An (un)Forseen Welcome Home

August 25, 2017:

From Midgard to Asgard, after 3 days Helen takes Mattias to finish what she promised. ((R-ead On - Warned!))

Xavier's To Asgard


NPCs: The Norns Heimdall


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

“Tomorrow”, she had said.

It’s the answer to a question that has been on Mattias Larsson’s mind for three days. Annika and Olivia Larsson were in America, visiting, taking comfort in their stay at the Xavier Estate and exploring nearby New York City for three days. Yet less than two minutes in the beginning of Amora’s visitation, disguised as Helen Eve, she had foretold that their visit was a prelude to difficult roads ahead.

“Tomorrow”, she had whispered the night before in the darkness, in platinum blonde waves captured in moonlight and whispers in the darkness of the bed they had shared for three days.

It had taken Mattias hours to fall asleep that night, despite the woman in his arms and her warmth shared beneath his bedding.

When the first rays of sunlight creep over the eastern seaboard, a crack in the heavy, black curtains sneaks through to lick across Mattias’ face. With his mind racing before sleep, his internal clock is on so high alert that his frayed nerves can suffer no such lighting. Excitement? Nervousness? The whole of his body screams to be in the world of the waking; to see to it that the puzzle pieces fall into place.

He wakes to a room strewn in clothing spent, of purchased clothing and a bikini top dangling from a laundry hamper. To a naked torso lying upon his, with tattooed back bare to the gentle buffering of the ceiling fan above. To the weight of Amora’s head resting against his chest.

When the brush of his hand up and down the curve spine wakes her, there are no words to be shared. Sleepy blue eyes meet kohl-rimmed green eyes for a shared stare. The press of lips is slow, chaste, and the communal drag of naked body out of the furs and black sheets of his bed is almost a roll to the other side and onto the hardwood flooring.

    The time has come.

Wordless still, the old, freezing water in the pipes hisses through the showerhead and onto Mattias’ shoulders. Arms draped about hers, he shields her from the worst of it, holding against her smaller form for balance as steam builds, and nothing is said.

Foreheads meeting for balance.

Breakfast is left on a pair of plates, half-eaten food on the corner of a desk that’s seen better days.

With the final lace of the boot is tightened, Mattias is at the best representation of himself that he could wear. The rugged, near-apocalyptic leather jacket, patched in runes and the fur of the ber he had felled, wraps about his shoulders and the plain, white tee shirt he wears beneath. The jeans are a pair bought after the first day, a delicacy of Midgard, with old chain and boots he’s proud to say are scuffed to the point of the burnished steel cap toe beneath the leather poking out in places.

Boots he’s kicked into being important.

The lace is tightened into place and Mattias collects the axe head and the haft, two pieces not yet whole, and turns to wait with his hip cocked to the window sill, eyes tracing to track and watch Amora in her preparations, for it is she who is about to take him away, to set in place the next piece of his destiny.

She is the train.
    He, the passenger.

    No matter what you say or what you do,
                I know how this will end!

Three days in Midgardian form, playing the role so close to chest like a deck inside a full house. Xavier’s is a place that is a safe haven, and having her there is violation. But she does not make a move against the Mutants or the Institute, it is another safeguard that does not require the proclamation of ‘Sanctuary!’, because they do it for Mattias and those behind the ornate doors of historical architecture.

Annika and Olivia are known further, down to their favorite American cuisines, even if they caused later aches and pains. Godiva.  All of it.

But when a door closed and the room that is solely Mattias’ seals them away from prying eyes, tilted ears, and lips of fallacy their exchange is their own, and one that makes the Midgard come to grips with the Asgard, and lets her breathe.

But something in Amora… Helen… changes as time draws on and she is in this facade, even the palpable draw of ethereal energies seems to begin to dwindle, and when she sleeps there, even her breathing seems to come to a regulated draw and push. The rest of profile forms sloped perfection nestled along his neck where chin found home upon the span of his shoulder that also was a clutched hold of curled fingers.

    Fingers that almost dig crescents into his skin when he shifts upon the returned look from waking eyes that grow ever settled in pale mossy gaze.

        Amora has to go back….

            Mattias was promised to come with.

