FYI: This story is set in in a Marvel AU approximately 13 years after the events of Walt Simonson's Thor stories (Thor 337 etc.). It's based pretty closely upon Marvel canon, with the one twist: during Simonson's run, Thor's Don Blake' secret ID is removed from him by Odin, without his consent. In the comics he just acquiesces. This story assumes that no, he didn't; in fact he was VERY annoyed and reacted accordingly. Otherwise I've not bent Marvel canon that much out of shape. If you're a fan, you'll recognise the references.
Rated PG: some comic-book violence, some comic-book horror, a few mild sexual references, nothing explicit. References to deaths of known major characters. No bad language (that I remember).
Disclaimers: Thor, Moondragon, Loki, various other super-powered beings mentioned herein, are the property of Marvel Comics, as is Jane Foster. I have no right to play with them, but I'm doing it anyway; I've got nothing that Marvel could possibly want. Other characters are my own invention and if Marvel want to use Gestalt', they'll have to pay ME royalties, sorry guys but you've got a lot more money than I have :)
Oh, in case you didn't know: yeah, I'm afraid the Thor/Moondragon business IS canonical. It happened in Avengers 220. One of the reasons I wrote this story is that I couldn't believe that even Marvel could do something this crassly stupid and then proceed to ignore it for the rest of time....
The Last Thor Story : a novella in six chapters.
1.
Stella Haraldsson shook her head and turned her back on her husband. For the past ten minutes he had been crashing around throwing junk out of the bedroom closet; he was obviously looking for something, but his only answer to her query was a grunt. He was not normally a talkative man, so she did not realise that anything especially abnormal was going on; he was just being a silly old fool as usual. She shuffled back into the living room and flopped down again in front of the television. Then she saw him - seventy-six years old, in dressing gown and bedroom slippers - heading for the front door and the cold New York night.
"Jon!" she shrieked. "Jon, it's dark out there and it's pouring with rain! Where do you think you're going, Jon? Come back!"
Stella wanted to jump to her feet to stop him, but by the time she had persuaded her arthritic legs to work the door had slammed behind him. "Jon...!" she murmured once again; then she let herself sit down again, heavily, with a little sob of despair. They were too old to be left on their own, her son kept saying. She always shook her head, told him to have some respect; but perhaps he was right. If Jon did not come back quickly he would get hypothermia in the storm out there. She would have to call the police to look for him as if he were a senile old wanderer. For the first time ever Stella feared that that was what her husband had become.
It took several seconds for Mrs. Haraldsson to register what had been most odd about Jon as he left the house. Not his attire; nor even the fact that he had been walking straight with his head high when the collapsed disc in his neck barely allowed him to raise his eyes above floor level. It was what he was holding. Jon had left the house carrying his old carpenter's mallet which had been stashed at the back of the closet since his retirement ten years before.
Fifteen minutes later the most brilliant lightning-flash of the whole wild night carved the sky in two above Jon Haraldsson's head. He stood alone in the centre of a vacant lot not two hundred yards from his home and his hands, holding the mallet, were lifted to the storm. Words tore themselves from his throat; words not spoken in his family in a thousand years. Thunder crashed in reply, echoing around the horizon for many seconds.
The thunderclap rolled into silence; soft rain slowed and stopped. Slowly, Jon lowered his arms. He looked around as far as the pain in his neck allowed him, desperate for landmarks. He had no memory of how he had come to this place, so dark and so wet and so cold. He had only the echo of his own words ringing in his ears: words he had never heard before and could not understand; words which had rung forth in the strong voice of a young man from his own old voice-box, from his own bronchitic lungs. And far away, as if beyond the world's edge, there was something else; yet it was not until the police found him an hour later that Jon placed that distant sound as laughter.
Soon after, though Jon showed no other symptoms of senility, the elderly couple moved to Newark to live with their son. There was no repetition of the events of that night. To both of them, Jon's journey into the storm remained a mystery.
The American doctor attended Sunday evening Mass as he always did. At first Father John McCarthy did not notice anything unusual about him. The doctor, like some other non-Catholics on the station, treated the service as an interval of peace and quiet when he could sit in silence and pray or meditate. He always sat at the back of the room and he never joined in the actions of the service. Instead he sat quietly with his eyes closed; it was often difficult to tell whether he was awake or asleep. But this time the priest realised long before the end of the service that something had changed. The doctor sat tense and rigid in his usual place, his impenetrable blue eyes staring blankly into the distance. What expression there was on his face suggested something not far short of terror.
Father John was alarmed. His primary vocation was to bring help and healing to the local Indians, so reduced in numbers and so impoverished by one of South America's bloodier civil wars; but he never forgot that his co-workers - the lay nursing and medical staff and even the other members of the Order, his fellow priests and brothers - were also members of his parish. If the doctor were in trouble Father John liked to think that he would be able to help. But he also needed to be sure. When Mass was over he removed his vestments and then stood waiting, out of sight inside the converted longhouse's tiny vestry, watching for whatever the other man might do next.
The doctor remained in his seat quite deliberately as the rest of the congregation left the building. He did not move until the last of them had gone. Then he got slowly to his feet, picked up his waterproof poncho and pulled it on. After that he stood for a moment, staring blankly ahead. He shivered visibly, although he had not so much as glanced toward the door, nor at the teeming rainstorm which swept the compound outside the building. He gazed at his hands, shaking his head; then it was as if he reached some decision. He straightened himself, swiftly crossed the hard-packed earth floor and left the chapel.
The priest quietly left the vestry and crossed to the door. Just outside he saw the doctor standing gazing up into the storm, eyes open to the rain. He stood like that for a few seconds; then suddenly he threw off his waterproof and stood unprotected in the downpour, arms upraised. Rainwater plastered his T-shirt to his broad shoulders and sluiced through his yellow hair; it dripped from his long pony-tail onto the small of his back.
After what felt to Father John like half an hour, yet was probably less than half a minute, the doctor relaxed a little. He lowered his arms and shook his head again. Then he walked across the compound toward the whitewashed clinic building. Somewhere above, a flash and the growl of thunder heralded a wild night.
The priest followed. He wished he knew more about the other man; but, like all the mission's religious workers he had had difficulty forming any kind of relationship with him. It was not that the doctor avoided the priests and brothers, but rather that he became inhibited and uncommunicative around them. Even with his medical colleague, Dr. Suarez, he confined his conversation to professional matters; but then, Suarez was also a priest.
