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Summary
Thor returned from a month’s journey north, where the cold had been as unforgiving as it was persistent. It settled deep inside his bones, so deep that not even the fires he lit each night could drive away the shudders. Traveling across the thin ice was as facing his own death with every step. He had been turned around and around by the thick snow, wandering endlessly with Mjolnir clutched in his frozen fingers.
And it was all, all upon a mere whim from his royal consort, who had wished for the fur of the savage white bear for a rug.