At three times Earth-human body density, the Bifrost was an active hazard for any Asgardian—take two steps and the rest would keep crumbling away.
Daisy, barely 130 pounds (60 kg), didn't care. She sighed heavily. Somehow Loki had ended up falling in anyway. Would he run into the Chitauri down there? Would he go on to invade Earth? Knowing that man's personality, she genuinely couldn't call it.
Her visible despondency was misread in creative ways by the watching crowd.
"Miss Johnson…" Volstagg—a large and boisterous wall of a man—moved toward her, clearly intending to give thanks. Sif caught his arm and fired off a rapid series of significant looks. Not now.
Volstagg seemed to grasp something. He scratched the back of his head and sighed as well.
"Loki will be fine. I'm certain of it." Thor had no interest in mourning his brother from a distance—that felt like a desecration. He settled onto the Bifrost beside Daisy.
He will absolutely be fine, Daisy thought. Give it a few months and he'll come bounding back—eating well, sleeping well, full of energy. She knew it too well.
She gave a slightly numb nod. "Yeah. He'll be fine."
As they spoke, a streak of gold cut through the air. Gungnir emerged from the Void without being called, indifferent to the people around it, and flew in a straight line to land before the throne in the Great Hall.
"Can the Bifrost still be used? How do I get home?" She had to raise the rather pressing question.
Thor had no idea how the Bifrost worked. He thought about it at length and couldn't offer an answer. As far as he could tell, Daisy wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.
"Come join our banquet—may I call you Daisy? It's our tradition." Frigga, composed and warm, gently nudged Thor aside and took Daisy's hands with genuine sincerity.
They were inviting her to dinner? Daisy didn't hesitate. An opportunity to sample the cuisine of the divine realm was not something to pass up.
She glanced at the broken bridge. "Is now really the right time?"
What she meant was: Loki just died. Are we having a celebration?
A trace of sadness passed through Frigga's eyes. "This is our tradition. A warrior's sacrifice is not a cause for sorrow—it is an honor. We who remain share in that honor."
That actually made sense to Daisy. Something like a celebration of life.
When in Rome. She couldn't leave anyway. She nodded and accepted.
Come evening, she stepped out of her room in a pale rose floor-length gown.
Asgardians had no use for makeup or jewelry. That saved considerable time.
The dress itself was simple. The upper half resembled an Earth-style strappy camisole—slightly loose, her neck, collarbone, and arms left bare.
Quite modest, all things considered. Nothing like the plunging necklines and open backs that seemed mandatory at Earth parties.
The waistline sat high, making everything below it look like leg. At 177 cm (5'10"), Daisy somehow appeared closer to 180 cm.
The shoes were archaic in style—something like Roman-strap sandals from Earth. Flat soles, strips of some unknown creature's leather wound five or six times around her slender calves. And that was all there was to the shoes.
She followed Sif through half the palace to reach the Great Hall, arriving at the celebratory banquet for Comrade Loki's glorious ascension.
No opening speeches. The one leader who might have spoken, Odin, was still deep in the Odinsleep—and asking Frigga to stand up and deliver remarks seemed a little cruel. Everyone raised a cup together in tribute to Loki, the God-King of many controversies, and then the eating began in earnest.
Daisy was a little self-conscious at first. She picked up something that looked like a tangerine and broke off pieces one at a time, very properly.
Then she looked around. Apart from Frigga, who was drinking water, every single person had descended into total feasting—even the composed and dignified Sif was shoveling food in like she was racing a timer. Daisy let go completely.
She'd been burning through reserves since the battle started. Her Eternal gene evolution alone required massive energy input, and sustained combat demanded even more through cellular conversion. She was starving.
Something that looked like bread turned out to be a meat pie. She ate one in two bites.
A lamb leg that tasted roughly like Earth's—she grabbed it with both hands and ate. Asgard's seas were famous for spirit fish; she didn't turn any of it down, and while she was at it she reached across for another platter of roasted meat.
"What an appetite—you're a formidable warrior!" Volstagg, first among the Warriors Three, gave her a thumbs-up.
Eating well makes you a warrior? What kind of logic is that? Daisy privately rolled her eyes, but humored him with a nod. These foods were, by the logic of cultivation novels, dense with spiritual energy—exceptional fuel for cellular storage and continued evolution. Free food was free food.
"You're a formidable warrior too!" She clapped his shoulder with an oil-slicked hand, entirely perfunctory. He took no offense and appeared to be delighted.
"To our friend from Earth—the warrior Daisy Johnson!" His voice boomed across the hall; the assembled warriors answered immediately. Every cup in the room went up.
Daisy hastily set down her lamb leg and reached for her cup to respond.
Sif stopped her and shot a glance toward the far end of the hall.
A moment later, two warriors appeared carrying a large wine cask. Another brought forward a golden goblet.
They opened the cask. A liquid poured out—bright red as blood.
Every sound in the hall died away. Even Thor, lost in his grief, looked up.
Very fragrant. That was Daisy's first reaction. Full of power. That was her second.
Would Asgardians try to poison her in public, in front of everyone? She doubted it. She looked to Sif with a silent question. This woman had never lied to her, and Daisy trusted her.
"This is the magical mead Odin once stole from the Dwarves." Sif's eyes were bright, her chin tilting in a small inviting nod.
It's just a drink. What's the fuss?
Daisy picked up the golden goblet. The thing had to weigh at least twenty pounds—Jane Foster couldn't have lifted it. She brought it close and gave it a quick sniff: sweet, mellow, layered with a warm floral depth like nectar. The power in it was unmistakable.
Smelling it, this was absolutely a fine drink.
Daisy met every set of eyes in the hall without flinching and raised the goblet: "To Asgard!"
Then she tilted the cup and let the liquid pour.
Oh.
The mead hit hard—not like strong liquor, but like a stream of molten rock. The thermal energy inside it was enough to scald a normal person's throat from the inside; anyone with fast reflexes would have spat it straight back out. This isn't a drink. This is a mouthful of fire.
Daisy swept a quick glance across the watching faces. Waiting for me to embarrass myself, are we? Does anyone here think the Will of Fire is something you trifle with? This little campfire means nothing.
She tilted back her head, let out a series of audible gulps, and drained the entire goblet without stopping.
When she finished, she upended the cup and turned it slowly for everyone to see. Not a drop remained.
The mead flowed down her throat and into her stomach. Whatever it had been brewed from, her cells drank up the rich energy stored within it, hungry and immediate.