All any of them had managed to glean about him was that he had trained in America; at Harvard, no less. He had been a well-regarded general surgeon once upon a time; but ten years before, for reasons of his own, he had decided to leave all that behind. For several years he had been a ship's doctor, working for some of the less prestigious merchant fleets; then he had somehow come into contact with the Order and decided to work for them. Father John had sought in vain for some explanation of this eccentric career. The suggestion that he might be an alcoholic, like so many who had suffered this kind of change of fortune, was simply absurd for one so strong and fit; while the only other common explanation, religious commitment, most definitely did not apply.
He was a brave man; no doubt of that. In his time with the Order he had accepted postings in some of the most dangerous and unstable areas of the world. He had been shot at by Genoshan magistrates, and Shining Path guerillas in Peru had made a determined attempt to kidnap him. On these and several similar occasions, by some miracle, he had escaped virtually unhurt. Yet even after the best part of seven years no-one from the Superior General to the newest scholastic had any idea what it was that drove this man to place himself at such risk.
With many misgivings, completely unable to predict how the man might react to a direct approach, Father John decided that he had to try. It was his job. He had no wish to lose another lay worker; particularly one as talented as Donald Blake.
The priest caught up with his quarry just outside the clinic. he asked. Could I have a word?
Blake paused, though he did not turn to look at the priest. He unlocked the clinic door. I've a couple of minutes before surgery, he said. Come in.
The invitation was not friendly; neither was it overtly hostile. Father John followed the doctor inside. Once the hurricane lamp was lit the consulting room looked almost cosy, despite the syringes and the steriliser and the locked case of bright steel instruments which adorned one wall. The doctor gestured toward the only seat as he used a surgical drape to towel-dry his hair.
The priest remained standing. To sit would have placed him at further disadvantage; the doctor, at 6ft. 7in., already towered over him.
You think I'm in some sort of trouble, don't you? Blake sat down. Then he looked - without embarrassment or inhibition - straight up into Father John's face. There was something in that brilliant blue gaze - a light; a power ferociously suppressed - which the priest found immensely disturbing. The effect was momentary. The doctor looked away, staring instead at the stethoscope and patella hammer which lay upon his desk. He shook his head; then slowly he picked up the first of those instruments and hung it about his neck. You were going to say...? he added.
Father John realised, far too late, that he had misread the situation. Whatever else might be going on, this was not a man in trouble. The doctor gave the impression that he knew exactly what he was doing. Ah, yes, but...
I know you followed me. I don't mind. I also know, after all this time, that I tend to...wear my heart upon my sleeve. Inscrutability is not one of my...talents. I appreciate your concern, Father, but I do not need your help. I simply cannot continue to pretend to be something I am not. Or rather...I can no longer pretend not to be something which I...am.
The priest persisted, though he was more puzzled than ever by the doctor's last statement. The people really appreciate the medical side of our work, Doctor. You know they do. You've done so much for them. It's not as if we were clearing the forests for cattle, or forcing them to grow coca for the cartels... Much as he wished to, he did not add, Unlike most replacements we are likely to get, you are good at your job...
I know. I have no problem with our work here. I have seen many idealistic young workers come; and then go, when they decide we are just another variety of imperialist. I know we are more than that; and I know that these people have little other chance of receiving good medical care. But...things have changed. I have reached the end of my time here. If I do not go now it will be too late.
If it's your family, you can take as much leave as you like. You don't have to quit. Take three months. Even six. Sort things out, then you could come back.
Thank you for the offer, but I cannot. It's not family. As I told your superior before I accepted the post, I have no family. Not any more. But I know I have things to do, away from here. Suarez can cope until you find a replacement. I have to go.
Is there anything I can do? You'll need to arrange transport, that kind of thing.
I will see to my own transportation, Father. I'm sorry. I have made up my mind.
The priest conceded defeat. The two men exchanged a few polite pleasantries; then the first patient arrived. Blake greeted her fluently in the local language, giving no further attention to the priest. Father John had no choice. He left the doctor to get on with his work.
Two hours later the surgery finished. Dr. Blake doused the lamps, locked up and walked across the compound to his hut. Although his body did not tire easily, in spirit he felt weary to the bone; but he did not go to bed. Instead he pulled a small trunk from the storage alcove; then he fished inside his still damp clothing for the chain on which he kept his keys. Inside the trunk was an old black leather bag, like the bag of any doctor in general practice. This, like the trunk, he unlocked with a key from his neck-chain.
It is time, he murmured aloud. He rested his hands on the fastening of the bag for a moment, as if half afraid to open it. He lifted his head, squared his shoulders. Then came the moment of no return. He flung wide the mouth of the bag and reached within to withdraw a bundle wrapped in red silk.
The contents of the bundle glowed faintly; either that, or the doctor's face acquired a sudden inner light. Oh, I have missed you, he murmured; it was as if he addressed a sentient being other than himself. I did not know how much. He parted the silken covering and drew forth the object that reposed within.
For a minute and more he gazed upon it: upon the reality whose image always interposed itself between his eyes and any strange altar. Ten years it was since he had last set eye or hand upon it; ten years since the War and the world's ending and the death of all his kin. Ten years since he had lost his father, in truth this time and not in seeming; for his exile had ended only with that death. Late had he come to the final battlefield, and there he had closed his Lord's dead eyes. But late in time someone had called to him; and so she called to him. Mjolnir's name rang in his mind; the Hammer leaped in his hand; the thunder and the lightning overhead cried out once more to their rightful lord. Whatever the future might hold, whatever might come to pass, he remained Thor Odinsson; and he was still worthy.
The storm raged with the coming of midnight; and those who, seeing his dwelling struck by the fire from heaven, sought to rescue their taciturn doctor, found his ruined home deserted and his few belongings scattered.
In the House of Solitude, far beyond the fields we know, a dark figure gazed into the Fire of Vision, striving for the perfection which her teacher demanded. The Fire was one of the more difficult scrying-tools to master, he had said; yet he had been delighted with her progress and she yearned to please him by putting his lessons to use.
