Not So Friendly Anymore

Chapter 34: The Feast of Gods

The grand halls of Asgard shimmered with an otherworldly splendor, their vastness amplified by the golden light that poured from towering braziers. Long tables, carved from the heartwood of ancient Yggdrasil branches, stretched the length of the chamber, laden with a feast fit for the divine. Roasted boars, their skins crackling and glazed with honey, sat alongside platters of smoked fish from the rivers of Alfheim, fruits plucked from the orchards of Vanaheim, glowing orbs that pulsed faintly with life, and loaves of bread baked with grains said to grow only in the fields of Fólkvangr. Golden mead, poured from ornate pitchers, sparkled in crystal goblets, its scent sweet and heady, mingling with the smoky aroma of the fires blazing in massive hearths. The high, arched ceiling, painted with murals of Asgard's greatest triumphs, seemed to pulse with the rhythm of ancient music, a haunting melody woven by Asgardian bards, their fingers dancing across strings of enchanted harps, their voices rising in old tongues that carried the weight of forgotten eras.

At the heart of this opulent scene sat Odin All-Father and Peter Parker, or rather, the ancient spirit within him: Anansi, the Weaver of Stories, the Trickster of the Web. Peter's frame, usually hunched with the burdens of a mortal life, now carried an effortless grace, his posture relaxed yet commanding. His eyes, still flecked with that unearthly golden glow, sparkled with mirth as he leaned toward Odin, a goblet of mead clutched loosely in one hand. His voice, though unmistakably Peter's, resonated with the calm confidence of a deity who had witnessed the birth of stars and spun tales that shaped the cosmos.

"... And do you remember Muspelheim?" Peter said, his tone laced with playful accusation as he tore a strip of flame-grilled elk from a bone, its juices glistening in the firelight. "You said we'd 'teach those fire giants a lesson.' Conveniently left out the part where you'd yeet me straight at Surtur's face like I was your spear!"

Odin's laughter erupted, a deep, thunderous bellow that rolled through the hall like a storm breaking over the mountains. His single eye gleamed with delight, crinkling at the edges as he slapped a hand on the table, rattling the goblets. "Aye! And did you not land the blow that took out his eye, Weaver? A strike for the ages!"

Peter snorted, leaning back in his chair, its ornate carvings pressing into his back. "Oh, sure, let's focus on that. Not the part where I broke four ribs, my left leg, and got singed so badly I smelled like a burnt goat for a month. I had to use web just to hold myself together!"

"Worth it," Odin declared, his grin wide and unapologetic as he raised his goblet, the mead catching the light like liquid gold. He clinked it against Peter's with a satisfying chime, and both drank deeply, their laughter mingling with the music that swirled around them.

Across the table, Susan Storm and Silver Sable sat, their plates half-touched as they watched the scene unfold with a mix of awe and bemusement. Susan's fingers traced the rim of her golden goblet, its intricate engravings cool under her touch. Her blue eyes, usually so steady, flickered with wonder as she took in this new version of Peter. Gone was the brooding, battle-worn man who had fought in the shadowed streets of New York, his face etched with grief and resolve. Here, in Asgard's golden halls, he was... vibrant. Alive in a way she hadn't seen before, as if the weight of countless tragedies had been lifted, if only for this moment.

"He's... different here," Susan whispered, her voice soft, almost lost in the hum of the feast. Her gaze lingered on Peter, who was now gesturing animatedly, recounting another tale with a smirk that was equal parts his own and something far older.

Sable, seated beside her, sipped a glass of dark wine from Svartalfheim, its rich, almost metallic tang lingering on her tongue. Her silver hair gleamed under the firelight. "Like he's not just carrying the weight of the world anymore," she murmured, her voice low and thoughtful. "Like he is the world, and for once, he knows it."