Iðavöllr

Day 1

Asgard burned on a beautiful day. 

Loki contemplated this as the starships landed on the shores of what would become New Asgard. It was an overcast, somber day. No joyous celebration, no triumphant speeches—only silence, thick and heavy, as the survivors stepped onto the unfamiliar land.

He had arrived a few days before the others. After the Snap, after Wakanda, after the dust had settled—quite literally—he had found himself adrift again, untethered. The battle was won, Thanos defeated, but nothing felt victorious. He remembered returning to the crumbled remains of the Wakandan battlefield, walking the scorched ground alone while others reunited and wept, and feeling nothing and everything at once. There had been no one waiting for him. Thor was gone—truly gone this time, not just missing. The Avengers had their own shattered homes to return to, their own dead to mourn. Loki had stood apart as the world pieced itself back together.

But there were still Asgardians scattered across the cosmos, clutching to survival like flotsam in a storm. They had no home, no future. And for the first time in a long time, he realized he couldn’t wait for someone else to solve it. Not Thor. Not Odin. No one was coming. No one cared.

So he became someone who did.

He reached out to every ally who still owed him favors, leveraged every scrap of goodwill he had left, forged documents, cloaked himself in illusions, and stole from vaults he hadn’t dared touch before. He had emptied hidden accounts from Stark Industries and one particularly smug banker in Switzerland. The money didn’t matter, what mattered is that they were here now. 

The people moved like ghosts, their faces gaunt with hunger and grief. This was not the first time any of them had been away from home, but this time, there was no Bifrost to carry them elsewhere.

No Odin to guide them. No Frigga to comfort them.

No Thor.

No great hall, golden palace, or sprawling city carved into the mountains. Only land—harsh, cold, and unfamiliar.

These Asgardians had fled across the stars, survived slaughter, and now, at last, they had found a place to stay.

He had bought the land, begging, bartering, and ultimately paying a ridiculous sum of Midgardian money to secure it. A jagged, lonely stretch of Norway. It reminded him a little of the coast of Asgard, though it lacked its grandeur. It was raw. Harsh. Honest. He spent the first three nights here sleeping in a half-collapsed shack overlooking the cliffs, with only the wind and the crash of the sea for company.

Their ships had landed on a jagged stretch of coastline, high cliffs standing like silent sentinels against the endless gray ocean. The wind roared, whipping at their cloaks and ragged tunics as they stepped onto Midgardian soil. The earth beneath their feet felt damp—sturdy—but foreign. The trees were thick and gnarled, the air laced with salt. It smelled nothing like Asgard.

It smelled like something new.

Loki stood at the edge of the rocky cliffs, looking down at the restless sea. The wind howled, cutting through his thin tunic, but he did not move. Behind him, he could hear the others as they began to unload the ships, their movements slow, mechanical.

When he had stood here with Thor and Odin, he never once imagined all…this to be even a slight possibility. 

He felt like the fighting hadn’t stopped since Jotunheim. How could things have changed so much in less than a decade?

He closed his eyes with a quiet sigh.

Valkyrie came to stand beside him, arms crossed. “Not quite the golden halls of old, is it?”

Loki exhaled through his nose. “It is nothing.”

She shrugged. “Nothing is a start.”

The Asgardians moved in a weary procession, unloading the battered escape ships with quiet efficiency. Their hands, calloused and raw, carried what little they had managed to salvage—bundles of cloth, crates of preserved food, tools scavenged from Sakaar and the remains of the Statesman. Loki’s eyes focused on a golden haired maiden, passing a crate to another man. Conversation was sparse, voices kept low, with a little despair in the quiet. But also—determination.

Some chose to stay within the ships, their metal hulls providing protection against the wind. The largest vessel, a once-proud Sakaaran cruiser now dented and weathered, became an impromptu longhouse. Inside, families settled into corners, arranging what blankets and furs they had, speaking in hushed tones as they carved out spaces for themselves. Children, worn from the journey, curled up beside their parents. Warriors rested with their backs to the walls, weapons within reach—not out of fear, but habit.

Others moved outside, working quickly to assemble what shelter they could. Strips of sailcloth were stretched between salvaged beams, fastened down with stone and rope. The trees at the forest’s edge gave up their lower branches, fashioned into lean-tos and crude windbreaks. There was no true warmth, no great halls or golden torches, but there was shelter.

Loki moved among them, silent but watchful. He reinforced fraying ropes with flicks of magic, sealed gaps against the wind with murmured words. His presence was noted but not questioned. There was no room for doubt now; they all had a part to play.

Fires sprang up as the sun dipped low, flickering against the darkening sky. The scent of burning wood mixed with salt and damp earth. Their food was meager—dried bread, salted meat, what little grain they had left—but they shared it without complaint.

Even in the makeshift settlement, signs of resilience emerged. A warrior draped a thick cloak over an elder beside the fire, murmuring something that made the old woman smile. A healer checked a bandaged wound, nodding in approval before pressing a warm cup into her patient’s hands. Someone, somewhere, began to hum an old tune—not a mourning song, but something steadier, something that spoke of home.

By the time they banked the last fire for the night, New Asgard was still little more than a scattering of tents and shelters against the wild land. But within them, voices carried in quiet conversation, laughter flickered between the cracks of exhaustion, and the embers of something enduring glowed in the dark.

Day 2

Few had the strength to venture far after so much loss, so their settlement formed naturally, growing around the place where they had first landed. At first, Loki considered pushing them to spread out, to find a more suitable location. But the land was good—defensible cliffs, fresh water from a nearby river, thick forests for lumber. And the people, shell-shocked and weary, clung to familiarity.

The land itself would be their first challenge. Their settlement sat on the edge of the cliffs, where the sea crashed against the rocks far below. While the coastline provided protection from attack, it left little space for expansion.

The first few weeks would have to be spent exploring. A steady food source had to be found, hunting grounds set, cropland prepared, trees cleared, and foundations laid.

But now, standing on the edge of an unfamiliar land, the full reality of what lay ahead was beginning to set in. This was not just a temporary refuge. This was what remained of Asgard.

The silence was heavy, filled with unspoken doubts. It was one thing to survive the end of the world when there was still something left to hold onto—a ship, a leader, a purpose. But now, staring at the stretch of untamed land before them, the sheer scale of the task loomed over them all.

Loki saw the uncertainty creeping into their faces. Just the day before had seemed so hopeful, but everything was more daunting in the light of day. Warriors, healers, craftsmen—they had all fought to be here, but none of them had been prepared for this. The sheer emptiness of it.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he stepped forward, his boots crunching against the dirt.

“We have seen the end,” he said, his voice steady, carrying over the gathered crowd.  “We have mourned our kin, watched our realm burn, and carried our grief across the stars.

“But, we are still here.

