The morning after the free storm, Camelot was back in full swing. There didn't seem to be anything different. And other than a few flashes of strange light, nothing had really happened the night before.
So people quickly moved past it all, though it was still the talk of the town.
And it didn't take them long to notice a few things being out of the norm.
The knights of the Round Table seem to be abnormally active. In the age of social media, it was hard to hide anything from curious people, so when posts came of all the knights, everyone felt something was off.
After all, the Knights were rare, some of them were hardly ever seen, Mordred had been gone for more than a month, and others also seen so rarely it was impossible to know if they were in Camelot at all.
Yet now social media was flooded with pictures of all the knights walking around the streets, which was a clear sign that something had indeed happened, but people still didn't know what it was.
And while the people whispered and speculated, one man stood out among them.
A large man. Blond, barefoot, shirtless despite the chill. Covered in mud and still bearing the bruises of a fight no one had seen.
Thor.
He wandered the lower districts of Camelot with no clear purpose. He did not look like a god, nor even a nobleman. Just a man who had been cast down from something great.
In the great city of Camelot, the capital of Albion, a man like Thor didn't fit in. This wasn't the medieval age. Having a man run around looking like that was quite a strange sight. More so in Camelot, a place where poverty wasn't really a thing.
The people had stared as he passed by. A few had even tried to offer him help or money, but he just shook his head, lost in his own thoughts, his own loss.
It didn't feel real, just a day before he was to be crowned king of Asgard, yet now… he was cast out, stripped of his power, his home, everything.
He quickly realized where he was, Midgard, the mortal realm of humans; he had been here in the past, revered as a god by the locals, yet now he felt their pity, and it stung.
He was starting to realize just how far he had fallen and how much he had lost. Finally, in a dark, silent part of the city, he once more fell to his knees, crying to the sky. "Why!? Why, father!?" he cried loudly, but he was given no answer.
He didn't know how long he had been there, but finally, someone found him. "Hey there, son. Sure seems like you have it rough, eh? " a man spoke from behind.
Yet, Thor was in no mood to answer.
"Not much for talking, eh? Well, no matter, come here, son, I'll give a few pints down at the pub… or tavern, I guess they call it here. I'm sure some drink will help you with whatever." He said as he pulled on Thor.
The stranger was a thick-armed man with a bushy beard and the kind of laugh lines that only came from years of cheer and drink. He wore the apron of a blacksmith and smelled faintly of iron and ale. Thor blinked at him, unsure what to say, but the man didn't wait.
"C'mon, big guy. You look like you could use a warm seat and something that burns on the way down. We've all been there."
Before he could protest, Thor was half-dragged, half-guided through winding alleys and quiet courtyards, until they arrived at a modest tavern tucked between the guild halls. The sign outside read The Resting Boar, and it looked as sturdy and unpretentious as the man guiding him.
Inside was warm and welcoming. A hearth crackled at the center, and locals filled the tables, laughing over breakfast ales and stews. Eyes turned as the two entered, but the smith raised a hand.
"Don't mind him," he called. "Just a traveler. The kind who needs a drink more than he needs questions."
That seemed enough for them.
Thor was ushered to a seat by the fire. A mug was pressed into his hand. It steamed with heat and the scent of honeyed malt.
"I am called Bram," the smith said, sitting across from him with his own tankard. "And you?"
Thor hesitated. Then, quietly: "…Thor."
"Welcome to Camelot, then, the city of dreams and whatnot. A great place to start over, as long as you aren't on the run from the law, then it's the worst place to be."
Thor didn't answer right away. His grip tightened around the mug, the warmth bleeding into his fingers. He stared into it like a man trying to remember what comfort felt like.
Bram leaned back with a grunt, taking a sip from his own tankard. "I've seen that look before. Man who's lost more than he ever thought he could. Or maybe—" he pointed with his tankard, "—a man who just realized what he had only after it was gone."
That one hit home.
"I mess up," Thor said eventually. "I messed up bad… I don't think my father will forgive me."
Bram raised a brow. "Well, no better to start over than here, no better place to prove yourself here either, and look at you, plenty strong, you can likely make a name yourself in the arena here or something."
Thor didn't respond immediately, but the edge of his mouth twitched. Just slightly. The idea of proving himself—of fighting, of earning back his worth with blood and effort—felt familiar. Comforting, even.
Bram must have noticed. "Ah, there it is," he chuckled, tapping his mug against Thor's. "That spark. You've got the look of a warrior."
Thor exhaled, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "I don't even know what I am anymore."
"You're alive. You're in Camelot. That's a start."
Finally, two pints of the finest Guinness were placed before them. "Enjoy, and for the big guy, if you need a bath, let me know."
Thor lifted the dark drink and eyed the foam with mild confusion. "Guinness?"
Bram grinned. "Strong, dark, bitter, and heavier than it looks. Bit like life sometimes. Drink up."
He took a sip. It was strange—earthy, thick, unfamiliar—but it warmed him. Not just his throat, but something deeper. Something old. Forgotten. It tasted... honest.
It couldn't be compared to Asgardian drink, but after what he had been through, he really needed it, so he drank until the mug was empty.
Then, he did as he always did back home: he threw the mug onto the floor, hard. "Good, another!" he called out, before freezing.
He had expected the mug to break, they always did when he threw them around, yet this one didn't break at all.
At his confused look, the tavern keeper laughed loudly, picked up a glass, and threw it hard against the ground, aimed at Thor's mug.
