The morning was gray and still.
Somewhere in the countryside of northern England, the fields lay soaked and heavy from last night's rain.
A thin fog drifted just above the ground, clinging to the fences and the low stone walls that cut across the landscape.
The air smelled of wet soil, hay, and the faint smoke of an early fire from a nearby farmhouse could be seen..
A man and a woman were moving slowly through the field, boots sinking slightly in the softened earth.
Their coats were worn, sleeves rolled back, hands rough from work. The only sounds were the pull of the hoe through the soil, the quiet breath between them, and the rhythmic tapping of rainwater falling from the eaves of the barn.
They had been up since dawn. The sky hadn't brightened much since, just shades of gray shifting behind the clouds.
It didn't seen like a rest day for them, but only more work and another cup of tea when it was done.
The man straightened, pressing his palms together to ease the ache in his fingers. The soil clung thick and dark to his gloves. The woman beside him stayed kneeling, eyes lowered to the field.
"Too much rain," she said softly. "If it keeps on like this, we will have rot before we get growth."
He gave a slow nod, leaning on the handle of his hoe. "Aye. Could use a bit o' luck, I'd say."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then she sighed, brushing mud from her palms. "Maybe we should have prayed harder to Sif this year."
The man chuckled under his breath. "I did. Twice actually, if you count that time after the ale."
"That doesn't count," she said hastily, giving him a look. She have had enough of his antics.
The woman then looked up, brushing dirt from her hands before clasping them together. "Lady Sif,' she said quietly, "keep the earth kind and the sun gentle. Let the grain rise strong and golden. Let the land remember mercy."
The man joined her, his voice low "And keep the mischief away," he added. "We have no need of that one's hand in our work."
A faint smile touched her lips. "You think he listens?"
"I think he laughs," the man said, a hint of irritation in his tone. "Every time a storm floods a field or a fox gets the hens, I swear it's him, chucklin' in the dark."
She exhaled through her nose, half a laugh escaping, "You give him too much credit. Maybe he's got better things to have fun with."
The man looked out across the gray stretch of land. "Does he ever?"
The woman tilted her head, her gaze still on the clouds. "If he did," she said quietly, "he might come here."
The man turned to her. "And why would he do that?"
She gave a small shrug. "I don't know. Maybe, for sports, or maybe for no reason at all. He shows up when no one asks, makes a mess of things, and leaves before you can even curse his name."
"Aye. And if he's listenin' now, he best stay where he is. We have got enough trouble without the likes of him."
The woman looked at him then, one brow raised. "Careful what you say. The gods don't take kindly to bein' dared."
He smiled, trying to hide the unease creeping into his chest. "Well, if he does come, maybe he will bring fair weather with him for once."
The words hung in the air for a moment, carried off by the wind.
The field was quiet again.
Until,
*Boom*
The sound came low at first, a deep, rolling vibration that moved through the soil like something alive beneath it.
The tools in their hands rattled and the air itself seemed to thicken.
The woman froze, eyes wide. "Did you feel that?"
Before he could answer, the ground shuddered again, harder this time. A few stones from the fence toppled into the mud. The cows in the nearby pasture began to bellow, shifting nervously.
The man and woman turned together toward the hills.
And they saw the clouds broke.
A burst of color split the sky... red, gold, blue, and white tangled together like fire trapped in rain.
It burned too bright to look at directly, and yet neither of them could turn away. The air shimmered and the mist itself seemed to glow.
The woman's breath caught. "It's... " her words broke, "It's the Bifrost," she whispered, the word trembling out of her like a prayer.
The man took off his cap, staring as the light spread across the clouds, pouring down like molten glass. "By the gods,' he said under his breath. "They are crossing.'
The bridge arched high above the fields, a river of flame suspended in the storm.
The colors churned, shifting and alive, pulsing with a rhythm that felt almost like a heartbeat.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the glow began to fade. The red dimming first, then the gold, then the blue, each swallowed by the clouds.
And then, from within the fading light, a single streak of green tore across the sky.
It was bright and sharp.
It flickered twice, before sinking toward the earth far beyond the hill.
The woman exhaled softly, glancing up at the clouds still humming with the last traces of color.
Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it,
"All father, what did we do?" she asked, eyes narrowing slightly. "Did we invite him?"
----
The light of the bifrost held for a moment before it broke away. Colors bled into the gray of the sky, folding inward until only a single point remained.
A shimmer of green suspended in the air, pulsing softly like the heartbeat of the Aesir itself. The earth beneath it stilled, for a moment even the wind seemed to draw back.
And then the light descended.
It unfolded, and a slow burst of energy rippled outward in a perfect circle, the grass bending as though bowing to someone's arrival.
When the glow faded, a figure stood where the beam had touched the ground.
He didn't move at first.
The mist curled around him, before sliding away as if it wasn't meant to touch him.
His cloak , dark green with faint golden edges hung clean despite the damp air. The tunic beneath shimmered faintly with runic embroidery.
Black hair fell neatly to his jawline, framing a face too calm in contrast to the sky that had just split to let him through.
His eyes, bright green and unblinking, carried that same glow still fading from the earth.
For a while, he simply looked up, taking in the clouds and the scenery around.
Then his gaze moved towards the distant farm, where he could see a distant couple.
A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
"Looks like someone wanted to see me," he said, his voice calm but amused. "It's their lucky day then. And people say I don't listen."
Then, slowly, he turned his head and there she was. His partner, and the woman he loved.
Well, one of the women he loved.
The air around her was different as well.
Her long braid, rested over one shoulder. The blue gray of her coat seemed to bathe in the pale morning light.
Her eyes, clear and sharp, met his without surprise.
Her name was Angrboda, The Witch of Ironwood. The mother of monsters. And beloved wife of...
Loki, the God of Mischief. Brother of all father, Odin.
And trickster of Asgard.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
" Shall we, Loki? " Angrboda asked.
Then his mouth curved, the smallest flicker of a grin tugging at it.