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7: Marvel's Green Lantern, Asgard
🕑 Added 2025-06-03 12:19:08 +0000 UTCMax drifted in a vast, endless void—weightless, thoughtless, formless. There was no sound, no sensation, only darkness: a deep black ocean of nothing that stretched forever in every direction. Yet within that black, he shone.
He looked down at his hands—if he could even call them that. They were translucent green, glowing softly. He raised them slowly, fascinated. His entire form was green light: willpower shaped into the silhouette of a man.
It took him a while to realise that he was not alone. In the distance, scattered across the void, were other lights. Some were dim, barely flickering; others blazed like miniature suns—yellow, red, blue, indigo, violet, orange. Each hue pulsed like a distant, sleeping giant dreaming across the cosmos. He stared at the yellow for a while as a low hum began to rise in his ear.
Then everything turned blindingly bright.
Max gasped—air filled his lungs like fire. His eyes flew open.
He was lying in a bed. Soft. Luxurious. Warm silks scented faintly of cedar and herbs cradled his body. Golden light spilled through a wide arched window, painting the dim room in amber. Smooth stone walls—carved with flowing knotwork and symbols reminiscent of Norse runes—surrounded him. Furs and metalwork gleamed with a strange, elegant austerity.
It looked like old Norse architecture—but not entirely. Some things felt… alien. Sleek metal frames held scrolls of light.
Max sat up, breathing hard. Everything came rushing back: the dig site, the avalanche, waking up in space, the ring, meeting Odin, the quest to slay Surtur.
Then he remembered what Surtur had done—how the Twilight Sword had run him through.
His hand flew to his chest, expecting pain, expecting blood. Nothing—just smooth, healed skin beneath a simple tunic. No scar. No trace of the blade that had pierced him.
“Fuck… I’m alive.” He smiled wide, almost in disbelief.
To his right, the power ring still gleamed on his finger, faintly pulsing.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stood, and walked to the arched window—then froze.
The view stole his breath.
Stretching before him lay a vast city. Towering halls with steep, peaked rooftops dotted the landscape, their stone and timber etched with knotwork that shimmered in the morning light. The architecture mirrored the room he stood in: distinctly Norse, yet laced with something otherworldly. Curved spires of glowing crystal jutted from rooftops. Floating lanterns drifted along invisible paths between buildings. Runes pulsed like circuitry along archways and doorframes.
Past these buildings, in the distance, a mountain range ringed the horizon like the spine of a sleeping god. To his left sprawled a broad body of water, its surface flowing toward what looked like a colossal waterfall that vanished into mist.
Asgard, he realised.
He was in Asgard. Odin must have brought him here.
He had been fascinated by the planetoid ever since he first saw it in the movies—it wasn’t even a planet, more like a colossal floating rock in space, the sort of place flat-Earthers would love to visit, he thought with amusement.
He hadn’t recognised the realm at first; in his mind Asgard was a city of gleaming gold. But this was ages in the past, and he recalled that it was Odin who would one day remake the land of the Aesir.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he heard a woman say.
Max turned sharply at the voice.
Standing in the doorway was a striking woman with long red hair braided to one side. She wore a flowing blue garment that shimmered with every movement, the fabric rippling like water. Over one side of her chest, polished metal armour fit snugly, engraved with runes that glowed faintly.
She turned her head. “Go. Tell the prince his friend is awake,” she called over her shoulder.
Footsteps retreated down the corridor.
The woman stepped closer with graceful poise, her expression unreadable but intent. “Sit,” she said, guiding Max back to the edge of the bed with surprising strength.
Max winced but obeyed. “Who… are you?”
“I saved your life,” she answered simply.
Before he could respond, Jade’s voice chimed from the ring—the first time it had spoken since the battle. “She’s telling the truth. This is Eir. Without her efforts, you would have died.”