At last she struck the right degree of concentration. At its very heart, the fire calmed; it formed first a lazy spiral, then a smooth surface which flowed ever outward from its centre to become a shining pool of reddish-orange, a mirror of burnished copper. In that mirror images danced. As the girl's meditation deepened these images became more sharp; they were bright and distant, yet absolutely clear. The apprentice knew at once that she had succeeded. There, in the very centre of the mirror, was her quarry, the one she hated. And the mirror obeyed her. It showed her the past; and that past replayed itself as her master had revealed it to her, as it had happened upon that day of shame, that day when, she knew not how long ago, she had been conceived.
The green-clad woman was her mother, the apprentice knew. It was not the first time nor the second that she had viewed the scene, yet she could not stifle a cry as she watched, helpless: the beating, the tearing of clothes, the mad face of her father, the rapist. There too was the broken figure of the one who had become her true father and her teacher; struck down from behind, he had been unable to defend the woman from the madman's attack.
The act complete, the man made his escape, believing his victims dead. Yet had this been the case, the apprentice knew, she would never have been born. Instead, the couple revived within a few moments of one another. While their lives continued, they had been destroyed. The man had possessed the means to spirit her from that terrible place and grant her shelter until her child was born, but the woman had never recovered from the assault. Insane, wandering, capable neither of speech nor of caring for her baby, she had been impossible to guard for ever. In the end, the madman had found her. Knowing what she could tell should she ever recover her wits, he had recruited a circle of evil sorcerers to dispatch her for ever into darkness as a sacrifice to their wicked gods. The Fire had granted that foul sight to the apprentice as well, in days gone by; that sacrifice by sword and flame, carried out by beings who themselves burned like demons. The apprentice would never seek that vision again; she had no need. The memory would ever be with her. Soon her foster-father would send her to wreak her justified revenge. He had planned it so that it could not fail; and joyfully she would carry out the task. He had said that the time was near.
From the shadows of the Fire-temple another figure watched, adding further satisfaction to that which he already felt at his day's work. The sorcerer regarded his protegée's ability with something like awe. She was almost as good as himself; in the future she might even be more. But until that day came he knew that he was safe. The Fire showed, as it always did, exactly what he caused it to show: nothing more and nothing less. If she lived she would be more than he, and all would be revealed; but his apprentice, his foster-daughter, would not see that day. He knew that he was safe.
So when did you get back? Even now, almost a day after his arrival, Tony Stark could barely believe he was talking to his old friend in the flesh. How many years since they had met face to face? Since then there had been a few letters; one or two emails written on borrowed equipment; all from places in the back of beyond. He smiled. Thor looked well; he appeared relaxed and confident as he sat and drank his coffee, a different person from the bereaved and broken man Tony remembered from their last encounter. The casual clothing suited him. He had even acquired a sun-tan; something Tony had not known was possible.
Just before I rang you last night. Short of going to the YMCA, I had little choice. I don't know who is with the Avengers these days, nor if they would welcome me to their dwelling. In fact, I don't even know if there is an Avengers any more. And hotels are, well...
You're broke. Tony Stark could not help it; the idea was too bizarre. He grinned at his friend.
Almost. But not for long, Tony. I have had a successful day. The medical staff agency was very helpful. I start work tonight.
Don't worry about it. I meant what I said, last night when you arrived. You can stay as long as you like. This place is far too big for one person, really.
The penthouse apartment was silent for a moment. Late afternoon sunlight made rainbow pools on the parquet floor, refracted by raindrops which still clung to the glass from the morning's storm. Thor had arrived back in New York to appropriate weather; a circumstance which he had assured his friend was purely coincidental. Neither man wished to comment further on the former Iron Man's last remark. Tony Stark, rich, brilliant, alcoholic, had had many affairs but no success in long-term relationships. Now more than fifty years old, he had resigned himself, unwillingly, to childlessness and bachelorhood. He and Thor, still, after all the years that had gone by, understanding one another perfectly, conspired in silence to let the moment pass.
Thor drained his coffee cup. That was excellent, Tony. The best cup of coffee I have had in ten years, I swear...
So let's hear it. You promised that when we had time to talk you would tell me what has brought you back. I'm glad to see you, you can't know how glad; but after what happened I didn't expect...
Uh, well...I have a career on hold...
Yes, Tony. Stark, Thor thought, was altogether too perceptive. Sorry. Habit. I am back...because I was, well, summoned. I do not know by whom, nor why; simply that the summoner was here, in New York. I could no more resist than I could cease to be who I am through sheer willpower. Straight away I found I could no longer continue a charade...which I had forgotten was a charade. Now I'm here I can do nothing but wait.
Ah...You're looking for a sign! Tony grinned again; then the expression froze. He felt foolish. Such flippancy was entirely misplaced, he could tell from Thor's face.
Those from whom I might have expected such a thing are gone, my friend. They cannot call to me from Hela's halls. And who else would stoop to grant omens to one such as I?
Tony Stark could think of nothing to say.
Thor continued. So as I said, all I can do is wait, however long it takes. That is why I thought I should find work. The call has faded as though it had never been. All I know is that it happened...
Once again there was silence. Outside the great window of the apartment's living room many small grey clouds hurried across the pale sky, like a stampede of dirty sheep. The wind was fierce at this height. Thor's occult senses told him more rain was heading their way. It would be stormy again ere long, without any interference from him.
Tony Stark spoke again, slowly, picking his words. I don't know what...Is there no-one you can ask? What of...ah...
Of Asgard? After Ragnarok? There were survivors, true. Balder and his few companions, and their children. They live in a keep in the land of the Norns, where Karnilla grants her lover refuge. You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?
Tony Stark shook his head slowly. Despite himself he was fascinated. Thor had seldom spoken freely about his homeland in the old days; and this was the first time he had so much as mentioned it to any of his old friends since the disaster.
Karnilla is a witch; beautiful and amoral, the way witches are supposed to be. I think Balder truly loves her; but they have a miserable life compared to the glories of the ancient court. Ragnarok was not as the Eddas describe; and nor is its aftermath. Those prophecies were written down too late in time. They speak of a new heaven, of a new Asgard raised from the rubble of the old; but the skalds who wrote of it were each and every one of them Christians. They made our future in their own image...
Tony Stark raised both eyebrows.
Thor shifted in his seat. Do you think I don't know what it says in the Bible, Tony? he said quietly. That's where the idea came from. Those old stories have nothing to do with my poor people. Whatever Odin once had us believe. It is nothing like that.
