Oh lord. Something tells me that having two WIPs going at once is a slightly bad idea, but I couldn't be bothered to not do it XD Anyway, this plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone until I started. I have great plans for this. Filthy, M rated plans, so expect the rating to go up within the next few chapters. The first bit is a little short, but I promise that good (or at least passable) things are coming. And now, I present to you the beginnings of my SWATH/Thor crossover.

PART ONE

A sorcerer lived in the Dark Forest- had lived there for God only knew how long. Eric wasn't sure how magic affected one's age, but he doubted the particulars mattered.

He'd met him once before, though he'd been a younger and different man then. Newly married and eager to prove his worth, he'd made a trip into the forest for a rare flower. It grew only in the heart of that godforsaken place, and would make a wondrous wedding gift. In his haste, however, he lost his path and found himself at the door of a small hut instead of a meadow. It was embarrassing to say the least. He'd always prided himself on his sense of direction, but all the luck on earth wouldn't lead him to the meadow where those beautiful black flowers bloomed. Not now- not from a place he didn't know. He knew his limits.

Luckily for him, the man who came out to greet him had no such limitations. When Eric explained his situation, the man smiled and pulled a handful of the flowers from the very air. It was a wonder in and of itself, this use of the craft for creation. He'd only ever seen magic through the lense of war, where everything burned. But there was no fire here, only the warm blackness of the flower petals. Petals, he noticed, that matched the color of the man's hair perfectly.

"There is nothing I cannot do," the man had said soothingly, passing the flowers to Eric. "No trouble has yet to best me."

Warm. Genuine. Far more genuine than the inherent slyness of his craft or his sprightly green eyes should have allowed for. And when the man turned to reenter his hut, Eric found that he believed him. Storing the knowledge, he made his way out of the forest once more, fussing over the flowers the entire way home.

Warm black petals, bright green stems.

There is nothing I cannot do.

He believed him, and he didn't forget.

The flowers died after only a week, though Eric counted it as no great loss. His wife had been sad to see them go, however, and he promised her he'd go back for more one day. Perhaps after some time had passed, and they had grown older together. The flowers would mean more then, he thought. They could run their fingers over the soft petals and recall the days when their own flesh had been as supple.

One day, he'd said. He would go one day.

After she died, he stored "one day" away with his other countless, unanswered prayers.

Years had passed since he'd spared a thought for the sorcerer in the forest, yet in the month following his wife's funeral, he was all Eric could think of. Through the haze of drink, he wondered if he could find him again, the man he'd only ever stumbled upon by accident in the first place. It was preposterous, he knew. An accident couldn't happen the same way twice, at least not for him. He'd never had such luck.

After two days of telling himself this, he tried anyway. Belly full of mead, he stumbled into the Dark Forest, thinking of flowers and pointless things like "one day", hoping that chance would favor him.

By all logic, he should have died. He was far too drunk to ward off the beasts that lived among the trees, and it was already growing dark by the time he entered the forest. He should have died, and perhaps he'd wanted to. But he didn't. Somehow he found himself at the door of a small hut, against which rested the dark haired sorcerer. It was as if he knew he was coming, and wasn't that the damndest thing?

The man smiled, and Eric, weary from the journey and heavy with mead, passed out at his feet.