Yet it too, didn't break, despite being made of glass.
"Couldn't help yourself, could you? But it's as true as they say, Camelot made stuff is different, no mortal can break it." He said with a laugh, one that everyone else shared.
Thor stared down at the unbroken mug, then at the barkeep, then at Bram. He had forgotten he was a mortal for a moment, yet he was still surprised, back when he was here last time, even mortals could shatter mugs and glasses.
So, for them to say no mortal could break anything here made him curious.
Camelot, this white city of peace. What kind of mortal kingdom made unbreakable mugs and glass? What had changed since he was still here?
Nonetheless, more drinks came, and soon enough, Thor was starting to feel better, and even though the sun had yet to leave the sky, everyone was already drinking hard as they listened to his tales.
They were fantastical, pure fiction, yet they couldn't help but get pulled into those tales, as if watching a live performance.
The laughter rolled on, the drinks flowed, and for the first time since his exile, Thor didn't feel hollow.
He was still shirtless, still bruised and muddied, but he had a tankard in hand and a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. He spoke of frost giants and fire realms, of battles beneath twin moons and a serpent that circled the world.
They didn't believe a word of it—but they loved every second.
More drinks were poured. Cheers rose with every punchline. The tavern glowed with warmth and noise, and even Thor's heart, cracked as it was, found a moment of ease.
The bell over the door jingled as it swung open again, letting in a blast of cool afternoon air.
A woman entered. She was middle-aged, sharp-eyed, and carried herself like someone used to commanding a room. She looked around, then made her way to the bar.
"Full house already?" she asked with a smirk. "What's the occasion?"
Bram gestured toward Thor with a raised brow. "Tall tales from the northlands."
The woman glanced over. Her eyes lingered on Thor for a moment—then narrowed slightly. "He's got the voice for it, I'll give him that. You lot always drink this hard before dinner?"
"Only when the stories are good," someone shouted from the back, and the room chuckled.
She accepted her drink from the barkeep and leaned against the counter. "Well, speaking of strange stories... any of you lot heard about that hammer?"
That quieted a few nearby conversations.
"Strange thing," She continued, "No one knows where it comes from, right at the young king's feet, on the stone and all, and people tried to move it, but couldn't, so it must be pretty heavy, or maybe it's enchanted like the sword."
The air shifted.
Thor didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But his grip tightened around his tankard.
Bram noticed it immediately. "That mean something to you, Thor?"
For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes were locked on the flickering fire in the hearth. His face, once loose with drink and laughter, had gone still—serious.
Then, quietly: "…where exactly did you say this hammer was?"
-----
Earlier that day…
The skies over Camelot were clear once more, the storm having passed without so much as a drop reaching the streets. The white towers glistened in the morning light, and the smell of fresh bread and dew filled the air.
For tourists, it was a perfect day to explore the capital of Albion.
Cameras clicked, children laughed, and guided tours drifted through the plazas and courtyards. At the heart of the city—just past the flower-ringed gardens and between two sweeping arches—stood the most visited monument in all of Camelot: the statue of the Young King.
He stood tall, immortalized in white marble, his features youthful, noble. In one hand, he held the Sword of Promised Victory aloft; beneath his feet, embedded in a pedestal of stone, sat the hollow where the very same sword had once rested.
Tourists often took photos beside it, imagining themselves worthy. It had become something of a tradition—young people posing as if trying to pull a replica blade from the original groove, smiling for the feed.
But today, there was something different.
"Hey," a man said, nudging his friend with his elbow as they queued up to take their own photo. "That wasn't there before, was it?"
His friend tilted his head. "What?"
"That." He pointed toward the base of the statue, where the stone surface flared outward around the feet. Something sat atop it now—something no one had expected.
A hammer.
It wasn't part of the statue, that much was obvious. It looked real—rough metal, worn handle, solid and entirely out of place. It rested right where the sword once lay. As if claiming the spot for itself.
Other people began to notice too. A small crowd formed around the stone.
"Is this new?"
"It's not listed on the tour pamphlet…"
Slowly, more and more people noticed the hammer, and before long, someone got brave enough to step through the waters of the fountain and onto the platform housing the statue, stone, and hammer itself.
This person, a local and a big man, decided that someone must have placed the hammer as a joke, so he wanted to remove it, yet as he tried, he couldn't move it at all.
(End of chapter)
So, here we are, Thor is in the city. But it's strange, why hasn't he been picked up yet? Arthuria has made it clear that she knows everything happening in the city, so she should know where he is right? Strange things indeed.
But poor guy, wondering about, lost, alone, in pain… the only thing that could make it worse is if he were hit by a car.
But surely no one would hit a poor guy with a car… I mean, imagine hitting someone with a car, crazy right? Talking about crazy, imagine hitting someone with a car, and then tasing them right after… now that is crazy talk.
So yeah, what do you do when you find a guy in trouble? Well, if you live under the protection of the king of knights, you give him a pint.
Also, I know that since I had Thor land in Camelot, I did more or less block his relationship with that one mortal bitch. But it was a shitting plot anyway, Thor is like 1500 years old, he wouldn't care about a mortal woman, and wouldn't fall in love so quickly, I mean he is Thor… everything about hat guy screams he fights, drinks and fucks all day long.
But yes, he is in Camelot, and it seems his hammer is too, and what a hammer. I did some research on it a few weeks back when planning this arc, and holy hell, that hammer is insane. I've been looking forward to bringing it into the story for a while now.