Chapter One: Mentha
Many mortals worshiped the Asgardians as true deities, it was of the age where humanity was still within their own cradle of ignorance. The ice giants had recently been repelled from causing the death of the planet and their great-great-grandparents had passed down the harrowing and inspiring tales to their children. How could these pathetic mortal creatures not worship them?
Of course, Thor, his dear brother, had made a grand show of it. Having not even fought in the battle himself he awed them with displays of great might and shows of crackling lightning. It was like watching children be amazed at cheap parlor tricks. Speaking of. He looked down to his hand, turned it palm facing outward then back palm side up. A slender dagger had been summoned to his palm. He kept doing the same motion making it disappear and reappear. Loki was bored waiting for his brother to finish his flirting with the woman of Midgard.
Their language was strange, rooted in an ancient manner that left much to decipher though they had begun to take on Asgardian terms over the last few decades and he was no stranger to what gossiping looked like. Three women passed by the longhouse he had been standing at the doorway of. Loki chose to look like one of them while he was here with Thor, unlike his brother he disliked the attention all the time. So, they were none the wiser than to speak within his earshot.
"Stelpan, hún er komin aftur í skóginn." One of them huffed to another.
"Syngja?" The word for singing.
A nod was given, "Kjánaskapur," oh yes he was very much aware of this word, he often called Thor this one and it was a fun little secret so long as his brother remained unaware it meant foolishness, "hún ætti að vera að vinna." The one speaking made a gesture as if pulling weeds then looked up to him, "Hvað ertu að gera hér?"
He knew what that last line meant too, it was time for him to go as he'd not be able to reply without sounding suspicious. He gave the three of them a smile before pushing off the doorframe to walk in the opposite direction down the dirt road. He had to think about what was said to understand, though it was a good mental exercise and distraction rather than waiting bored to death for his brother. Stelpan was a girl or young woman and skóginn sounded much like skógur the word for forest. He was intelligent enough to put the rest of it together. A young woman was shirking her chores to go sing in the forest and they were upset about it.
He chuckled. What simple concerns. It was not the first time he had heard these women gossip about a young girl running off to the woods now that he thought about it. Loki supposed it was somewhat strange as the women on Midgard worked tirelessly without an ounce of the same technology that they had on Asgard, all while their husbands and brothers were off finding glory for his father in some tribal kind of display. A single lady shirking her chores if often enough could starve a family. He was curious to pay a visit to the troublemaker. Mischief being his favorite pastime.
As he crossed the threshold from the village into the woodlands his form shifted and changed, he felt the magic on him fade. His own features felt more comfortable as he traversed the dense forest. It was peaceful, he hated to admit anything on Midgard was nice, the soft chirping of the birds and the occasional shake of a bush from a skittering forest creature broke the faint whispers of the breeze among the leaves. The sun was still high in the sky yet it barely found the forest floor between the lush tops of the trees. He was following a sort of trail but could not tell if it was made by a deer or a human. It was by chance that when he turned his head to look up at the sun something else caught his eye, a flash of crème cloth from the tree line.
He went to inspect and a smile came to his lips. He found the troublemaker it seemed; a young woman sat in a small clearing with a full basket of herbs. He thought that was perhaps what one of the three women had motioned to – foraging herbs rather than pulling weeds. Her back was to him and what he had seen was a flutter of her long skirts as another light breeze came past.
A noise came from her, a long note that was held that he soon realized was a word. Followed by another, "Ár var alda þar er Ýmir bygði," He knew one word for certain, Ýmir. "Ór Ymis holdi var jörð of sköpuð. Ór Ymis holdi var jörð of sköpuð." He could not exactly understand this, but he felt like he'd heard it before, "Ginnungagap, Niflheim, Muspelheim," he one hundred percent knew those words. They were a part of the nine realms as much as Asgard and Midgard were, "Ild, is, dråber falder. Ymir, Jotun, skaber aser."
Yes, he did know this. It was much less a song as it was a tale told to even him as a child to understand the creation of the realms: Of old was the age when Ýmir lived. Out of Ymir's flesh the earth was created. Ginnungagap, Niflheim, Muspelheim. Fire, ice, drops are falling. Ymir, Jotun, creates the Aesir.
