Hawk's Thrall, Chapter 5: The Golden Thread
For all Thor's fifteen hundred years, the glory of the Bifrost had never ceased to amaze him, even in the days when he'd been an arrogant, bloodthirsty young prince. A treasure trove of color- rubies and sapphires and flashing opals, purples as vibrant as Vanir orchids, and oranges like ripe fruit, and serpent greens and midnight blues, and pinks and yellows like the clouds at sunrise and reds as lurid as the scorching rifts of Muspelheimr and the burgundy of wine, and the soft blue-green of seafoam, and the grey-purple of mist at dusk- heated the air until it fairly blazed, and Thor had to slit his eyes in the rapture of it, gripping Clint tighter reflexively. An eternity crystalized in that moment, and then the colors were draining away, and he stumbled slightly as they struck the earth with a jarring thump. Then he was immediately yanked off his feet as his shieldbrother collapsed. The golden euphoria of the Bifrost which had filled Thor only seconds before died away completely. Clint's face was tear-ravaged and pale as the snows of Jotunheimr, and his grey eyes remained misty and blank even after he finished emptying his stomach on the spongy moss. Thor called his name frantically, but he only stared. His body shuddered with every breath, so harshly that Thor had to practically hold him upright. Oh merciful Norns, he should not have had so harsh a reaction! Was this why the laws forbade mortals to pass through the Bifrost?
"Did you know that this would happen?" Thor demanded, whirling on Heimdall as the other approached. Clint was totally unresponsive now, having fallen back against Thor, head lolling. When Thor shook him, he moved as a thing made of clay, motionless unless in the sculptor's hands.
Heimdall shook his head, face dark with worry. "I did not even suspect. Mortals are of a weaker constitution than we, but he should not have been so strongly affected, even were he already ill. Usually only healers or volga, or the sons of gods, are so stricken."
If- when- Clint was healed, Thor might well wonder at what Heimdall had told him, but there was no room for wonder now. Thor slowly drew Clint into his arms, fitting his limp head against one shoulder as though he were a child. "What- what is to be done?"
Heimdall's helmet glinted in the afternoon sun as he turned to gather up the lead of the horses he had prepared from Thor's herd, and he spoke without turning. "If he has Bifrost fever, Norns preserve him. The only thing to be done is wait for the sickness to pass. Come. It would be better that he rest in a bed and in the care of a healer." He held one of the horses, a gentle grey mare named Flygning, as Thor lifted his shieldbrother onto her. Then he handed over the leads, and Thor tied Flygning to his own mount and turned the horses' heads towards Asgard. Heimdall was still standing by the edge of the world as Thor passed out of view.
They rode as the sky began to shade into greys and violets and firey oranges, as mossy loam gave way to the deep, thick forests surrounding Asgard, and through it all Clint remained slumped against Flygning's neck, utterly insensible to everything around them. He shifted once or twice, murmuring words so incoherent they strained Allspeak past its natural limits, and occasionally he seemed almost aware, but then his eyes would lose their spark and his form would slacken again. Thor had to stop a few times to rest the horses, and when he did he tried to attend to Clint, but he was no healer, his hands big and clumsy and more attuned to battle, and no matter what he did the other's life seemed to be slipping through his fingers at every move, like water from a well. He tried to adjust him to the most comfortable position on Flygning's back, rolling up his cloak to cushion his shieldbrother's head and trying to get him to drink at intervals, but the cloak slipped from its place, and the water trickled from the corner of Clint's mouth untasted.
They reached the great stone wall encircling Asgard as the last of the light drained from the sky. Guards were already posted at intervals in the enormous guard towers, and twin halberds slammed down in front of Thor as he drew up before the towering golden gates.
"Halt and state your purpose!"
Interesting, Thor thought, amid the worry clouding his mind. Though the guards did not always recognize Thor hooded and in the darkness, they were rarely so hostile. Had something happened in Asgard? Had the amulet failed? Did Odin know his mind? Had one of his messengers brought back word of the crown prince's deceit? Perhaps a raven was even now bringing him word. Perhaps- Thor shook himself, alluding the grasping claws of panic. The sooner he was in Asgard, the sooner he could get Clint help, and at this point saving the life he had unknowingly endangered was the most important thing. Perhaps Tyr had simply been increasing security again, with Loki's return- the dark prince had been known for escaping his bonds, after all... "I, Thor Odinson and one guest, claim entrance," Thor told them calmly, drawing down the hood just enough to show his winged helmet, crafted in the manner of the princes of Asgard. "I so vow my name and purpose are as stated."
The guards grunted, relaxing their grip on their weapons as the faint crackle in the air sealed Thor's vow. "Very well, my prince," one of them said, and the gates slid open on silent hinges. "Welcome home."
Thor graced them with a nod and rode on as fast as he dared without jostling Clint too severely.
The moon shone down clear and bright now, catching on each golden tower and highlighting every detail of the signage in the market and the carvings on the great halls of the jarls, but Thor had no heart for Asgard's beauty now. His mind was all caught up in the scrape of hooves on the gold-paved roads, and his senses hyper-attuned to Clint's every trembling breath. Perhaps Heimdall had been wrong. Perhaps Healer Eir or gentle Lofn had an easy answer. Perhaps it was not the Bifrost fever Clint had- perhaps he'd only caught cold. Perhaps- Thor drew up at the gates of Thrudheim, his own home hall, and nodded to the guards, who stepped aside to allow their prince to enter the courtyard.