“There is work to be done. A great deal of it. But tell me—when has that ever stopped us?”

A few heads lifted at that. Loki pressed on.

“We have built great halls from stone and gold, thrived in realms where others would perish. We are not some delicate court, helpless without silken cushions and golden goblets.” His gaze swept over them, sharp and certain. “We are warriors. We are builders. We are Asgardians.” He didn’t let himself hesitate.

That word—Asgardians—rang in the air, settling into the quiet.

Loki let the moment hold before he continued, his tone shifting, steady but firm.

“This land is not yet a home, but it can be. We will shape it with our hands, carve our lives into it as we always have. Brick by brick, stone by stone, we will rebuild.” His lips quirked in the faintest hint of a smirk. “And truly, is this the greatest challenge we have ever faced? A bit of hard work?”

A murmur of amusement rippled through the crowd. Small, but real.

Loki exhaled, nodding slightly. “We do not stand before ruins—we stand before possibility. Now, let us shape the beginning.”

A silence stretched, different from before. Not of doubt, but of consideration. Of quiet resolution.

Then, someone stepped forward—an older warrior, his arms crossed over his chest. He gave a single nod. “Then let’s begin.”

The others followed, their hesitation easing as purpose settled into their bones. There was still uncertainty, still grief, but it no longer outweighed the will to move forward.

Valkyrie moved to stand beside Loki, watching as the people began to talk, to make plans, to think beyond their loss. She tilted her head toward him.

“You almost sounded like a king just now.”

Loki scoffed, glancing at her with dry amusement. “Don’t start.”

But as he looked back at the people—his people—he knew the truth of it.

At the moment, he was their best option. And wasn’t that a depressing thought?

Day 3

They started by cutting down all the trees where the town would be. 

The inland terrain was rough, uneven, and riddled with dense clusters of trees—ancient things with thick roots that wound deep into the earth. Cutting down the trees was easy, it was the roots that posed a problem. If the roots were left in the ground, they would eventually rot and leave hollow space. Anything built on top would begin to sink or crack for lack of proper foundation. For that reason, it was important to remove them all. 

But clearing them was no simple task. Even with their superior strength, it was hard work. 

Axes and shovels alone would take too long, so Loki, Valkyrie, and a few volunteers took turns using their strength and Seidr to uproot them.

Thor would have made this easier.

Loki did not speak the thought aloud.

The roots were stubborn, some as thick as a man’s torso, coiling around boulders and buried deep in the soil. Simply pulling them up ripped the roots, leaving most of it buried and creating twice as much work. When cutting failed, they resorted to controlled explosions—small pockets of seidr, placed carefully to loosen the roots without setting fire to the entire forest.It was slow and draining, but necessary.

Valkyrie stood ankle-deep in churned earth, dragging one end of a root cluster clear and tossing it aside with a grunt. “Feels like we’re fighting Yggdrasil itself,” she muttered, wiping sweat from her brow. “All this just to make the ground hold steady?”

“We can’t afford to rebuild every decade,” Loki said, crouching to carve runes into the next blast point. “If the foundations fail, everything fails.”

She glanced at the scattered piles of timber and tangled roots. “Still seems like madness.”

“Madness,” Loki echoed, standing and stepping back. “But necessary madness.”

He raised a hand, the runes glowing softly before the earth shook—just slightly—as a buried tangle of roots cracked apart beneath the blast.

Hrokk, a broad-shouldered man with sawdust tangled in his beard and deep lines carved into his brow, leaned against his axe as he caught his breath. “I’ve raised barns on mountain slopes and carved out winter huts in stone, but I’ve never seen land fight back like this.” He looked out at the torn earth, the felled trees, and the scattered workers. “Still… it’s good. It means the land is strong. If we can make it yield, it’ll hold.”

Loki glanced at him. “That’s an optimistic interpretation.”

Hrokk gave a tired smile. “I buried my sons before the fall. Lost my wife on the ship. I don’t have much left—but I’ll be damned if I don’t give the rest of me to this place. We don’t need it to be easy. We need it to last.”

Loki was quiet for a moment, then nodded once. “Then we build something worth that.”

A young voice called from behind, a little breathless. “Do you want the saws or another load of rope?”

They turned to see a lanky figure jogging toward them, arms full of gear. His name was Einar—barely of age, more used to books and forge apprenticeships than labor. But he had volunteered, and Loki had been too tired to refuse help.

“Neither,” Valkyrie said, planting her boot on a stubborn root. “What we need is an axe the size of a longship.”

Einar set down the rope and offered a tired grin. “If you give me a week, I might be able to forge one.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Can it fell ancient trees and also clear stones?”

“Only if you enchant it afterward,” Einar shot back, brushing dirt from his tunic. “Otherwise you’ll have to settle for mediocre craftsmanship.”

Loki just huffed a laugh.

—

For days, the air was filled with the sounds of cracking wood, splintering stone, and voices calling out orders, a rhythm of creation they had not heard in centuries. The ground was torn apart and reshaped beneath their hands, made ready for what would come next.

But, wood alone would not be enough. Loki had yet to bring it up, but one of their greatest challenges would be determining what materials to build with. Wood was plentiful, but Midgardian timber was fragile compared to what they were accustomed to. It would rot, warp, and break far sooner than anything they had known in Asgard. If they were to endure here—if New Asgard was to stand for centuries, even millennia—they needed something stronger.

Stone was the obvious solution, but without mortar, construction would be difficult. They could buy what they needed, but every coin spent on materials was a coin not spent on food, medicine, or the countless other necessities of survival.

They were not destitute, not yet. Even a poor Asgardian still held more wealth than the universal average, and many of the refugees had managed to bring something of value with them. Loki himself had gold, as well as various artifacts and treasures collected over the years—some from his life as a prince, others from his victories on Sakaar. Not to mention several vaults of money stored on various worlds. But, their resources were no longer limitless. Feeding and sheltering an entire people would drain even the deepest pockets.

So it was a particular stroke of luck when Jorund, one of their remaining stonemasons, discovered limestone in the surrounding cliffs.

Jorund had taken two of the younger ones with him—not because he needed the help, but because they needed the learning. If New Asgard was going to stand, someone else would have to know how to build it. He wasn’t about to carry the whole damn city on his back.

They’d been hiking the cliffs for half the day when he spotted the right kind of ridge—pale, brittle-looking, with a rough, granular edge.

He crouched beside it and knocked his chisel against the stone, tilting his head as the sound rang out low and clean. Dust curled away in familiar patterns.

He grinned, then looked over his shoulder.

“Get the prince,” he said.

Not shouted. Just said it, solid and sure.

By the time Loki arrived, Jorund had already uncovered a wide stretch of stone, thick-veined and plentiful. He slapped a slab with his open hand and gave the prince a crooked grin.

