|Ben Sorenson (agoodman) wrote in rooms,|
@ 2015-10-04 01:39:00
|Entry tags:||!marvel comics, *narrative, thor|
What: The anger of witches
Where: Asgard -> Yggdrasil -> Jotunheim -> Asgard
To call the Norns old would be to call the Universe young, but they were as much a staple in the stories of his childhood as it was to have Odin and Frigga tell them. When he had been at the farm, he had not known where they were, had not felt the presence of Asgard like he had once felt Ben in the back of his mind, had not known how the universe moved relative to their place amongst the stars.
That knowledge was coming back. And with it, came knowledge of where they were. There was no searching for them - only a trip to the roots of Yggdrasil was required.
"Us," they said in their hissing tongues. Thor bowed, the whump of Mjolnir soft on the ground here where they were so close to water and root.
"I come to ask-"
"We know what the King - lonely brother, abandoned son - comes to ask." They were visible, just there through the fog that hung as heavy drapes in the air. "We know. And we will answer. But the King will do us a boon."
It was not an unusual request. Thor bowed his head in acceptance. "Gladly."
All three of the women turned toward him. "There is something on Jotunheim - a thing, a precious thing - that you will get for us and then you will have an answer."
Jotunheim. Thor nodded again, knowing better than to ask anything more of these women before he had done as they bid him. The details came in their slow, rambling, hissing tongue - an item to be brought back from a witch in the snowy wilds of Jotunheim.
And as they bid - he went, hammer in hand, free of the advisors and guards that had dogged his steps since he returned to the city. It had been years since he last saw the realm and it was just as cold, just as harsh as he remembered, but now far more desolate with the damage that had been wrought to it. A delegation should be sent - but that was another thought, for another time and another place. His own people did not trust him, he was sure they would trust him less if he wanted to aid the realm of the Frost Giants.
Across the icy plains he went, alone as he was rarely, past jagged spires of ice and bone, towards the icy mountains that would have shone white if there had been any light granted to the realm. On - and on - and on - until a ring of stones and ice marked a clearing. Inside sat a woman, skin as blue as the night sky, eyes the color of blood-drenched dawn, and white hair braided and curling around her waist.
"The whelp of Asgard should not have come-" she started as he raised Mjolnir, lightning already crackling around the hammer -
And in a flash of white, knew no more.
He woke the next morning in his bed, the light of Asgard filling his room. He rose as he always did - the two guards on the inside of his room strangely gawking as he went to do his morning ablutions. Both hands into the water, a yawn that threatened to crack his jaw, and his reflection blurred, but there was no missing the smoothness of his cheeks, or how his hair was now long enough to dip almost into the water.
Or the very feminine face that stared back at him when the surface finally stilled.