                I’m dangerous for you…

But the moment of apprehension is swept away with the final blink of sleeps haze from her gaze and they form a unison-roll from the drape of scattered blankets and furs, the mist of cold water that is deflected by his form as it spills from the shower head and he shields her from the chill, the warmth after that leaves them in a space filled with steam and slick surfaces known, but not as well…

Mattias’ own motions to dress for the promised occasion are watched, the towel Helen uses to remove excess from her hair is cast aside, a figure backlit by the bathroom lighting into a darkened room is merely a silhouette save the light's reflection off the length of blonde tresses.

Not one move is made for the smaller figure of svelte shadows to dress, just the incandescent flash of eyes crosses his path, the approval neither shown or voiced, but it can be seen in the way those reflective eyes tilt and narrow while lips remain unseen and words remain unspoken.

    Fingers still smear over the heated layer of moisture that slides along skin, following dangerous curves and cutting paths over ink —-

            —- a fading thing.

Over a day of nothing and the room becomes claustrophobic with the rush …

        … I grow so weak ..

The silhouette reforms, the heat rushing the room crashes against Mattias’ back in its assault towards Helen, and like a flame, flaking away paper Mache, the edges singe and the art etched across skin fades away in cinders while her body heightens, broadens, fits the feeling that petite Midgardian can lay out with a look.

Eyes paled capture the glow and absorb it, pale blonde becomes the swirl of pearlescence, a shell opened and revealed on the inside(s).

What covers her figure is white, lacing of green and gold, several slips of fabric woven in a criss cross like a tapestry to cling to contours and remain aloft upon her frame. Straps jeweled in emerald and strung together in gossamer of gold fauxly keep it all aloft, but mesh with the strips of accented jewelry that dips over plexus from the stretch along collar and fall visibly betwixt the lined chest, descending to leave one final stone, so deep in green it is almost black above navel. Upon brow, that coronet that spires around eyes in accent of the hue they could never mate.

Feet now clad in sandals part the strips of gauzy fabric to clear the space between them, showing the gauntleted armor that rides from tops of ankles to mid thigh instead of laces, the match descending an arm in broken hinges of plate work, bound together in tiny strings of chains… Chains that connect to the gauntleted fingers.

A reach for Mattias, and for a moment, the wolves brush flanks, a sweep in familiarity, a reassurance necessary before the palm splays over his chest, over those reminders..

Bifrost: Rainbow Bridge

Before them, the passage is laid out. Asgardian structure at their backs. Yggdrasil before them in a towering height that no monuments in Midgard could duplicate. Nor mountains. This is not of Midgard, but it holds it as well…

A slow breath in and Amora the Enchantress steps forward and begins their passage towards the very center.

“Is it everything you dreamed, Mattias?” A question without a look back, but her head turns enough to show the look intended. But at her back, there is a roll, a serpentine coil of muscles beneath pale skin where the fabric leaves openings to show and strain against tension.


Magic. It’s a part of who Mattias is, so sayeth a mystic woman with bones as brittle as a birds he’d met ages ago. The broiling energies and the casual shift in the air has become something he’s witnessed more than once, even though he has no such skill. Magic in his blood or not, it is not in his fingertips.

But that doesn’t mean that he can’t enjoy watching it at work.

The image of Helen, drying with her towel and watching him dress, is burned alive. Tattooed skin burns to ash and flakes in the air as the very stature of the woman rights to a match of his own height. Mattias tilts his head in witness, eyes traveling in the growing form to find Amora’s eyes when her true form comes to bear.

Disappointment doesn’t become him. He knows who she is, disguises or not.

He steps to join her and lowers his head, taking in the sight of their so very different choice in clothing. His, the leather, the beaten hide over a warrior’s form, though decidedly Midgard in nature. Hers, the garb of a sorceress with no true need for modesty, or the power surge that comes from dragging eyes away from the three F’s that dominate the minds of most men: Fighting, Fucking, Family.

She draws his attention downwards with a slow breath to distract the butterflies in his stomach with her cleavage. The wolves drag muzzle, and then…they’re gone.

The first gaze of the rainbow-colored bridge at his feet, the shimmering lights, sucks the wind out of his breath. The tiny part of his mind that doubted is crushed and scattered. His lips part to leave mouth slightly agape as theory comes crashing with reality.

