Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-11-09 11:07 pm
pirateangelbaby) wrote2019-11-09 11:07 pm
Beneath an Alien Sky
Day by day, the darkness grows.
The sun travels across the sky in a low arc, barely aloft for six hours before sinking below the horizon and casting Asvera into night. Most days, the stars shine above, glittering in a sea of foreign black smeared with the milky trail of the galaxy's spiral arm, a strange monochrome that Thor is still not used to, even after all his time spent on Midgard.
The village, however, is anything but bland black and white. Sometimes it's hard to tell which villagers are human and which are Asgardian, adopting the fashions of their new home as the weather grows colder, trading linen robes and leather jerkins for woolen lusekoften and cotton sweatshirts, bright splashes of color against the frost that dusts the earth. The daylight hours are precious few, and the Asverans use them to their fullest extent, hastening to build bridges to neighboring undeveloped islands and raising houses for the displaced. Thor joins them, sometimes, lending strong back and shoulders to the cause, a king lifting beams and bricks side by side with shopkeepers and fishermen. Sometimes Hulk puts in an appearance, his withered right arm held securely in its adjustable sling, but his other side still as strong as a dozen humans as he hefts heavy loads one-handed. Envoys from Wakanda pool their resources with the village, using their nanotechnology to fabricate structures as strong and improbable as old Asgard once had.
And slowly, day by brief day, the village transforms.
Thor looks out over the archipelago as the weak winter sunlight fades. Below the bluff where the lighthouse sits, the village sparkles like a hundred tiny jewels, electric bulbs and witchlights glowing side by side and casting their brightness into smoke rising from hundreds of hearths. The boats are all tied up in the harbor, sheltered from the open sea by rock and breakwater, unmoved by the waves. The outlying islands have sprouted towers that blend Wakandan style with Asgardian, each housing dozens of families comfortably just a short walk across the new bridges that faintly glow in shades of blue and purple. Across the bay at the grassy bluff where Odin breathed his last, a flicker of flame marks the new memorial for the fallen, a stone carved with the names of those who fell after Ragnarok and did not return, and a so-called eternal flame that - they assure him - holds no such magic as Hela wielded.
It's barely afternoon, too early for sleep despite the darkness, a cold wind sweeping down from the north and bringing a promise of snowfall with it. Thor pays it little mind, wrapping himself up in soft warm clothing and clutching a blanket around his shoulders in lieu of a cape, holding a warm mug between his hands as he looks out over what they have built. It is not Asgard, but... it's home, now, a little more every day.
A flicker of green catches his eye, and slowly, ribbons of emerald light wind their way through the black skies of Earth, shimmering and coiling like a great serpent and casting its glow from horizon to horizon. Thor's breath catches in his chest. He'd forgotten this strange quirk of Earth's skies, a magic born of the sun and given life in the dark, gleaming in shades of all-too-familiar green.
Maybe it's a sign, and maybe it's not. But Thor knows which one he would rather believe.
The reflection of Loki's seidr weaves across the sky, and Thor feels no chill as he watches its silent dance above him.
The sun travels across the sky in a low arc, barely aloft for six hours before sinking below the horizon and casting Asvera into night. Most days, the stars shine above, glittering in a sea of foreign black smeared with the milky trail of the galaxy's spiral arm, a strange monochrome that Thor is still not used to, even after all his time spent on Midgard.
The village, however, is anything but bland black and white. Sometimes it's hard to tell which villagers are human and which are Asgardian, adopting the fashions of their new home as the weather grows colder, trading linen robes and leather jerkins for woolen lusekoften and cotton sweatshirts, bright splashes of color against the frost that dusts the earth. The daylight hours are precious few, and the Asverans use them to their fullest extent, hastening to build bridges to neighboring undeveloped islands and raising houses for the displaced. Thor joins them, sometimes, lending strong back and shoulders to the cause, a king lifting beams and bricks side by side with shopkeepers and fishermen. Sometimes Hulk puts in an appearance, his withered right arm held securely in its adjustable sling, but his other side still as strong as a dozen humans as he hefts heavy loads one-handed. Envoys from Wakanda pool their resources with the village, using their nanotechnology to fabricate structures as strong and improbable as old Asgard once had.
And slowly, day by brief day, the village transforms.
Thor looks out over the archipelago as the weak winter sunlight fades. Below the bluff where the lighthouse sits, the village sparkles like a hundred tiny jewels, electric bulbs and witchlights glowing side by side and casting their brightness into smoke rising from hundreds of hearths. The boats are all tied up in the harbor, sheltered from the open sea by rock and breakwater, unmoved by the waves. The outlying islands have sprouted towers that blend Wakandan style with Asgardian, each housing dozens of families comfortably just a short walk across the new bridges that faintly glow in shades of blue and purple. Across the bay at the grassy bluff where Odin breathed his last, a flicker of flame marks the new memorial for the fallen, a stone carved with the names of those who fell after Ragnarok and did not return, and a so-called eternal flame that - they assure him - holds no such magic as Hela wielded.
It's barely afternoon, too early for sleep despite the darkness, a cold wind sweeping down from the north and bringing a promise of snowfall with it. Thor pays it little mind, wrapping himself up in soft warm clothing and clutching a blanket around his shoulders in lieu of a cape, holding a warm mug between his hands as he looks out over what they have built. It is not Asgard, but... it's home, now, a little more every day.
A flicker of green catches his eye, and slowly, ribbons of emerald light wind their way through the black skies of Earth, shimmering and coiling like a great serpent and casting its glow from horizon to horizon. Thor's breath catches in his chest. He'd forgotten this strange quirk of Earth's skies, a magic born of the sun and given life in the dark, gleaming in shades of all-too-familiar green.
Maybe it's a sign, and maybe it's not. But Thor knows which one he would rather believe.
The reflection of Loki's seidr weaves across the sky, and Thor feels no chill as he watches its silent dance above him.