Then what... Tony wanted to change the subject; he did not like the dull note, like resignation, which he detected in his friend's voice. But he sensed there were things which the thunder god needed to say. You said there were survivors, that they had a King...
Oh, no. Balder leads them, but he does not call himself King. He cannot. The Power did not come upon him when Odin died, any more than it came upon me. That Power cannot be destroyed. Its Source lies beyond all worldly knowledge and it cannot be spoken of without blasphemy. Thor grimaced. Or at least, that is what my father taught me. Yet I know Odin did not simply return his Power to the Source, for only his personal enchantments died with him. His greater magics, forged by the Power, still hold. He did not send it forth from the world; he concealed it, in some place far beyond my knowledge. And so I sought to lose myself amid the toils of Midgard. But it is not possible. It never was. This summoning', if such it is, is just a reminder of this fact.
Tony Stark gazed at his friend in wonder. He had known the thunder god for many years: since the very foundation of the Avengers. He and Thor had supported one another through so many personal and public disasters that each owed the other more than could ever be repaid; though, being friends, neither of them kept account. Despite all he knew in theory, it was immensely hard for Tony Stark to think of his friend as anything but another man. True, he had extraordinary abilities; but the former Iron Man knew so many people with such abilities. This talk of Powers and Sources made his head spin.
Tony could not in the end trust himself to comment. That's a long speech for you, my friend. This business has reopened old wounds. Am I right?
Thor got up from his seat and stood before the window, hammer in hand. The sky was darkening from the west. The storm was almost upon them. On an impulse, Thor reached out the limbs of his mind to it to deflect it from its course. As on the previous day when he had called the storm to take him from the mission compound, he found it almost extraordinary that his power still held. The western sky brightened a little. It has come upon me so suddenly...And, to return to your question, there is no-one among the orphans of Asgard who might seek out the source of my call. None of them have such skill. Our diviners were Odin and Loki; and it is years now since I kindled their funeral pyres. Balder would tell me to ask Karnilla, but I would trust a hyaena before I would trust that one.
Love is beyond all reason, as we both know...I left because I could not live in that place, under the patronage of that woman. I know too much about her; and I have made such errors before, in the dim past. For all that I have thought to return, more than once; yet I know I would feel the intruder. After Ragnarok, none knew how to speak to me, the heir whose father's power was withheld from him. They were puzzled and ashamed for me, and they avoided my presence. I am certain none of them was responsible for this.
It has been a long time coming. Perhaps you simply couldn't stand to be without your powers any longer.
My own mind may have done this? It's certainly possible, Tony. Meanwhile I shall wait, and see. Nothing may happen. But truly, I doubt it.
Tony looked on as his friend turned from watching the weather. As Thor stood with his back to the window the sky began to clear and the sun shone. It cast the thunder god's face into shadow and turned his golden hair into an aureole about his head. For a moment even Tony Stark found it hard to believe that this exile of another realm could be as full of doubt as any human; yet he knew Thor far too well to believe such nonsense. While he was no longer in the state of shock in which he had first decided to forswear the use of his powers, the man was still haunted. The appearance of optimism, the rediscovered self-confidence, was just a front. Tony wondered if his friend would ever truly heal.
So...Will you continue to live as Blake for now?
Yes. Until I have reason to do anything else. It has served me for thirteen years or more; ever since I turned my back on Odin and he on me. It's convenient. My passport and identity papers, the medical license, the little bureaucratic details of my life, are all in that name. Nick Fury's work, of course. I heard he retired. I must pay him a visit; I owe him much.
I'm sure he'd like that...You haven't decided to re-register as Odinsson, then? After all, they know already. It would be a mere formality...
Tony, I don't think so...
Tony Stark was cheered to see his friend's grin at this suggestion. It was the first time since his arrival that Thor had smiled.
At five p.m. Thor decided that he had to ready himself for his night shift. The medical staff agency always had more vacancies on its books than it could hope to fill. Once they had verified his identity it had taken them less than half an hour to find him three weeks' locum work in the emergency room of the County Hospital, to cover for the resident, Frank Steadman, who had broken a leg playing football. Dr. Blake' had become well accustomed over the years to dealing with new people and new and strange situations; to work in the most unlikely and alarming of conditions. To work in an American emergency room, for all it was not in a hospital where he had worked before, was practically to return home. As he bathed and dressed in the clothes he had bought with the last of his savings that morning, he looked forward to the night.
The apprentice answered her master's summons. He, her teacher, had called; and she as ever would obey. She found him sitting in the Fire-temple observing events on earth; but as soon as she entered the Hall of Vision he turned from his scrying and allowed the flame to burn free. The apprentice waited patiently for his attention. As she watched, her master, her foster-father, stood; and there was a strange light in his eyes.
Do you trust me, child?
Father, as ever I trust you with my life.
Then come. It is time. The sorcerer smiled. He was delighted by the anticipation he read upon his apprentice's face. He had trained her well; she would do his bidding freely and with joy.
Together they left the Temple. The House was well defended against intrusion. There was only one Gate; one way in or out. The Lord of the stronghold thought the security his occult defences provided well worth the minor inconvenience they caused. Master and apprentice climbed the Highest Stair to the Hall of Magicks. There, the sorcerer bade his foster-daughter stand within the Circle of the Barbarous Names. She obeyed, suppressing the questions which rose unbidden to her lips. She watched from within the sacred precinct as her master raised his arms above his head and called upon the Powers.
Immediately the apprentice felt her form dissolving, awareness slipping away. Almost she cried out to protest against this abrupt sending, for she realised in that final moment that her master did not intend to tell her anything more. But she had told the truth; she trusted him; and she kept her counsel as his potent magicks enfolded her being and stripped from her the only world she knew.
Thor had worked in the Third World for the best part of ten years, so he expected to find equipment in the emergency room that he had never seen before and other items which he had forgotten how to use. He expected pitying looks from the nurses as he struggled with the high-tech skills he had not practised for so long. He expected blood, grief, drunks, trauma, psychiatric cases and no time for a meal break. All these things he, as a professional, could and would cope with.
As he said to Tony later, what he should have remembered was that in this job, he should always expect the unexpected.
In the early part of the night, as he strove to get to grips with the environment and the very different nature of the work from that of the bush clinics, he caught the department's head nurse staring at him on several occasions. One of the interns told him all about her. Her name was Shirley Baxter and the Emergency Room was her kingdom. She liked order, calm and efficiency in her subjects. Thor assumed that her glances at him indicated disapproval at the invasion of her domain by a locum who must seem to her no more than marginally competent. He assumed that the only way to win her over would be to acclimatise himself rapidly and earn her respect.
