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JULY 1, 2000 ASGARD
THOR TASTED SALT and sweat when he swallowed. The stench of blood hadn't left his hands... metaphorical and literal.
His long, golden hair was stained ash, his silver breastplate gleaming under the bright sun that illuminated all of Asgard, the Realm Eternal. His cape glittered like it was made of rubies. It was hard to discern where blood had soaked into the fabric. There was an eagerness to him though, as if the sounds of clashing steel and dying screams was the greatest melody ever orchestrated.
War ought to do a number on any ordinary man— but he was mighty. And he would do it all over again if it meant every dragon would be slain.
His heavy footsteps echoed in the throne room. Everything was perfect the way it was, and up the majestic stairs was the throne of Asgard. Thor could feel desire surging in his veins. He was the chosen, the heir, the future protector of the Nine Realms. His breath steadied as he pictured himself upon the golden chair as a king: adored by his subjects, basking in the realm's glow, eating grapes off silver-gold platters, enjoying revels with his friends...
"Come forth, my son."
His heart softened at the sight of his father, Odin, garbed in his resplendent silver-and-gold armor with Gungnir clutched in his fist. In his other hand was something concealed but Thor paid no attention to whatever it was. Odin's gold, horned helmet gleamed with power and history of his past military feats. At that moment, the Allfather didn't look like an old man, a father, or even a king. He was a conqueror.
"Father, we've returned with what's left of our forces," Thor stated, chiseled chin held high. A glimmer of pride flickered in his eyes. "Midgard is safe. Lady Sif and the Warriors Three secured the dragon eggs and the Aether. The Valoqar scattered."
It was not fortresses, armies, and baubles that were pressing the Allfather's mind. His lips, nearly obscured by his long, white cloud of a beard, parted. He spoke softly, though Thor knew his rage could equal that of a fearsome storm.
"Our losses?"
Perplexed at the question, Thor swallowed. "Thirty-five thousand men. Our light cavalry was demolished in Midgard... by wildfyre. It destroyed the Rhaenkeep as well."
Odin was silent, blinking softly. He thought of the destruction that consumed the island on Midgard. He could still smell it— the scent of burning flesh falling from bones. Asgardian soldiers that were burned by liquid flames cooked in their heated armor. All while the Maegyo, Aeres Valaryen laughed as he coaxed the fire around him.
It had to be done, Odin tried to reassure himself. The maegys had grown too numerous. If their magic somehow came back, and they were goaded by the Valaryens, they could make hellfire rain down upon the Nine Realms. They could destroy reality itself.
