That evening, thousands of Aesir who lived in the city feasted at the palace, celebrating the end of another Odinsleep and honoring Asgard’s guests. Fjolnir ran between the long tables of adults with a pack of giggling boys that included Leif Volstaggson while his parents conversed politely with several nobles and council members. At the other end of the high table, the four mortals drew quite a crowd of curious people, mostly not of the nobility—with the exception of Fandral, who was again flirting with Darcy.
Feasting inevitably gave way to dancing, which lasted for hours and grew predictably raucous as the mead continued to flow. Thor remained at the high table, watching with an ache in his chest as his people and his friends enjoyed themselves, his own lighthearted mood from earlier in the day completely gone. This night could not have been more different than the way it had played out in the original timeline, where it had been the night of Loki’s premature funeral. Whispers had flown in every direction about what had led to his death and why there was no body in the boat, and most of the so-called mourners seemed more concerned about the destroyed Bifrost than by the loss of their prince. One man had been fool enough to suggest within Thor’s hearing that he had slain his own brother when he refused to surrender the throne. Thor had broken his jaw. He’d wanted to do far worse. He couldn’t even remember what that man looked like now, but he was likely somewhere among the dancers.
He was shaken out of these unpleasant recollections by the sight of Loki, Sif, and Volstagg approaching from the crowd.
“Come, Brother,” said Loki, “even Mother and Father are dancing. The longer you sit here like this, the more people will think you are sulking over missing out on the regency.”
“He’s right,” said Volstagg, whose second and third-youngest children were dangling off him. “You should be merry! It is a fine night, and all is well on Asgard!”
Sif cut straight to the chase by seizing Thor about the wrists and hauling him out of his seat and towards the dance floor. He let her do it, and a moment later, they were all dancing in the circle that included Volstagg’s wife, one or two of Lady Eir’s apprentice healers, and a tipsy, grinning Erik. Thor’s spirits were soon buoyed up as he clapped and followed the steps. Why should he sorrow over things that hadn’t and wouldn’t come to pass? There was so much still to do, but perhaps, one day, those eight years would feel like little more than a bad dream.
X
Freyr, Gerd, and Fjolnir joined the royal family for breakfast the next morning. Fjolnir insisted on sitting between Thor and Loki, who were happy to oblige him, with Odin and Frigga on either side of them across the circular table from each other, and Freyr and Gerd opposite their son.
While the adults ate, Fjolnir bombarded Thor with questions about what his hammer could do. The moment he had realized that it shared all but one letter with his own name, it had become his favorite topic of conversation. Thor indulged him, entertaining him with a few stories of enemies he had faced with Mjolnir. Loki only half listened, shooting glances at his father every few minutes. They had discussed what would happen at this meal, and the urge to leave a projection in his place and flee was strong.
“Ask him about the time he rescued your Aunt Freya from an unwanted suitor,” said Freyr.
Thor cracked a grin. “Have you never told him that tale? You were there too.”
“I thought I would save it,” said Freyr. He looked at his son. “A century or so before you were born, Freya and I went on a long hunt in the wilds south of Honir. We passed a little too near the territory of a tribe of hill giants, and Thrym, their chieftain, caught sight of her. He decided she would make him a fine wife and sent his soldiers to capture her.”
