A/N: Slight cross-over mentioned.

Chapter 3- Ingnar

Ingnar groaned deeply as he stretched, the satisfying sound of his back bones popping filled the air. With a grunt he stumbled over to the many pantries to retrieve a big pot for tonight's feast. The inconsistent sounds of his footsteps rang out as he walked- the deep beat of his heavy boot hitting the dusty floor followed swiftly by the high metallic clank of his metal peg-leg.

Normally, the kitchen was full and busy with cooks rushing back and forth from station to station to check on different delicacies being concocted. Yelling, cursing and sometimes the off-key singing of bawdy tavern songs were the music of the kitchen. Every now and again, a fight would erupt between two hot-blooded cooks but after facing Ingnar's wrath, most learned to keep their tempers in check. It's fine to let loose in the sparring ring, but in the kitchen where the food is cooked for the royal family? A man would have a better time facing off against Thor.

Now though, the kitchen was silent as it always was for one hour of the day and one hour only. As head cook, Ingnar decided what would be served and to do that he needed peace and quiet. Oh, it could have been done in his private chambers but the kitchen had the perfect atmosphere for coming up with new recipes.

It was also the only time he could get out the heavier pots and pans without some young upstart offering to do it for him. Some did it out of pity, others did it to gain favor with him and a small number did it to spite him; to subtly remind him that a crippled was not a worthy of Valhalla.

They all angered him and he was not ashamed to ban them from his kitchen. Bah, he had no need for meddlers!

Perhaps what was most bitter to him- even more bitter than the burdock roots the farmers hauled in- was that he had been a warrior once.

The Jotunheim War had been glorious in the beginning. He had already been an established warrior among his peers and the war brought a chance to achieve great feats and heroic deeds.

And he had done heroic things. Ingnar had saved two injured warriors by fending off a Jotun ambush single-handedly; he had protected the backs of many healers as they worked on the battlefield and had once used the weapon of a dying warrior so that the man's weapon would have one last victorious battle before going with him to Valhalla. Another time, his quick thinking of using torches to hold off an attack on a base had prevented not only deaths but loss of supplies. Most importantly though, he had become well known for severing the limbs of the Jotuns with his mighty axe; Ingnar the Limb Ripper, he had been called and he cherished the title.

Right up until a Jotun had served and severed him in kind.

It was the fiercest battle he had ever been in. His foe had been unusually smart for a Jotun. Possibly he had study Ingnar's moves from afar. Maybe the giant's rage for his fallen comrades gave him the strength to win or he had cast a spell to harden his skin. . .or perhaps, Ingnar's own weapon had betrayed him.

He had received the axe from a lone elf who had been traveling between realms. Ignar had been in Vanaheim and had just emerged victorious after defending a woman from some loathsome bandits. He had been cautious when the elf approached him with the weapon. After all, what type of creature gives a dangerous weapon to a potential enemy? He had told all this to the elf, who simply smiled and told him that the weapon had chosen him.

The axe was beautiful and hummed with magic. Ingnar had been immediately drawn to it; the fine, swirling runes that looped endlessly on the head of the axe and the curve of the blade glinted dangerously in the sunlight. The axe called to him and he had no choice but to take it. It could have easily been a cursed weapon but he didn't care - he had to have it. More than anything else in life, that axe belonged to him. Of this, Ingnar was sure.

The elf - blast, what was that elf's name? Leglas or something like that - had told him the axe had belonged to a friend who had passed on centuries ago. His fallen friend, a dwarf, had created the axe but the elf had infused magic into it as a birthday present. In fact, the axe hadn't even been named until after the owner's death!

Gimlocke, the elf had called it. Could cut through anything as long as the wielder's heart was fierce with love, loyalty and a will of steel to carry it through.

Ingnar had never run into that funny fellow - an elf befriending a dwarf? Unheard of! - again, but he would be forever grateful for the weapon gifted to him.

Right up until his last true fight.