Eir arched an eyebrow and pulled a strange scanning tool from her belt. “Ah, the oracle speaks again,” she murmured, waving the device over Max’s chest. Runes lit up along its surface. “You broke two of our soul-forges and shattered five channelling crystals…”
She muttered under her breath, frowning at the readings. “And you melted two rare instruments.”
Max blinked. “Sorry…?”
Jade replied dryly, “I warned them not to touch the ring, yet they still tried to remove it.”
Eir sighed. “Well, some fault does lie with us.” She offered Max a half-smile and continued her examination.
“So… Odin?” Max asked. “Is he all right?”
Eir set the instrument aside. “The prince was not as badly injured as you; he has already recovered.” Her voice lowered. “I can’t believe you survived killing Surtur, of all beings. You’ve both saved us from Ragnarök—or so everyone says.”
Before Max could respond, the door slammed open.
“Grænlaðr!”
Odin’s voice thundered through the chamber. He strode in, cloak billowing, a massive grin on his face. In three long steps he reached the bed and swept Max into a bear hug, lifting him clear off the mattress.
“Finally!” Odin boomed with laughter. “You’ve finished your maiden’s sleep!”
Behind him, Max heard Eir let out a quiet laugh and shake her head.
“Come, my battle-brother,” Odin said, clapping Max on the back with a laugh that echoed down the hall. “Let me show you the glory of Asgard!”
Max grinned—still a bit sore, but steady on his feet. “Lead the way, my friend.”
As they headed for the door, Eir called after them. “No more fights, the pair of you!”
Odin barked a laugh while pushing the door open. “Eir, sometimes I think you forget you’re an Asgardian!”
They wound through several corridors until Odin led Max outside. Turning back, Max took in the building they’d just left: a massive, long hall of dark wood and iron-bound roof, its intricately carved beams and towering pillars glittering in the sunlight—the largest structure in sight.
Then he looked forward—and froze.
They stood on a high terrace overlooking a vast city built into craggy cliffs and green valleys.
Max whistled. “Okay… yeah, this is way better than Vanaheim.”
Odin flashed a smug grin. “I told you my uncle’s realm was nothing compared to Asgard. There’s no place like it.”
Max nodded, still stunned. “How does this place even exist? It doesn’t look like a normal planet.” He pointed toward the distant shoreline. “Water is literally falling off the edge.”
Odin smirked as he lifted off with Mjölnir, and Max followed, emerald light trailing in his wake. From high above, the realm’s true shape revealed itself: a mostly mountainous disk, rimmed by towns and villages, ringed by an ocean that spilled in glittering cataracts straight into the void.
“Like I said, my friend—nothing like it in the universe,” Odin called, beginning the tale of Asgard’s birth.
“Our ancestors carved this realm from the corpse of Ymir—the great primordial giant. They found his lifeless, headless body adrift in the void and shaped it into a world worthy of our kind. Asgard was born—hewn from his bones and blood.”
Max blinked. “Well… they did a great job…
“Let’s put a pin in that; I want the full story later. For now—what happened after we killed Surtur?”
“Aye,” Odin said as they descended toward the city. They landed in a broad street, and nearby Asgardians erupted in cheers, hailing him as the slayer of Surtur.
“You were dying,” he went on, voice softening as they walked. “I dealt the final blow, but you took the worst of it. Your oracle kept you alive—barely. So I used the Space Stone.” He scratched his beard. “After a few failed attempts I brought us home, and the healers did the rest.”
“Thanks,” Max said, sincerely.
“So… when’s that grand celebration you promised—the feast, the mead, the singing? Or did I miss it?” he asked, changing the subject.
For a heartbeat, something dark flickered behind Odin’s eyes—sadness, anger, guilt—but then the smile returned. “Yes, yes! The feast, the celebration! But first,” he said, steering Max toward a sprawling tavern, “let me show you my home, introduce you to some of Asgard’s finest warriors, and celebrate among the people themselves.”
Max shrugged and followed.
=====
Odin had promised to show Max the glory of Asgard—and he delivered.