He’s here.

    He’s really here.

Amora of Asgard makes it four steps away from the large man as he’s looking upwards, tracing the branches of Yggdrasil as far as his eyes can see, and even then, he cannot see far enough to catch glimpse of the upper branches. Gawking is the term. Mattias gawks in a twist of his hip to gaze upon the high walls of the Asgard Citadel in the distance behind them. Odin. The Odin could be ther—

She’s leaving without him.

“I…” Mattias steps forward quickly, careful not to rush but to stride in the Enchantress’ wake to catch up. His azure eyes, glittering with the spared myriad reflections off of Bifrost, center onto the way her spine rolls against her skin as she walks. “…don’t think even my dreams are creative enough to picture this, and my dreams are vivid.” Mattias replies. “But it makes everything in Midgard look…pale.”

Mattias pries his eyes from the creamy center of Amora’s back and looks back to  Yggdrasil before them, nostrils flaring upwards. The leather in his jacket creaks, bulging as he flexes his arms at the sight of it, re-hefting his axe handle in one hand, the axe’s head in the other.

“I understand now how blending in there might seem…lesser.” Mattias adds. “After knowing this.”


Yggdrasil’s roots run deep into the hollow, but they tether the Realms into one, a One that is held aloft and tethered by a trunk that could span miles in width. Around it there is fields, mountains, fjords, and the Citadel of Asgard, but with every stride it seems the span of build behind, becomes beneath, while they ascend the Bridge and flank mountains that still seem small beneath the shadows cast from branches and extensions of Yggdrasil.

Around Mattias’ neck that tiny dried berry of fruit begins to fill, the pucker of skin long dried against his heart of preservation, valleys and darkened paths creating Valleys of Death now suction and push out to create that bead and it grows.

“It is lesser, but not in the way intended.” Words spoken over the bare slope of shoulder that finally settles into proper placement, devoid of that tension that sung up her spine - traced by his gaze of azure to verde. “Not in the grand desi—..”

The pause comes when they approach the arch of the mountain before the very Peak, Once unseen, the residence is evident, and upon a balcony there is a flash of reflection off domed helmet crowned by twin horns and only dulled by the fall of beard from the shadows that reign beneath the  metal barrier. No eyes can be seen in that abyss, but the head slowly moves with their path. A weapon of length in one hand, a horn in the other, both gripped harder with the visual that passes beneath Him.

Unseen eyes on one precipice, and those encircled by the coronet hang in a balance that could shatter an invisible pa(i)ne, between the two, and once more the rigidity in lupine spine rides her on high, tilting chin aloft and seemingly casting gaze away, although Amora is even too proud to truly do so in the presence of Heimdall/r/.

“There is no need to dream on this manner again.” But words that once seemed close to the chest, now pass with a resounding echo over the walls of bark and Asgardian Bone, lifting to the ridges and calling to the slow arrival of moons.

Arrival is easily seen in the form of rising ridges, massive roots laden in twine of smaller, interruptions easily stepped over, though some in mass…

    A hand plants on the firm barrier of bark and draws back, a slow motion that garners a stare.

            A flicker to fast forward apathy.

                    Faux Pas.

The gauntleted hand descend then, and Amora crosses over, a slow drag of gauzen fabric behind, effigy of baited trail, bread crumbs to Mattias while his eyes take in the entirety of his desires that now bare shade over the spanse of land beneath a single canopy save the reflection over a pool - surrounded by Verðandi Three.

“How pale?” And on the Other Side,  Amora pauses while threads are woven from the ether, the tendrils of threaded roots drawn into fingrs that peer from beneath sleeves of black cloaks, keeping features veiled, darkened.





                        Once again….
                                There is unknown with you..

Amora’s past in Asgard is… Difficult.

She is the wild card, but not quite an ending serpent within their midst, but one warily looked upon.

And the tension along spine and shoulder traced by Mattias’ own gaze is defined.


“I come to present before you a Son you missed.” The words travel, they could shake foundations between the Trio, and the stance of Amora that remains regal, poised, and unwavering, even when she tilt her head, the crane of swan-like neck drawing her gaze to Mattias with a form of appraisal that is ‘differing’ from any before.


