Chapter 2
2:
At some point of the flight Steve might have been unconscious, for when he woke up the scenery was unfamiliar. Instead of the busy streets of Brooklyn, he was on a snowy countryside. The cold was seeping through his threadbare coat, a gift from Bucky a few years back. He pushed the thought out of his head as he looked at his surroundings.
Mounds and mounds of snow filled his eyes. He was not unfamiliar with the frost from the heavens, but not this much. And not in the countryside for that matter. He was a city boy through and through, born, bred and raised. He was told tales of the northern lands and the perils of travelling through such, but never in his wildest dreams he would be in one.
At this point, he must admit it to himself. He was afraid, afraid of what is going to happen to him now. No more Bucky to protect him, the dangerous familiarity of the city gone. He could only cling to his God, whom he prayed to several times already. Steve wanted to hit himself; why did he even picked up the hammer in the first place?
Then it occured to him the hammer was not in his hands.
He knelt to the snow covered land, checking whether the cursed object was there right beside his landing point. He was not disappointed. It was lying behind him, waiting. Hoping.
If given the chance, Steve would never hold the hammer ever again. But since he was in a foreign land and the tool was his only defense against the forces of nature, better get it to use. He lifted it up, half-afraid it would react again and send him flying to somewhere else. Hopefully, back home. It didn't however, he just felt a silent hum.
Steve was just hoping he would not use it to bludgeon someone. Or something. Or anyone.
After an hour of nonstop walking, and Steve was ready to give up. He was just thankful he didn't meet a wolf or bear. He might have a crazy hammer, but without it he was just a scrawny young man.
As he walked on, he noticed there was no trace of the existence of life around here. All that ever grazed his eyes were snow, dead trees, more snow and random boulders and rocks. His leather shoes were not made for this kind of environment, and neither was he. Steve was already shivering from the intense temperature, but he cannot give up. Not yet while there is still life in his system.
But his breath might soon run out. Steve was alarmed by the tighness in his chest. He was hoping it was not what he thought it is, but after such a strenuous activity, it was unmistakable. He was wheezing and chasing after the precious air his lungs were rejecting. The hammer was of no help, as it was bearing him down with its weight, no matter how light it felt in his hands.
His legs gave out first, then his whole system followed. And as his body fell to the to the frost-covered ground, he regretted picking up the cursed hammer once more.
*.*.*
The first thing he noticed and felt when he came about was he was in a bed. A not so comfortable one, but still a gratitude to have. The air was warm, a bit toasty. A fire was nearby, and he could hear the crackling of the wood as it disintegrates to the flame. It was comforting, to say at least.
But he was still wary. He refused to open his eyes for the fear that this a little bit of heaven he was in would shatter. His ever imaginative mind was conjuring images of him being skinned, cooked and eaten by whoever owns this place. He wanted the hammer to be in his hands by now, maybe for just the illusion of having the upper hand.
"Stop pretending you are in slumber, mortal. I can hear you twitching in my bed."
The voice belonged to a man; it was gruff, rough and growly. A thunder speaking words. After a few creaking footsteps, Steve felt a presence beside the bed, probably looming above him. He slowly opened his eyes.
He was right, the man was hovering over him. He was blond like Steve, only darker, and he wore it longer than most men would prefer. It was curtaining his regal face, but those eyes were most startling of all. It was blue like Steve's, but with more intensity. A deeper hue as well than Steve's baby blues. And his body, Steve was sure he was not even past the man's broad shoulders. He was built like a brick house.
"Who are you?" he croaked.
The man scoffed. "You do not know my name, foolish mortal? I never expected such impunity amongst you. There was a time you revered my name, respected it, feared its power. And now you dare say right to my face that you do not know of me?!"
He was bordering on shouting now, and Steve wanted to shake in fear. He doesn't know what the man was talking about, nor did he care. One thing was clear in his mind, however: he would never let anyone scare him, not even a big blond bully. So he stayed, staring back at the intense sapphire orbs and bolted out of the bed. The other man was bigger and stronger sure, but Steve was quick enough to dodge his grab.
Steve saw the hammer lying at the top of a fireplace, and ran to it. But before he could even make a few paces, a large hand grabbed him by the scruffs. Like a cat caught snatching the fish, he was held facing the other man with his feet dangling helplessly off the ground.
"Listen to me, puny little mortal," the other blond man growled. "I am Thor, son of Odin. And that," he pointed to the weapon with his other hand, "is my hammer."
*.*.*