A note: Thank you all for keeping up with the story and reviewing! I feel obligated to tell you that this chapter contains some violence. Please don't be shy about sharing some feedback; I'd love to improve the story with readers' input if possible. Enjoy!
The guards who had accompanied him earlier now stood at attention outside, holding the doors as Thor egressed from Odin's office. He started off at a brisk pace towards his chambers to pack supplies.
Although a very experienced traveler, Thor could think of very little to bring with him to Niflheim. He knew not whether it would take hours or weeks to locate his younger brother on the vast and treacherous land, nor was he certain of the realm's climate; few warriors elected to go to Niflheim, and of those who survived, none wished to speak of their experiences.
In a small but elastic and durable bag, Thor stored a set of knives, a pouch of golden coins, a few containers of fresh and dried fruits, two flasks of the purest Asgardian water, some blankets, a spacious, impermeable tent, and his warm, black cloak. As an afterthought, he tucked Loki's forest green cloak with velvet lining and a few rolls of bandages. It was probable that Loki would need some medical attention once delivered into the hands of an able physician, but Thor would have to tend to any immediate wounds.
Thor stared at the pack as he tried to think of anything he may have forgotten. As a child, he would have been amused by the comical nature of the bag which was enchanted to accommodate objects of any size, so long as its carrier was willing to hold its weight. He smiled forlornly upon the recall of memories of pretending to go on long and arduous odysseys with his little brother when they were but mere children. Being the older and stronger one, Thor always designated himself as the valiant hero to Loki's villain, or on other occasions, the selfless savior to Loki's captive. That these childish games should precede the reality of his adulthood distressed Thor greatly. He wished he could have had the foresight to prevent the tragedies of the year before from occurring. Alas...
Waking himself from this reverie, Thor opened the door to his grand wooden wardrobe. Inside hung his familiar battle armor, recently polished after a diplomatic function with the visiting Vanir ambassadors.
He carefully donned the armor, fastening his vibrant red cape under the outer breast plate. The God of Thunder peered at his reflection in the mirror, at his grim blue eyes hardened by daily tribulations, at the firm mouth and jaw which many said to be becoming of a future king. Thor realized he had forgotten the winged helmet which traditionally belonged to the ensemble, but he allowed it to remain on its shelf in his wardrobe. There was little point to the helmet, beyond the trivial aesthetic.
Reaching for his weapon, Mjölnir, resting at his feet, Thor left the room. He made his way to the grandiose throne room where his father and mother were likely waiting to bid him farewell. Thor had not spoken once to his mother since learning about Loki's appearance on Niflheim, and he felt ashamed for not consulting her about this all important mission. Odin, however, surely would have relayed to her the pertinent information—hopefully omitting the details of their disagreement—for, though she was without sovereign power, the Queen Frigga was a distinguished and influential woman, especially in the eyes of her husband.
The throne room, usually filled with the loud cacophony of voices of innumerable spectating Asgardians, seemed desolate upon first entering it. Besides the usual guards which were lined about the doors, Odin and Frigga were the only ones there. They waited until he had reached the foot of the steps of the throne before descending to greet their son.
"Thor, my beloved son, I cannot express my happiness in knowing that you will soon return to us your brother Loki," his mother smiled, tenderly cupping his face in her hands. "I only wish I can make the path smooth for you to walk upon. But I know you are well capable, regardless."
"Thank you, mother, for your blessing and your confidence in me. It will certainly be difficult, going to Niflheim on my own."
"Then it is good that you will have your friends to look after you!" boomed Volstagg from the opposite end of the room.
Sif and the Warriors Three approached the small family together, each wearing his or her respective armor and carrying weapons and shields and bags of varying types.
"My friends, I thought you would not be coming," Thor said, with a slight pitch inflection at the end, as though he had asked a question.
"And let you have all the fun? Never!" Fandral quipped.
"We will always be by your side, Thor," Hogun promised.