    She plays at…
            No, there is no play here..
                    But there is a darkness…

The Verðandi seated along the pool pause in their weaving, slender fingers long calloused at tips release silver lining of threads t the light filtering through as the Third Moon rises in Asgard.

One hand rises, a bid to The Enchantress in their midst to remain away…

A sweep of clouding and Mattias is the object of attentions, but without fight  he will find himself in a hover, a balance above the pool that suddenly spreads to match his height and width while unknown hands draw over him, filter through hair, draw over gauntlet, and one presses upon apex of forehead.

    A snap!  

        Another thread is pulled, and to Mattias it may feel as if a leech has been placed upon him, but beneath his hovering stasis, another thread reaches up.

            The Enchantress’ gaze remains steady, nearly white, a mirroring reflection of the ritual before her. A tension is omnipresent, clutched beneath fingers that bite into biceps, but that slow forming tilt at the very bladed tilt of eyes shows…

“You missed his birth Verðandi,” A click of tongue to roof of mouth. //“For…
                                        ..Shame.” //


Wordlessly, Mattias follows Amora across Bifrost.

Another journey to be had. Doubtlessly, he hears her words, just as easily as the waves of deep emotion swell against his skin with no lack of mystery to the woman he follows. The turn of his head leaves blonde hair hanging in the empty space, waving back and forth with each step, clutching the growing berry hanging from his neck, swelling as unshared emotions well up within Mattias’ heart.

Is this the home I missed?
    I’m breathing the air I was meant to.
How could anyone get used to this? How could this be /normal/?
    …finally. I am here.

The snap in Amora’s wording catches Mattias’ attention. His eyes pry from the alien landscape to the path ahead, where blue eyes lift to the polished helm of Heimdall. It isn’t the horn in his hand that draws his attention, but the weapon in his hand, and the starlight in his eyes. Mattias lifts his head, mistaking it for danger at first, but the harsh weather of stare from Heimdall the Watcher is oppressive, yet strangely passive.

    The watcher does not move.

    Slowly, Mattias nods to the hero of legend, and continues on his journey.

    A respect, in parting.

The Norns. They are a legend Mattias knows, and as he crosses through, the sight of them widen his eyes and blacken his peripheral vision. And why wouldn’t they exist? He’d just traveled Bifrost, but one legend after the next being so tangible is shocking to the system and the realities he once knew. His heart nearly kicks against his chest at the way it pounds against his breast, demanding to be set free.

And it stops when Amora challenges them.

She isn’t fucking around today, not one bit. Mattias thinks to himself, reaffirming the grip of the haft and axe head, his sole burden to carry. No. Do not fear this. FACE this, Mat.

Despite the itching at the back of his neck and his urge to fight the lift of his body and the pawing, invisible hands against his skin, Mattias quells his heart and breathes slowly. The warm breath escapes his nostrils and he widens the stance of his arms, giving room to the ministrations of the Norns and their inspection.

The gauntlet of ber, a ber he had slain.
    The hide he wears upon his skin.
        The tooth kept trophy about his neck.
            The scars to prove it all true.

Mattias expands his chest and draws his arms wide, lowering his eyes to the Norns to watch the three closely. They may as well cover his body in leeches, as the SNAP at his forehead, despite the sting, brings only a narrowing of his eyes that stops short of being a blink.

“My name is Mattias of Gothenburg,” Mattias lifts his voice in the tongue of Asgard, finally deeming the moment for it to be heard. He speaks downwards, throat tensing to propel his resolute tone down to the women despite the energies that surge in the ritual. “Judge me, I welcome it. I seek to return to my home.”


A slap resounds..
    Mattias narrows a gaze upon Amora, The Enchantress..


That single word had incited a different ignition, and it is spread out over the Pool before the Verðandi, a spanse that adjusted to Mattias’ form, fits it.

Every draw from him is wrenched between fingers, knobby knuckles of the Norn crones become flush, laden with health, akin to the berry he wears about his neck, a talisman dangled over the precipice of his shoulder, a glistening binding  that the Three now see as they are no longer reaching and tending with fingers akin to an ache that could show the Time and Diligence to their Craft.

