Chapter X: Thunder's Masquerade
Thunder rumbled in Thor's chest as he held his daughters close—closer than he'd held anyone since the Ragnarök that never came. Enri's heartbeat thrummed against his ribs; Nemu's small hands clutched his tunic as she'd never let go. The moment crystallized, perfect and fragile as morning frost.
Then the gate erupted with noise.
Shouts rang sharp as steel on steel. Wood clattered against wood. Boots pounded earth in frantic rhythm—thump-thump-thump—panic made percussion.
The sound shattered the stillness like Mjölnir through glass.
"Father?" Enri's voice carried uncertainty.
Thor loosened his grip but kept one hand on each of his daughters' shoulders. "Stay behind me."
They moved toward the commotion, toward the wooden palisade that ringed Carne Village like a collar of rough-hewn protection. Nazarick's aid had made it possible—sturdy enough to discourage bandits, high enough to give archers advantage, thick enough to withstand a battering ram.
Not thick enough to stop a god.
But that wasn't the point. The point was theater.
Thor's form flickered. Bones condensed. Muscles compacted. Divine lightning dimmed to barely-there static beneath mortal skin. Where the God of Thunder had stood—broad-shouldered, battle-scarred, crowned in storm clouds—now stood a man.
Just a man.
– Loke Dahlström
He crouched before his daughters, meeting their confused gazes with storm-grey eyes that still held lightning in their depths. "Listen carefully. I am Loke Dahlström now. A follower of Thor—faithful, fervent, foolish enough to believe the Thunder God watches over mortals." His smile was wry. "That's the story. That's the mask. Understand?"
Enri's brow furrowed. "But you are—"
"I was," Thor interrupted, gentle but firm. "But mortals fear what they cannot fathom, little one. They reject gods until catastrophe carves belief into their bones. This way,"—he tapped his chest, where his heart beat steady and strong—"I can walk among them. Guide them. Introduce divinity without demanding devotion. Without consequences."
"Will you still be our father?" Nemu's voice was small, fragile as bird bones.
Thor's expression softened. "Always, little thunder. Through every form, every face, every name—always."
The gate stood open like a mouth mid-shout.
Beyond it: Momon, dark armor gleaming like oil on water, black as night and twice as deep. Beside him: Nabe, radiant and rigid, spine straight as a spear shaft, eyes forward, jaw tight. Their adventuring party clustered around a merchant's cart, protective as mother birds, weapons half-drawn.
In the cart sat a blonde boy, hair hanging over his eyes like a curtain drawn against scrutiny.
Thor—Loke—strode forward, arms spreading wide, grin splitting his face like sunrise. "Finally! Finally, we reunite!"
"Loke Dahlström." Momon's voice carried warmth despite the helmet muffling it. He clasped Thor's forearm—warrior's greeting, brother's bond. "It's been too long, old friend."
"Far too long." Thor squeezed back, feeling Momon's strength through the gauntlet. Strong. Steady. Familiar.
They turned toward Nabe together, footsteps synchronized like soldiers marching.
But Nabe wouldn't meet his eyes.
Her gaze skittered sideways, fixating on nothing, avoiding everything. Her shoulders hunched slightly—imperceptible to most, obvious to Thor. Color crept up her neck, faint as dawn's first blush.
"Nabe?" Thor's voice dropped, concern threading through it. "What troubles you? Are you displeased to see me?"
Momon leaned close, voice pitched low beneath his helmet. "One of the humans made... advances. Unwanted ones. She claimed you as her betrothed to discourage him."
Thor's grin transformed—sharp now, wicked, lightning about to strike. "Oh, my dear Nabe. Don't be shy on my account. I've missed you terribly."
"I am not shy—" Nabe's protest came rushed, breathless. "L-Lord—I mean, Loke—it's merely that—"
He silenced her by removing his helmet—leather and steel sliding free to reveal human features, strong jaw, knowing smile—and kissing her soundly on the mouth.
Immediate. Intimate. Inevitable.
Nabe froze. Then melted. Her face flushed crimson—sunrise painted across porcelain skin, heat rising like steam from hot springs. Thor pulled back just enough to murmur against her lips:
"Welcome back, my beloved betrothed."
Her eyes were wide as summer skies.
Minutes crawled by like wounded soldiers.
They stood apart from the others now, wrapped in Nabe's shimmering barrier—privacy purchased through magic, silence bought with sorcery. The world beyond the barrier moved in muffled pantomime: mouths opening, hands gesturing, but no sound penetrated the spell's cocoon.
Thor's gaze drifted toward the blonde boy. Nfirea, he'd learned. Friend to Enri. Close friend. The boy's eyes followed Enri like compass needles seeking north—constant, helpless, obvious.
Too obvious.
"Overprotective already, are we?" Momon's tone carried amusement thick as honey.
"Cautious." Thor's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "There's a difference."
"Right. Cautious." The sarcasm could have cut glass.
Then Enri took Nfirea's hand—fingers interlacing, easy and natural—and led him toward her home. The door swung shut behind them with finality.
Thor stepped forward—
Momon's gauntlet caught his shoulder, unyielding as mountains. "No."
"I'm her father."
"Not while wearing that face, you're not." Momon's tone brooked no argument. "You made your choice. Live with it."
Thor exhaled through his nose—sharp, frustrated, storm winds seeking release. His fists clenched. Unclenched. "Fine."
The word tasted like ashes.
He sought distraction among the adventurers.
Wandered until he found the slender mage—Ninya—sitting apart from the others, fingers tracing patterns in the dirt. Runes, maybe. Or just idle designs. Hard to tell.
"Excuse me."
Ninya jumped, head snapping up. "Oh! Um, yes?"
"You're Ninya." Statement, not question.
– Ninya
"Y-yes." Recognition dawned. "Oh! You're Momon's companion—Loke, correct?"
"Correct." Thor settled onto a nearby log, posture casual but watchful. Always watchful. "I wanted to speak with you. About what you said to Momon earlier."
Ninya's expression crumpled like wet parchment. "About his lost friends? I'm so sorry. That was thoughtless—cruel, even—I didn't mean—"
"Stop." Thor raised one hand, palm out. "There's nothing to apologize for."
"But I—"
"Nothing." His voice carried finality. He studied her face with the intensity of storms searching for weak timber, looking for cracks, fissures, and lies. Found none. Only earnest regret painted across honest features. "Losing our companions wounded Momon more deeply than it did me. That's the truth, not an accusation."
Ninya blinked. "Because you had Nabe?"
"No." Thor shook his head slowly, deliberately. "Nabe came after. I learned to cope because I'd already endured loss—true loss, soul-deep loss—when we still had our friends. I'd been forged in grief's fire before tragedy struck again. Tempered by it. Made stronger."
"Momon mentioned you were devout." Ninya's eyes flicked to his face, then away, shy as deer. "That explains the mask, I suppose. The... formality."
"I follow Thor." The name rolled off his tongue like thunder across distant hills. "The God of Thunder. His teachings sound violent to soft ears. Destructive. But there is beauty in destruction, Ninya. Beauty and necessity."
"I don't understand."
"Nothing grows if nothing falls." Thor gestured broadly, painting pictures with his words, weaving meaning from metaphor. "When lightning splits an ancient oak—crack, boom, timber splintering—it seems cruel. Catastrophic. Wasteful. But that fallen giant becomes shelter for foxes, food for beetles, fertile soil for saplings. When Thor's hammer strikes, it doesn't merely destroy—it transforms. It clears space for new beginnings. Razes the old to make room for the new. There is rhythm in it. Purpose."
Ninya's eyes widened—understanding dawning like daybreak, slow and inevitable.
"I don't seek to convert you," Thor continued. "But these teachings helped me heal. Momon chose adventuring as his salve, threw himself into danger and glory and distraction. But his wounds remain raw. Bleeding, still. Time will close them. Eventually."
"I understand better now." Ninya's voice carried wonder. "Thank you, Loke. Truly."
"You'll be friends, you and Momon," Thor spoke with certainty as absolute as gravity. "I'm certain of it. Give him time. Give him patience. Give him space. The rest will follow."
"You really believe that?"
"I know it." Thor reached into his belt pouch, fingers closing around cold metal. Heavy. Solid. Real. "And Ninya... if you ever find yourself in danger—if death's shadow falls and your friends cannot reach you—hold this and wish for rescue. Help will come."
He produced a pendant: gleaming silver wrought into intricate Norse knotwork, patterns folding over patterns, meanings nested within meanings. At its center hung a miniature Mjölnir—Thor's hammer, rendered in perfect detail.
Ninya's breath caught audibly. "What... what is this?"
"A relic from my homeland." Thor pressed it into her palm, closing her fingers around it gently. The metal was warm despite having been in shadow. "Wear it. Keep it close. Remember: clutch it tight, wish for salvation, and help will come. I swear this on Thor's name—and Thor always keeps his oaths."
"It's beautiful..." Ninya's voice was hushed, reverent.
"Beauty serves purpose." Thor released her hand. "Remember."
"I will. Thank you, Loke. I... I don't know what to say."
"Then say nothing." Thor smiled—warm, genuine, human. "Just remember."