That last battle, he had been so filled with blood lust, anger and glee. What was once an honorable challenge had become a twisted game to Ingnar. As a child stepped on bugs, so had he maliciously cut through giants - even those already injured and no longer a threat.

Until that last face off, when he swung Gimlocke into the upper arm of his opponent only for it to fail to even scratch his enemy. The giant had taken advantage of his shocked stillness and bashed him over the head with a club.

One strike and the mighty Limb Ripper had fallen to the ground in a daze.

A large, cold hand grabbed at his pant leg, burning through it and gripping his leg. He held back his pained moan at the frost bite spreading over his leg. That was alright, the healers could fix that- then, mind numbing pain as his lower leg was ripped out right at the knee cap.

The Jotun had left him to bleed out and freeze to death and Ingnar welcomed it. Soon the pain would fade and Valhalla would open its gates for him.

Or it would have if a healer hadn't staved off the bleeding.

He can't remember who it was, only that it was a woman and that he had shouted awful obscenities at her and had even slapped her across the face for trying to save him.

He wishes he could remember her features because he had not expected her to curl up her own fist and knock him into the next century.

He would have married her in a heartbeat - on the battlefield even! - if he had known.

But Ingnar hadn't known and when he woke up, he was in Asgard's healing rooms. Disoriented, he asked why he wasn't out on the battlefield and a nearby healer snorted and explained the battle place was no place for a man with one leg.

If only that healer from the battlefield had been there. Surely she would have knocked him out before he threw the worst temper tantrum ever seen in Asgard. It took two healers to hold him back and another to get a sedative in him to calm him down.

He won't even go into the painful process of getting fitted with the metal peg leg or learning to walk again. He doesn't like to think on the process, rather, Ingnar is just thankful for the result: that he could walk.

It had taken time and at first he was determined to walk back into battle but for every stumble and fall his resolve weakened and crumbled.

Besides, he was not even worthy to fight for Asgard anymore and it wasn't because of his leg. Others could argue themselves blue about how worthy he was but there was no point.

He knew the truth.

Hundreds of Jotuns with severed limbs knew the truth.

Gimlocke knew the truth.

So when he finally could walk- just as the war was in its last days- he calmly, quietly, took a job in the kitchen peeling potatoes.

He spent many years doing that; just silently sitting in a corner peeling potato after potato after potato. Ingnar had been mostly left alone with the exception of a few pitying looks shot his way every now and again. Most people knew he had been injured in the war and most knew not to mention it.

Then, one day, two little brats wandered into the kitchen.

He had heard of the two princes from various servants coming through. He had heard about how energetic Thor was at such a young age; how Loki was constantly in the healing wards due to some type illness. There had been worry that he would not make it out of infanthood and there had been great excitement when the healers found a cure.

So it was inevitable that one day, two little princes would somehow make their way to the kitchen. Despite being very loud and giggly the staff pretended not to notice them, as it was clear they were playing make-believe.

Ingnar stoutly ignored them until he felt eyes on him. Looking down, he found two pairs of eyes gazing at his leg in wonder. Before he could snap at them for staring, Thor began to exclaim loudly how magnificent his leg looked along with a million other questions: What happened? Did a dragon eat it? Did you eat the dragon? Was it from a cooking accident? Did another cook do it? Does it hurt?

He finally was able to get a word in when Thor ran out of breath. For the first time in possibly centuries, he spoke and his rusty voice weaved a story of enchantment around the two children, who listened eagerly; their eyes getting bigger and bigger as he continued on.

He ended on sad note, of how he could no longer be a warrior, which seemed to make the two princes sad as well. Thor told him it was unfair before bursting into tears, which startled a nearby cook who quickly took the bawling boy outside.

Loki had tears in his own green eyes but instead of crying loudly, he calmly walked closer to Ingnar and patted his leg before speaking:

"Papa lost his eye in the war and he is still a warrior, so you should be a warrior too."