Mattias is suspended and Amora remains unmoved, but it is when he speaks that she takes a step…! An askance in the sudden unfold of her arms from their grip that even pierced layers of her own flesh and left it dimpled, forming pools of rubies..

The Verðandi cast a single glance and Amora seems to skirt the grounds of Yggdrasil as if drug  by an invisible force and hoisted along the massive trunk to leave sandaled feet just above the upheaved ground…

        Matter rises as if gravity no longer exists, a formation of bladed crystals that lava should have forged, reflecting the light of the strands that are being pulled and pried, suddenly held taut in inspection.




The Fates do not take kindly to being raped of their rite for Asgardian borne, but his proclamation and the sudden ensnaring of The Enchantress shows one thing alone…

    … This is His.

            This is of Svartalfheim…

                            This is war…

This is not the time…

A rise of a blade, one that flashes against the reflection of moons’ face and there is a sudden drop of stone to shatter the bladed edge. A Dagaz laid before them in pivot, skipping across the waters beneath Mattias’ suspended form.

The baritone is unmistakable to most,  deafened tenor of a man lacking an ear laid beneath the roots they stand upon while the stone he threw beneath them threatened to solidify the pool for them.

The sword Mattias had noted is not held in offense, the point is cast aside in indifference while unseen face beneath the massive helm casts a glow of eyes between the thr—- Five. A quintet of challenge, but one unprotected now, is Heimdall’s concern.

“What is the fate you see? If there is nothing more to tell then his words and my vigil,” A scathing glance to The Enchantress that sparks a further ignition beneath Horned Helm. “Place him beside me.”

The Verðandi give pause now, a turn of cowled facades and with a light lowering Mattias is finding himself floating from the scrye of the times of Three to stand beside a man who could make even him look small.

            A chant of triage:

                //“Gothenburg but served its purpose..” //
                            “Verðandi, has spoken.”

A step back of one of the Norn's Three:

        The Skuld does not sever her bond so easily, the future a hard read on one now given the eternal ties, and a rescinding hand of the Guardian to All.  
                    ”What has been done…”

                        ”…Has already taken the Fate of One..”

The final words spoken and the Third steps back and Mattias is left to his feet before Heimdall, a man who only stares forward upon them, a respectful nod lowered with the cross of laden arm…

    “Tell him,” The figure of Amora speaks in a hiss between teeth, while spine bows in her pin against Yggdrasil, her own reverence and blood keeping her from acting against her -forced- placement. “You have until the Fourth moon rises…” Indignant, perhaps even foolish, but Enchantress has a purpose…
        ..and she will not waste


The hair hovered about Mattias’ face, floating weightless above the pool. Beneath his closed lips, his white teeth clamp, grinding down, biting until he can feel the ache of his teeth beneath gum tissue beg for release. The chain of his wallet hovers, lifting as a feather on the wind, and the soles of his boots radiate the lit waters of the pool beneath him against dulled leather sole.

He has become a marionette’s puppet.

The drawing of thread from his body is something Mattias can endure, but by the sixth time the knotty hands take from his skin, it begins to feel like a violation. First, it is his thumbs that curl inwards, pressing into the meat of his palms, and when Amora is dragged about the pool by the same marionette method, his thumbnails press in harder, threatening to break the skin.

The look of disappointment from Amora. The jerk of her body changes the landscape for Mattias, who once thought this was a weighing with less risk than he’d expected.

    She was right. This would be difficult. Dangerous

When Amora’s body lifts to the trunk of the tree, Mattias fights against the forces that hold him to look through hovering strands of his hair to seek out her face. He does not call for her. He does not reach for her, but his blue eyes slap against his eyelids in a pointed stare to the woman. Fucked if they both are, it’s no place for sympathy.

    I am riding this.
        I am going to face this with dignity.

When Heimdall arrives with his demands, Mattias releases a held breath through his nostrils. A sigh of relief for a temporary stay of danger? The blonde man cannot tell, even as his neck will not allow enough of a turn to fully look upon him. Yet the more the Norn's fail to welcome him with open arms into Asgard, a dream Mattias once thought possible, the more bile splashes into his stomach with the feeling that the threads they’re reading aren’t so simple.