Their first stop was the mead hall, a colossal building that looked as though it could hold all the Asgardians in the city. It was smoky, warm, and alive with laughter, clashing mugs, and roaring fire pits. Long tables stretched from wall to wall, where warriors feasted on roast meat, fresh bread, and mugs of mead as large as Max’s head.
Max and Odin claimed a bench near the centre. Odin raised his mug with a thunderous cry: “To Grænlaðr, my battle-brother!”
The answering cheer shook the rafters.
Max grinned and lifted his own drink. He quickly learned that Asgardian mead was not for the faint-hearted—it hit like a hammer to the chest and set his blood aflame. “Oh, wow,” he coughed after the first gulp. “This’ll take some getting used to.”
He and Odin began recounting their adventure to the crowd—the journey through the realms, the battle in Surtur’s throne room—and, to add flair, Max used his ring to conjure vivid constructs of each scene. A shimmering image of Surtur loomed over the hall, followed by Max’s mecha punching the fire-giant through a mountain. The hall erupted in whoops, applause, and the slamming of mugs.
Odin roared with laughter and pride, clapping Max on the shoulders. “Aha! Grænlaðr, show them when I struck him with Gungnir!”
Soon several new faces joined them—friends Odin insisted Max meet.
“This is Sigrýn Völthrunsdóttir,” Odin said, gesturing to a tall, stoic woman with dark braids and a heavy axe slung across her back.
Sigrýn inclined her head. “I hear you command strange seiðr.”
“Haldor Geirsson,” Odin continued, clapping a broad, barrel-chested warrior whose tattooed arms bulged like tree trunks. “He’s broken more swords than he’s owned.”
Haldor boomed with laughter. “An honour to meet the Grænlaðr the prince keeps singing tales about.”
“Vigmund Álvisarson—he doesn’t talk much,” Odin added with a grin. Vigmund, lean and silent, his eyes like cold iron, merely nodded.
“And finally, Yrsa Hróksdóttir.” A woman with red war-paint across her face and a scar along her jaw stepped forward. “Don’t challenge her to wrestling,” Odin warned. “You’ll lose.”
And then the night wore on, and the drinking only grew wilder.
They moved from contest to contest—tests of strength, speed, and sheer stubbornness. Odin challenged Max to a drinking bout; Max won three rounds in a row, much to the future All-Father’s theatrical dismay.
At one point, Haldor and Yrsa staged a literal shouting match across a rooftop while Max hovered above them calling down, “I give that roar a six!”
Later, Max found himself arm-wrestling a dwarf three times his width, the bout cheered by half the city.
Eventually the revelers collapsed into a quiet corner to recover.
“I can’t believe I drank that much,” Max muttered, swaying a little.
Yrsa smirked and clapped him on the back. “I can’t believe you’re still standing.”
“Your body has undergone considerable metabolic enhancement,” Jade chimed from the ring. “Alcohol has minimal effect on your current system.”
Max groaned. “Great—takes all the fun out of it.”
Odin, still remarkably steady, laughed. “A cruel curse, my friend.”
“No, no, this cannot be,” Vigmund grunted, slinging an arm around Max’s shoulders—his first words all night. “If you are truly undrinkable, then we have no choice.”
“No choice,” Yrsa echoed, slapping Max again. “We make it a challenge.”
Max blinked, dazed. “Wait—what?”
Sigryn grinned, eyes gleaming. “We’re going to get you drunk, emerald one. That’s our vow.”
Odin raised his mug. “A worthy challenge! Let the games begin!”
Max gave a mock bow. “You’re on.”
And so it began.
He drank everything: mead from the deep cellars of Valgrind, fire-wine brewed by dwarves, sky-nectar from Alfheim, even Asgardian mead aged two thousand years that made his head spin from the aroma alone.
They sampled a concoction that frothed like lava and tasted of smoke and berries.
Max vomited behind a pillar—twice. Haldor followed, then Yrsa.