Shirley said very little to him over the first few hours of the shift. She greeted him and ensured she had his name right. She called him to see patients and just about managed to avoid giving the impression that she was supervising him. Once, very politely but in a manner which suggested that he had damned well better know next time, she showed him how to operate some long-forgotten equipment. Not many Third World clinics possessed blood gas analysis facilities.
Until three a.m. that was all the contact Thor had with her. Then the department fell quiet. Most bars had closed and the drunks had all gone home. Traffic was quietening down and even the criminals had decided it was bedtime. There were still patients lying on gurneys waiting for beds, but there was nothing going on in the ER that the interns could not handle. Thor decided to get something to eat; but as he approached the door of the staff room he heard the head nurse call to him.
She did not sound pleased. Dr. Blake! Blake! I want a word with you!
Thor turned and saw Shirley pounding along the corridor, a scowl disfiguring her striking half-caste features. She was five feet tall wearing heels, almost two feet shorter than he was; but her manner more than made up for her lack of inches. It was obvious why most people in the emergency room - and especially the interns - were terrified of her.
Doctor Donald Blake. Shirley's black eyes flashed upward with the appearance of divine wrath. A word. In my office. Now. Not for a moment did she believe that he would not obey her. With a peremptory beckoning gesture she walked away and slammed into a room on the left-hand side of the corridor.
Thor stood nonplussed for a moment. He could not think what might have provoked this outburst. However rusty he might be in some ways, he had caused no disasters; he had done his job, even if he had not done it brilliantly. But even if it were only a case of night shift caffeine overdose, in his current position he felt that he could do little but comply. This was not his department; there was nothing to be gained and much to be lost by a heavy doctor' act. It would make his job impossible for the next three weeks and it might make that of his injured colleague more difficult in the future. He followed Shirley through the door.
The head nurse was seated at her desk. Thor paused in surprise; the office was not at all what he would have expected from the nurse's volatile public demeanour. The floor was covered with a Chinese rug in shades of mint-green, grey and pink; the remainder of the decor echoed these soothing pastels in a fashion which was both cool and feminine. On a bookshelf behind the desk stood a coffee machine; also statuettes and tribal masks, recognisably Yoruba work, indicating an interest on the nurse's behalf in her African roots. The wall above the shelf displayed several frames containing not school and college certificates but photographs; professional quality photographs evidently culled from some newspaper's files. They all showed superheroes; some depicted in violent action, others in posed publicity shots. These included, right above Shirley's head as she sat at the desk, a portrait study of Thor himself. Slowly, taking all this in, he crossed the room.
To his surprise, Shirley smiled at him. Take a seat, she said.
Thor sat down.
I owe you an apology, Doctor.
Thor thought that indeed she did, but it would have been impolitic to say as much just yet.
I...uh, have developed a style for myself. You may have heard. There is something I have to talk to you about, but it's not quite... One of the snottiest nursing students in the department was right behind me. I thought I had better keep up appearances...Well, there it is. Childish, I know. I hope you'll forgive me.
said Thor. He thought that perhaps he should have been annoyed; instead he had to suppress a laugh. Hospital political games, on however minor a level, had not changed in his absence. What was the problem?
Well, Doctor...Don. I hope I may call you that...Let's put it this way. I believe in honesty and trust between co-workers; don't you?
Ye-es. Within reason I do... Thor felt a touch of unease. Not wishing to meet the nurse's eye he looked instead at the top of her desk, taking in for the first time the things which stood on it. There was a personal computer as well as a pad of blotting-paper and some conventional writing implements; and there was a framed photograph, so arranged that he could see the picture. It showed a middle-aged couple of mixed race and two beautiful teenage girls who had to be their daughters. One of the daughters bore an uncanny resemblance to Shirley Baxter. And the lined and careworn face of the man in the picture was perfectly familiar to Thor. He placed it and looked up, amazed, just as the nurse began to speak again.
I didn't mean to bring that up, but I guess it's as good a start as any...Don, you know that man, don't you? Don't deny it. I saw your face.
Yes. Yes, Shirley, I know him. Now Thor felt real anger, but he suppressed it firmly. Losing his temper had got him into too much trouble in the past. It was, he hoped, no longer something he did. None the less, his voice was tight as he continued. A relative of yours, is he?
Yes, he certainly is. Don, my real name is Shirley Hobbs Baxter. She raised her left hand, and for the first time Thor took in the wedding band on the third finger. That photo shows my mom and me and my sister Angela; and my dad. I know you've met my father Harris...He took that photograph. Shirley indicated the portrait of Thor, above her head. Do you remember...Don?
Thor shrugged faintly. He felt trapped. Above all, he could not imagine what this woman might want. Finally it came out. I remember. I also remember Harris swearing himself to silence. His last experience of tangling with my...family was almost enough for him. It was quite difficult to persuade him to help me after that.
Oh, Don, you've got me all wrong...I'm not some super-menace. I'm just Shirley Baxter, failed med student turned head nurse of the ER night shift, and I believe in honesty between co-workers. Also, you might think that if I wanted a public confrontation, I picked a strange place for it. If I wanted this spread around I would have used the staff room. Anything heard in there is round the hospital at the speed of light. This office is private, Don. Nobody comes in here unless I ask them. I need that much, in this job. And...Harris is my father. He had a terrible experience. He lost two colleagues and it was your father's fault. I know it wasn't your fault; Dad said you were as shocked as anyone; but still...How could you expect him not to tell anyone, not ever, not even his closest family? It wouldn't be...human to expect that. And I'm prepared to believe, with my father I might tell you, that whatever else you are, you are a compassionate...person. Surely you can understand.
Yes. I understand. Shirley...I can't do anything to put things right. All I can do is tell you that my father paid the price for his...miscalculation. Oh yes, he paid. Thor paused. It was his turn. He died ten years ago. Along with the rest of my family.
The nurse's face paled beneath her colouring. I didn't know. How could I...
You could not. It was three years after the last time I saw your father. There was a war; it happened...elsewhere. Most of my people died. That's why I dropped out of sight for so long. And it is part of the reason I am here now, if you want to know...
Don, I...
