Chapter 11: Thermal Drapes Diplomacy – Loki, Thor, and the World's Hottest Home Décor Mission.
[BIFROST CHAMBER – DAY]
The Bifrost Chamber, usually a place of booming majesty and serious warfare, smelled faintly of singed silk and high anxiety.
Loki was adjusting his armor—now draped with a brightly colored, absurdly ruffled silk sash. "We must look approachable, yet decisive," he explained to a bewildered Heimdall. "Like interior designers who are prepared to fight over swatch choices."
Thor, meanwhile, was trying to fit Mjolnir into a velvet carrying case. "I still maintain this is beneath the dignity of the God of Thunder, Mother."
"Dignity is overrated, Thor," I said, smoothing a wrinkle out of Loki's sash. "Survival is not. You two are going to the literal core of Ragnarok to steal the Eternal Flame. If you go in guns blazing, you'll start a war. If you go in looking like pompous bureaucrats, they'll be too confused to fight."
I leaned in, addressing the two most powerful (and most chaotic) beings in the Nine Realms. "Your cover: Thermal Drapes. You are here to negotiate a bulk purchase of fireproof material from Muspelheim to prevent 'climate collapse' on Asgard. Thor, you are the Enforcement Officer—loud, enthusiastic, and easily distracted by strong opinions. Loki, you are the Chief Negotiator—pretentious, overly specific, and obsessed with trim."
Loki nodded, a dangerous glint returning to his emerald eyes. "I believe I can handle pretentiousness."
"Excellent. No fighting unless absolutely necessary. No starting any secondary wars. And Loki, if you bring back a snake, I will personally turn your entire wardrobe into neon pink velvet."
"Understood, Mother," Loki agreed, looking genuinely traumatized by the threat.
Thor beamed. "Don't worry, Mother! We shall return with the flame and the most stylish fireproof silk in the cosmos!"
I stepped back, signaling Heimdall. "Send them through, Heimdall. And for your own sake, try not to listen to the dialogue."
The Bifrost roared to life, engulfing my two chaotic sons in the brilliant, rainbow light.
[MUSPELHEIM – SECONDS LATER]
The transition from rainbow bridge to Muspelheim was immediate and visceral. The air hit them like a wall of hot ash and sulfur. Lava flowed like water, and the sky pulsed with an angry, red glow. Towering, rocky figures—the Fire Demons—moved sluggishly through the heat.
"Right," Loki muttered, dramatically fanning himself with his treaty scroll. "They clearly haven't updated their color palette since the dawn of time. So gauche."
Thor pulled out Mjolnir, ignoring the velvet case. "I believe that is Surtur's fortress, Brother! Let us smash and grab!"
"No smashing!" Loki hissed, yanking Thor back by his cape. "We are here for diplomacy and trim. Remember the instructions, you magnificent barbarian!
The flame is in the skull of Surtur's predecessor, and we must find it subtly."
A massive Fire Demon lumbered over, its eyes glowing yellow with suspicion. "WHO DARES DISTURB THE MARCH TOWARDS RAGNAROK?"
Loki stepped forward, adjusting his ruffled sash. He affected the most ridiculously nasal, high-class Asgardian accent he could muster.
"Greetings, good sir!" Loki declared, holding up the scroll. "Prince Loki of Asgard, here on an urgent diplomatic mission concerning fire-rated luxury linens."
The Fire Demon paused, steam billowing from its nose. "LINENS?"
"Precisely," Loki said, tapping the scroll. "We here in Asgard are experiencing certain thermal inconsistencies, and we require samples of your finest, most enduring thermal-blocking silk.
Something suitable for a royal bedchamber, perhaps with a subtle geometric pattern? We require a large bulk order—enough to fit the entire royal fleet, actually."
Thor, remembering his role, stepped forward, his voice booming. "And if the samples are unsatisfactory, we shall be enforcing the return policy! With this!" He slammed Mjolnir onto the scorching ground, shaking the demons' patience.
The lead demon looked from Thor's aggressive stance to Loki's absurd sash. The cognitive dissonance was clearly straining its primordial brain.
"THIS IS MUSPELHEIM. WE DO NOT SELL... SILK."
"Ah, a supply chain issue," Loki sighed dramatically, pulling out a tiny, ornamental piece of glittering, fireproof trim. "Well, perhaps you could guide us to your Minister of Antiquities and Raw Materials? We understand you possess an extremely vintage heat source that would be perfect for our latest line of indoor fire pits."
Loki pointed vaguely in the direction of Surtur's Fortress.
The Demon squinted, clearly confused by the notion of a civilization worried about fire pit ambiance in a realm made of fire.
"I have no time for this foolishness," the demon grumbled. "BUT I WILL NOT HAVE YOU TRACKING ASH INTO THE MAIN HALLS. FOLLOW ME, BEGONE."
The Demon turned and began lumbering toward the fortress, eager to get rid of the strange, loud, and fashionably challenged Asgardians.
Loki grinned at Thor, whispering, "See, Brother? Idealism, mischief, and a terrible sense of interior decorating—the three keys to cosmic victory."
Thor shook his head, still bewildered but happy to be moving. "I still think it would have been faster to smash it."
"And Mother would have turned your cape pink," Loki reminded him, adjusting his absurd trim. "Now, look appropriately concerned about the thread count."
The duo followed the lumbering fire demon deeper into the scorching heart of Muspelheim, one step closer to the ultimate source of Ragnarok.
To Be Continued…