Every second it took to dismount seemed a blow. Thor was dimly aware that his heart was racing as though in battle, but no pleasant heating of blood accompanied it, only the everpresent worries which preyed on him like wolves. He waved away the guards and thralls crowding around him- oh Norns, he had not accounted for the witnesses, there was no way he could conceal this now, what had he been thinking- and caught Clint up himself, letting the thralls lead the horses away while he entered the hall. A serving woman ran up to him as soon as he entered. "My prince-" she began, but Thor cut her off without even hearing her.
"Send for Healer Eir and have my guest chambers prepared at once!" He barked, and she was off faster than darting thought. It seemed an age, or perhaps more than one, before Thor layed Clint down in one of his bedchambers. Clint curled up like a kitten, nuzzling into the fur coverlet, grey eyes flicking open. "Lucky?" he murmured, followed by something that Thor could not catch, and then he drew in on himself again and lay shaking, though the room was almost unbearably warm with the fires which were kept ever-stoked in the pits below the main hall. It could be hours before Eir could come, with her duties in Valhalla and Fensalir, and Thor could see the light in his shieldbrother's eyes draining hour by hour, minute by minute. The weight of his life hung heavy on his shoulders, made all the heavier by the near-treason he was committing, and the fact that Loki's life, too, hung in the balance, suspended by a golden thread.
And Thor, the Thunderer, Prince of Asgard and god of the storm-tossed skies, knelt on the burnished floor and prayed.
Thor was still kneeling when Healer Eir and Lofn the Comforter swept in, when he rose awkwardly and withdrew to the farthest wall, watching the healers, still lost in his worries and half-formed pleas directed to the Norns. Eir at once set to work unpacking her medicines, dragging wound salves and healing ointments and rolls of linen out of her bag without a care what they were until she had drawn out one of her charmed goblets, and calling to the serving maids for herbs and fruits and barneol, while Lofn sat on the bed to attend to Clint, bathing his feverish brow and tucking the furs more closely around him.
Eir mixed many of her own medicines, and though Thor knew nothing of their workings, he watched her as she crushed sweet-scented herbs and pressed the juice from healing songfruit, likely brought from far Alfheimr, as few could grow it in Asgard. She mixed some pale powder whose substance Thor could not have guessed into water mingled with mead, and pressed it to Clint's lips, her own parting in concentration as she worked, murmuring ancient words whose translation defied both Thor's allspeak and his own half-remembered studies, and directed Lofn to light some mixture of herbs and scented woods to draw out the sickness a little. At last she stepped back, and Thor anxiously tried to question her.
"What were you thinking?!" she burst out, voice all the angrier for the hush it had taken on in the sick room. "Bringing a mortal through the Bifrost!"
"I...I had no idea," Thor told her, voice shaking. "I assumed that it would be fine; I suppose I wasn't thinking. What happened? Will he be all right?"
Healer Eir glared at him, then shot a worried glance back to where Lofn was wiping golden potion from Clint's pale cheek. "That's up to him now. He may never be well again; Norns alone know. Bifrost sickness is nothing to be trifled with." She paused to add another glowing ember beneath a little cauldron keeping one of her potions heated, then turned back to Thor. "The sickness is not all physical, though the strain it puts on the body is usually comparable to the strain on the sufferer's mind and spirit. For some, it is nothing more than a few aches and pains, a bit of nausea, while for others...for others it may mean madness or death. Those stricken most harshly are those of the golden thread, who see more clearly and feel more deeply than their fragile bodies can stand, or those who have touched powers older and greater than they are and bear the mark etched deeply within them. This is why only the mortal races are likely to die of it, as they do not have our constitution and our strength of will, like the Vanir or the Jotnar. There is only so much I can do."
"Is he...is he likely to die?"
"I would not say that yet. If he lives through the night, he will be out of danger, at least physically. But he will likely be changed. I will do all I can for his body, but if his mind and spirit has been burnt out there is nothing that can be done for him besides nurse him in his madness. His dreams will be troubled for long after this- perhaps forever, and you may have to hold him down to prevent him from harming himself, at least at first. And he is not to do anything strenuous for at least a fortnight, even if he recovers fully. No hunting, no training, no friendly bouts of sparring, nothing."
"I understand."
"No, I don't think you do. Thor, whatever your intent was, and don't tell me- it is not my place, and the less I know, the better- your shieldbrother has been seriously harmed through your actions and ill-preparedness. The damage done could well be irrevocable, and you must be prepared to take the consequences if it is. You will sit tight and guard the door, and Lofn and I will try to make sure your mortal survives the night and doesn't choke on his own tongue. And Thor? It would be best not to take a mortal through the Bifrost again, at least until you can better control the journey and protect your charge. There is a reason only the Allfather and your lady mother are permitted to supervise diplomatic Bifrost trips."
Thor nodded, bowing his head under her reprimand, and went to guard the door.
The night that followed was possibly the longest of Thor's life, or at least it felt like it, though he knew that time had not halted or paused in her course. Eir and Lofn passed back and forth with ingredients and instruments and mixtures, and the spice of their work filled the air, while thralls rushed in and out at their command. Clint woke more than once, panicked with his dreams, and the second time Thor was permitted to sit with him he recognized him, calling out his name and begging him to tell his commander some urgent secret, only to be dragged down before he could finish choking out the broken words. Thor fretted so much after that that Lofn drove him out, saying that he was worse than Freya's tomcats for being underfoot, and Thor had to wait outside the door for any scrap of news.
And then, as the first light began to spill in the window and Thor's eyelids had begun to droop despite his circling worries, conquered by exhaustion, Lofn came to tell him that Clint's fever had broken.