Hours passed—perhaps days; Max lost track. His body still refused to black out, yet at last he felt it: a genuine, honest-to-god buzz.
Jade’s voice was a hoarse whisper in his mind. “Cognitive clarity reduced by twenty-seven percent. Congratulations.”
“I’m drunk!” he shouted, climbing onto a long table. The hall erupted in applause and cheers.
“I love this place!” Max yelled as the celebration raged on.
=====
As the first light of dawn painted the sky in pale gold and lavender, the group tumbled out of the mead hall—staggering, dishevelled, laughing. They drifted toward the training grounds: Sigryn had challenged Max to a sparring match.
Sigryn walked ahead, rolling her shoulders, one hand resting casually on the hilt of her sword. “You agreed to the duel, Grænlaðr,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t think you can weasel out now.”
“I’m not backing out,” Max said, wobbling slightly but still moving with purpose. “Just making sure I don’t puke on you.”
Behind him, Odin shook his head, equal parts amused and exasperated. “You shouldn’t fight, Grænlaðr. You’re no warrior like us.”
Max shot him a mock-offended look. “Excuse me? Who fought Surtur with you? Who took the Twilight Sword through the chest and lived?”
“Yes, yes,” Odin said, waving a dismissive hand. “You fought—with your very strange seiðr. But don’t pretend you’re some great swordsman. You’re terrible with weapons.”
Sigryn smirked. “All the more reason I want to see this seiðr for myself.”
That caught Max’s attention. “Any special reason?”
She nodded. “My father warned me about you.”
Max blinked. “Wait—what?”
As they reached the training grounds, Sigryn glanced at Odin. “He told me never to meet your green friend, and if I did, not to offend him. I’ve never seen him so alarmed.”
“Valthrún,” Odin muttered with a scoff. “He’s always been a coward.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never met a Valthrún in my life.”
“He’s the reason my father never acted against Surtur,” Odin said, voice hardening. “He whispered caution while the fire-giants grew stronger.”
“And the reason we could not accompany the prince,” Vigmund added.
Sigryn gave a small shrug. “As you can see, Grænlaðr, my father has few friends outside the king’s court.”
Soon they reached the training grounds. The air was cool, the last traces of night clinging to grass and stone. A handful of warriors were already present—training, meditating, or simply watching the sun crest over Asgard’s distant peaks.
Max rolled his shoulders as Sigryn stepped into the practice circle with a confident smirk. “Try not to embarrass yourself too badly, Grænlaðr,” she teased.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Max replied, raising his ring as green light flared around him.
The energy solidified into a Viking-style sword and a matching shield, the Lantern symbol glowing on its face.
The bout began.
Sigryn was a storm. She moved with the speed and precision of someone trained since childhood, each strike swift and punishing. Max could barely keep up; his construct shield rang with every blow. His own swings were wide—amateurish by comparison—and she exploited every mistake, driving him steadily backward.
“Getting tired already?” she asked, grinning as her blade sparked against his shield.
“Just… pacing myself,” Max panted. Then he focused.
A pulse of green light burst from his ring, and five duplicate Maxes sprang into being, each wielding a blade. Sigryn blinked—caught off-guard—as the copies circled her. She felled one, then another, but the rest overwhelmed her, tripping and disarming her until she lay flat on her back.
She groaned, winded. “That wasn’t fair.”
Max offered a hand. “You asked to see my power.”
She accepted it, laughing as the onlookers cheered. “Odin was right—you’re terrible with a sword… but that seiðr of yours is something else.”
Before anyone could answer, Odin stepped forward with a newcomer: a tall, dark-skinned figure in gleaming gold armour.
“Heimdall!” Odin called, grinning. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
Heimdall gave Max a small nod, his face unreadable. “I was in the palace, my prince. Your father will see you—and the green one—today. Judgment is to be given.”
The cheer faded from Odin’s face.
“Judgment?” Max blinked, the word tolling in his mind.