“This,” he said, “is the spine of our new home.”

Loki crouched beside him, running his fingers along the edge. His expression didn’t change, but Jorund saw the moment recognition struck.

“Limestone,” Loki murmured.

Jorund nodded. “Aye. Not quite Asgard’s grade, but it’ll do. With lime, we can make mortar. Real mortar. Strong enough to last more than one winter.”

He leaned on his knees and glanced at the two younger workers who’d come with him, now staring in wide-eyed silence.

“If we get this right,” he added, “I won’t be the one mixing it a year from now.”

Loki gave a faint smile. “Clever.”

Jorund shrugged. “Smart. I’m not doing this alone.”

The quarrying began that same week. They brought the stone down in carts, rolled it into the makeshift campyard, and set up crude kilns to heat and process it. From there, Jorund took over.

The others helped him, but he felt compelled to do most of the work.

There was something about the mixing—about the heat, the dust, the guesswork—that felt personal.

Limestone, when heated, produced lime—a fine white powder used to make mortar. On its own, it was far too brittle to hold anything together. But on Asgard, they mixed it with a special bark extract, minerals, and fine sands to create a binding compound stronger than steel.

They had used bark from the askr tree on Asgard, boiling it for several days and extracting the oils. But Midgard had no such tree. So, Jorund tested what they did have.

Birch, at first. Too soft. Oak bark was stronger, but the lime overpowered it. He boiled samples down in old pots, skimmed oils from the surface, sifted sand through his fingers like flour. It was work that demanded patience. Trial. Failure.

He hadn’t built a city since before the Bifrost sang through the stars. He hadn’t meant to build another. But here he was, sleeves rolled, arms covered in powdered stone, watching for the way a mixture dried in the sun.

He found the right bark by accident—a spiced, fibrous thing from the inland hills, bitter to the tongue and foul to burn. But it bonded with lime like it was meant for it. Dense, tacky when wet, hard as bone when dry.

He laid a test slab in the grass and pressed his palm to it the next morning.

Solid. Cool. No cracks.

His hand lingered a moment longer, then he stood and exhaled.

Not quite the same as home.

But it would hold.

And in the end, that was all that mattered.

2nd week 

Asgardians were not a people meant for starvation, Loki contemplated as he looked over the numbers the food gatherers had brought him. 

Hunger was a real threat. Their bodies burned through food quickly, needing vast quantities of nourishment to sustain their strength. They needed food—more than humans, more than the land could easily provide. Their bodies burned through energy too quickly and, without proper nutrition, their strength would wane. If they did not establish steady sources of food, the next few years would be very difficult.

 They wouldn’t die outright—not quickly, anyway. An Asgardian could go months without food if necessary. But not without consequences.

All Asgardians had Seidr. Whether they trained to use it or not, it flowed through their veins as steadily as their life blood. Seidr was ultimately the energy their bodies relied on most strongly. With a steady supply of food, their bodies created and stored it naturally. But if they suddenly stopped eating, their body would turn toward the stored Seidr and survive off that. 

Once that was gone, it turned on itself—fat, then muscle.

Most asgardians had a very small reserve. Once it reached its limit, more would not be stored. Like a bucket, it could only contain so much without spilling. For this they could not truly use it besides their bodies needs and other basic things, like lighting a small flame or creating a light. 

Others had a slightly larger reserve, more like a cistern. Then there were those like Loki himself, who’s reserve never truly filled up. Like a wellspring, he would have to use enormous amounts of energy very quickly to drain it. This was ultimately what separated them as gods from other asgardians. Besides being able to draw power from Yggdrasil, they could simply keep accumulating Seidr and never run out as long as they had the resources to sustain it. 

This meant that most of the Asgardians currently in New Asgard did not have a huge calorie intake. But, it also meant they had a smaller reserve and could go less without food. 

The forests were thick with game—deer, wild boar, and smaller creatures—but it became clear early on that hunting alone would not sustain them. The land could not provide indefinitely, not at the rate they needed.

And so, the sea became their lifeline.

They had no proper fishing boats yet, but that did not stop them. They used what they had—small spacecrafts hovering over the waves, or warriors casting lines from the rocky shore, stunning schools of fish with seidr pulses before hauling them in. It was an inelegant method, but it worked. By now, they had learned to work more efficiently—sending the crafts out at dawn, and returning before nightfall. Smokehouses were built along the cliffs to dry and preserve the meat, filling the air with the thick scent of salt and brine. 

Loki stood at the rocky shore as a group of men and women prepared their fishing nets. Unlike Midgard’s methods, theirs required strength, precision, and a touch of Seidr. A pair of warriors stood waist-deep in the water, hands glowing faintly with seidr as they sent waves rippling outward, guiding the fish toward the waiting nets.

“I thought you’d be above such mundane things,” Eirik said, appearing at his side.

Loki smirked. “You assume I’ve never fished before?”

He snorted. “I assume you had servants to fish for you.”

“True,” Loki admitted. “But I was also very good at sneaking away from those servants.”

Eirik watched as a net was hauled in, heavy with silver-scaled fish. “We’ll need more variety. We can’t live on fish alone.”

“The hunters are working on that,” Loki replied, as he glanced over at a group that was farther away, quickly checking on them. “The forests hold game, but we must be careful not to take too much.”

Eirik crossed his arms. “I’m surprised you care.”

Loki turned his gaze to the horizon. “I care about survival.”

He studied him for a moment, then nodded.

“Good,” he said.

—-

A group set off into the woods, foraging for anything edible. They returned with armfuls of berries, nuts, mushrooms, and bark. They tested everything, determining quickly that there was little in Midgard’s plant life that could poison an Asgardian. What would kill a human in hours barely gave them a stomachache.

The foraging parties expanded their search, testing new roots, grains, and edible plants. Some of the older women, who had once tended gardens in Asgard’s golden fields, experimented with the soil, planting seeds and coaxing stubborn Midgardian crops to grow under their hands.

Loki watched them work one evening, his boots sinking into the damp earth.

“It is strange,” one of the younger women murmured as she pressed a seed into the soil.

Loki glanced down at her. “What is?”

She smiled, weary but determined. “We were never meant to do this, were we? We were gods. We feasted in halls of gold. And yet here we are, planting like mortals.”

Loki's gaze drifted back to her, and suddenly, he recognized the gentle figure as Idunn, the goddess of spring. He had not known she had survived. It was her golden apples that had adorned the palace, granting strength and vitality to the gods, and her lush crops and harvests that had sustained the Asgardians. 

Loki's eyes wandered over the landscape—the meticulously tilled rows, the other carefully coaxing life from the earth. 

"We were never just gods," he said quietly. "We were a people." Idunn nodded in silent agreement, her hands never still as she returned to her work, nurturing the source of her power.

