"Water doesn't work. Snow doesn't either…"
Thor hovered in the air, spinning Mjolnir by its strap. Torrential rain formed a water column, dousing the burning rooftops below.
No effect. Beyond creating clouds of steam, the flames defied logic, burning fiercely in water.
Villagers huddled in an open field, fleeing with barely the clothes on their backs—some in just underwear. In the frigid Scandinavian winter night, the cold was unbearable.
Compared to friends and family burned to ash, they couldn't decide if they were lucky or cursed.
The village was nearly razed, exposing the muddy earth beneath the snow. The church burned brightest—not due to the Presence's protection, but because it was the largest structure, packed with fuel, burning like a giant candle.
Some older villagers recognized Thor, offering ancient Viking salutes to the sky, begging the Thunder God to save their home.
But most watched silently as their lives turned to ash, hope extinguished.
Thor's summoned winds and blizzards only deepened their despair. Their homes were gone, and the storm sapped their warmth. Limbs stiffened, lips turned purple.
Water froze on the ground, and the crowd, unable to approach the fire, faced freezing to death.
"He can't put out fires. That's the Presence's church. If that's Thor, he'd rather see us heretics dead."
"His wrath is killing us…"
"Presence, save us!"
Whispers spread, eyes on Thor filled with fear. First, the village inexplicably caught fire; now a god brought disaster.
They suspected Thor started it. Lightning could spark flames, and he was here to torment heretics for sport.
Long ago, the war god Tyr urged Vikings to sail to Britain, slaughter monks, and loot Catholic gold.
Killing Christians was a badge of honor, a ticket to Valhalla. Stolen wealth sustained their lives.
Times changed. The Presence's faith spread globally, even in Scandinavia, where many abandoned old beliefs.
Were the Norse gods now striking back?
Thor heard the murmurs, his anger flaring. He'd come to answer their prayers, bored in Asgard, to put out the fire!
Why blame all Asgardians for Tyr's deeds?
Odin banned meddling in Midgard. Tyr broke the rules and was long dead.
Tyr's soul didn't reach Valhalla—it vanished. What did that have to do with Thor?
As a god, he wouldn't punish mortals for gossip. They thought he couldn't douse the flames? He'd prove them wrong.
Roaring, Thor hurled Mjolnir, cratering the ground.
He became a bolt of lightning, charging into the inferno.
If storms and snow failed, he'd beat the flames out.
He swung fists the size of cauldrons, pummeling the fire like Frost Giants or monsters, each strike a thunderous boom.
"Burn this! Still fighting? Die!"
He smashed every flame in sight, roaring. Sparks caught his armor and helmet; he slapped them out.
Moments later, the fire was gone.
But the church was dust. Thor's relentless blows turned the village center into a basin.
Rising from the rubble, Thor grinned victoriously, raising charred hands. "Believers! I, Thor, God of Thunder, have quenched these strange flames! Rejoice!"
The villagers: "…"
No cheers. Their eyes held only numbness and grief.
Before, they might've salvaged something from the ashes. Now, even their loved ones' remains were likely gone.
"Why aren't you pleased?" Thor asked, puzzled. The fire was out—shouldn't they be happy?
"No, great Thunder God, we're thrilled!" an old man with a long beard knelt before Thor, forcing a smile through tears that left white streaks on his face.
Prompted, the villagers mimicked him, sobbing with forced grins. Their village was gone, but they didn't want to die.
"Yes, great Thor, thank you! We'll always remember the gods' grace."
"Look at us, smiling so happily! We just… have no wine or women to offer you."
"This is a harsh land. Please return to Asgard."
They knelt in the snow, weeping, thanking Thor.
He was pleased.
This was how to spread Asgard's glory—fulfill believers' wishes. Odin banned Midgard visits, but these humans adored him, didn't they?
He used to come often, helping villages fight beasts or foes, then bedding their women.
Big drinks, big feasts. Husbands hoped their wives bore Thor's demigod children—endless glory in the gods' era.
A woman chosen by a god was the finest, wasn't she? A demigod's father? Honored.
It was a chaotic time; civilization's spark hadn't reached these frozen lands.
Then Odin banned Asgardians from Midgard, saying a strong mortal deserved respect.
Thor didn't buy it. He'd sneak down, sometimes with Loki or the Warriors Three.
Not Sif—she was too bossy. What fun was that?
He never saw a mortal worthy of "strong."
Over time, fewer villages offered women.
Loki didn't care—he was happy with fruit or beef, giggling as he pranked mortals into mud pits.
Thor just regretted not proving his prowess in bed.
Snapping out of memories, Thor nodded at the kneeling humans, satisfied. He retrieved Mjolnir, hooking it to his belt.
"Live well. I shall depart. Heimdall!"
The Bifrost opened, a flash of light leaving intricate patterns, blackened dust, and bewildered villagers.
On the Bifrost, Thor saw Heimdall, leaning on his sword, clad in golden armor, his orange eyes watching all Nine Realms.
The ever-watchful guardian, Thor's loyal friend.
"No one noticed I left, right?" Thor asked, clutching his side, limping a bit.
"Queen Frigga asked. I told her," Heimdall replied.
"Mother? No problem, as long as Father's still asleep."
Heimdall sighed, shaking his head.
Thor frowned. Why the hesitation?
His body ached. The flames seemed to cook his bones, his hands nearly roasted. He needed to treat his wounds.
"Excuse me."
He clapped Heimdall's shoulder, leaving blood and ash on the gold armor, and signaled they'd talk later. Raising Mjolnir, he flew along the Bifrost to Asgard.
Heimdall's sigh was for Odin's foolish son.
His eyes saw nearly every corner of the Nine Realms, his long life granting vast knowledge.
Who fights fire with fists?
He worried for Asgard's future.
In Asgard, Loki lounged in his palace, reclining on a soft bed, sipping wine, admiring the view.
Asgard's night was stunning, the Bifrost's colors dazzling.
He listened to magpies chirping under the eaves, joking with them as water splashed from a waterfall, chuckling at his own wit.
Shaking his head, Loki patted his belly.
"Oh, that three-giant joke was gold. How do I come up with such brilliance? Genius, right, birds?"
"Chirp chirp!"
"Here's a new one—about my brother and two women. Spread it to all your friends."
Loki smirked, dipping his fingers in wine, using magic to conjure images of Thor with women.
Asgardians would recognize the armor: Lady Sif and the Enchantress Amora.
Loki crafted a grotesque tale, animalistic and tragic, for the magpies.
Not a joke—just a prank to amuse himself, imagining their horror when Thor and the women's bodies got eaten by cats, hinting at their own grim fates.
"Loki?"
Thor's voice boomed at the door. Loki flicked his wrist, wine returning to the cup, magpies scattering.
"Thor."
Loki stood still for a moment, then turned with a beaming smile, as if thrilled to see his brother.
But seeing Thor's blackened, tattered armor and cloak, he approached, curious.
"Help me out."
Thor slung an arm over Loki's shoulder, nearly crushing him.
Loki steadied himself, dragging Thor to the bed.
"What'd you do?"
He rummaged through a cabinet for medicine, bandaging Thor's hands, curiosity piqued. Thor's injuries were minor, but he reeked of… barbecue.
Just needed some fruit and spices, Loki thought.
"Put out a fire. Midgard," Thor grunted, tossing his helmet onto a table, knocking over Loki's wine jug, spilling it.
He sprawled on the bed, sighing comfortably. Loki's bed was the softest—best place to rest.