The words shocked Ingnar. He had never thought of that. Odin had lost an eye and he was still considered a valiant warrior.

The words brought life back into Ingnar. However, he no longer desired to be a warrior. He had let his body go in his depression and it would take time to get it back into proper shape. That, and he no longer felt the call of battle as he once did. Instead, different scents and spices filled his dreams with sounds of a roaring fire and knives chopping through thick meats.

From then on he strove to be more than a potato peeler. He began to slice through the hides of beasts with perfection, fight with unruly flames and learn which fruits were rotten at a glance.

If he slipped a few honey cakes to Thor and Loki every time the princes came by, the other cooks were wise enough to say nothing.

He had made head cook when Loki looked like a 9 year old human. The youngest prince had come in when he had been going over recipes. He was paler than usual with tears streaming down his face.

Ingnar had said nothing, figuring the boy would speak when he was ready. Sure enough, Loki started to talk, asking if it was so wrong for a warrior to use magic in battle. Why was it considered cowardly when it could save so many if used correctly?

Ingnar thought it over. At one time, he would have spat on a person for even suggesting such a thing. There was no honor in a man using magic to fight. It was not the way of their people.

But Ingnar knows differently now. Had it not been for that healer using magic, he would not be here. In that case, was it really so dishonorable to use magic if it was to save your fellow comrades and friends? Was it so wrong to want to save and protect what you love, that you would go beyond your own physical powers to achieve it?

He did not think so but he knew many would argue against him. In the end, he hobbled over to Loki, dropped an apple in the boy's lap, patted his head and muttered that people did not understand what it meant to give everything for what you love.

Loki left with a little smile on his face.

Ingnar heard a few nights later he begun practicing magic and smiled at the news. If the feast that night had all of Loki's favorites, well, it was probably a coincidence.

As a cook he had no reason to go near the training grounds, but news reached even the kitchens when the princes began training. There was much praise for Thor and little for Loki, but if Ingnar had heard right, the Weapons Master had disliked Loki. The man had quickly moved to Vanaheim not a week later, so Ingnar didn't have to poison his food.

And he would have.

Over the years, since Loki's first question about using magic in combat, the young prince had made the kitchen a place to hide and relax. He had an uncanny sense of knowing when Ingnar would be alone. They never conversed much, no deep conversations took place, but in the communal silence, they had become good friends despite the age difference.

Loki never tried to help Ingnar get out the heavier pots and Ingnar never told anyone Loki was in the kitchen if asked.

The boy even peeled potatoes if Ingnar was busy preparing the meats.

So he became used to the slim ghost darting around and helping out in small ways and he repaid him with honey cakes. Loki sometimes even made him laugh with a few magic tricks.

How, he wondered once as Loki made glittered rain come down from the ceiling, could this art ever be considered dishonorable?

Loki didn't always join him, so when he didn't come in one day, Ingnar wasn't worried.

He did frown in confusion when the door opened and Greta stepped in. She had never been too far from Loki and he wouldn't be surprised if she knew the prince had taken refuge in the kitchen at times. His eyes darted to the leather she wore and the dagger strapped to her thigh.

She quietly explained that Loki had been taken by the dwarves last night and that a rescue party was being put together.

He didn't have to think about it before volunteering.

When he told the other cooks, they thought he meant he was simply getting food ready for the journey. The looks on their faces when he told them point blank he would be going with the party to get Loki were magnificent. Some tried to protest his decision but it died in their throats at his glare.

After barking out what food they needed to prepare, he went to his rooms to retrieve a few things.

In the corner of his bedroom, sitting on a pedestal gathering dust, sat Gimlocke.

Often he had looked at the weapon but he never picked it up. It never felt right and he feared he would never be as worthy as he once was.

This day though, this day when a certain prince was not where he should be, Ignar fearlessly grabbed the handle of the axe and felt the weapon come alive and hum with power.

If Odin could fight with one eye, Ingnar could fight with one leg.