July 1st, 2010

Asgard

“ANOTHER!”

The shout cracked like thunder, followed by the shattering of ceramic against stone.

Arthur Hayes sat at a long, rough-hewn wooden table, surrounded by mountains of muscle and the smell of roasted boar. To his left, Volstagg was using a turkey leg as a conducting baton while bellowing a war ballad. To his right sat a warrior named Bjorn, who had arms thicker than Arthur’s torso and a laugh that shook the bench. Fandral was across from them, recounting, for the third time, how he had charmed a Frost Giantess out of killing him.

“She was smitten!” Fandral insisted.

“She was confused,” Sif corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“The result was the same. I kept my head.”

“Barely.”

Thor sat at the head of the table, holding a tankard the size of a small bucket, looking happier than Arthur had ever seen him. The Prince of Asgard was in his element.

The pub, and only Asgardians would call a hall the size of a cathedral a pub, was packed with warriors fresh from the training yards. The air was thick with sweat, roasted meat, and enough alcohol to dissolve a small building.

“Drink, Mage!” Volstagg roared, slamming a fresh flagon in front of Arthur. The golden liquid sloshed over the rim, sizzling faintly where it hit the wood. “A trainee warrior has already had four! You’ve barely had two!”

“I’m pacing myself, Volstagg,” Arthur said with a grin, raising the heavy mug. “I don’t have an Asgardian liver.”

“Bah! Midgardian excuses!”

Arthur brought the mug to his lips. He tilted his head back, his throat working convincingly as he downed the potent Asgardian mead in one long pull.

Thor cheered. The Warriors Three roared.

Arthur slammed the empty mug down. “Delicious.”

It was a lie. And a trick.

Arthur hadn’t swallowed a drop.

A subtle vanishing charm, timed to the tilt of the tankard, sent the mead elsewhere the instant before it touched his lips. Nobody noticed. The entire pub was three drinks past close observation.

He had to cheat. He’d tried drinking Asgardian mead honestly on his very first night here. He had woken up twelve hours later floating in the palace moat with a splitting headache and no memory of how he got there. He’d missed his schedule entirely, failed to portal home, and worried his family sick. Even Winky couldn’t reach him, which had pushed Eileen’s concern into near-panic.

Never again.

“See?” Fandral clapped Arthur on the back. “The mortal has the spirit of an Aesir!”

Arthur smiled, letting the warmth of the tavern wash over him.

Two weeks. It had taken him exactly two weeks to end up here, fake-drinking mead in an alien pub with a group of immortal warriors who had adopted him like a particularly entertaining stray.

He hadn’t planned on this. He’d planned on the Archives. Quiet study. Disciplined research. In and out.

But Thor had other ideas. And Thor, Arthur had learned, was very difficult to say no to.

—

It started three days in.

Arthur had been deep in a text on Asgardian rune theory, genuinely absorbed, when a massive shadow fell across his reading station.

He didn’t need to look up. “No.”

“You promised,” Thor said.

“I said maybe in a few days.”

“It has been three days. That qualifies.”

“Thor—”

“Battle.”

Arthur sighed, marked his page, and followed the prince to the training yards.

The yards were full. Sif, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, and about thirty Einherjar going at it in various sparring rings. Thor announced Arthur’s arrival with the subtlety of a thunderclap and asked who wanted to go first.

Arthur ended up in the ring with Thor himself. Nothing serious. Just two friends testing each other.

Arthur kept it to martial arts and chi. No sorcery, no wizarding magic. Just the body and the life force. That was the language Asgardian warriors understood, and it was the best framework for a friendly bout.

They went at it for twenty minutes. Arthur couldn’t match Thor’s raw strength. Not even close. A clean hit from Mjolnir’s wielder was like being swatted by a freight train. But strength wasn’t everything. Arthur had speed. He had chi-enhanced reflexes honed across years of real combat against the best fighters on Earth.

He wasn’t learning anything new from this fight.

He was enjoying it.

Thor apparently felt the same. When they finally stopped, both breathing hard, the prince was grinning like a kid who’d found his favorite sparring partner.

“Again tomorrow?” Thor asked.

“If I have time.”