Forget it, Shirley. It's an old, sad story...like your father's fate. Now I know who you are...well, you had the right to ask. And I do understand why Harris told you. I don't suppose he expected you to end up working with me.
Hardly. But Don...even if I had known I might have done the same thing. I have my own rules. By them, it just wouldn't have been right for me to work with you - and it could be several weeks before Frank Steadman is fit for duty, I've heard - without telling you what I know. And it won't go any further, you have my solemn word on that. If anyone else finds out, it won't be from me. Or from Dad.
How is he? Thor relaxed a little. It's been years...
He told me about that as well. When he went with you and the others to the A.M.A. That must have been a bizarre interview...
It was. I don't think the Governing Council knew quite what had hit them, particularly when Nick Fury got going...He blew cigar smoke in the Chairman's face at one point. I thought we would all get thrown out...Harris's photographic evidence was vital. I don't believe they would have allowed me to reactivate Blake's registration without it.
Ah yes...the photographs. He always seemed a bit guilty about keeping them.
One time we met, he swore that he had destroyed the pictures. I have reason now to be grateful to his newsman's devious mind. What he told me was the literal truth; he did indeed destroy the pictures. But he kept the negatives, locked away in his safe deposit box. I am more thankful than I can say that he did so...
Shirley laughed merrily. That is just Dad all over! But... She became solemn again. Shortly after that interview he took early retirement. He's only sixty now, but he was never the same...You might have noticed last time. He lost some vital spark. He spends most of his time gardening and watching football, does a bit of painting. Even sold a couple; I keep telling him he should take it more seriously, but he doesn't seem to have the energy.
"When you see him...Tell him I think of him. Tell him...he has been a better friend to me than he can possibly know."
"I will...Don. You know, I think he'll like that. I think he'll like it a great deal. Now...Would you like some coffee? I left Pam Sheridan in charge. She'll page us if we're needed."
"I would, thanks."
They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes. Thor contemplated an unique situation. For the first time in his earthly career somebody had revealed that they knew precisely who he was, without any sign of wanting something or of attempting to threaten him. He discovered that he had no idea how to react.
"Don? Do you have it with you? May I see it?"
"Huh?" Thor roused himself from his reverie. "Do I have what, Shirley?"
He looked so baffled that it was all the nurse could do not to laugh. "Your hammer...Don. May I see it?"
In the circumstances, it would have been churlish in the extreme to refuse her request. "...Yes. Wait a moment."
Thor went to the men's locker room and returned with his briefcase. He opened it and extracted the silken bundle which concealed Mjolnir; then he unwrapped the hammer and placed it on the head nurse's desk. "You can't hold it," he explained. "It is far too heavy. But you may touch it if you wish."
Shirley placed her hand upon the hammer's head with extreme gentleness, as though handling eggs. "It isn't like stone or metal at all," she said. Her voice trembled a little. "It's warm. I can feel something, Don. Some power." She paled again and moved her hand away hurriedly. "Wow. Don, that's...I could feel a great power beating just beneath the surface, like a vast heart..." She sat for a moment staring, her mouth open. Just for once, Shirley Baxter was speechless.
Thor looked at her for a moment. Then he made a decision. This woman had the right; more so than most people. "Would you like to see what this 'power' can do?" he asked.
"Oh, yes...!"
"I do not do this lightly," Thor said. "But the night is windy and cold and the rain is pouring down. Many would be grateful if it were to...moderate." He stood and turned to the window, where both of them could see belated passers-by in the road a floor below struggling against the unpleasant March weather.
Shirley switched the light off and joined him just in time to see a vortex of cloud form far above the city. Thor raised the hammer above his head. Mjolnir glowed with a soft flickering aura, as if a storm struggled to escape from within it. Sheet lightning flashed and illumined the entire sky; thunder rolled; wind blew so strongly that the casement rattled. The rain lashed down for a moment in the wake of the gust; and then it was over. The clouds parted; the rain stopped; the moon shone down on the newly quiet night.
"Oh!" Shirley opened her mouth and closed it again; then, as Thor lowered his hammer and the wind died down outside, she said, "Oh!" again. Then she could do no more. She gazed at the man beside her. His surgical scrubs were rumpled and stained with blood or something worse; his ponytail was years out of fashion and made him look like some middle-aged hippie; yet the hammer in his hands still shone with a sourceless light which his face reflected and even amplified. His eyes gazed into hers across a gulf of strangeness and of more years than she could fathom; for a moment she could not remember how she had ever thought him human.
Yet as 'Dr. Blake', he was unassuming, even diffident. No wonder nobody recognised him. Shirley Baxter just stared.
"Don't be afraid, Shirley. You wanted to see; and now you do. Donald Blake used to be another body, a shell; now he is merely another name and a disguise. This is what I am."
Still awestruck, Shirley Baxter stepped forward. Thor saw straight away that she was about to fall upon her knees. He put out a hand gently to prevent her. Once, like all his race, he had been young and foolish enough to enjoy this reaction. Nowadays it appalled him.
"But you are...you are..." Shirley said.
"I am Thor, born a prince and now an exile of dead Asgard. And...I am your fellow worker, and your equal, in this place. Never forget that. I no longer look for worship. From anyone; and from you and your colleagues least of all. Consider only this..." He looked into her eyes again and was pleased that this time she did not flinch away. "Could you ever work with me again if you knelt before me now? You could not. And you must not do it. You have not told me his name, Shirley, but I know who your God is. And it is not the Thunderer. Is it?"
"No." The nurse's voice was tiny but firm enough. "Sorry. I just...I mean...I've heard so much about you, from Dad and from the papers...about your doings with the Avengers and all that, years ago. I'm still used to thinking of you as a superhero. A costumed crime-fighter. Back then we seemed to need more every year, things got so much more dangerous every year...You were just one more. But it's quite different when you're actually confronted..." Shirley went back to her desk and sat down heavily. She shivered. "I thought you were a superhero..." she murmured.
"Yes," Thor said, though he spoke to himself as much as to the nurse. "There are very few people who willingly believe anything else."
Just then, an alarm sounded over the tannoy which connected the head nurse's office to the rest of the department. Some spell was broken. Thor and Shirley Baxter looked at each other. "Code blue," the nurse said.
"One moment." Thor placed his hammer back in its case. "Once, as your father will have told you, I had to take on quite a different appearance to treat a casualty. In those days, when I wore this body I wore Thor's fighting costume as well. It wouldn't have done to turn up to an arrest like that..."