She began to repeat the song's second half. And he could not help himself from a bit of trouble, his voice rang out at the end of matching her melody, "Ymir, Jotun, skaber aser." He watched as she jumped from the dead log, frantically looking around herself until she caught his form in the shade of the tree line. He slowly stepped out.
"How is that a lowly mortal knows the tale of creation?" He started closer to her knowing she'd likely not understand a word of it.
"Ég vil ekki vandræði með guð lygina." She had put both her hands up and out as if gesturing to shoo him away from her. He knew enough to tell she wanted no trouble with the god of lies. Promptly after he paused to think she snatched her basket of herbs and bowed her head in a farewell to him then turned to walk into the forest.
It seemed she, like all the other mortals, had come to know him as a god of deception. Lies and mischief, that they should stay away from him for those reasons. He was quick to her side, "But I do desire a conversation." Startling her again she actually hit him with the basket in his face.
Her herbs scattered to the ground and after she realized what she'd done the young woman dropped the basket, "F-fyrirgefið…" it was an apology.
His glare made her shrink and take steps away from him, ones that he followed into the dense woods. Words would be lost upon her, his tone may get through but language would truly be an issue. He took a deep breath and calmed his anger – he, a god, could not be mad at something so pathetic and obviously an accident. That would just be petty. If anything, he'd not be known as the god of pettiness. With a neutral face he held out his hand for her then waited.
Her eyes darted to the left, then to the right, looking for an escape route before slowly inching towards him. Her hand curled above his before she opened it. An herb. She presented him with an herb? She nodded her head then fled again, rushing down a deer's trail he lost sight of her nearly sprinting form in no time without giving chase. It would seem language was not the only barrier… how did Thor ever figure out how to flirt with the women of Midgard? Likely he just flexed.
Loki shortly returned to his brother, those in the village were quick to get out of his way without his disguise. He walked in on Thor shirtless and being lavished with alcohol, furs, and woman.
"Brother!" Thor cheerfully called, "Come to join me after all?" His grin made Loki roll his eyes.
"No." He did pluck a bottle of liquid that upon sniff seemed to be liquor, it certainly tasted as such, "I've come for your insight since you seem to have no trouble communicating with the Midgardians."
"You?" Thor seemed of disbelief, "… Well. It's not like we can talk to each other," his hand cupped one of the woman's chins and he smiled at her. The woman turned a shade of red akin to an apple, "but I manage to get my point across." As he let her go the woman giggled and poured him more mead.
Loki took another drink of the liquor, "Perhaps it was pointless to ask you." He did not want to meaninglessly flirt with the woman, he had a true desire to ask her a question.
"Oh come on," Thor sat up onto his elbows looking at his brother with puppy-dog eyes, "what troubles you brother?"
Loki sighed and held out the herb that was given to him, "I was given mint by a mortal."
"Mint?" Thor furrowed his brows then chuckled, "And this troubles you? Loki, Mentha is a gift of temperance among the people here. It can have a few meanings from what I've grasped. Who gave it to you?" He often did not give his brother enough credit when it came to learning about other cultures – though he only seemed to learn about the ones that would lavish him.
"Hopefully someone that won't miss him," Fandral had come into the longhouse, "your father is looking for you." Loki looked like he could care less and Thor pouted so Fandral added, "For you both."
Loki would not return to Midgard for another year and some months. To him a year was nothing, but in that time the village they returned to had been razed. It was burned to the ground and the only remains were piles of wood turned to carbon. It was not their concern when the mortals fought among themselves.
While Thor and company moved on to the next village to show off, Loki found himself taking a much longer path through the forest. Following the deer trails until he came to the clearing. Of course, the woman was not there. He wandered around the dead log eyes trailing towards the other side of the clearing. He spied something out of place for the forest. Her tattered basket was still on the ground, the herbs long taken by the forest creatures to use instead.
What a pitiful god he must have seemed.
Loki leaned over and picked up the basket, placing it on the dead log he dropped a mint herb into it.
Song Credit to: Ymir by Danheim & Gealdýr