“I will make sure you have time.”

And that was how the sparring sessions started.

The Asgardian warriors were good. Very good. Centuries of training and real combat experience made each of them dangerous in ways Earth fighters simply couldn’t match. They were stronger, faster, and more durable than any human, enhanced or otherwise. An average Einherjar could bench-press a truck and shrug off a sword blow without slowing down.

Arthur couldn’t overpower them. But his fighting style was something they’d never seen.

K’un-Lun martial arts. Chi manipulation that let him deflect blows that should have shattered bone. Footwork and technique refined against Ariadne, Black Widows, and Captain Marvel. Grapples and redirections that tossed warriors three times his weight using their own momentum against them.

They had expected the Midgardian to crumble. Most of them thought Thor had gone easy on his friend. Arthur danced around the first three challengers and disabused them of that notion in about ninety seconds.

He won some. He lost some. He drew plenty. The outcomes didn’t matter much. What mattered was the fun of it.

Respect in Asgard was a simple currency. Can you fight? Can you hold your ground? Can you sit at the table afterward and be good company?

Arthur could do all three. With some magical assistance on the drinking.

Every sparring session ended the same way. The pub. Drinks. Stories. More drinks. More stories.

Within a week, every warrior on the training grounds knew him by name. Not the mysterious Midgardian wizard. Just Arthur. The mortal who could fight, could take a hit, and whose tankard of mead somehow never ran out.

He fit in here. Surprisingly well, for a thirty-year-old human sitting among beings who’d been alive since before his civilization invented the wheel.

It reminded him of good memories. The pubs back in London, years ago, when he and Daniel would grab a booth and watch the Premier League matches while the crowd roared around them. The banter in the pubs after the match. The same easy warmth. The same uncomplicated joy of being among people who shared something simple.

Just here, it wasn’t who scored the best goal. It was who landed the best punch.

—

And it wasn’t just spars.

With the Bifrost shattered, the Nine Realms were fraying. Marauder bands that had been kept in check for centuries were growing bold. Raids on undefended settlements. Borders being tested. The peace Odin had maintained through the threat of instant retaliation was crumbling, because without the Bifrost, Asgard had no way to deliver that retaliation in time.

At the end of the first week, Thor came to Arthur in the archives. Not grinning this time. Armoured up.

“I need your help,” he said. Simply. Directly. One friend to another.

Marauders on Vanaheim. A settlement under attack. By the time Asgard reached them through conventional means, it would be too late.

Arthur didn’t need convincing. “Where?”

They went to Heimdall. The Gatekeeper gave the coordinates. Arthur opened a portal.

Thor went through first. The Asgardian warriors followed. Arthur stepped through last.

The settlement was already burning. Two hundred raiders with alien weapons, tearing through a community that couldn’t fight back. The Marauders had grown bold since the Bifrost fell. They thought Asgard couldn’t reach them anymore.

They thought wrong.

The fight was straightforward. Thor, Sif, and the warriors hit the main force head-on. Arthur handled the flanks. Portals to cut off escape routes. Constructs to shield the civilians. Direct combat when raiders broke past the Asgardian front line.

It wasn’t a complicated battle. The Marauders were trained and well-armed, but they weren’t prepared for Asgardian elite warriors materializing in their midst without warning. The shock alone broke their formation. After that, it was cleanup.

When they returned to Asgard, covered in Vanaheim mud and something that might have been glory, something had changed. Arthur wasn’t just the Midgardian guest anymore.

He was a shield-brother. He’d bled on the same ground. That meant something here.

More than that, it established something practical. Without the Bifrost, Asgard needed Arthur’s portals. And Arthur was happy to provide them. Not out of strategy or self-interest. Because these people were his friends, and friends helped each other.

The pub that night was louder than ever. The stories were longer. The mead was stronger. Arthur’s vanishing charm worked overtime.

He looked around the table at the warriors who’d become his comrades in the space of two weeks. Immortals who’d accepted a mortal into their circle without hesitation.

It was a good life, this Asgardian routine. Spars in the morning. Missions when needed. The pub at night.

But even with all this fun, Arthur did not forget his true purpose.

The archives were waiting.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep