Chapter Text
Peter aiming a weapon at their King was not taken well by the Aesir knights. They sprang to their feet and slammed Peter’s blasters down with their spears. Peter would have been insulted had he not known that Asgardian steel was one of the densest metal in the known world. Amidst his protests which had little effect on the towering guards, his hands were forcibly put behind his back and his head was pressed against the great oak desk. His Terran strength did not stand a chance against them, but Peter couldn’t help but try. He squirmed against the hold around his neck and kicked the guard in his shin with all the strength he could muster. A huge crash followed. Not having expected an actual impact, Peter stumbled backward. He turned shakily, only to find the knights sprawled on the floor with the upper half of a broken bookshelf on top of them.
Peter let out a surprised snort. Over them stood the looming figure of Thor, his shoulders shuddering with each breath he took.
“You dare harm a royal guest in my presence?” said Thor, his voice a raw gravel, and Peter saw wisps of electric current crackling from his clenched fist. “Disappear,” he said, “before I decide to relieve you of your limbs.”
Peter rolled his eyes, but his heart raced. The guards scrambled and exited the room, and a tense silence followed. Thor turned and bent down to pick up Peter's fallen blasters. There was a frown on his face when he caught Peter by his elbow and pressed the blasters in his hand. This close, he reeked even more of ale and cheap perfume from the whore he had spent the afternoon with.
“I am going with you,” said Peter adamantly, surprising himself. He wasn't usually someone who ran in the direction of trouble without any reason. In fact, he always tried to run in its exact opposite direction. But letting Thor trust his brother, especially when it involved a magical well that enslaved minds - yeah, that was not something he was comfortable with. Loki was the God of mischief.
“You are fragile,” said Thor, plainly, his eyes stone-like, “You will only put yourself and others in danger.”
“Can you believe this guy?” said Peter, looking at the Guardians, exasperatedly, “I'm a fucking Avenger, dude and a Guardian of the Galaxy - no make that Galaxies. Several galaxies, in fact.”
“You are also a mortal,” said Thor, raising one of his eyebrows in a challenge.
“I'm half-celestial,” Peter shot back.
“That doesn't make you a God,” said Thor, putting his hands on Peter's and pushing him back forcefully. If he was trying to show how much stronger than Peter he was, it worked. The small of his back hit the table behind him and he winced in pain. “You are no match for a God. This meeting is over,” finished Thor, turning away and making his way towards the door.
Thor's words stung Peter more than he would have liked to admit. He was never one to not have the last say, but he felt the truth resonate in Thor's words that he was rendered speechless. What could a rag-tag like him possibly be to a God other than a passing amusement? No match for a God, indeed.
*
Gamora tried to get him alone the moment they got out of the room, but Peter evaded her with the skill of the Ravager he still was. When dusk fell he had half a mind to keep himself shut in his over-decorated chambers, but it felt too much like admitting defeat. So when Rocket came strolling down the corridor, yapping loudly to a bored Drax, Peter grabbed his leather jacket and rushed out of the room.
“We are going out and getting smashed,” said Peter, stopping them mid-track.
“Do you have your daddy’s permission?” asked Rocket, grinning ear-to-ear.
Peter aimed a kick at the ugly furball, but Drax picked him up like a sack and put him on his other side. “Friends shouldn’t fight, Peter,” said Drax, sagely.
“Tell that to Mighty Mouse over there!” hissed Peter, attempting to grab the raccoon, but Drax stopped him and shook his head.
“Peter is going to buy us drinks,” said Drax, looking at Rocket, “Do you want to upset the man who is sponsoring our night?”
“Hey, I didn't say I was gonna buy you assholes anything,” interjected Peter, but kept walking with them.
*
They got into a little trouble trying to get the guards to let them out of the palace. To be precise, Peter got into a little trouble. Apparently, the news was out that he had tried to attack the King, and somebody higher up had deemed it fit to restrict his movements. Peter lost his temper, spewed out a few choice words but the Asgardian dogs did not even blink. If it wasn't for Rocket’s lose grenade, which by accident, caused an explosion Peter would have been sent back to his chambers like an admonished child. Peter was glad he had agreed to pay for the drinks.
The city was as beautiful at night as it was in daylight, but what he had admired in awe in the morning, he now looked on with irritation. Every bit of it reminded him of its smug creator. It was too perfect, just like him - too proud and too obnoxiously extravagant. Peter found renewed vigor in getting his mind slathered with alcohol and finding a nice girl to get under.
Asgard did not have bars, as they soon found out, it was all alehouses and they all served either ale or mead. The alehouse they had decided on was the furthest away from the castle, down a dark lane of a shady part of the city. It was a little reassuring to know that even a pompous place like New Asgard had it's gutters, especially considering the fact that the entire realm was only a little over two years old.
The bartender behind the counter was a lady of immense size with a mean set of jaws. When Rocket lifted himself up on the stool, she shrieked and tried to beat him with a tankard on the head. Rocket pulled out his blaster and pointed it at the woman. Before things could get out of hand, Peter interrupted and informed the lady that the animal was safe. She was not quick to believe him, but the two copper rings Peter thrust in her hands convinced her of Rocket’s inability to be anything but a Monchhichi.
In his lifetime, Peter had tasted a few hundred different origin beers, from Sarkaar to Quxomein, but none that were like Asgardian. He hated to admit it, but the Aesirs hands down won the title of 'the Gods of the Hard Stuff’. But as strong as it was, it was also very tasteless. It burnt his throat, and his entire nasal passage was on fire with its acrid taste. They were served something called pottage, to soothe the sting of alcohol in the belly. Peter took one look at it and refused to put it in his mouth.
It took him about a quarter of a tankard to start giggling and another quarter to pull a passing by red-haired girl into his lap. She slapped him on the face. It stung like a motherfucker - Aesir strength and all that - but Peter took it like a man and only yowled a little. Rocket guffawed. Drax for his part shook his head, looking embarrassed. Peter glared at them but otherwise remained undeterred from his goals for the night. Rocket and Drax wanted to gamble. He had to give them four coppers each to get rid of them.
By his third fill, Peter was blissfully tipsy. He had a hand way high up a tall brunette’s thighs and his tongue down her throat. As it were she also had an ample ‘bosom’, spilling precariously out of her tight corset and his fingers itched to touch her. She wasn't a lady for sure - definitely, nothing compared to the Asgardian King’s harem he bet, but she smelled clean and had a kind smile that reached her eyes, and Peter was happy she put it on especially for him.
“Would it please the kind mister to go someplace away from prying eyes?” said the woman, whispering close to his ears as they came up for air.
“Sssscore!” exclaimed Peter, to which the woman looked at him with much confusion. Thank the never-ending space for intergalactic linguistic differences and slurred speech. That little slip would have cost him the last twenty minutes’ efforts. He gave her a lopsided smile and said, “M’all yoursss, darrrhling”
She slid off him, took his hand and glided through the crowd with an ease that revealed that her familiarity with guiding drunk, lust-bidden men to dark rooms. Peter smiled at the rhythmic swaying of her hips and the knowledge that he was going to be in safe, experienced hands.
The woman took him through a door that too the side of the serving counter - a small, easily ignorable door half-hidden by some stacked crates. The tunnel she took him through was damp and dark, illuminated only by the odd wall torch. The lady grabbed one and pulled him along. The air grew heavy with every step they took, and soon there were no torches except the one the woman carried. Had Peter been sober, he would have found it strange how the low ceilinged, small bar he had entered could have a possibly fit a passage that took them fifteen minutes to get across. But the strong hand around his lower back and the heat of the body leaning against him kept him in a suspended in a state of sweet anticipation.
“There yet, darling?” She turned to him and pecked him on the cheek. “Almost there, mister,” she said.
“I dun wannabe sober,” he told her. He was worried all the walk was going to clear his head. “More booze?” The woman didn't answer, instead, she pushed a heavy wrought iron door. Peter leaned in to admire the intricate pattern on the door - it was very pretty - when a sudden darkness enveloped them. Caught surprised and not having full reign over his body, Peter stumbled. Because he was unable to see nor find purchase against any solid object - for the woman had disappeared too, he fell forward twisting his hand under his own weight.
He howled in pain - the fog in his head cleared back a little. “Darling, can we have that light back? Wanna see your face. You gotta beautiful face. Don't be shy now.”
“More beautiful than this face?” came an amused voice but it didn't belong to Peter's date. He jerked in surprise and then swiveled around. Oh, he knew that voice. He had been running from that very voice all evening.
“Fuuuck you, Thor,” said Peter, and sure enough there he was, standing in an eerie glow of amidst the stark darkness that surrounded them. It was strange, for although there was light, it did not shine on anything except on the Thunder God’s form. “Fucking creep! Did you follow me?” said Peter, although his eyes lingered too much on the object of his apparent derision. He couldn’t be blamed, though. Thor wore his usual leather breeches, but somehow they seemed to be made of thinner material, more shimmery - highlighting his every dip and angle. On his shoulders hung a loose, unbuttoned shirt that let Peter see everything from his neck to his right nipple to the navel to thick golden curls that spilled out of the top of his breeches. Peter found his throat becoming dry and he licked his lips.
When Peter attempted to take a step forward, Thor disappeared. Like a bad hologram image that lost its signal, he sizzled and went out of existence. Darkness once more engulfed Peter. “Creepy immoral - immortal! You cocky, big-headed, perverted bastard! Run back to your stupid harem! That's right, coward, I'm gonna get laid tonight. The lady here? She likes me. Get it? She's mine! Fancy that, huh? Not everybody wants your sorry ass -”
“Stop your drunken rambling,” came another voice.
Peter stopped not because he felt like he had to listen, but because it wasn’t Thor’s voice anymore. He felt the blood on his face drain as he recognized the voice. To Peter’s left now, stood his father.
It took Peter longer than it should have to realize that somebody was messing with his head and that the figure standing before him wasn’t actually his late father. To his defense, Peter was drunk. So he couldn't be faulted when he pulled out his blasters and shot twice. The sparks flew and met darkness. The image of his father was gone.
Peter had to clear his mind. He hit his forehead with the base of his palm, blinked fast and scrunched his eyes. He stumbled, feeling disoriented. It occurred to him that he probably wasn't going to get laid that night.
Peter sighed and activated his helmet, something he should have done much earlier. Cool, recycled air came through the filters. He took it in hungrily and felt the buzz in his head lower. He popped the thermal vision on his helmet and gauged his surroundings. It was a hexagonal room, not very huge. There was something in the middle, circular in shape, constantly shifting and much cooler than the rest of the place. Probably, a pool. There was no human shaped thermal form. It was almost as if he had been hallucinating.
Then it occurred to him.
“Is that you Loki?” It had to be him. Peter cocked his head and listened for the tell-tale sound of a cape swishing, or jewels jingling. “You greasy, conniving Elphie. I know it's you. Stop messing around with my head, you little prick.”
“Loki wouldn't be pleased to hear such words against his person,” came yet another voice. This one he did not recognize. Peter aimed his blasters in the direction of the sound and he was met with the illuminated image of an elderly man. Not elderly - ancient. The man looked like he was a breath away from being dead and Peter was in a mood to help him along.
“I have a twitchy finger,” Peter said through gritted teeth, “and I'm not sure if I got my head straight but I gotta tell you I have a really good aim. Muscle memory and all that. Which means - you move, I shoot.”
The man let out a raspy, high pitched sound. Only the expression on his face clarified that it was the sound of his laugh. “You need something far more superior than Clarice and Terry to shoot me, my dear boy.”
To say Peter was stunned would be an understatement. Only a handful knew about the names he had given his blasters. “How did you - nevermind answering that, you probably read my mind,” said Peter, scowling and stepping closer. This time the apparition remained. Maybe, the old geezer - whoever he was - was running out of tricks. “You are not Loki then. Loki can do a lot of mumbo-jumbo, but reading minds is not one of them. And last I checked, the Gorgei cannot shapeshift, which begs the question who the fuck are you and why the fuck did you just spoil my date?”
“You are a smart one, aren't you?” said the old man, his eyes crinkling like crumpled paper as he smiled. Peter checked through to his thermal vision and there was still no heat to indicate that the being before him was human. “I know your eyes can see through me with that funny mask of yours. I know your mind is whirling to deduce my identity, and yet, you fear you already know who I am.”
“You are not real,” said Peter, ignoring his rising ire at having his mind read so openly. “You are not shifting shapes. You are making me see what I want to see. You are in my head.” Peter’s eyes shifted to the swirling cool circle, which was not visible to his naked eyes in the darkness that surrounded him - a pool or more precisely, a well. What are the odds? “You are Mimir.”
“You say I'm not real?”
“You know what I mean,” snapped Peter, but lowered his gun. It did feel good to have someone take him seriously for a change, and anyway, how evil could the God of Wisdom be? “The well is more real than you are. You are just a projection.” But how could the well be in Asgard? Thor would know. Hadn’t he basically built the place up from scratch? Or was the codger a recent camper?
The old man confirmed Peter’s thoughts, “Do you really believe that I, the God of Wisdom, would lack knowledge of ways to camouflage myself?”
That was a trick question, thought Peter. If he had all the wisdom in the universe, what were his boundaries? Did he also know of the future the way the Doctor did? Did he know how to fly? Did he also see everything like Heimdall? That felt a little unfair. That almost sounded like being The God, and in Peter’s experience, people who claimed to be that were just megalomaniac.
“Distrust and doubt pervade your mind, Peter. Why do you exhaust yourself with such thoughts?” said the man, smiling ever so gently.
Peter twisted his neck and gave the God sharp look through narrowed eyes, “You are not exactly winning points by shapeshifting into people I don't particularly like. And what’s with all the glow-in-the-dark effect. Besides, do you even realize what you look like now? Like a freaking Vampyre - and I mean Vampyre with a “Y”, as in Nosferatu the Vampyre - not the one I found Shurii ogling at. It's creepy. Not that the glittery one wasn't creepy. But you are creepy and old. Which is worse. So yeah, I'm not comfortable. If you can piss off and let me get back to my date, that would be fantastic.”
The God was struggling to keep his face pleasant and docile after his little tirade. “Your tongue belies your wisdom, and so I shall forgive it.” The old man swung his hand in an elaborate manner and suddenly the room was as it should have been. Light flooded the room from wall torches on all eight sides and on the middle was the well. Peter couldn't help but peer inside it and try to gauge its depth, but he couldn’t see was further than a foot. There was no telling how deep the pool was.
“Do be careful,” came the gnarly voice closer to Peter's than it should have been, rattling him, “I came here to help you. Not to watch you fall to your demise.”
“You might actually achieve it if you stopped behaving like a frigging jack-in-the-box,” said Peter, putting some distance between him and the well. He crossed his arms and said, “So what's this business about helping me? Why would you help and why should I believe you?”
The God smiled but did not further dally in answering him. “I’m going to help you absolve your unfortunate ties with the God of Thunder. You do wish to get rid of it, don’t you?” he asked, tauntingly.
Peter for his part raised his eyebrows, disbelievingly. “Why?” Why help me?
“Because the royal brothers will seek me out to accomplish the same. They will succeed, but it doesn’t bode well for the realms.”
“Right,” said Peter, smiling wryly, “You mean you will get your ass handed to you. I believe you now, you are the God of wisdom. You do perceive things very clearly.”
“What a vexing creature you are,” said Mimir, a tired line appearing on his forehead. “You insult faster than you breathe.” When Peter simply beamed at that, as if given a compliment, he shook his head and spoke again, “Destroying the ancient well will only bring about a manner of chaos, that will cost the realms more than it will benefit anybody. You may not be aware of this, but the majority of the creatures that were subjugated by its improper use were vile and despicable, to begin with - murderers, rapists, and madmen. Giving them freedom all at once, after years of subjugation and suppressed hatred, without proper care or planning - can’t you see the implications of what that will bring about?”
Peter frowned. That sounded almost convincing. Except, “You could have explained this directly to Thor. He's a very reasonable guy - when it doesn't involve his lower anatomy, that is. Or his brother. Dude has this irrational, almost masochistic relationship with him. Back to the point though, why all this cloak-and-dagger spectacle?”
“Because there's something else Thor is a lot more irrational about,” said Mimir with a somber voice. “His pride. He behaves much like a child when his pride is wounded. It has and always be his undoing and you have provoked it.”
To Peter, what the God said rang true. But it got him thinking, whether it really only hurt pride that had made Thor swear to get rid of Peter? Then he remembered the state in which the blond God had entered the meeting room. A fresh surge of irritation filled him, his throat felt heavy and his eyes prickled. “If he goes and gets himself in a mess because he is too stupid to see what is the right thing to do, then he deserves it.”
“Maybe,” said Mimir, with a small quirk of his lips that reminded Peter of Loki. Maybe, they were related, he thought. Not a comforting thought. “But the realms don't deserve it. That's why it's best if we, who have their eyes open and are willing to listen to reason, need to take care of it.”
“By doing what exactly?”
“By accomplishing the very thing that Thor is questing after.”
Peter turned away because he didn't feel like showing the old man the effect it had on him. But it was a moot thing to do. What was wrong with him? Didn't he want the exact same thing? To get rid of that blond giant? Heid. He didn't. He did.
“What do you need me to do?”
Mimir walked to him and took both Peter's hands in his. His felt as dry and wrinkly as it looked. If Peter weren't stunned by the sudden touch, he would have rudely pulled back his hands. “Nothing except give me passage through your mind and untangle the mess you both have created.”
Peter did snap his hands back to himself. “Not happening,” he said, without a beat.
“There is nothing to fear or distrust,” said Mimir, softly, “for I cannot remove that which is not willingly given.”
“No really. I'm not interested.” Peter's defenses were fully up again. Like hell, he was going to let some weird alien God get inside his head and perform some dubious hocus-pocus.
“You are smarter than this Peter,” said Mimir, disappointment clear in his voice. “I'm not the trickster. I'm one of the original Aesir. We live with honor and serve to protect the nine realms. You should know then that I cannot bring you harm.”
Peter paused. He didn't think it was a good idea but felt pressed to hear out the entire deal. “So I let you in my head and you will dissolve the bond?”
“I will, yes,” said Mimir, peering down at him through his ancient eyes. Then his face twitched as if he were holding back from saying something.
“I definitely sense a 'but’. There has to be one. What is it? Lose two inches of my height? Crippled for life? Forget how to do a Running Man?”
A smile escaped those old lips. “No. Nothing that severe. But you will lose all memories of Thor Odinson. You will never be able to remember him.”
Nowhere near what Peter had expected. “That's not excessive at all,” he grunted, sarcasm plain in his voice, but his mind was whirring with the implications of such an action. He wouldn't require alcohol. He wouldn't even need to feel grumpy, and spiteful. He wouldn’t have to be hurt. If Mimir delivered as he promised, it would be a perfect solution to his current problems. And, what the hell did he care anyway? So what if he lost memories of Thor? He didn't care.
“Are you sure there's nothing else?” asked Peter, unable to not consider the offer seriously. “Will it hurt?”
“Not if you don't resist,” said Mimir, raising a hand to Peter's temple.
Peter took an involuntary step back, but the God followed him fluidly. Peter saw the grey in Mimir's eyes turn murky and become unfocused. His own eyelids dropped heavy with a sudden tiredness and a rush of colors raced in front of his closed eyes. It felt like an outside force was instigating the movement of those images - moving too fast to be anything recognizable. Peter knew what it was though, and it already filled him with an undeniable sense of loss.
Too late now, he thought. No going back. Not like he would actually remember what he had lost.
Then, a voice of pure rage rang through Peter's mind and like a swift hand had swept away the debris, the rushing colors became a simple black. The voice had uttered three words, Peter's noted after the fact:
“ TO ME! NOW! ”