"No, I suppose it wouldn't!"
They left the room and walked toward the resuscitation suite. "It wouldn't," Thor continued, "Mostly because it would have caused a sensation. But I used to have nightmares about that."
"Nightmares?!" After the display she had just witnessed, Shirley Baxter could not have been more astonished if Don - Thor - had told her he suffered from athlete's foot.
"Yes. I several times dreamed that I was walking down the street - costumed as Thor, with hammer and helmet - when an accident or sudden illness overcame someone nearby; and that I pushed my way through the crowd, still as Thor, saying, 'Let me through! I'm a doctor...'." Thor grinned at his companion.
Shirley said, "Good grief!" Then she burst out laughing. By the time they reached the casualty reception area nurse and doctor were quite at ease with each other again.
The resuscitation suite was in a state of controlled chaos, though as yet there was no patient. He, or she, was on his way in by ambulance and the paramedics had called ahead for preparations to be made. Several nurses were already at work. Drugs were drawn up, intravenous infusions were run through and the crash cart was ready. Thor checked over everything as much for the sake of his own reorientation as anything else. It was years since he had led an arrest team at a western hospital. He knew he had to trust the staff to do it right.
"What have we got?" he asked of no-one in particular.
"Young woman with an M.I." A staff nurse gave him the information. "Picked up five minutes ago. Having arrhythmias. They've given morphine and lidocaine IV push as per protocol, and she's so rocky that they thought they should call her in. Should be here any second."
"Right."
A siren became audible in the distance, approaching rapidly. Moments later the ambulance screeched to a halt at the entrance. A paramedic jumped out, shouting for help. "Gimme a hand here, guys! She's arrested!"
Nursing staff moved forward and in moments the limp form of the casualty was manhandled onto a gurney and wheeled through into the resuscitation area. Thor asked Shirley to continue CPR while he checked out the IV line the paramedics had inserted. An intern breathed for the patient with an oxygen bag and mask.
Someone attached the casualty to a cardiac monitor. A nurse squinted at the trace. "Asystole," she said.
The words came into his head from some long-forgotten textbook. "Epinephrine one milligram IV push," Thor said without looking up. Someone passed him a syringe from the crash cart. Checking quickly that it was the drug he had ordered, he injected it directly into the intravenous line; then he attached one of the prepared infusion sets and switched it full on, to flush the drug into the patient's system. Shirley continued cardiac compressions. Thor allowed one minute of CPR and then ordered the nurse to stop so he could check the heart rhythm. "Fine VF. Epinephrine again," he said.
He allowed a further two minutes of CPR. "Hold up," he said. Shirley stopped compressions. "Coarse VF; great. Charge the paddles," Thor said.
The nurse restarted compressions while the defibrillator was prepared. Thor took the paddles from the nurse behind him and placed them on the patient's chest, mildly surprised even as he did so that he remembered the routine. "Clear," he said; then he delivered the shock.
"We've got a rhythm!" somebody shouted.
The resuscitation had been straightforward enough for a medical soap-opera; so perhaps, Thor thought, it was not surprising that it sounded like one as well. He looked at the monitor. "Sinus, yet. Good work, everyone. How's she doing up top?"
"She's breathing!" exclaimed the intern at the patient's head. "She just took a breath, Dr. Blake. I think she's coming round."
"Great...Anyone know who she is?" Thor asked.
One of the ambulance crew produced a purse belonging to the patient. "She's Sophie Douglas, of Freetown, New Jersey. Here's her ID and driver's license, and her Blue Cross insurance. Bit of money, nothing much. VISA and AMEX, though. And a Filofax. She just collapsed in the street...
Someone in the background muttered, "At three-thirty a.m.?"
"...nobody with her."
"Anything on next of kin? asked Shirley Baxter.
"Just an aunt - in England, yet. It says to contact her college in any emergency. She's at some little community college in Freetown."
"That'll have to wait until morning, then. CCU staff can do it. All right..."
She was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the other nurses. "Hey, you guys...Just how the heck old is this girl? She's just a kid!"
Thor looked at his patient for the first time as a living being. He took in the appearance of the heart-attack victim lying there: her aristocratic young face, which would have been beautiful in health, grey with shock; her white-blonde hair thick about her head; the unspoiled youthfulness of her body, despite the battering it had received from the resuscitation. He took the ID card from the ambulance technician's hand and looked at it; and he could hardly believe what he saw. "This woman," he said. "This heart case. She's less than twenty years old..."
An hour later Sophie Douglas, semi-conscious but stabilised, had been examined by the medical resident and transferred to CCU. The most junior of the nurses had been left, as usual, to tidy up; and nothing else was happening. Thor, along with Shirley Baxter, wandered to the staff room, looking for something to eat.
"I hate that sort of thing," the nurse said, "When it happens to kids."
"Yes, but she should be OK. I don't think I have ever seen such an easy resuscitation. It was like something out of a textbook."
"I suppose. That's fine until you contemplate being a cardiac cripple at nineteen."
"Mm. I think I'll go up and see her. At the end of the shift. I like to keep in touch." Thor was mildly surprised at his own words; somehow, the white lie had come so easily to him. He had never thought it was a good idea to check up on patients when working in an ER. It could look like interference in the work of the receiving medical team. But he would go up. For some reason, he felt a need to see Sophie Douglas when she was fully conscious; and he had learned, from long experience, that when he had a feeling of this kind it was as well to follow its direction.
They sat and drank coffee for a few minutes. Then Shirley Baxter noticed something. She looked around to ensure they were alone in the room, then she said, "Don? Where's your case? You left...it in there, didn't you?"
"I must have left it in your office. I'll go put it back in my locker."
"You should be more careful with that, Don. I mean...What if one of the orderlies got hold of it?"
"It wouldn't matter." Thor stood and moved toward the door. "It wouldn't do them any good," he said, more than a little sadly. "It is...mine, you know."
At the end of the shift Thor was as good as his word. Before departing for Tony's apartment, he took the elevator up two floors to the coronary care unit, to visit Sophie Douglas.
