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.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“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.