The first harvest would be months away.

But already, the fields were beginning to grow.

Loki was seated on a flat stone near the edge of the settlement, sharpening a blade with practiced care. The rhythmic scrape of metal on stone was a small pleasure—something precise, controlled, in a world still unsteady beneath his feet.

Around him, the camp moved with a growing sense of rhythm: fires crackled, voices called out in greeting or in frustration, and the scent of roasting roots and seaweed drifted on the wind. He kept track of it all without allowing himself to think of feasts, of wine, of golden halls. This was what they had now.

He was just far enough away he could keep an eye on them, without being overwhelmed.

He was just starting to lose himself into the rhythm, when footsteps crunched behind him, hurried and overlapping.

He didn’t look up.

“My lord,” came a voice—tense, sharp.

“Is this about food or firewood?” Loki asked, still dragging the blade down the stone.

“No. Brynja bewitched my axe.”

Loki’s hand stilled.

Slowly, he raised his gaze to find two figures standing before him—Artur, a young blacksmith with arms like hammers, and Brynja, a huntress with a permanent scowl and three knives on her belt. Between them lay a small, chipped axe resting awkwardly on a folded cloth.

“I’m sorry,” Loki said, “did you say bewitched?” 

“She cursed it,” Artur snapped. “Ever since she borrowed it, it won’t cut clean. It pulls to the left.”

Brynja rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder she didn’t fall over. “I didn’t curse it. I used it. It’s dull.”

“I sharpen it every morning!”

“You think you sharpen it. I’ve seen how you hold a whetstone.”

They were practically nose to nose now, and Loki, blade still in one hand, sighed and stood.

“Enough. You’ve brought this to me, so I will solve it. But you won’t like it.”

They blinked at him.

Loki stepped between them and picked up the axe. “You say it’s cursed,” he said, turning it over. “You say it’s just dull. Both of you are wrong. This axe is cursed and dull. A tragedy.”

Brynja scoffed. Artur bristled.

Loki raised a hand. “Luckily, I am burdened with glorious purpose… and just a touch of mischief.”

He whispered something into the axe’s handle. It glowed faintly for a moment—just a flicker—and then dimmed. Loki handed it back to Artur with great ceremony.

“There. Now it will only cut cleanly if the wielder is being honest.”

Brynja blinked. Artur frowned. “That’s not—”

“Try it,” Loki said, nodding toward a thick piece of driftwood nearby.

Artur stomped over and gave it a mighty swing. The blade bit deep, slicing cleanly.

He turned, triumphant, until Loki held up a finger.

“You’ve just admitted she didn’t curse it,” he said. “Because the axe worked.”

Brynja barked a laugh. Artur turned red.

“That’s not—how—?”

Loki shrugged. “Magic is complicated. Like people. Especially when people lie to themselves.”

Brynja cackled, delighted. She took the axe from Artur’s hand and swung it up, clearly pleased. “If it veers again, I’ll assume you’re lying about something else.”

She gave Loki a sharp nod. “Thanks, Prince,” she said before shoving the axe into Arturs arms and striding off.

Artur stared after her, then glanced at Loki. “Was that real magic?”

“Of course not,” Loki said, already sitting back down. “But you believed it. And now the axe works.”

Artur snorted despite himself. “You’re dangerous.”

Loki offered a sly smile. “At your service.”

He returned to his blade, adding over his shoulder, “Just don’t dull it again.”

Arthur simply shook his head with a faint smile and walked away as well—in a different direction, Loki noticed. 

—

It wasn’t until much later, as he lay on his cot staring at the cloth ceiling of his tent, that the realization struck him.

They had come to him.

Not out of fear. Not out of obligation. Not because they had no one else.

And the strangest part?

It had felt natural.

Groa lay nestled in the tall summer grass, where the stalks rose as high as her knees when she stood. But now, lying down, the green blades arched over her like a canopy, swaying gently with the wind. The sun filtered through in patches, warm and golden on her face. Her dark skin drank in the light, and she closed her eyes against its warmth. It was soft here, quiet. The grass cradled her body, rustling around her like a heavy blanket. Cuddled—that was the word for it. It felt like being held.

She was supposed to be collecting mushrooms—some kind of boring forage duty meant to keep her and the others busy. But the mushrooms were dull, hard to find, and worst of all, they didn’t taste like anything. Groa had lost interest after the first handful and wandered here instead.

She sighed, long and dramatic.

Since arriving on Midgard, she’d been staying in the longhouse by the river with the other orphans. There weren’t many like her—most of the survivors had found someone to take them in. A cousin, a family friend, a familiar face from the city guard. But Groa had no one left. Her parents had died when the Bifrost fell, their names now etched only in her memory.

Loki—well, the prince, technically—had seen to the orphans. He wasn’t the ruler, not officially. But he had been the one organizing the supplies, barking orders when things nearly fell apart. He wasn’t warm, exactly, but he noticed things. He made sure no one went cold or hungry. He had helped fix up the longhouse, set it by the river, brought blankets, and posted guards when the nightmares got bad.

She was just starting to drift off when someone plopped into the grass beside her with a soft thump.

“What are you doing?” came a familiar voice.

Groa didn’t even need to look. “Thinking.”

When she did glance over, Syg was lying the same way she was, hands folded over her belly, golden hair tangled with dandelions and wild stalks.

“Thinking,” Syg echoed with a nod.

Groa squinted at her. “You know, I was here first.”

“You don’t own the grass.”

Groa made a face, but her smile tugged at the corners.

“Want some company?” she asked.

Groa shrugged. “Okay.”

They lay side by side, tucked into the meadow’s green embrace, watching clouds drift and reform. Their silence was easy, like they didn’t need to talk to be heard. Syg didn’t have any family or friends either. But she was an adult, so she could do what she wanted. 

Eventually, Syg sighed again, louder this time. “Ready to get back to work?”

Groa groaned. “Do we have to?”

“No,” Syg said, standing anyway. “But we probably should.”

Groa groaned louder and rolled upright.

As they dusted themselves off, Groa caught a glimpse of someone across the field, standing just beyond the treeline. It was the prince—Loki—with his sleeves rolled up, one hand braced on his hip as he listened to a farmer point toward the ridgeline, gesturing animatedly about something. A new path, maybe. Or a drainage issue. He nodded, said something she couldn’t hear.

But even in the middle of it, he glanced their way. Just for a moment. Quick, like checking the position of the sun or the weight of the wind.

He wasn’t watching them. Not exactly. Just making sure they were all right. They were a little far from the others, tucked into the edge of the meadow, and Groa realized—not for the first time—that he did that. Looked after everyone. Quietly. Without asking.

She didn’t wave. Didn’t point him out. Just stored it away. 