Mattias is set to his feet, and he lands…his dignity held close.

The hackles of his neck length strained muscle against the neck of his leather jacket. Where the rugged leather has gone askew, pink, flushed skin rushes to the surface of his visible scar tissue. It’s by the grace of the gods alone (true gods, gods the Asgardian's themselves would pray to) that he’s held to his axe head and haft above the pool of water, which lines his muscles with bitter acid. At first, in his set down before Heimdall, his head is bowed, but only to cast his faceless expression between the man’s feet.

“Tell me what?”

Mattias lifts his head to Heimdall, then up and past his shoulder to the form of Amora against the tree of epic proportions that is the Tree of Life. The living connection to all beings. The tension at the corner of his lip, a sneer he holds in peace is a part of a look she well knows. In every demand for answer that led to a new punishment that grew him, the hardened eyes and withheld sneer was there.

    It was there in their first meeting before he was Enchanted.

        It was present when he returned from the forest, shrugging a bloody carcass to the floor.

            It was there…in the dark, with his ber hand about her throat.

And yet, Mattias has no compass but his instinct. These customs are a theory to him, yet to be a practice.

    Be yourself.

“Tell me…what?” Mattias repeats again, lowering his gaze from Amora to the tall man before him. The leather jacket bends at a hundred points as Mattias slowly lifts the haft of the axe to shove aside the layer of leather and strained, white tee shirt to reveal the scars of the bear far too large to be that of mortal strength.

“I have endured lies and treachery and riddles and have had my hands around the neck of the foe of Asgard with no name of my own,” Mattias begins to speak, pulling back the frustration in his voice to find a deliberate cadence, the strength of a man and not the demands of a child. “With no father to know I’ve fought battles, my burðar-dagr spent bloody, and earned the right to wear this hide, I am ber-sekir.

Mattias pauses to swallow, throat dry as sandpaper.

“If I am not welcome,” Mattias clears his throat. “Then tell me so that we may go, and that I can face it from the front.”



        The perfect word in //Edda. //

                Something The Enchantress shares with Mattias in that moment.

The loft of chin…
        Where ber hand held just beneath.

A curl  of fingers laden and non…
            A pinprick of rivulets that come as /blessing/.

A curl of lips in a defiant grin…   
            Swollen beneath a familiar brutality.

Tell him what…!

Go on..

Lips part to interrupt and in a sudden lash her figure is stripped from the pin upon the All Bearing trunk and cast to the feet of Mattias and Heimdall.

    ”You are of Asgard,”
            ..Do not take advantage…
                    … Until Valhalla.

The flurry of white comes in a fall like leaves from an unshaken Ash. But even her unceremonious landing seems to be taken with grace and a smile  that is tested at corners by fingertips that glisten with the bejewelled decollage of her “Pride” unhinged. A look of purely Verde Fire lifts to periphery at them

        At the heavily armored calves… and upward until she stares into the shadows of Heimdall’s helm.

            “If this is truth, you show when he has been left ‘alone’.” A flick of fingers and the hemlines of ‘stripped attire is gathered in one hand, wrapped and lofted in her rise. The flecks of dirt removed as if mere lint and nothing more.


A flourish of hand before Heimdall, a rapid gesture of motion that comes to curl index to thumb as if she would rise a foot higher and flick the man upon his helms bridge-guard, but the directed point to Mattias in turn has eyes shifting, even that of the Wyrd, The Norns.
    Seats taken, looms begun.

        The Lost.

            The found.

A cant of head, a redirection of gaze despite the knotting of fingers around broad-sword hilt when Enchantress chides him so..

            If I had a heart…
                        … I would sing.

But there, placated, that smile full of a misplaced dignity remains, even as fingers find a small branch and *snap* it ‘twixt fingers with light pressure, casting it from her and the tethering of attire. Small gestures to further cleanse.

“Welcome home, Ber-sekir Odr. Mattias, of Midgard….” A single rise of index and middle combined, a press to the emerald inlaid upon ‘fore, just beneath the spire of coronet.
                In tandem with his upon his chain, pressed against chest, they ignite and fade.


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