The moment was shattered when Nfirea burst from Enri's house.
Not walked. Not strolled. Burst—door slamming open, boots pounding earth, blonde hair flying behind him like a banner. He sprinted toward Momon and Nabe with wild urgency written across his face.
Thor followed at a measured pace, curiosity prickling along his spine like static before lightning strikes.
"So?" He addressed Momon directly. "What did the boy want?"
Silence.
Not comfortable silence. Not companionable silence. Heavy silence—the kind that precedes confessions.
"Why so quiet, Momonga?"
Nabe shifted her weight, uncomfortable. "He's deciding whether to tell you what Nfirea discovered, Lor—Loke."
Thor's expression remained neutral—carefully, deliberately neutral. "And what, precisely, did he discover?"
Momon sighed. The sound echoed hollow inside his helmet, like wind through empty armor. "He knows who I truly am. Nabe accidentally spoke Albedo's name in his presence."
Nabe flinched as though struck. Shame radiated from her like heat from forge-coals, visible and visceral.
Thor let the silence stretch. Let it grow uncomfortable. Let it linger. Then: "I'll address this with you privately later, Nabe."
"I understand, Lor—Loke." Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
"Later." Thor's tone softened fractionally. "For now, we have work ahead."
– Swords of Darkness
The adventuring party called themselves Swords of Darkness—dramatic, theatrical, precisely the kind of name young warriors chose when they still believed glory awaited around every corner.
Four members comprised their ranks:
Ninya, the mage—slender, shy, sharper than she appeared.
Peter Mauk, their leader—swordsman, strategist, steady as stone.
Lukrut Volve, ranger—skilled archer, shameless flirt, subtle as avalanches.
Dyne Woodwonder, druid—perpetually cheerful, impossibly optimistic, almost supernaturally calm.
They ventured into the Great Forest of Tob seeking medicinal herbs for Nfirea's potions. The trees grew dense here—ancient, gnarled, their canopy weaving shadows thick enough to drown in. Sunlight filtered through in scattered shafts, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny fireflies.
The air tasted green. Alive. Watching.
Lukrut tensed suddenly, hand flying to his bow. "Something approaches. Something large."
Peter's hand found his sword hilt—muscle memory, instinct. "The King of the Forest?"
Thor nodded once, decisive. "Then Momon and I serve as rearguard. The rest of you: escort Nfirea to safety. Run."
Momon's voice carried absolute authority—the kind that brooked no argument, permitted no hesitation. "Go. Now."
The Swords of Darkness didn't question. Didn't debate. They fled—footsteps fading like dying echoes, leaves crunching, branches snapping, distance swallowing sound.
Silence settled over the clearing like snowfall.
Thor, Momon, and Nabe stood alone.
"My lords," Nabe whispered, voice barely audible. "Will you fight it?"
"Naturally." Thor's grin was all teeth.
Momon's tone carried dark amusement. "It's an opportunity to build my reputation. Enhance my legend."
"Is that why you had Aura lure it out?"
"Indeed."
Nabe's eyes widened. "Lady Aura is here? In this forest?"
"I sensed her presence the moment we entered these woods," Thor confirmed. "Her aura is... distinctive. Like music only gods can hear."
Then—CRACK—a sound like thunder splitting timber.
A dark green tail whipped from the shadows—massive, muscular, moving with serpentine speed. Thor stepped forward—casual, unhurried—and caught it with his bare palm.
The impact would have pulverized granite.
His hand didn't budge.
Not an inch. Not a tremor. Solid as mountains, unyielding as winter.
"Our guest arrives," Thor said mildly, conversationally, as though catching monster tails were as mundane as catching baseballs.
A voice echoed through the trees—deep, resonant, pompous. "I commend you for that splendid block, intruder! Few possess such reflexes! Fewer still possess such strength!"
Momon's helmet tilted. "Show yourself, creature. I intend to claim glory from your defeat. Your pelt, perhaps. Your reputation, certainly."
"As you wish, fool who knows not fear!"
What emerged from the darkness defied expectation entirely.
Momon froze. His entire body went rigid. "This... this is..."
The creature—massive, rotund, covered in dark fur that gleamed like polished wood—puffed its chest proudly. Its whiskers twitched. Its tail swished. Its adorable little nose wiggled.
"Hahaha!" It laughed—booming, theatrical, ridiculous. "I sense your shock! Your fear trembling beneath those helmets! You stand before greatness incarnate!"
Thor blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"You cannot be serious."
Momon's voice cracked slightly—barely perceptible, but there. "Are you... Are you perhaps a Djungarian hamster?"