Then the girls turned, their baskets half-empty, and made their way back toward the woods. There was still work to do.

Their days now carried more hope in them. But at night, when the work was done and exhaustion settled over the camp, grief crept in like a ghost.

There were no funeral pyres. No great ceremonies to honor the dead. Asgard had burned, and they had burned with it.

When everyone gathered around the fires for the evening meal, the emotions were palpable. Some whispered prayers to the Allfather before sleep. Others sat in silence, staring into the fire, their hands empty of weapons, of purpose.

Loki felt it in the spaces between breaths. In the way warriors sat with hollow eyes, their hands twitching for swords they no longer needed. In the way mothers held their children too tightly, as if fearing they might vanish.

One night, as he sat beside the fire, a woman approached him hesitantly.

“My lord,” she murmured. “My son… he doesn’t understand. ”

Loki glanced up. The child in question was small, barely more than a toddler, clinging to his mother’s skirts. His wide blue eyes were filled with confusion.

“He keeps asking when we’ll go home,” she whispered.

Loki swallowed. What could he say? That Asgard was dust? That there was no home to return to?

Instead, he looked down at the child and offered a small smile. With a flick of his fingers, a shimmer of seidr rose from his palm, swirling into the shape of a golden horse. It pranced through the air, leaving faint trails of light.

The child gasped, reaching out with chubby fingers.

“This,” Loki murmured, “is our home now.”

And he prayed, silently, that it would be enough.

He looked up—and caught the eye of a golden-haired maiden sitting across the fire. Her face, weary but gentle, was cast in flickering light, the kind of tiredness that lived in the bones but hadn’t yet hardened into bitterness. She didn’t smile. She only looked at him for a breath—and then turned away, her gaze falling to the flames.

Loki sat still.

The fire crackled softly. Around it, the others murmured or fell quiet, their shadows dancing against half-built walls. Grief settled in these spaces like ash—too fine to sweep away, too heavy to forget. It clung to all of them. Carried in silence. Carried in small, quiet ways.

They had survived. But survival was not the same as peace.

———-

Another evening, Loki found a child kneeling at the edge of the cliffs.

She was young, with dark unkempt hair and a face that had seen too much too soon. One of the orphans. He had seen her around the fields. Her dark hands gripped the edge of her tunic, knuckles white.

Loki approached slowly.

“You will not find them in the sea,” he said softly.

The girl flinched, but did not look away from the crashing waves below. “I know.” Her voice was hoarse. “But I don’t know where else to look.”

Loki stood beside her, the wind tangling in his cloak. He did not offer empty words of comfort.

Instead, he simply said, “Neither do I.”

The girl exhaled shakily. After a long moment, she turned away from the cliffs and launched her arms around Loki’s legs. The hug lasted no more than a second, before she let go and scampered back toward the firelight.

Loki watched her go in a state of shock, a small warmth curling up in him. 

The grief would not leave them.

But perhaps, in time, they would learn to carry it.

Week 3

There was no royal architect, no grand designs, no enchanted tools that could summon buildings with a single touch of magic.

They had to do this the hard way.

Jorund, their stonemason, became one of the most respected figures among them. Under his watchful eye, teams formed—some cutting logs, others shaping stone, a few helping him experiment with lime mixtures to create mortar. 

Determining the layout of New Asgard was the first time Loki had ever attempted to establish a political system. Old Asgard had been governed under the All-Thing, a system as ancient as the realm itself. It was a tiered structure of governance, ensuring that every citizen, from the humblest farmer to the wealthiest noble, had a path to reach the highest authority.

At the foundation of this structure was the Thing, a local governing body that convened once a month to address the needs of its people. Every citizen belonged to a Thing, usually organized by village, district, or even a guild. These gatherings were held in great halls, open fields, or sacred groves, where matters both great and small were brought forth. Land disputes between neighbors, accusations of theft, the need for new roads, and preparations for winter were all discussed. In times of crisis—such as famine, war, or disaster—extraordinary meetings could be called.

Each Thing was led by a council of respected elders, warriors, scholars, and tradesmen known as the Hold-Keepers. They ensured justice was administered fairly and that decisions were made with wisdom. These councils were responsible for resolving minor disputes, overseeing public works such as road maintenance, and ensuring the prosperity of their region. 

If a road fell into disrepair, a Hold-Keeper would arrange for its repair. If a fire swept through the fields, the Thing would coordinate aid. If two citizens quarreled over land or debts, or even a broken fence, the Hold-Keepers would mediate. While all citizens could speak at the Thing, it was the Hold-Keepers responsibility to represent the voice of the great majority at the Great-Thing.

After each monthly meeting, the Hold-Keepers of the Things within a region would gather for the next tier of governance—the Great Thing. This was where broader concerns that spanned multiple villages or districts were debated. Here, they presented the concerns of their respective Things, debated policies, and enacted laws that affected multiple regions.

The Great Thing addressed broader issues: trade regulations, military conscription, taxation, and major infrastructure projects such as bridge-building, harbor expansions, and city defenses. It also served as a higher court for more serious disputes, including land claims between houses, trade disagreements between guilds, and criminal trials that exceeded the authority of a single Thing.

Order was maintained through strict tradition—interruptions were forbidden, and those who spoke out of turn were swiftly silenced. Votes were cast when necessary, with the majority ruling. Once decisions were made, Law-Speakers returned to their respective Things to relay the outcomes.

But at the summit of this system sat the All-Thing, where the most powerful decisions were made. From among the Great Thing and Law-Speakers, a few were chosen as High-Verdandi, the wisest and most skilled among them. These individuals were often expert orators, negotiators, and strategists, representing entire provinces or key institutions such as the military, the arcane orders, or the royal treasury.

The All-Thing convened in Asgard’s great halls, directly advising the throne and bringing back reports from all the Things around the realm. It was here that matters of war, alliances, and the fate of the realm itself were decided. While the king or queen held the final say, it was rare for them to overrule the All-Thing without just cause—after all, to ignore the voice of the people was to invite discord.

Above all stood the All-Father, the ultimate arbiter of law and fate. He and his royal council had the power to approve or reject the decisions made by the Great Things, ensuring that the laws remained aligned with the realm’s greater vision. While the king’s word was law, he rarely acted without careful deliberation.

For millennia, this system had guided Asgard, allowing every citizen, from peasant to noble, to have a stake in their realm’s future. Now, with their people reduced to a few hundred souls, it needed to adapt. 

So, before a single stone was laid for permanent buildings, Loki called a gathering. They met in the open, near the shoreline where the refugees had first landed, standing among crates and scavenged supplies.

“The All-Thing, as it once existed, is impossible for us now,” Loki announced, his voice calm but firm. “But we must have order. We must have a way to decide our future.”

