With Blood and Thunder by GrlInGlasses546
Summary:

Descent in the House of Odinnson and the increasing attacks upon the nine realms is signaling war on the horizon for Asgard. Thor- devastated by the death of his mother, deceit by Loki, and the loss of Jane- has destroyed the God into a being that only feels rage and violence...but time has been set in motion.

 

 

 


Categories: Books, Movies Characters: None
Classification: Alternate Universe, General, Supernatural
Genre: Action-Adventure , Comedy , Drama, Erotica, Fantasy, Historical, Mystery, Psychological, Romance, Science Fiction
Story Status: Active
Pairings: None
Warnings: Adult Situations, Dark Fic, Extreme Language, Graphic Violence, Original Characters, Rape, Sexual Content , Spritualism, Strong Sexual Content , Teacher/Student, Work in Progress
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 3 Completed: No Word count: 6697 Read: 9285 Published: June 16 2015 Updated: July 04 2015
Story Notes:

Yea, this is a Thor fanfiction. Don't be confused by the names though, I want this story to be a bit closer to the actual Norse myths, so names will be different. This story is also gonna be kinda dark and gritty, so be prepared!

1. Pagan Poetry by GrlInGlasses546

2. Black Lake by GrlInGlasses546

3. Stonemilker by GrlInGlasses546

Pagan Poetry by GrlInGlasses546

 

Wind dances through the lush verdant plains of the abandoned valley, the colossal mountains appearing frozen in place as they outline the empty clouded skies. The howling of the wind picks up, leaping back and forth without mercy as the grass of the expansive field moves in ripples with the gale. Crows glide overhead, cawing and flapping amongst each other, lowering to the center of the plain which stands still without any time. The sharpened talons of the miniature ink-like creatures descend into the hardened mounds of the grass. Pecking, pecking there, then pecking again at the remnants that decorated the ground. Beaks pinching at the deceased flesh of those whose bodies piled on top of one another.

 

The scent of death plagued the field, the grotesque heavy aroma of decaying flesh weighing heavy into nostrils. The scent would stick for weeks, not only in the nose, but on the body entirely. Yet, it is the blood that stays in the mind for much longer. Redden liquid smeared the brilliance of the natural green of the earth in the hollowed lowland, the metallic balm lifting on the gust. The spray of blood formed obtuse symbols as the bodies of the fallen were dragged into a pile.

 

Body on body.

 

Limbs tossed on the mounds of lifeless forms.

 

The puddle of blood forming an ocean as the dead bodies strain under the weight of the other.

 

“Gather their bodies. Pile them high for our enemies to see. They shall be undone by our resolve, and they shall receive our warrant! Those against Asgard will fall!”

 

Thunder's harsh voice echoed throughout the valley, his mighty cry ripping far beyond the mountains that stood tall with snow coated high peaks. Mjolnir raised high to the clouded heavens, sparks of lightning zipping trough the ashen painted sky, and the Norse God's face painted with a twisted expression of fury and solemn.

 

Thor's appearance was fierce-some; he looked neither of man nor god, but beast in true form. The long cascading golden locks of the God were now begrimed with semi dry blood, clinging to his face in a random flurry, unbound and wild in tangles and knots, and ultimately as wild as his flaxen beard. Gashes, scrapes, and claw marks adorn the bare flesh of his face, hands, and neck. Gore coats Thunder's lips, as blood lightly drips from his mouth. The same mouth that just moments ago ripped the jugular from a Frost Troll who decided to get too close, and suffered the price with agony and violence. The God's glorious armor that once coated his body is now tarnished by bodily fluids, dirt, and is shattered on the warrior's arms, abdomen, and chest. The only unscathed item that adorns Thor is his divine flowing vermilion cape; the bloodshed blended finely into the threads of the fabric.

 

The once shining azure gaze of the Aesir God has been snuffed out long ago. Nothing remains in those eyes except ravenous thrashings of cobalt exploding in bursts of lightning; ablaze in a marriage of rage and torment.

 

 

 

The Thunder God's appearance alarmed his comrades; the Warriors Three and Lady Sif. Thunder's looks have been vicious and animistic for months into years now, and the move into battle only hardened his intimidating atmosphere with each battle. The Thor that they knew was dwindling away with each thrash Mjolnir gave, the God that stood in playful strength yielded to the darkness growing inside, and wrath was the only emotion Thor knew to give.

 

No one dared speak a word about it. No one dared.