The charge nurse showed him into a single cubicle. The girl who lay in the bed was so pale that her face might have been a charcoal sketch on the white pillow. Thor took in the high cheekbones, the jawline which was just a little too square and too strong for femininity, the long straight nose, the extraordinary pale hair. She was very beautiful still, despite the stigmata of sickness upon her face and the dark circles which surrounded her closed eyes. Moved by pity, he crossed to the bed and stood beside her. He saw that his timing had been perfect. As he looked down on her Sophie moved her head a little, opened her eyes and gazed at him.
Her eyes were blue-grey, like the sky in a summer storm. Thor could not understand their expression, nor the gasp which the girl gave as she focussed upon him: there was, just for a moment, fear there; and something which might have been recognition. But before he could speak, she changed; suddenly there was only blankness, followed by puzzlement.
"Who are you?" Sophie asked. "And...I don't know where I am. Please tell me what's happening...?"
"It's all right, Sophie. You've been taken ill. You're in hospital. I'm one of the doctors. You're going to be okay."
"Hospital...doctor...Ah. I see." Sophie lifted a hand, rubbed her chest above the neckline of her hospital nightgown. "I feel as though a truck's parked on me," she said. "Bruised. Sore deep inside. Has someone been pounding my chest or something?"
"Yes. But as I said, you're over the worst and you're going to be all right."
Sophie was silent for a moment. Thor was ashamed of his words almost as soon as he had said them; this girl was evidently no fool and she would be well within her rights if she thought he was patronising her. But when she spoke again, it was not to deliver a rebuke. "I remember you, don't I?" she asked.
"You do?"
"Yes, I think so...It's coming back now. There was a pain. I felt weak and fell over. Then the ambulance came. They picked me up and gave me some stuff, painkiller stuff. Then I passed out, just as we were getting to the hospital. I don't remember much else until I woke up here. But...You were there, weren't you? Or at least, I think it was you."
"When, Sophie? I'm Don, by the way. Don Blake."
"Well, doctor...Don. I think it was when we came into the hospital, just at the entrance. That's strange, though, because I was right out then, wasn't I?"
"You seemed to be, yes..."
"I'm sure I saw you. At least, as I said, I think it was you. You were shining. And your clothing...your hair...there was something different. You were shining, glowing...there was such power in you, so bright. I thought that you must have come to save me, that I had to be all right because your power would heal me...I'm talking rubbish, aren't I?"
"I don't know," Thor said slowly, more astonished than he dared admit. He felt a chill. He had been right to come; though this revelation, that the girl had, in the midst of a cardiac arrest, had a vision of his true self, was far more baffling than enlightening. "I have heard of people seeing strange things in those circumstances. It doesn't mean you're crazy; such experiences are actually quite common. You're right in one way. I was there. But I'm...just a doctor. As you can see."
"Yes...of course..." Sophie smiled faintly. "Look, I'm tired now. Need to sleep. Come back some other time, eh?"
The girl's eyes closed. As soon as he was sure she was asleep, Thor left the room.
At about the time Thor went home that morning a woman in early middle age sat at a table in a coffee bar at New York's Kennedy Airport. She was small and slim, with long red hair which, as yet, showed only a little grey; though more grey showed in the six inches of hair toward the roots than was visible on the rest of her head. The hair was left unstyled, hanging loose down her back almost to her waist. She wore no make-up; her complexion was the redhead's freckled pink and white; her face was small and heart-shaped with a short, uptilted nose; her eyes were green. She wore faded blue denims, a purple T-shirt and a black cotton blouson jacket; casual to the point of scruffiness, her clothes were all noticeably at least a size too large. A casual observer might have thought her quite attractive, though uncared-for; an artist or photographer, one accustomed to careful observation, might have noticed that in reality, her face held a once outstanding beauty behind prison bars of frown and worry-lines. Such a one might also have noticed the rigidity with which she held herself; the fine tremor of her small-boned hands.
As she drank her coffee the woman looked through a Filofax and contemplated addresses.
"I think it will have to be Katrina," she muttered to herself. That would be best. Debbie Maxwell, née Solomon, was really the one she was closest to of those friends of hers who lived in Britain, but Debbie had three children, an unemployed husband and no money. It was not likely that she would be able to stay there for long without causing major problems for the household. Katrina, Lady de Betancourt, was legally separated from her adulterous husband. She had also received a large financial settlement in return for her agreement to wait for the required time to pass for the divorce to be granted on grounds of separation; her husband would have done almost anything to avoid scandal in the Press. She had never had to work since her marriage and instead passed her time in the socialite's round of parties and charity functions to which her estranged husband's name still gave her admittance. Katrina would have time, room and money to spare; enough to give a friend house-room until she had worked long enough to draw salary and find her own place. She would at the very least take up the challenge of the five-year-old standing invitation; and if by chance she turned out to be unwelcome, her savings would probably allow her to stay in some hotel long enough to get her professional life in order. In her pocketbook, with her professional ID and her letter confirming her registration with the ENB, was $5000 in travelers' checks: all the money she possessed in the world.
"I hope this Westminster City Hospital isn't too utterly Victorian," she muttered. A man approaching the table with a coffee-cup, apparently in search of a seat and possibly of the company of a lone woman, realised that his prospective table-companion was talking to herself. He rapidly moved away.
The woman noticed; she followed his retreating back with a grin of triumph. "We aren't all desperate," she muttered; "Why don't you learn that?"
One more time the woman checked her hand-baggage: fresh clothing, toothbrush, sweets and a trashy novel in the grip; ID and money in the purse; passport with worker's visa in her pocket. All correct, as it had been on the previous half-dozen occasions. Almost involuntarily she reached inside the purse again and felt the outline of the slim book or folder which lay concealed within the bag's inner zipped compartment. As she did so often, she decided to look at it; and, as always, she changed her mind. With a faint grimace she shut the bag and put it down, rather too forcefully, on the floor between her feet.
There were signs about this woman that despite her scruffy clothing and her uncared-for looks she had once been prosperous; or at least, more prosperous than she was now. The grip which formed part of her hand baggage was by Luis Vuitton, in leather with a monogram. As she looked once again at her passport a trained observer, one who was sufficiently silent and invisible to spy over her shoulder, might have noticed other peculiarities. There were two initials in the monogram. Once there had been a third - perhaps, from the shape of the area of less-faded leather, a 'K.' - but this had been forcibly removed, leaving a small torn area which nobody had troubled to repair. And while the woman's passport, along with all her other personal papers, was in the name of Jane St. Clair, the remaining initials on the grip read 'J. F.'.