Murmurs passed through the gathered Asgardians, but no one argued. In the past weeks, Loki had worked alongside them—securing food, organizing shelter, ensuring their survival. He had not sought authority, but in the absence of any clear leader, they had turned to him.

“I propose we maintain the spirit of the All-Thing, but on a smaller scale.” With a flick of his hand, he conjured an illusion of their settlement, glowing lines tracing the rough landscape. “The town will be divided into quarters, based on natural divisions in the land. Each quarter will have a representative, chosen by the people, who will speak on their behalf. These representatives will meet regularly in the Great Hall to discuss needs and disputes.”

The map shifted as he gestured, highlighting a central space. “Here, the Great Hall will stand. Not just as a place for feasting, but for governing. The heart of New Asgard.”

Valkyrie, standing nearby, gave a small nod of approval. “And who will lead this council?”

Loki let the illusion fade, hesitating for a brief moment. He had never thought of himself as their leader, not truly. He had done what needed to be done, but there were others just as capable. He glanced at Valkyrie—she was a warrior, yes, but she had the people’s respect. Or perhaps one of the elders could take the role. He opened his mouth to say as much.

“We will need to find someone to serve as the head,” he said carefully.

But before Valkyrie could respond, another voice rose from the crowd. “We already have someone.”

Loki turned, startled. The speaker was an older woman, Gudrun, he recognized, her face lined with age but her gaze steady. Around her, others murmured in agreement.

“You are a son of Odin,” she said simply. “You have led us already, whether you meant to or not. We need more than just a council—we need a guiding hand. We need you.”

A murmur of approval swept through the gathered Asgardians. Loki stared at them, caught off guard. He had not positioned himself above them. He had only done what was necessary.

“I—” He hesitated, uneasy with the weight of their expectation. “There are others who could lead. Valkyrie, for one.”

But Valkyrie shook her head, smirking slightly. “I can fight for these people, but I won’t pretend to know how to lead them. You’ve already been doing that.”

A man from the crowd, a builder Loki had worked beside in the past weeks, stepped forward. “We trust you. You’ve been guiding us since the moment we landed here. We would follow you, not because you are Odin’s son, but because you’ve stood with us.”

Loki swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words. They were not asking for a king, not demanding a ruler. They were simply acknowledging what had already happened.

Slowly, he exhaled. Then he gave a small nod. “If this is what you wish, then I will serve as best as I am able.” 

A hush settled over the gathering, then a quiet murmur of acceptance. Some bowed their heads, not in deference, but in understanding.

The wind off the sea was sharp that morning, carrying the scent of salt and pine. The Asgardians gathered in the clearing above the shoreline, where the grasses grew tall and the earth was flat enough to serve as their first council ground.

There was no great hall, no gilded dome to mark the occasion. Just weathered stones, driftwood benches, and the knowledge that something old was being reshaped into something new.

The All-Thing would not return—not yet. It would be arrogant, even foolish, to mimic the old structure before they had the people or the strength. But the essence of the old ways could still be honored. They would begin, as their ancestors had, with Things—local, practical, and rooted in the land.

It was Gudrun who first stood and spoke.

“We are no longer the shining capital of the Nine Realms,” she said, her voice roughened by salt air and age. “But we are still Asgardians. Let us begin with what we have.”

Around her, voices murmured in agreement. Loki, standing apart but listening closely, watched as the people began to self-organize.

“We’re already grouping ourselves,” said Jorund, the stonemason, gesturing behind him. A loose cluster of builders stood nearby—those who had worked stone, shaped beams, measured timber. “We’ve stayed close to the cliffs. That’s where we find our material, where the ground is strongest.”

“The coast belongs to the fishers,” said Eirik, standing with a line of sea-weathered folk. “We’ve claimed the boats, built the racks, mapped the tides. It makes no sense to move inland.”

“And the fields?” asked another voice—a younger woman, Kari, one of the foragers who had begun marking edible roots and wild grains. “We’ve begun turning the soil. We’ve staked the first gardens near the fresh spring.”

“The rest of us gather near the center,” said Gudrun, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Where the supplies are stored, where disputes come to rest. We don’t swing hammers or cast nets, but we keep the hearth warm. Scholars, traders, healers, old keepers of lore.”

There was a long pause.

Then someone said it aloud: “Four Things, then.”

The decision wasn’t formal, but it settled over the group like mist. Four gatherings, based on the lives they now lived, not the ones they had left behind. It was practical. Natural.

Now came the choosing.

Each quarter gathered separately, spreading out across the clearing. Voices rose as candidates were discussed—not voted in the old sense, but offered and accepted by communal will.

The Builders’ Thing, as they called it, chose Jorund as their Law-Speaker. He protested at first, saying he wasn’t a talker or a philosopher. But when pressed, he nodded and said simply, “If it must be me, I’ll do it properly.”

The Sea-Thing—the fishers and sailors—named Eirik, the warrior-turned-helmsman, who had once commanded Asgard’s naval routes. And Sigrun, a leather worker. He accepted with a sharp nod, already drafting lists of supplies they’d need to repair the old boats.

The Field-Thing, comprised of farmers, hunters, and foragers, chose Kari and Idunn. Idunn was quiet, but thoughtful, and had already mapped half the surrounding forests in charcoal sketches. “I’ll need help,” she said, and they promised she’d have it.

And finally, the Heart-Thing, those who lived closest to the center, turned to Gudrun without hesitation. She did not decline.

“I’ve lived long enough to know when the wind is changing,” she said, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I’ll help hold the center steady.”

When the Law-Speakers returned to the main circle, there was a shift in the air. It wasn’t pomp or ceremony—it was something deeper. A recognition.

Loki stepped forward at last. “Then let this be the first Thing,” he said, conjuring a flickering light to mark each of the chosen with a band of seidr across their forearms—a gesture of respect, not authority.

“You are not rulers,” he said. “You are listeners. Mediators. Bearers of your people’s voices. The All-Thing will come again, in time. But until then, you are its living memory.”

They stood together, not apart. No thrones. No crowns.

Only the weight of survival—and a future worth building.

The decision over the layout of New Asgard took place in the first true meeting of their fledgling council. The Asgardians gathered in the open air, near the shoreline, where they had first landed. A large, flat rock served as their council table, with the Law-Speakers from each quarter and members Loki had chosen as his council, standing around it. Loki stood at the head, his hands resting on the stone, a conjured map of their settlement flickering in the air above it.

“Before we build, we must plan,” he said. “We cannot afford mistakes.”

The first matter was determining the heart of New Asgard—the Great Hall.

“It must be at the center,” Gudrun said. “Not just near the water, not buried among the houses, but where all roads lead.”

Loki altered the illusion, adjusting the placement of the Great Hall to stand at the very heart of the settlement. “Here, then. The foundation of our home, the first true stone we lay.”