 

But they all knew why.

 

Sif lifted two dead Frost trolls, one for each of her shoulders to carry the uncomfortable weight. The Goddess of War walked with ease to the forming pile of death in the field, her inhuman strength making her actions easy. Yet, she shivered feeling her long raven tresses get coated in blood from the decapitated troll on her shoulder. Lady Sif tossed the trolls like rag dolls on top of the grave, growling in irritation as she ran calloused fingers through her mane. Her fingers only then started to journey about her face, over the slash over her eye, on the scratches kissing her cheeks in stinging pain, then over her body, and the damages in her armor.

 

The War Goddess made it out of this battle with minor injuries, all of which will be healed due to her speedy recovery time by tomorrow morning. Yet, the win felt bittersweet in the female warrior's mouth. Perhaps it was the blood in her mouth from taking a fist to the jaw, or maybe it was the grim scene of the crows devouring Frost Troll flesh, but nothing about this battle in Nifleheim felt victorious. Looking at her Prince, that bittersweet taste became unbearable.

 

Frigg, Loki, that mortal woman, and soon Odinn. They were all lost to Thor.

 

Frigg murdered.

 

Loki's betrayal earning him shackles and imprisonment; never to be seen again.

 

The Midgardian woman turning her back on Thor, no longer withstanding his absence.

 

The All Father, the only shred of sanity Thunder has, fading fast, his great sleep catching upon him.

 

Walking the perimeter of the lowland, looking for any sign of additional forces, Sif stops. A lone chopped off arm, blueish to the tint with rigor mortis stricken clawed fingers, lied on the ground with a crow ripping into the flesh.

 

There's been times, many in fact, that Sif offered her body to Thor in hopes it would lessen his sorrows. But nothing from Thunder, except rough spurned fucking. Tender touches in the midst of sparring sessions, just out of sight of Fandral or Hogun. Nothing from Thunder, except a grimace on his chapped lips and a jerk away. A kiss on his lips, so tender and giving. Nothing from Thunder, not even a slight kiss back. Those words that hung in Sif's heart since they were young, finally spoken aloud after a night of harsh sex. Nothing from Thunder, absolutely nothing.

 

The long fingers of Sif reach out and grab the lifeless limb, crushing it lightly in her fisted palm before tossing it far off into the pile with no effort. The Goddess' boots clank across the field as she walks on, a small limp in her legs from those long hours of combat.

 

There's no giving up on Thor, not now nor ever. She'll fight still for her Prince, and earn his heart. The Goddess of War wouldn't stop her affections, she'd bring Thunder back from his darkness.

 

 

 

“Shouldn't we call Heimdallur? We shan't linger here. This smell is clogging my nose, and I look beyond indisposed.” Fandral said, running a gloved hand through his short wheat colored hair.

 

Fandral the Dashing was quite opposed to being seen without looking...well, dashing. As much as the Asgardian born adventurer is attached to the sheer thrill and pulse pounding drive of war, the amount of Giant and Troll attacks has been getting out of control. The enemies of the throne and of the Kingdom of Asgard grew active as whispers of decent in the house of Odinnson grew. The citizens of Asgard heard the whispers of the fall, but the Gods and Goddess that live within the castle were actually witnessing it. Revolt was in progress and war was closer than on the horizon.

 

Fandral couldn't remember the last time he ran a comb through his hair, let alone the last he took a fair maiden into his chambers for a right amount of fun. These two things, spoiling himself and a night of good fucking among beautiful ladies, were a necessity for Fandral to feel confident or refreshed. Yet, Thor wasted no time in crushing the enemies of Asgard without hesitation.

 

Fandral has grown so uneasy at this shift in his comrade. He barely knew who he was anymore.

 

Dashing knew and grew to be devoted to the Prince who laughed while hammering his weapon into the skull of his adversaries, to the Thunder who drank himself silly with delight, to the friend who swapped stories of sexual glory and adventure, but not this shadow he peered before him. Thor was a shell not even half the God he was several years ago. Frigg, her murder snapped a cord in his friend, and that's when he noticed him coming undone slowly. However, long before his mother's passing, his brother's betrayal literally infested his ability to look at anyone the same. Thor looked upon everyone with this shimmer of mistrust. Yet, who could blame Thunder? His own blood tried to leave him for death, what was anyone else capable of?

 

 

 

“Do as thee wishes. I shall stay a bit longer.” Thor said, the small group coming to the leader.

