The rainbow bridge connecting Heimdall's observatory and the rest of Asgard was a marvel in every sense of the word.
Not only was it beautiful, but it also held great significance, as clearly seen when Thor broke it to disable the Bifrost. This bridge was evidently a crucial element, not easily destroyed. Thor exerted considerable effort to break it, even while the Bifrost was at full strength, which probably added to its value.
Everyone knew that superweapons became vulnerable just before going off; it was a key plot device that would allow the hero to win by the skin of his teeth.
To my eyes, the bridge seemed to be pure energy stabilized to an impossible degree, so much so that it was a solid thing, even breaking it wouldn't cause the energy to split apart and explode all of Asgard.
Which was honestly good design. That would have been a glaring weakness.
Still, as I rode across the bridge on Dun Stallion's back, I couldn't help but marvel at the sight of Asgard. I thought that nothing could compare to Camelot, a city made by the hands of fairies, but clearly, a city made by the hands of gods was not inferior.
Towering, gleaming, golden towers, shining buildings and halls, snow-tipped mountains, and tranquil seas.
People, strong and proud, walked around with purpose, yet they were happy and content. This was a true realm of abundance. A post-scarcity society.
People had everything, yet they didn't fall into the endless pit of excess and extremes; they maintained a healthy lifestyle. Sure, their feasts would last for weeks, but that was nothing compared to how other civilizations had lost themselves.
At least the Asgardians hadn't given birth to a Chaos God.
If humanity were given infinite resources and allowed to become a post-scarcity society, they would likely consume themselves and end up no better than those foolish space elves.
It would take a long time before humanity was ready for that, even here in the realm of the gods. People still milled about. I rode past small market stalls, with Asgardians selling their wares—promoting their mead, meat, clothes, and weapons.
They did not have to spend their time weaving or forging; they did it because they enjoyed it. Each weapon I saw laid out for sale was one that had been forged with love and care.
This was everything I hoped that Camelot and Albion would be: a place where joy filled every heart, where none suffered.
As I rode by and looked at the Asgardians going about their day, they too turned their eyes on me.
I was clearly divine, something I didn't hide as I held Rhongomyniad in my hand, the divine lance shining brightly, a small sun of pure power, strong enough to even surprise the Asgardians.
A divine spirit, a god in their full might from the Fate universe, was indeed a rather potent thing.
Yet, shockingly enough, none stopped me, no guards came rushing, they just watched as the rest of them, whispering to one another.
Two Asgardians stood by a market stall, one polishing a silver helm while the other leaned close, both lowering their voices as I passed.
"Who is she?" the first whispered, eyes fixed on me. "I've never seen anyone hold themselves like that before. Not even Lady Sif moves like that."
"Don't know," the other murmured, stilling his hands as Rhongomyniad's light washed over their stall. "But the air's thick around her. Feels like standing near the Bifröst itself."
"That lance," the first said, his voice almost reverent. "It shines like captured sunlight. You think it's dwarven work?"
"No," the other said, shaking his head slowly. "No forge I know could make something like that. That's divine steel, or something older."
The first leaned in, whispering lower. "Then she's a goddess?"
"She has to be," came the quiet reply. "But which one? I know every tale sung in the halls, and she isn't in any of them."
"Maybe a Vanir," the first guessed. "They say Freyja had kin lost to other realms."
The other snorted softly. "No Vanir carries themselves like that. Look at her eyes. That's a queen. A warrior-queen."
They both fell silent as I drew nearer, the light from my lance reflecting in their eyes.
"Heimdall opened the bridge for her," one finally muttered when I passed. "So she must be a friend to Asgard, though I wonder who she is."
Neither spoke again after that, only staring as I rode past, the sound of Dun Stallion's hooves echoing faintly against the golden stone.
Though there were also other whispered conversations, less flattering ones.
A little further down the street, the tone of the whispers changed. Two men leaned against a barrel outside a tavern, mugs still half-full, their voices low but far from discreet.
"By the Norns," one of them muttered, squinting as I passed. "You see the legs on that one? Fine as any I've ever seen in Asgard."
"Ha," the other laughed quietly, elbowing him. "Legs? I'm still stuck on the way that armor fits her. What I wouldn't give for a night with that lass."
The first grinned. "Aye, though I reckon she'd break you in half before you even got a hand on her."
"Worth it," the other said, taking a slow drink. "Look at her, riding like she owns the realm. That's the kind of woman who'd kill you, then pour herself another cup."
The first chuckled, but his smile faltered as Rhongomyniad's light brushed across them. The warmth from the tavern door dimmed, the air thickening under divine weight.
"She's lookin' this way," he whispered suddenly, lowering his mug. "You think she heard us?"