There were nods of agreement. The Great Hall would be the first permanent structure, built with the strongest stone they could find. It would not just be a place for feasts and governance but a symbol—something to remind them all that Asgard still stood.

“Every road will lead to it,” Jorund added. “Every gathering, every decision, every celebration—it will all take place within those walls.”

The others murmured their approval. It would be their anchor, their home, the place where all would come together.

Next came the issue of housing.

“Our people have already settled in loose clusters,” said Eirik, one of the warriors. “It makes sense to formalize those divisions.”

Indeed, the Asgardians had, by instinct, settled near others with whom they shared trades or past bonds. The builders and masons had set their tents and crude shelters near the best sources of stone and timber. The fishers had remained close to the cliffs and the sea. The farmers and foragers had staked their claims in the more fertile inland ground.

“We should let them remain,” said Sigrun, the leatherworker. “Why force them to uproot again?”

There was general agreement. The quarters of New Asgard would be determined by the natural divisions that had already formed—one near the shore for fishers and sailors, one along the cliffs and hills for builders and craftsmen, one further inland for farmers and foragers, and one at the heart of it all, near the Great Hall, where merchants and scholars could gather.

“We will need roads,” Jorund pointed out. “Not just paths. True roads, even if it takes years to lay stone.”

“And a market,” added Gudrun. “Trade will be in our future.”

Loki adjusted the map again, marking pathways between the quarters, all converging on the Great Hall. He designated an open space near its steps as the market square, where traders could gather.

“Then it is decided,” Loki said, letting the illusion settle into place. “We begin with the Great Hall. The first stone we lay will be for our future.”

It was not the golden city they had once known. But it was a beginning.

Since they had arrived at New Asgard, most of their meals had been shared together. At nightfall, they would all gather around the fires to eat together, be that in silence or in murmured conversation. They had been quiet and peaceful nights, but ultimately overshadowed by a somber undertone. Always touched by the weight of what had been lost.

But tonight—tonight, was different. Tonight was a celebration.

By the time the All Thing had ended, even though calling it such felt like a mockery, the sky had just started to turn pink and orange and it was just about the time they all gathered.

Word had already spread through the camp: there would be food, drink, and something like celebration. Loki had spoken with the cooks earlier that day, leaning over a battered wooden table as they discussed what could be done with their limited stores.

In the first weeks, everyone had taken turns cooking. But the results had been… uneven. Some Asgardians burned everything. Others seasoned nothing. Eventually, a small group of those with steady hands and practiced palates had emerged and quietly taken over. They rotated duties now—three on, three off, trading shifts like warriors in a watch. Loki had approached them with a request.

“Make it special,” he’d said. “Anything. Just… something they’ll remember.”

Now, the smell of roasted meat drifted across the gathering. Some of the fish from the bay had been smoked and glazed with wild berries. There were flatbreads cooked over stones, and for once, enough to go around twice. The cooks had saved the good salt for tonight. Someone had even fermented a barrel of something strong, which now made the rounds in shared cups.

Excited chatter filled the air as they all slowly trickled in and found their places. A mother scolded her children for running, their shrieking laughs filling the air, but it lacked its usual bite. Two sisters leaned against each other, quietly giggling to themselves. Light chatter filled the air, and—laughter. 

Loki quietly observed everyone through the firelight. Two warriors laughing with each other, a grandmother being held up by a grinning younger woman and a small child underfoot, everyone framed by the flames. Their faces touched by ash, salt, and weeks of exhaustion. And yet, they were content. Still, he could feel their eyes flicking to him—waiting to see what their fledgling leader would say.

He observed them for a while longer before standing up. The orange light caught in his dark hair, and a hush fell over the gathered crowd. He looked out over them—these survivors—and allowed a small, quiet smile. 

“My friends,” he began, voice steady but warm. “You have shown strength beyond measure. You have endured loss, hunger, uncertainty—and still, you have worked, shared, and stood together. For that, you have my respect.”

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle before continuing.

“We have heard what your elected Law-Speakers have told us,” he said, shifting to a firmer tone. “Each of your quarters has spoken, and together, we’ve shaped the path forward.”

He nodded toward the gathered representatives—men and women chosen by the people in the days following the new structure’s announcement.

“We begin with the Great Hall. It will rise at the center of New Asgard—not just because it is the heart of our governance, but because it will become the heart of our daily lives. A place for counsel, for justice, for mourning, for celebration.”

A few heads nodded. Others simply listened.

“The foundation will be laid as soon as possible. Stones already gathered will be shaped and fitted under Jorund’s guidance. Until the Hall is complete, our meetings will continue under the open sky.”

He gestured to the faint outline in the dirt behind him. “Once the Hall is well underway, we will move on to permanent housing.” 

He raised a hand, forestalling any murmurs. “And, we will rotate labor fairly. Those with skills in carpentry and stonework will guide the rest. The cooks will continue to serve us all, but on a rotation basis—no one will be burdened more than the rest. Everyone will contribute in the best way they can. This is how we rebuild—not with one man’s vision, but with the will of all.”

There was a stillness after he finished. Then, quietly, someone clapped. Another followed. Then the sound spread until the air trembled with shared momentum.

A few in the crowd exchanged looks and smiled—tired, but genuine. One young man let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A woman near the front nudged her companion with a grin, murmuring something about “finally having a roof that doesn’t flap in the wind.” Small signs of hope bloomed like embers catching wind—quiet, but spreading.

Loki stepped back down, the firelight flickering in his eyes. It wasn’t thunderous applause or royal acclaim—but it was better. It was real.

He turned back toward them once more, lifting his voice again.

“Now,” he said, a flicker of mischief returning to his tone, “the work can wait until morning. Tonight—eat well, drink deep, and celebrate as only Asgardians know how.”

A cheer went up—louder this time, joyous, full of relief and something like pride. Laughter followed, and the crowd stirred to life.

Steaming bowls and plates were passed around. Someone had even fermented a barrel of a strong drink, which now made the rounds in shared cups. 

And then someone began to sing.

It started softly—a young woman, voice trembling but true. An old Asgardian song, not of battle or glory, but of coming home. Others joined in slowly, and then more, until the fire was surrounded by a chorus of familiar voices rising into the stars.

Loki stood back and watched. His eyes drifted over the gathered faces. For a moment, they were not just survivors. They were not grieving. They were laughing. Singing. Alive.

When the song ended, someone started another. Louder, faster. And feet began to move.

There was no music beyond clapping hands and stomping boots, but it was enough. A circle formed, and dancing began—half-remembered steps from village festivals, clumsy twirls and broad grins. Children darted between adults, shrieking with laughter. Even some of the elders clapped along, swaying on their feet.

