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.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

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.