 

Besides the sound of Fandral heavily sighing, then Sif elbowing him in his side, Thor didn't hear anything else from his comrades. No one dared to counter his words or steer him on another path. Heimdallur, his bewitching eyes observing all with ears just as open, must have heard Fandral the Dashing's complaints as he flowed forth passage upon the bridge. The blinding golden light blurring Thunder's vision for only a moment, before he was left alone on the desolate valley's turf.

 

Barbarous indeed has Thor grown in his anger and hostility. The electric eyes of the God sparked as he observed the handy work of his partners. The death stricken tangled and mangled forms of the bodies so wonderfully stacked, as if the decaying flesh provided a stable foundation of architecture. The bulky forms of the Frost Trolls piled high, almost blocking the gargantuan mountains from Thor's view. How twisted and grotesque. How fitting a message to serve to anyone who dared cross the House of Odinnson or the safety of Asgard.

 

The God's large fingers ran through his hair, as a tiny crunch sounded from him disturbing the dried fragments of blood in his dirty blonde hair. Thunder's muscles ached not only from his small movement, but from the armor that dug into his sore abdomen all throughout battle.

 

How long has it been since Thor rested? Ate a full meal? Smiled? Ran a comb through his hair? These were things that the God couldn't remember himself. So many things have changed in the time his mother passed...he felt human because of it. Life was moving fast, things changing, time moving on the clock for him...time running out. His father is running out of time too, Odinn is getting weaker with each passing day until he collapses in sleep. Then, Thor would be King. Then, he could feel Loki cursing him from his cell over and over into his niece's domain, Helheim. Jane- gone, doesn't want to even look at Thor anymore- he's a failure to her. All she wanted was time, time to be with him, but Thor couldn't do it. Odinn despised Jane, she was human and Thor wasn't, Odinn didn't approve, he'll never approve. Loneliness. Anger. Rage. Fury. Sadness. Darkness. Nothingness. Pure nothingness. Thunder needs nothingness. You can't lose nothing.

 

Thor slaps his hand to his forehead, gripping it. Heat is rising from his chest to his head, and it's setting his brain ablaze. Mjolnir suddenly feels heavy at Thunder's hip, his balance is off. The thick scent of the metallic richness of blood and gore of death infiltrates his smell in an overwhelming fashion, and the scenery is tipping. Thor falls to his knees, his breathing becoming short.

 

He feels human, much to human right now.

 

O Gracious Goddess, O Gracious God. Lend me health, strength, and love. During this coming day that I may do your will.”

 

The voice whispered sweetly in his ears, lightly chiming as a hum upon the hills. Thor rubbed his ears, fierce azure eyes looking about, but to no avail. No one is with him in the empty coffin of death, just him on his knees hallucinating alone. But, the voice it sounded to real and wondrous through his fit he shut his eyes again, listening harder. The winds blew and fingered through his long coated flaxen hair; the song of the wind brought that entrancing hymn-like voice again. Thor's eyes slowly open, his mouth parting to take in the untainted air of the gale.

 

“Assist me with the challenges ahead. Share your divine wisdom. Teach me to respect all things. Remind me that the greatest power of all is love.”

 

This siren, this sylph of the heavens was singing out, and their sweet invocation spiraled far beyond the mountains and ascended high over the now revolting scene of stacked corpses. The psalm sent the warmest touch on each gash and wound the God bore, and he felt his chest loosen from his internal attack.

 

Blessed be.”

 

The final words hooked his mind...what enchantments is this? Who relieved him of his pain- if only for this one brief moment? The Thunder God remained on his knees, bold eyes scanning the partially gray clouds that began to part, hands open as if in the action of receiving.

 

Thor remained on his knees for at least two hours.

 

Time meant nothing to a God.

 

Prayers even less.

 

But for this hymn, this nectarous ode, Thor might actually listen.

 

End Notes:

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Black Lake by GrlInGlasses546
Author's Notes:

The chapters for this story are actually going to be music, so feel free to listen. I want to try to weave in Icelandic artists, since well, we are dealing with Norse Gods. Black Lake- Bjork.

Warning: This chapter is really dark and heavy.

