protested.  He had had good cause to seek its blood, certainly nothing so base as greed.  

“Yet you claim to gild the rooftops of your hovels with more gold than is found in my hoard!” the dragon said.  Its eyes, already shining, began to spill forth light, painfully bright.  The beams threw back the darkness even further, revealing smooth walls and vaulted ceilings.  

“Perhaps I exaggerated,” Thor said, voice strained, as he ducked and dove out of the way of the beams of light.  One tagged his leg, and he felt himself slowed.  “To exceed your treasure, it would take the gold on our roads as well.”

Wings the colour of the winter sky flared in outrage, and ice was again spat towards him.  This time it was no lance, but a flurry of jagged balls.  Slowed by whatever spell the dragon had cast from its eyes, Thor was hard pressed to weave between them, knocking one to the side with his axe, and that was before they hit the cavern ceiling and burst into uncountable shards, razor sharp.

Thor let go of his axe, momentum carrying him through the air, and brought his hands together.  Thunder roared, and the falling shards were swept away.  Stormbreaker returned to his hand even as he rued his words.  This was why he always let Loki do the talking.

“You flit about my home like a buzzard, little godling,” the dragon said, its voice filling the cavern.  “If this is all you can conjure, you will never take my head.”  It spat another ball of ice, almost as an afterthought.

“I am not your enemy!” Thor boomed as he dove below it.  “I mean you no harm!”

“Well, in that case,” the dragon said, the beams of light from its eyes fading.

“Really?” Thor asked, brightening, slowing to hover in place.

“No.”  Radiance gleamed anew from the band of light above its head, spiking the eyes, and wings beat heavily, launching the dragon up into the air.

Thor cursed his unthinking words as he let gravity have him, barely avoiding the lunge as he landed on one knee.  It was deceptively swift, and as he looked up powerful legs were already pushing itself off the wall to take another run at him, claws extended.  He moved, and a crater bloomed where he had fallen, missing him by a heartbeat as he shot deeper into the cavern.  

“I misspoke!” Thor shouted, juking and weaving.  There came the sound of tearing fabric as dark claws caught his cape.  “I came for your heartblood, yes, but that was before I knew you to be a thinking being!”

“The insult!” the dragon raged, snapping at the heels of the impudent godling.  “Because we do not share your form, you think us beasts?!?”

“I’d never met a dragon before!” Thor shouted in protest.  He jerked to a stop, rolling, allowing the dragon to shoot past him.  He barely avoided the spikes along its spine as he near tumbled over its back.

He did not avoid the tail, the fifth limb flicking up to nail him right in the chest.  The wind was driven from him, and then he collided with the ceiling, shattering one of the arches carved into it.  He fell to the floor, dazed, but he still had his axe in hand, and he willed it to carry him away before the inevitable follow up could find him.

A wicked claw found him first, enveloping his chest and pinning him to the ground, cracking the stone beneath him.  A toothy maw widened in a hungry grin as the dragon looked down on him, tongue flicking out as if to taste the morsel it was about to eat.  “A pity you will never meet another.”

Its claw might be large enough to pin a man, but that just meant it was large enough for his arm to slip between its talons.  Thor caught the descending maw, his hand catching it by the snout.  “I am trying to use my words,” he gritted out.  “Do not force me to raise my axe against you.”

“How easy it is to be polite when you are at my mercy,” the dragon said, snarling as it pushed down, neck muscles taut and straining.  Its ice breath would have been enormously inconvenient in such a position of weakness, but it seemed to have taken his strength as a challenge.

Thor’s arm trembled in a way it hadn’t since he had challenged Hulk to an arm wrestling challenge, but he managed to free his other arm, hand seizing one sharp canine at the cost of dropping his axe.  “At least tell me you prey upon innocent villages, or terrorise virgin princesses,” he managed, straining to breathe evenly.  

“Again insults,” the dragon said, shifting its bulk to better bring its weight to bear.  “Next you will ask if I am slave to the corruption from beyond the Gates!”

“Well,” Thor said before he could think better of it, “are you?”

The dragon’s eyes were not monochrome as he had first thought.  There was a slit pupil in them, ever so slightly more blue than the glacier white of the orbs.  He knew this, because as he spoke, they widened in outrage, before narrowing to absolute slits.  Frost puffed from its nostrils, scorching the hand on its snout with the cold, and then it was opening its jaws to set loose a torrent of ice once more.  

Cold.  Cold, omnipresent and all encompassing.  Until now, he had not been able to truly sympathise with Steve’s distaste for it.  He could not see, not encased in ice as he was, but he could still sense, and he felt the dragon stepping back from its new Thorcicle.  He could sense Wolfric and Grigori peering around the corner of the passage he had sent them down, and the dragon noticing them.  He could sense the way it turned to them, drawing in a breath to deal with the last of the intruders.  He could sense Wolfric’s certainty in him.

He could sense Stormbreaker.

Under the weight of a mountain, a storm erupted, appearing between one breath and the next.  Lightning roiled across the vaulted ceiling, throwing the entire cavern into stark relief, and the scent of ozone filled the air.  A single bolt fell to the block of ice that was Thor, and it shattered with the sound of a breaking glacier.  

Mortal men were forced to avert their eyes, even the dragon narrowing its own to bare cracks, so bright was the afterimage of the bolt.  When it faded, the God of Thunder was revealed, standing in a crater of stone and ice.  His eyes glowed, and silver glinted in his beard as he glowered up at the dragon.  

“Dragon,” Thor said, voice echoing through the cavern despite the storm overhead, “what is  your name?”