Thor beamed at the friends whom he knew to be true. The mission would certainly be made much easier with the four most celebrated warriors of Asgard supporting him.
"If you are all finished, it is time that you start on your way." Odin's voice commanded the attention of everyone in the room.
To Thor, he said, "I will use a spell to transport you and your friends to Niflheim. A warning: traveling under this spell, while expedient, may cause you to suffer from mild illness. It may be some minutes before you are able to recover. Assuming Loki is well when you find him, he should be able to deliver all of you safely to Asgard. Otherwise, Heimdall will alert me when you are ready to leave, and I will attempt to work the spell from here. But that is a very risky operation, and I would prefer not to try it if it can be avoided."
Thor nodded, straightening his back to show his father he was prepared to begin the spell.
But Odin had more to say: "I do not expect this journey to be easy for you; in fact, it may the greatest challenge you have faced thus far. The precise whereabouts of Loki are unknown to me; you will have to seek him out for yourselves. Along your travels, it is quite likely that you will encounter bandits, assassins, and the like, and as a very conspicuous team, you are sure to be followed. Try to stay hidden. I am afraid that I having nothing more to tell you; my knowledge of this realm is limited."
He looked to each of the warriors facing him, recognizing each by name: "Fandral, Sif, Hogun, Volstagg, Thor... good luck."
Frigga smiled fondly at her son, reaching out to squeeze his hand a final time before moving to stand beside her husband. Odin, with his gleaming scepter in both hands, began to mutter the necessary incantation. Thor raised his free hand before his eyes to watch as the spell took effect. His skin tingled as he saw the very atoms of his being dissipate in the air. The magic at work in this transportation spell was quite unlike that of the Bifrost, in which a sudden flash of light would grab hold of their bodies and drop them instantly on the other side. This magic was much more intricate and demanding of its conjurer; Thor could understand the reason for which Odin preferred not to use it.
The God of Thunder was deep in thought when the spell delivered the five to Niflheim. To be swept through the cosmos in mere seconds had a dazzling effect, and as Odin had predicted, he felt quite unwell in the aftermath—in truth, far more than the Allfather had suggested. The pain in his muscles was so intense that he felt as if his limbs were being torn from his body, and his stomach churned, threatening to loose all its contents. His mind, however, suffered the worst. In a state of such agony, it was difficult to find something with which the experience could be compared; he thought it could be most accurately described as a massive hand or paw gripping his brain and squeezing it as though it was a juicy piece of fruit before digging its claws into the matter and shredding it into nothing.
This feeling passed quickly, Thor was glad to note, and as he regained consciousness, he saw his friends quickly rising to their feet. He was about to ask after the health of the others when he saw Hogun place a finger over his lips, signaling for Thor to remain silent. Wordlessly, he collected himself and stood among the other four, taking in their surroundings.
Niflheim, Realm of the Mists, was aptly named. In every direction, the landscape was veiled with a thick, suffocating white fog. Thor thought he could see the outline of treetops which climbed with the slope of an immense mountain directly ahead. Currently, the five warriors appeared to be standing in the middle of an open field, consisting mostly of coarse dirt and stone with the occasional patch of straw-like grass. The air tasted heavy and wet, yet chilling. There was a faint smell of rotting leaves lingering in the air. The fog also seemed to dampen sound in this world. While he could hear his own anxious breathing, that of his companions only a few feet away from him was entirely indiscernible.
Whatever had caught the attention of Sif and the Warriors Three earlier had ceased to be perceptible. All were extremely uncomfortable in their new surroundings—Fandral remained woefully nauseous and gingerly rested himself on the hard earth—and fell into a subdued dialogue.
"What did you see?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. It is nigh impossible to know what lays five feet in front of us," Sif grumbled. "But I do know that our arrival here on Niflheim was quite pronounced. A bold light was briefly emanating from the sky, presumably tracing along the path of our travel. I fear that this obvious display of sorcery has revealed our location to hostile parties."