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Waters of the personal bathing pool shimmer with crystalline purity, the mystic waters blessed with healing magickal herbs and energies sparkle like bewitched diamonds against the golden archways of the colossal personal room. Gilded accents and burgundy furnishings captivate the enormous space, and the breath of absolute royalty vibrated throughout the bathing room. The brim of the gaping pool-like bath tub filled the center of the room, as true melted gold coated the edge of the lagoon, reflective aurelian paved every surface, the arches of the ceilings clashed in deep brick red and halcyon, the flames danced and swirled about the lit candles scattered throughout the area, few electrical lights were turned on in the room, a glass door shower rested at the back of the room, the bathroom nestled off to the back corner of the room with a door separating the two rooms, and the plush domed seats near the pool are coated crimson with a clear view of the giant water filled alcove and the skies outside.

Gunk and muck mix with the darkened stains of blood in the once serene waters, swirling into a tainted stream that infiltrates the heated basin. The Thunder God takes his time in the infused lagoon, his mind idle. Thor's flushed calloused fingers drag the sponge over his rock-like chest, the divine liquids of the pool washing off the crusted blood of the gashes and scrapes that adorn his body. The soap smells of the richest scent of the forests of Asgard, ripe with the aroma of otherworldly trees and blossoms that those foreign to Asgard couldn't understand nor place. The God's lips part as he stifles a groan, splashing the soapy water on a gaping dagger wound near his collar bone. These injuries will heal in a day, at most a week. Thor's unnatural healing abilities were swift due to his high position as a God, but the sting of the knife slit left him breathless.

Pain is what Thor thrived off for these few years. The sensation of his tank built body being damaged kept him present; the pain stops the Norse God from thinking deeper than the trauma his body undergoes.

Physical damage is good.

The wounds keep him alive.

Thunder washed his face in the small basin in his chamber, leaving the door to his massive pool room open for the servant to enter later for cleaning. His fingers run through his freshly washed cascading flaxen hair that stops a bit past his shoulders; his father made him cut his hair that length a couple of months ago. Odinn noticed how Thunder refused to care for himself, how he punished himself, and let that appearance of his go. Yet, even though Thor let his hair and beard grow wild, the women of the dimension were still mad for him.

Maidens threw themselves at his feet daily, and he took anyone that made his manhood react.

Fucking made him forget for a few moments, or hours if he felt like amusing himself. Sex made Thor forget the losses that he carried every step with him, like some formless unbearable entity that will never leave.

Knocking sounds at the extravagant aurelian double doors to his chamber.

“M'lord, the All Father requests thine presence apace.” the emotionless voice of a palace guard sounded from the other side.

“I shall be there with haste.” Thor said, dismissing the guard.

 

 

 

Without a single thought, the Norse God wrapped his hair into a ponytail, put on lightweight armor over his red tunic top, an obsidian cloak made of the finest fabric in all the nine realms, and traditional pants with his worn in boots. Thunder walked tall through the fanciful golden pleated halls of Odinn's domain, his strong face devoid of any expression as he marched down several corridors. The sun made the comprehensive palace walls gleam, as the multiple brimming open windows displayed the booming city of Asgard below and the wondrous view of cascading waterfalls that floated above in a mystical fashion. Thor's cloak flowed behind him with his fast stride, but still his mind was quiet with nothing.

He is the radiant king of the heavens,

As if yanked backward, Thunder abruptly stopped moving.

That same humble murmur escaped into his ears, forcing him to snap around, azure eyes searching for anyone in his presence. No one was there, minus the servants who tended to the flowers that lined the walls and cleaning the grand floors. The Norse God clamped his eyes shut, hand gripping his head.

Was this all an illusion?

Where was this voice coming from? Who was it's owner?

Is this a spell running it's course on him?

The God's calloused fingers lightly wrapped upon the metal handle of Mjolnir, ready to strike down whoever dared infiltrated his mind, let alone his personal space. Yet, as he stood ready to unsheathe his weapon, his chest filled with that unnatural warmth, as it swirled and tangled about his heart, then dropped to the pit in his stomach. Thor's head became light, but it was filled with an rousing vapor that made him steady.

 

“Flooding the earth with warmth and encouraging the hidden seed of creation to burst forth into manifestation.The voice whispers.

 

Prayer, it all reminded him of the olden times, when Midgard was cast into darkness without hope. Those mortals daily got on their knees, prayed to the Norse Gods for bounty and safety. Oh how those days were beyond recognition, and all it took was coming down to that realm, the display of their unnatural abilities, and ended in worship for centuries. Thor recalls how he would ascend into the skies, call forth his thunder, and the humans would be gracing the floor at his feet in submission. But, those days have long since passed. Humans knew nothing of the greater powers that occupied the thinly split realms of their world...no one prayed to anyone, anything divine that once existed in their small brains was now extinct. Humans believed in nothing now, only in money and other foolish petty things.