“Judgment? What judgment?” he asked aloud, turning to Odin.
Odin’s jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened, and he faced Heimdall. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “We will be there.”
Max felt the air shift. The others—boisterous moments ago—fell silent, expressions growing grim. One by one they murmured farewells and drifted off, leaving Max and Odin alone in the training grounds beneath the golden morning sky.
Max stepped closer. “What’s going on? Tell me the truth Odin.”
Odin didn’t answer at once. He gazed toward the shimmering horizon. “Come,” he said at last. “Let us find a quieter place. I’ll explain everything.”
They rose into the air, flying over Asgard’s rooftops until they reached the city’s edge, where land met a vast silver-blue sea that encircled the realm. A gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and salt; waves lapped against the rocky shore in a steady rhythm.
Max landed beside Odin, taking in the peaceful scene—so at odds with the tension between them.
Odin’s voice came low, almost weary. “Mimir…”
“You told me that your father would reward you for his death,” Max said.
“I thought he would—truly. But now there are calls for punishment—for spilling the blood of kin.”
Max’s eyes narrowed.
“They hail me as a hero among the common folk, yes. But in my father’s court?” Odin shook his head bitterly. “There are whispers, plots. Njörd threatens war over Mimir’s death; he’s rallying the Vanir. Others—Valthrún, Thráin, my father’s advisers—invoke ancient laws of blood-debt and broken oaths. They ignore that I stopped Ragnarök, that I reclaimed Gungnir. My damned uncle wanted the doom of the Aesir—you remember what he said.”
He turned to Max, hurt and rage blazing in his eyes. “My father listens to them—heeds their whispers over my deeds.” He scoffed. “This, from the man who did nothing while Surtur gathered power, while Mimir shamed us by stealing Gungnir.”
Max remained silent, letting Odin’s fury run its course. The waves rippled gently at their feet as the sun climbed higher over Asgard.
“What about the Space Stone?” Max asked quietly.
Odin’s jaw tightened; a storm crossed his face.
“Oh, that,” he said, voice suddenly sharp. “Now all of my father’s seiðr-masters are falling over themselves, praising me as though I shit stardust! ‘Odin the Stone-bearer,’ they call me—claiming it will raise Asgard to new heights. Hmph.”
“Well… it is an Infinity Stone,” Max offered cautiously.
Odin’s eyes flared. “Yes! Yet others say I endangered the realm by bringing it here—that I was reckless, that I acted without….”
He looked away, breathing hard. “I don’t know what will happen next. My father can’t exile me—not after this, not after Surtur.”
Max stepped beside him. “You killed Surtur. You brought back the Eternal Flame, the Twilight Sword, Gungnir—and an Infinity Stone. I’m sure your father will recognise what you’ve done.”
Odin gave a small, tense nod. “Yes… I hope so too.”
Max smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “Trust me—we’re probably walking into some grand ceremony your father has planned.”
=====
They returned to the longhouse—massive and weather-worn, the largest in Asgard, its rooftops carved with ancient runes and stylised beasts. Inside, servants and soldiers bustled, but the two were shown to a quiet chamber to wait.
While they waited, Odin tried giving Max sword lessons—mostly correcting his awful stance and laughing whenever he dropped the blade.
At last a golden-clad guard entered. “It is time.”
Max and Odin looked at each other and then followed the guard to what Max hoped was a grand surprise ceremony for Odin and him. Maybe they both will get some medals too.
Yeah that would be nice.
“Well, time to meet the All-Father,” Max said as they walked.
“All-Father?” Odin echoed, frowning in confusion.
“Isn’t that the title of the Asgardian king?” Max asked.
“What? No,” Odin replied. He paused, then grinned. “Though I do like the sound of ‘All-Father,’ yes.”
“Forget I said anything.” Max said quickly as they continued towards the throne room.
King Bor Burison awaited.
Comments
Tyler Karp
Thank you for the chapter