The other swallowed hard, his face paling. "If she did, pray she finds better things to do than strike us down."
Neither spoke again. They stood frozen, watching as I rode past, the glow of the lance fading behind me like a warning best not forgotten.
It was almost refreshing, their honesty. On Earth, I knew well that I was rather popular. Both before my true sex was revealed, and far more since I revealed my face to them.
I often feared what Mordred would do should she learn what people said about me online, the creative writing they shared, or the art made in my image.
I was well beloved, but none, not even the most foolish drunk, would mention it near me or my knights.
They forgot what time I grew up in, one where drunken talk was truly honest. I still remember the nights when some of my knights boasted about their conquests.
Never knowing that both I and Mordred were of the fairer sex, they were crass men at times, but good men. I had no doubt these Asgardians were the same, honest, but kind-hearted, I could feel it in the air.
This realm was one filled with joy and song; no deep shadows festered here. One could say many things about Odin's ability to raise his children, but one couldn't deny that the realm he built was one of splendour.
Speaking of splendour, the castle of Asgard, home of the all-father, stretched into the sky before me. A great golden cathedral that put even my castle to shame.
The road leading toward the palace was wide and spotless, the stone polished to a mirror's sheen. I could see my reflection and Dun Stallion's in it, the golden light of Asgard rippling across our mirrored forms.
Guards stood along the outer gates in pairs, their armor so finely worked that it gleamed like sunlight on water. Each bore a different crest — wolves, ravens, and spears — yet all bowed their heads as I passed. Not in submission, but in acknowledgment. Warriors greeting another warrior.
The great doors at the end of the avenue opened as if expecting me. No one moved to bar my path, no herald to announce me, only the soft hum of magic and the faint echo of harp music drifting down the long hall beyond.
I dismounted, letting Dun Stallion rest outside. He snorted once, shaking his mane before lowering his head to the guards who approached, their eyes wary but curious. They reached out to touch him, as though uncertain whether a creature so pale and divine could be real.
Inside, the air grew cool, scented faintly of pine and polished gold. Light streamed down from the high windows in long, soft beams, dancing over banners older than memory. Every surface shone with reverence — this was not merely a palace, but a monument to eternity itself.
"It's impressive, isn't it?" A female voice greeted me. "Though it was a lot of work making it a home." The voice continued as its owner made itself known.
A regal woman, regal, yet kind, that was the impression she gave off. Dressed in the finest of clothes, shimmering fabric, gleaming gold, and bright eyes. It didn't take much to figure out who she was.
"Greeting Frigga, Queen of Asgard, Wife of the All-Father and mother of Thor and Loki." I stopped and nodded my head towards her.
"Please," she said softly, waving one graceful hand. "There's no need for formality here. You are a guest in my home, and I have long wished to meet the Queen of Albion face to face."
Her voice carried the warmth of a hearth fire, calm and steady, yet with the quiet strength of someone who had seen far more than she let on. I could feel the faint hum of magic about her — not the wild energy of a sorcerer, but something gentler. A mother's magic. The kind that protected, soothed, and mended.
"It is an honor, Your Grace," I replied, inclining my head once more before straightening. "Your realm is as radiant as the stories claim. No mortal tongue could do it justice."
She smiled faintly. "You speak kindly, though I suspect your Camelot is no less impressive. Loki speaks kindly of it, a stark difference to how he describes the rest of Midgard." She paused, and her eyes locked with mine for a moment. "Yet maybe it is not the city itself, but who lives in it that draws his attention."
I could sense the unsaid meaning hidden in her words. She might seem kind, even her magic feels soothing, but beyond that was a Queen of thousands of years, one that had long since learned to scheme like Morgan and Merlin.
"You flatter me, your grace, but if anyone in my city is worthy of Lord Regent Loki's attention, it would be his brother, Thor, son of Odin." I said, trying to change the topic.
She laughed gently, "Oh please, I know my sons well, and they rarely think about one another, both too busy with themselves to care for the bond of brothers. In part, I blame my husband."
Her words were a well weaved trap, I could sense that, to agree with her would be speaking ill of Odin in his own hall, to disagree would be rude towards both a host, and a mother speaking of her children.
Truly a woman worthy of being the queen of the gods. Well played indeed.
"That is hardly my place to speak of, but I came here not to idle talk; I wish to speak with Loki, if my suspicion is correct, a dark hand extends towards Midgard, and towards the All-father's treasures."
A trace of disappointment flashed through Frigga's eyes. Clearly, she wanted to continue with the small talk, but she knew well that what I wished to talk about was too important to delay. "That is serious indeed. It seems you'd best speak with Loki; he has been waiting excitedly since hearing you arrived."
(End of chapter)
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