Even though all of this was true, this hymn reached Thor's ears like a whisper riding the winds. The sweet scent of the exotic fauna of his home entered too dancing on the gale, and the combination of this strange voice and succulent aroma is making the Norse God weak at the back of his muscular legs.

“Why do I hear thee? Speak again, tell me thine secrets.” Thunder mumbled, hand leaving Mjolnir's side, and cobalt eyes shut in concentration.

 

“He lifts his shining spear to light the lives of all beings and daily pour forth his gold upon the earth, putting to flight the powers of darkness.”

 

Thor's eyes opened slow, sparks of lightning flashing in his sapphire orbs tinted with curious fascination. The utterance could be heard better when the Norse God focused, the litany becoming more distinct instead of in shallow fragments, and a more clear amiable base to the voice tingled in his hearing. Thunder took a breath, inhaling the cool air of Asgard, letting it fill his stomach and calm his mind.

 

“He is the master of the beasts wild and free.”

 

“M'lord?”

Snapping his attention outward, a guard looked upon Thor. So snatched in this siren's song, the God didn't notice when or how long the guard was watching him. It was only then Thor realized how close he stood near his father's grand chamber.

“Tis nothing. I've arrived, my Father has demanded me.” Thor said, eyes glazing with new found irritation that canceled out the calm storm that brewed in his optics.

The guard must have noticed the change in Thor's demeanor, as his armor clanged in movement as the defender hurriedly opened the massive double doors to the All Father's room.

 

 

 

When Baldur died, Thor was demolished with such a foreign agony in him. Never had the God tasted such a grotesque loss that rippled through him, ravaging his soul as though razor sharp talons teared at his immortal life force. That day not only lived in infamy in his mind, but scarred the hearts of all of Asgard, and even further than that. It was all so vivid, even now to Thor. Baldur, so loved and so worshiped of all of the Gods and Goddesses, was undergoing his own Coronation. The accession marked his older brother's bid for the throne; the day showed that he, the very heart of the admired Gods, would be the first candidate to be chosen if Odinn fell. In that grand hall, bathed with the finest of gold that was given in holy offering from every corner of the empire to support the God of peace, food and drink flowed in a wave of eternal celebration, festive atmosphere rang throughout Asgard as the people threw flowers upon the very path Baldur walked, and all attended from the nine realms to cheer for Baldur on his day. Enemies even yielded on this hour; everyone was in more than well spirits for the most beloved God among them all.

Baldur was tall and strong; a force to reckon with in combat that brought Odinn to tears with the vicious grace he wielded with his beloved Spear at his side. But, that Norse God had no pleasure in battle, as he preferred peace and coexistence among all. Baldur believed in love and it made his cerulean eyes glimmer with traces of wonder that no one could understand, he found allure in the way the commoners walked and his orbs teared up at the astonishment he saw in the blossoming of flowers. The older brother guarded the innocent; Baldur was a beacon of the just divine light. That purified aura of Baldur was so strong, so strong in fact that an angelic nimbus surrounded his head by the time he was a toddler, and lasted on until his very last seconds of life. People deemed Baldur the God of beauty as well, for his appearance was male exquisiteness incarnate. Baldur possessed long rich golden tresses that ended past his chest, and was decorated often with random braids. His skin was kissed by the sun and tanned, those cerulean eyes captivated all, the God's chin chiseled firm, his body was strong yet lean, but he was taller by only an inch by Thor. Where Loki wears verdant garments and Thor dresses in crimson colored clothing, Baldur adorned himself with the whimsical color of a fine royal cobalt that complimented his gaze. Baldur was loved, so ridiculously loved.

So ridiculously so, that another God grew tired of it.

Loki.

When did mischief become malice? When was the line crossed?

It was crossed on that day of ascension for Baldur.

Loki, in his jealous daze, tricked the blind gullible God Hodr into such a treacherous deed. An action his mother, Frigg, sought to prevent with the culmination of oaths from every living thing in the realm to never attempt to kill her precious first born. Yet, the devilish cunning of Loki understood a loop hole to these oaths- Frigg never gained an oath from the mistletoe believing that such a “tiny thing” could never possibly kill Baldur. The God of mischief forged a mighty spear from the herb mistletoe, whispered lies in Hodr ears, then set him out in front of every soul in that great hall, let the blind God strike Baldur down with the spear, and impaling the God of peace through the very heart that was all of the love of the Gods and Goddesses.