The hamster bristled, fur standing on end. "Would that be what your primitive people call my noble race? My legendary lineage? More importantly, intruder—" It pointed one tiny paw dramatically. "—I desire to duel you! To test your mettle against mine! To—"
Momon straightened. "Naberal, Loke—stand back. Far back. It would shame me to need assistance against a hamster."
Thor grinned, stepping aside with exaggerated deference. "Indeed. This is beneath a Thunder God's notice anyway. Hardly worth Mjölnir's attention. A hamster, Momonga. A hamster."
"You shall regret those words!" The hamster charged.
The duel was spectacularly underwhelming.
The hamster attacked with surprising speed—claws flashing like tiny daggers, tail whipping like a bullwhip, teeth gnashing with adorable fury. It moved well. Fought competently. Possessed genuine skill.
But Momon blocked every strike effortlessly.
Almost bored.
His sword moved in lazy arcs—parry, deflect, sidestep, block. No wasted motion. No unnecessary flourishes. Just perfect, economical defense.
Thor watched with barely concealed amusement. Occasionally yawned. Once examined his fingernails with exaggerated interest.
The hamster was trying. Genuinely trying. Throwing everything it had into the assault—every technique, every trick, every ounce of strength.
It wasn't enough.
Not even close.
Finally, Momon activated Dark Aura—just the first level, barely a flicker of true power—and the hamster froze mid-strike. Its eyes went wide. Its whiskers trembled. Its entire body locked rigid as stone.
Terror radiated from it in visible waves.
"I..." Its voice shook. "I concede defeat, mighty warrior..."
Then Aura dropped from the canopy.
Literally dropped—thirty feet straight down, landing in a perfect crouch beside Momon, knees bent, one hand touching earth, utterly graceful. She straightened slowly, dusting off her hands, grinning like a child who'd found candy.
– Aura
"Are you going to kill him, Lord Momonga?" she asked cheerfully, voice bright with anticipation.
"Hmm?" Momon turned toward her.
"His pelt looks rather nice!" Aura circled the frozen hamster, examining it critically, professionally. "Dense. Well-maintained. Excellent coloring. May I skin him? Please? I promise to do it carefully—no tears, no blemishes, clean cuts only—"
Thor burst out laughing.
Genuine laughter—thunderous, uncontainable, rolling across the clearing like storm winds. He doubled over, clutching his sides, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
The hamster squealed in terror. "W-wait! Mercy! I beg you—mercy! I yield! I yield! I'll serve you faithfully! I'll guard your lands! I'll—"
Momon glanced toward Thor for support, for assistance—
—and found him lying across Nabe's lap.
His helmet sat beside him on the grass. Nabe's fingers threaded absently through his hair—long, rhythmic strokes, oddly soothing. Thor's eyes were closed. His expression was peaceful. Blissful.
"Why," Momon demanded telepathically, mental voice sharp with exasperation, "are you lounging there like you haven't a care in the world?"
"This was your plan, Momonga." Thor's mental reply carried smug satisfaction. "Your reputation to build. Your legend to craft. Your theatrical performance to execute. Meanwhile, I shall enjoy my betrothed's lap pillow. It's remarkably comfortable, actually. You should try it sometime. Very therapeutic."
Momon sighed—long, deep, suffering. The sound echoed across their mental link.
In the end, he spared the hamster.
Accepted it—now calling itself "Hamsuke"—as his familiar. Bound it with magic. Claimed its loyalty.
The hamster wept with gratitude and relief.
When they rejoined the Swords of Darkness and Nfirea, shock painted every face.
Mouths hung open. Eyes went wide. Weapons lowered slowly, forgotten.
"No way..." Nfirea breathed, voice hushed with awe.
"The wise King of the Forest!" Peter gasped.
The other adventurers echoed him: "The King!" "The legend!" "The mighty protector!"
Momon raised one gauntleted hand—a placating gesture, calming motion. "Be at ease, friends. He serves me now. Completely. Utterly. You're perfectly safe—you have my word. My oath. He will harm no one under my protection."
Hamsuke nodded vigorously, whiskers bouncing. "My master speaks truth absolute! As long as he wills it—and he does will it—I shall trouble no human devoted to his noble cause! I shall follow whatever path he treads! I shall—"
Ninya's eyes shone with wonder, literally sparkled. "Amazing... what an inspiring creature... such nobility..."
"Huh?" Momon's mental voice carried pure confusion. "She thinks it's inspiring?"
"Hahaha," Thor replied, barely containing his amusement. "Embrace it, Momonga. This is your life now. You and your mighty hamster companion."