Fandral began to retch loudly, leaning forward on his knees. The others turned away, but they could not escape the sound. They were painfully exposed, standing out in the open. And as Sif had said, anyone with inimical intentions could easily find them...
As though the thought had summoned them, a group of marauders slashed through the fog with blades of intimidating size. They were intelligent fighters and knew how to manipulate the naturally hazy atmosphere well, and being larger and more numerous than the Asgardians, the assailants were at an immediate advantage over the five weary and bewildered warriors. While the adrenaline suddenly released into their systems helped to react and fend off the bandits, the Asgardians were visibly struggling. From all angles came the well-placed blows, drawing blood in places without proper armor.
Thor thrashed his hammer about, knocking his enemies off of their feet. His skills in battle were to be envied, for sure, but he felt inhibited by the disorienting layers of fog which seemed to invade his eyes and mind. Thor was also painfully aware of the bright red cloak draped from his shoulders which made him an obvious target. There was no time to address this issue, however. He took on the majority of the enemy, often more than one at a time, hoping that his friends would find an opportunity to try something clever. That was what they truly needed at this moment—not brawn.
Alas, such an opportunity did not find their way to them. Instead, Thor was forced to reevaluate their strategy, deciding a formation plan would be necessary if they wanted to survive the fight. The leader of the small troop was calling out his orders when there was a sudden and unexpected interruption in the battle.
Screams erupted from the lips of the members of the opposing force as the long, keen blade of a sword was thrusted into the trunks of their bodies. The newcomer to the battle stalked them in silence; he preferred to strike from behind, piercing their hearts, decapitating them or swiping the edge of his sword against their abdomens, spilling their guts. He fought with notable self-assurance, ably disposing of the horde of bandits within minutes and suffering only minimal injuries.
Thor gazed at this impressive warrior who moved with grace and vigor. Having killed most of the original offenders and frightening off the remainders, he made his way to the center of the field where Thor and his friends stood, his walk both slow yet purposeful.
A shadowy form in the distance, the solitary figure became more distinct as he approached the Asgardians. He was clad in darkly shaded garments from head to toe: a thick black shirt clung to his body over which was layered a tunic of an even darker hue of black, falling below his knees; tall, mud-caked boots covered creased leather pants. On his hands were a pair of well-fitting gloves, now stained by the carmine pigment of fresh blood. His face was obscured from all eyes, for a long hood was pulled over his head and a scarf was draped over the bridge of his nose, tucking into the tunic at the base of his neck. The ensemble was rather mismatched, as though the articles of clothing were grabbed, at random, from various sources. Yet, this unusual dress seemed to suit the enigmatic individual well.
Thor eyed the sword clenched in the hand of the cunning and merciless fighter who was very likely considering slaying the Asgardians now that the bandits were out of the way. The Asgardian prince supposed the fighter killed as he pleased with little regard to the lives of others. Thor knew he had to intervene in the latter's plans, for the sake of the friends who were at his side and for the sake of the brother who ought to have been.
"Please, come no closer. We wish no quarrel with you," Thor began cautiously, looking around at the Sif and the Warriors Three who were still collecting themselves after the fatiguing battle.
When the man stilled at his request, Thor grew more bold and continued, "I am Prince Thor, Odinson, of Asgard, and these four are my friends. We have come to Niflheim to find my brother, Prince Loki of Asgard, who has recently been seen walking upon this realm. He is to be taken home."
For a moment, the man showed no reaction to this infamous name, but then he raised one gloved hand and beckoned the Asgardians to follow him.
"You know where my brother is?" Thor asked, allowing himself to grow hopeful after such a discouraging battle against the beastly natives of the realm.
The hooded man gave a simple, dignified nod.
Thor turned to his friends, smiling. They regarded the mysterious figure before them warily; nevertheless, the four stepped forward and joined Thor at his bidding. Restoring their bags about their shoulders, the Asgardians started forth behind their new guide who was already moving for the tree line to the west.