The way the divine twinkle left the Norse God's cerulean eyes, how his lips twisted in agony or a painful swirl of shock at the assailant, the crippling agony written throughout Baldur's body as it writhed to the ground, the blood spraying on Thor's face and invading his mouth. Those were what clung to him every night he dreams of the event over and over in his head. Tasting the metallic waste of his brother's blood in his mouth as he stood next to the God of beauty, his smile of happiness burning off his lips once he processed what was happening. And Loki, the way his eyes gleamed with a devious happiness as he chuckled at his handy work...one brother down, one less obstacle for his claim of Father's throne. He stood so proud, Loki, as all of the souls in the hall erupted into chaos and tears. His laughter filled the halls.

Yet, Father didn't punish Loki as all of the nine realms wept for months over Baldur.

That was the defining moment...that's when Thor's instincts told him that Loki lied with evil in his soul. A hatred that could not be quelled by any form of love, even if his family gave him more love than he could bare.

Oh that night when Baldur was striked down, the anguish firing in Thor's soul. Watching as all of Asgard set Baldur on that burning pyre down the rivers, setting his course to his guaranteed spot in Valhalla.

On that very night, much later when no eyes were around, Thunder looked down the waterfall where his brother fell in a flurry of flames. Death...Gods and Goddesses can die, and Baldur's death resounded that fact for every single soul throughout the realms.

Thor's heart was too heavy; he wanted to die with his brother. End it there, end it quickly.

Hurry, Baldur could still be waiting at the bottom of that large draining water basin.

Give Loki what he desires, if Thor's gone no one will be in his way.

Shutting his eyes, whispering sweet words down to his older brother's scarred corpse, he jumped.

Thor jumped off of that cliff near the waterfalls.

That was the night Thor learned to fly...he never hit the rocky grounds below. Thunder hovered, his new ability stopped his suicide.

Perhaps Baldur, in his divine formless soul, saved Thor and gave him the gift of flight.

Either way, rage was another gift he learned. Rage racked his body for months as he spent his time in isolation, trekking the realms alone. Until, Loki found him, using his clever silver tongue to manipulate the rage that burned in his eyes for his younger brother till there was nothing but love lighting his orbs again for his younger brethren.

Thor forgave Loki, but he wasn't foolish enough to forget.

 

 

 

The same sorrow Thor felt before he jumped to his supposed death is with him now, as he looks upon the weakened state of his All Father. Odinn is writhing in discomfort in his gargantuan bed, wrapped in the greatest fabrics crafted by the Light Elves, his single eye vibrating in pain, long silver hair in disarray as he tosses and turns, the golden scepter of the All Father has been tossed idle on the floor, and the azure mist that sustains Odinn is now faint with low energy.

Thor's deteriorating Father looks at him now.

Thunder's anguish brimmed ultramarine orbs connect with Odinn's aching ashen oculus.

What Thor wouldn't give to toss himself off that cliff again.

To see their shining faces again.

 

End Notes:

Baldur- God of Beauty, Innocence, and Rebirth, Firt son of Odinn

 

This is Baldur, brother to Thor and Loki, and the first son of Odinn. Baldur was the God of Beauty, Innocence, and Rebirth.

Stonemilker by GrlInGlasses546
Author's Notes:

Kinda short, don't be mad! But, at least we finally meet our leading lady! The song is "Stonemilker" by Bjork.

Interesting fact, a Stonemilker is a person who tries to extract emotions, such as love, from a person who does not feel the same way. That's important, remember that.

Rate and Comment loves!

That once strong stern face now twisted and curled in an incomprehensible pain. Heavy wrinkle lines molded to the prominent bones that poked from under his godly flesh, and that previously hardy tanned skin of the All Father now glowed a faint unhealthy gray tint. With the strength that Odinn could gather, he rose on his elbows from his crumbled laying position.

“Your conquest of Nifleheim was fruitful, my son. Thither shall peace reign for some time, ere our enemies wrap it in chaos again. Anon the realms are ravaged by the Frost Giants, Trolls, and every evil roused by the beshrew of Loki and Malekith. Thine people suffer, my son. I hear their screams and pleas even from here, far into every realm under my command. Death...oh how she grabs all she sees in these times of war. Can thee not feel the suffering? Can thee? Thine people need to see thee strong; do not falter or brow weak. The people of our kingdom have seen the discourse of our family; whispers of descent echo even to my chambers. Forbear all not vital to our name, my son. Do not shame me any further; Loki has given me enough ill to take into many lifetimes. Set thine course well, do not fail me. The throne will be thine in haste. Do not fail in this war.”