Someone handed Loki a cup, and he drank deeply. The alcohol burned, but it was sharp and clean.

Nearby, a small knot of teenagers had gathered just outside the firelight. They tried to look aloof, leaning against stones and talking in low voices—but even they couldn’t hide their smiles. One of them, a tall boy with a shock of white-blond hair, finally gave in and dragged a girl into the circle. She yelped, then laughed, and the rest followed.

Loki laughed at that and finally stood up, everyone around him stilling slightly to see what he would do. He raised his hands and waited until he had everyone’s attention. Then, without saying anything, he loudly clapped twice and let a pause hold before clapping twice again, then pausing, then clapping again. Then, again, and again. Everyone grinned as they realized what he was doing, and even the Valkyrie hid a smile in her cup. This was a dance that even she would know. He kept the rhythm steady until everyone else was repeating it.

Then, he clasped his palms together and called his Seidr into them. As he opened his hands, he drew out two brightly lit strands of Seid and carefully set them against each other so they formed a cross. Creating music from Seidr was difficult to learn but, once mastered, easy to produce. In this case, the two strands would move against each other, like a bow on a violin. The Seidr would hum and vibrate, producing sound and music. This particular Seidr instrument was called the Ljóðstrengr, or sometimes the Fæstrungr. Relatively common. 

He carefully instructed it with a pattern of notes he had long ago memorized, and let it start playing. While he was setting it up, a large space had been opened. Many Asgardians gathered in the center, carefully organizing themselves in rows of rings. A steady rhythm of clapping echoed from the spectators lining the edges, cheering and urging them on with infectious energy.

As soon as he was sure the music was playing properly, he joined the dancers in the outer ring. 

Then, as soon as the music swelled to a crescendo, they all burst into movement. Carefully synchronized turns, claps, kicks, jumps and laughter followed. The inner ring turned left, the middle to the right, and the outermost to the left again, their alternating movement creating a mesmerizing ripple of motion. Arms lifted and dropped in unison, feet stomped and spun with practiced ease. The stomps rang like thunder across the flagstones, each beat echoing into the warm evening air. 

As the tempo climbed, the circles spun faster, the intricate knotwork of their bodies weaving in and out like strands in a tapestry. The dancers clapped in patterns—three quick, one long—and leapt into brief aerial twirls before landing to the beat. Cloaks and skirts flared. Braided hair caught the wind. Sparks seemed to fly from the edges of their boots where they met the dirt. 

From the outer ring, cheers rose as those watching joined in by clapping, urging the dancers on with wild delight. Laughter floated over the music, joyful and fierce.

Loki spun in time with the others, but something about his movement was sharper—more precise, more fluid. His arms moved with theatrical grace, his eyes glinting with amusement and mischief. It was obvious to Valkyrie that he had been properly trained in dance, unlike the others he wasn’t guessing. He danced like it was art.

The circles twisted, then unraveled, only to knot themselves again in a new formation. It was less a dance than a living storm of rhythm and memory. A celebration of old Asgard, she mused. 

And as the final clap resounded, the dancers froze mid-turn, facing inward, breathless and grinning. For a moment, all was still again.

Then applause erupted from all sides—loud, joyful, and long.

They barely catched their breath till another song started again. One of the things Valkyrie had missed about Asgardian dancing music was that only half of it came from the actual instruments, the rest was completed by the claps, stomps and vocals from the dancers and bystanders. A glorious cacophony of sound. 

She watched them all jumping and dancing, cheering them on just like everyone else, when Loki caught her eye. He grinned and beckoned her over. She just laughed him off, but he flicked a green streak of Seidr at her that dragged her in. Everyone laughed at her panicked steps before they joined in themselves. 

For a while there was little semblance of order, but everyone kept the steps as best they could. Children ran around jumping with them and the most impressive stunts were pulled off by the teenagers. Everyone simply having fun. Loki played song after song after song, this going on for many hours before everything started dying down. 

Less people were dancing now, simply basking in the warm content glow in the air. There was work to be done tomorrow, so sleeping as early as possible would be necessary. But, one last song would be good. It was mostly younger couples left anyway.

It gave Loki the perfect idea. 

He started a very distinct song and, judging by the knowing glances, they all knew it. They started swaying to it, simple twists and swishes as they arranged themselves. Then, at the crescendo of the second refrain, the rhythm shifted—suddenly sharper, almost playful—and the dancers responded in perfect synchronicity. Each turned inward toward their partner and stepped close, hands sliding naturally to rest at each other’s waists.

With a stomp and a breath, they began to revolve, twirling in fast circles with their partners gripped tight. Some laughed aloud, cloaks flying like wings, boots scraping against the floor in practiced arcs. For a few heartbeats, the entire courtyard was a spinning constellation of pairs—flashes of gold and green, red and silver, movement and laughter.

Then, on a sharp beat of the drum, they released.

One step back. Two steps to the left.

And without pause, each dancer turned to the next person in the ring. A new partner, a new rhythm.

The dance began anew.

This time, the momentum changed—slightly wilder, a little less predictable. Some of the dancers added flourishes: extra twirls, fancy footwork, dramatic dips that drew whoops from the watching crowd. But even in the chaos, there was order—every eight beats, another switch, another swirl.

As the dance wove on, bonds were forged in the brief meeting of palms, the shared laughter mid-spin, the delighted surprise of finding an old friend—or a new flirtation—at the next turn.

And at the center of it all, the dance continued like clockwork, a living knot of rhythm and grace. Loki twirled, and was twirled, several times around.  Then, with a final flourish, the song ended. 

Loki caught his breath and glanced down at the young woman in his arms. She had golden hair and a tired face, but with stunning eyes. She slightly smiled up at him —which took years off her face—before carefully disentangling. He felt oddly hypnotized as she walked away, his arms feeling suddenly cold without her. She glanced over her shoulder at him again before sitting down with a group of young women that had been dancing as well. She joined in their cheering and laughed with them, apparently not as struck as he had been. 

 He brushed away his odd behavior and decided to sit down himself, when he realized he had seen her before. In flashes—hauling stone, tending to the growing fields, sitting by the fires at night. She spoke little, but she listened to everything. It was truly not surprising that he recognized her, there were so few of them, but he wondered why she stood out. A  conundrum for another time, perhaps. 

After that, most of the dancing stopped, and everyone simply kept singing and drinking. Children were put to bed and those too tired to continue retired. The songs ranged from melancholy to war drums, anything anyone could think of. Loki adjusted the music accordingly.

He gazed at everyone simply enjoying themselves, not weighed down by grief, and felt pride. Later the grief and guilt would return, but for now, this place—this half-built, cobbled-together village—felt like home.

They had made it this far. Together.

And that was worth celebrating. Tonight, they were not lost refugees.

They were Asgardians