Dyne clasped his hands reverently, almost prayerfully. "I sense great strength radiating from him! Wisdom beyond measure! Power barely contained! The druids speak of such creatures—legends made flesh, myths given form—"
– Dyne
"Great strength?" Momon wondered desperately. "Wisdom? Really? We're talking about the same hamster, yes? The one that just lost in thirty seconds?"
"Yes, really." Thor's mental laughter was infuriating. "Haha. Embrace your destiny, Hamster Lord."
Lukrut grinned at Nabe, eyes bright with admiration. "Your feats know no bounds, Mr. Momon! Absolutely no bounds! No wonder someone as incredible as Nabe stays at your side! Such skill! Such power! Such—"
– Lukrut
Thor's gaze sharpened dangerously.
Storm-grey eyes fixed on the ranger like targeting reticules, like crosshairs, like threat assessment. That comment carried too much admiration. Too much enthusiasm. Too much interest.
In his Nabe.
His jaw tightened imperceptibly.
Peter shook his head, awestruck. "Incredible, Mr. Momon. Simply incredible. We'd have been slaughtered—massacred—if we'd faced him ourselves. Our bones would be scattered across this forest. Our names are forgotten. Our—"
– Peter
Thor turned to Nabe, voice casual. "What do you make of him? Honestly. His strength, his bearing, his... hamster-ness?"
Nabe studied Hamsuke carefully, critically, and professionally. Several seconds passed. Then: "His eyes do possess a certain gleam. Power, perhaps. Or at least confidence. He believes himself mighty. That counts for something."
"No way," Momon thought desperately, voice small with horror. "She actually thinks—"
"Yes way," Thor confirmed gleefully. "Haha. Your mighty hamster familiar. Your legendary beast companion. Your—"
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Nfirea stepped forward suddenly—shoulders squared, chin lifted, determination hardening his features like cooling iron. "Mr. Momon, Mr. Loke—I realize this is presumptuous. Forward. Perhaps even foolish. But I must speak."
He drew a breath. Steadied himself.
"If you take the King of the Forest away from these woods, monsters will attack Carne Village. Without his presence, without his protection, they'll swarm like locusts. Devour everything. Destroy everyone." Another breath. "So I humbly request—no, I beg—to join your team. If I possessed even a fraction of your strength, even a sliver of your skill, I could protect Enri. Protect the village. Protect everything I—" His voice caught. "—everything I care about."
The Swords of Darkness murmured approval—quiet, respectful, encouraging.
Thor and Momon remained silent.
Let the boy finish.
Let him speak his piece.
"My pharmaceutical knowledge would be yours," Nfirea continued, words tumbling faster now. "Completely. Unreservedly. I'd carry your supplies, tend your equipment, and serve however you needed. I'd be your squire, your apprentice, your—" He swallowed hard. "—please. Please make me stronger."
Momon spoke gently—surprising gentleness, actually, warm and almost fatherly. "You want me to accept you as my student? To teach you magic? To train you in combat?"
"Yes." Simple. Direct. Honest.
"I'm not mocking your determination—I respect it deeply, truly—but we do not need a squire currently. Our party is... complete. Balanced. Adding another member would complicate logistics, disrupt our rhythm, create vulnerabilities we—"
Nfirea's shoulders sagged. "I... understand. Of course. I apologize for imposing—"
Thor stepped forward, voice warm as hearthfire. "Don't despair, boy. We will lend our strength to this village. Whenever needed. However needed. That's not charity—that's oath. Can we count on your support when that time comes? Your skill? Your loyalty?"
Nfirea's face brightened like sunrise breaking storm clouds. "Yes! Absolutely! Without question! It would be my honor—my privilege—to—"
Everyone encouraged him warmly.
Clapped his shoulders. Praised his courage. Celebrated his determination.
Everyone except Momon, who stood silently lamenting his new hamster familiar and wondering how his reputation had become tied to a rodent.
Ninya approached them, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Mister Momon, having tamed such a legendary creature, we shall have a triumphal return! The guild will celebrate! Bards will sing! Your name will—"
"Triumphal?" Momon repeated weakly, voice hollow with growing horror.
"Hahaha!" Thor's mental laughter was merciless. "Triumphal return with your mighty hamster! Songs shall be sung! Legends shall be told! The Hamster Lord cometh!"
"Would you shut up, you bearded menace?"
"Hey now." Thor's mental voice carried mock offense. "The beard is magnificent. Glorious, even. Women swoon. Men weep with envy."
"I'm going to feed you to the hamster."
"He's YOUR familiar, Momonga. Not mine. I'm just here for moral support and lap pillows."
Momon's sigh could have extinguished candles.
To Be Continued