 

 

 

Days drifted into weeks.

Odinn's words left a scorch on Thor like nothing he has felt before. The All Father's assertion tingled in the back of Thunder's flaxen head, lingering at every thought that appeared in the God's mind. Was shame such an unbearable crutch for him? There was much more at play than the meager expression of abashment. It took centuries for Thor to wrap his mind around the concept of “shame” through his own blossoms of excessive narcissism, but as soon as the Norse God shed himself of those childish concepts of pride, he soon understood that shame was only a more complex extension of embarrassment. Shame only mattered to someone obsessed with appearances, but the idea that Odinn was more concerned with the “look” of the ruling family made sense. Odinn, the great ruler of all the Aesir Gods, War, and Wisdom is praised heavily by the affluent nobles and senator figures of Asgard. Thor, praised by the warriors and common people. The father and son conflicted in perspective due to what they both stood for, thus “shame” is a concept dealing with very different outlooks.

Thor looked at the realms with the eyes of a vicious champion.

Odinn looked at the realms with the eyes of an opulent senator.

This rift in ideals caused tension that brought Thor to a void in himself; the very void that pulled at him with every strike of tragedy he faced because of the actions of family.

This abyss grew daily, sucking in all the good that Thor was, leaving nothing but the scrapes that even his comrades couldn't bare to tolerate.

 

 

 

Yes, these days of darkened skies, and brimstone of war scraped at Thor.

Yet...

What aberrant comfort that humming voice provided Thor; so much so that the Norse God found a way to tap into the hymns each day. The prayers were set at specific times, right at the rise and set of the sun, and with the appearance of the full moon. Invocations lined with compassionate verses, that lightly brushed against the very atmosphere that Thor struggled to compose daily. Dove-like; a wondrous ballad that Thunder could not help but ease drop upon.

Several days ago, the Norse God was sitting in his chambers with his cobalt orbs shut listening, and the voice busted out in laughter at tripping upon their words. That sequence of laughter, all so feminine...the voice belonged to a woman. What a surprise it was! Thunder was please beyond belief at this, for he thought that the voice was initially a shadowy hallucination. But no, the more Thor listened, the more he understood that the young woman- which he assumed was young because some of the words she spoke reminded him fondly of Darcy- was very much so real. The young maiden gossiped about her day, her plights, the joys, the things she felt in her heart to be true, and some odd things concerning some vile woman named “Jessica”.

Weeks, so many weeks Thor spent listening to her prayers.

He needed to know who he was listening to.

Heimdallur, with his burning ochre eyes that gaze upon all and everything existing throughout the cosmos, could help the Norse God better than any other. Thunder would go to see him and get the answers he sought.

 

 

 

At the onset of dusk, just as the radiant sun dipped into the horizon, Thor set out across the Rainbow Bridge. The God's horse galloped unnoticed through the villages, as his darkened cloak hid his infamous long tresses. Odinn would not know of his disappearance for the moment, and the servants were too busy with their work to notice Thunder leave the castle. Heimdallur on the other hand, probably saw Thor coming miles away, perhaps before the God even knew he would go to the Asgardian Guardian seeking answers.

“Ah, I've been expecting thee, M'lord.” Heimdallur said, his shining golden armor clad back facing Thor.

“I knew thou would. I have a request Heimdallur. My mind has been plagued by a voice for some time, I-”

“You seek the maiden? The one who speaks to thee each day, M'lord? I know her voice reaches you better than any mortal, but yet, how curious indeed it is.” Heimdallur said, facing Thor as he walked from his placement in front of the gate.

Heimdallur's bronzed skin is emphasized by his shining full body armor, but his fiery eyes vibrate with answers far beyond anything Thor could comprehend. What wondrous things Heimdallur witnessed with those burning eyes. The birth of cosmos, the rise of nations, the beauty of far away lands yet known. All divine sights belonged to Heimdallur alone; he saw and knew much, perhaps even more than Odinn.

“Thou knows of my event? Have thee spoken a word to anyone?” Thor questioned, azure eyes crackling with the threat of lightning.

“Be calm, M'lord. I have loyalty to all in the house of Odinn, and to thee my king to be. I haven't told a soul. Yet I know of who thee seeks. No, such reason as to why her voice reaches is a matter I have yet to understand. My eyes see all, but they do not tell me all the secrets of the world. Mortals no longer can speak to Gods, such a talent died long ago. Long since the time of the dark when we ruled with heavenly thunder, M'lord. When it was sacred to even utter our names, and a curse upon thine home to speak ill of us.”

“I must see her. My patience will not suffice any longer. Show her to me, Heimdallur. I request it post haste.” Thor said.

Thunder looked disheveled as he asked the Guardian. Thor's hair was about his face in tangles from the ride to the Bridge, his long tussled crimson cape flowing with a bleak air, and his face contorted in a fine mix of internal suffering and curiosity that seemed to appease Heimdallur.

“I shall give you what you ask, M'lord. I risk my position-”

“Thou risks nothing, I give you my word.” Thor said.

“Then come close, look upon this.”

Heimdallur pushed aside the glistening pad of his chest plate armor, his coarse bronze fingers exiting the section with a clear crystal orb. The sphere looked to be crafted of fine Quartz, shimmering with translucent ethereal clarity.

“And that?” Thor asked, blue eyes fixated.

“Your Father gave it to me eons ago. Tis the Eye of Shambala, ripped from the socket of a mighty Titan that once roamed the realm when it was new and fresh. Shambala had the gift of sight just as I, but Odinn thought it wise to take her eye so he himself could gaze upon his enemies and allies from realms away before he even knew of me and my eyes. The King has no use for the Eye of Shambala due to my gifts, but for you M'lord, you shall take it. Just keep it from the sight of others, and focus your intention to see what you wish. Try it, but focus.” Heimdallur instructed.

Thor's calloused hand took the sphere, mind running rampant. Could the Norse God really look upon the maiden now? Without giving another thought, Thunder shut his eyes clutching the Eye. The mind grew quiet, thoughts emptied out as he always did when he went to listen to the young maiden. Then, Thor felt his azure gaze crystallized in white. The change in sight sent Thunder back, but his sight shifted and molded.

 

 

 

Florals, rich succulent flowers adorned a spacious white room decorated with opulent furniture. Petals scattered the floor; all in variations of lavender, burgundy, canary yellow, and lush pink. White hot sunshine, blinding, flooded the room from the double windows. The curtains danced in the sweet breeze. Delicate chestnut colored fingers run through straight lengthy obsidian hair, a white brush running after the finger in the hair. A young maiden is sitting at the vanity, the large mirror captivating her as she brushed through her cascading raven locks. Her back is the epitome of feminine sensuality; arched, moist rich russet, and full at the waist and ass. That darkened angelic hair fluttering about her back, presumably reaching well towards her abdomen. Her gown a flush tone of burgundy, with the open back showing her subtle skin that reminds Thor of the water soaked sands of the beach flowing with life. Her frock cascades around her; swirls of carmine resembling blood. The mirror...look into it; he needs to see her. He rides upon it, his breath caught in his throat, chest heavy with a weakening need.

What manner of Goddess crafted such an enthralling young maiden; her looks surely sent men to their deaths singing of her beauty to Valhalla.

The captivating luxuriance of her skin is bronzed, emulating her as an artistic sculpture of youth in full bloom. Eyebrows the color of blackened ash, strong and arched with a gentle curve to them that helps express the bounty of each expression that dashes upon her heavenly face. Eyes reflective with a striking resemblance to mahogany colored Tanzanian gems; glowing underneath long fluttering brunet lashes. Cheeks kissed an abiding lustrous maroon, her nose cutely buttoned and fitting to her heart shaped face. Those lips...they looked so giving. Her lips resembled a freshly picked flower petal silken and glazed, as her bottom lip fuller than her top. The maiden's hair, which she brushed still, parted to the side and framed her face in an innocent fashion that presented her as a chaste siren.

No God could have made her.

Her exquisiteness is unparalleled; no God or man could compare.

Hers was the face that could destroy nations, build temples in her honor, and awaken mysterious yet told.

 

 

 

“Did thou see what thou seeks?” Heimdallur said, snapping Thor from his sight.

“Indeed. That and much more.”

End Notes:

Oooooo! We get a glimpse of the leading lady! Expect a change in POV really soon. I also envisioned the dress she was wearing as this:

dress

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