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."
Susan nodded slowly, her lips curving into a faint smile. "It's strange. I've seen him fight, bleed, sacrifice... but I've never seen him laugh like this. Not really."
Their conversation was interrupted as Peter's voice rose again, cutting through the din of the hall. "And Vanaheim!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger at Odin, who was already chuckling in anticipation. "Do not pretend you don't remember getting absolutely flattened by that mountain troll because you insisted on fighting it shirtless to 'intimidate it.' Shirtless, Odin! Who does that?"
Odin threw back his head, his laughter so forceful it nearly sent his mead sloshing over the rim of his goblet. "I did intimidate it!" he roared, his voice rich with mock indignation. "It just didn't like being intimidated! The beast lacked proper respect for the All-Father!"
Their laughter erupted again, a shared, infectious joy that seemed to ripple through the hall. The bards, sensing the shift in mood, transitioned to a livelier tune, their strings humming with a rhythm that urged feet to tap and hearts to lift. Asgardians at nearby tables joined in, raising their goblets in toasts, their voices weaving into the music with raucous cheers.
Peter wiped a bead of mead from the corner of his mouth, his grin softening as he leaned back, his eyes scanning the hall. The golden light, the warmth of the fires, the clink of goblets, the scent of roasted meat and sweet fruit, it was all so vivid, so alive. For the first time in what felt like years, he wasn't Spider-Man, the Web-Warrior burdened by loss and duty. He wasn't even the grieving man who had watched New York burn, his heart heavy with the ghosts of those he couldn't save.
He was Anansi. The Weaver of Stories. The Trickster who had spun tales across realms, who had walked beside gods and laughed in the face of chaos. Here, in this moment, seated at the right hand of Odin, surrounded by the splendor of Asgard, he was a god among gods.
And for a little while, he was happy.
The feast continued, the hall alive with the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation. Thor, seated a few chairs down, regaled a group of warriors with tales of his own, his hammer resting beside him like a faithful companion. Susan and Sable exchanged occasional glances, their own conversation quiet but warm, as they navigated the strangeness of dining in a realm of myth. Yet their eyes kept drifting back to Peter, to the golden glow that lingered in his gaze, to the way he seemed to belong here in a way they couldn't fully grasp.
Odin leaned toward Peter, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it still carried the weight of divine authority. "Tell me, old friend," he said, his eye glinting with curiosity. "This mortal shell you've chosen... how does it bear the weight of your essence? The Web of Life is no small burden, even for one such as you."
Peter's smile faded slightly, a flicker of his mortal self surfacing. He set down his goblet, his fingers lingering on its edge. "It's... complicated," he admitted, his voice quieter now, more Peter than Anansi. "This body, this life, it's got its scars. More than I'd like. But the Web... It's like it's always been there, woven into me. Sometimes I'm not sure where I end and it begins."
Odin nodded, his expression softening with an understanding only a god could muster. "A fitting vessel, then. Mortal, yet touched by the eternal. You always did have a knack for choosing the unexpected, Weaver."
Peter chuckled, the sound lighter now, almost human. "Yeah, well, keeps things interesting."
As the bards struck up another song, its melody soaring like a hawk over the mountains, Peter leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the murals above. They depicted battles, triumphs, and stories, stories he had helped weave, long ago, in a time before Peter Parker existed. The weight of those memories was there, but so was the warmth of this moment, the camaraderie, the laughter.
For now, there was no looming threat, no world-ending crisis. Just a feast, a brother, and a story that was far from over.
---
The golden halls bathed in the warm glow of towering braziers, had been a symphony of laughter, clinking goblets, and the lilting strains of ancient music only moments before. The feast was a spectacle of divine excess: tables groaned under the weight of roasted boars glazed with honey from the orchards of Vanaheim, platters of smoked fish caught in the crystalline rivers of Alfheim, and fruits that shimmered with an inner light, as if plucked from the stars themselves. The air was thick with the scents of charred meat, sweet mead, and the faint, earthy tang of Yggdrasil's wood, which formed the hall's soaring arches. Bards, their fingers dancing across strings of enchanted harps and lyres, had filled the space with melodies older than mortal memory, their voices weaving tales of gods and heroes in tongues long forgotten by the realms below.
But the harmony shattered when the massive oaken doors of the hall creaked open, their groan reverberating like a thunderclap.
Conversations faltered, goblets paused mid-air, and even the bards' nimble fingers hesitated, their notes fading into an uneasy silence. All eyes turned to the figure striding through the threshold with the theatrical swagger of a performer taking the stage.
Loki, Prince of Asgard, God of Mischief, and eternal thorn in the side of order, entered with a smirk that could cut glass. His black-and-green robes, edged with gold that glinted like a serpent's scales, billowed behind him as if conjured by his own will. His raven hair, slicked back with meticulous care, framed a face that was both beautiful and predatory, his pale eyes gleaming with a mixture of glee and contempt. He surveyed the hall, his gaze lingering on the high table where Odin sat beside Peter Parker, or rather, the ancient entity within him, Anansi, the Weaver of Stories. Loki's smirk widened, as if he had just stumbled upon a game he was certain he could win.
"Ah," Peter muttered, his voice low and edged with irritation as he set down his goblet, the mead within catching the firelight. "And here comes the mood killer."
Susan, seated to Peter's left, tensed, her fingers tightening around the stem of her golden goblet. Her blue eyes, usually calm and calculating, narrowed as she assessed the new arrival, her instincts honed from years of navigating cosmic threats.
Beside her, Sable's posture stiffened, her hand instinctively twitching toward the dagger that wasn't there, she had surrendered her weapons at the palace gates, a begrudging nod to Asgardian hospitality. Her silver hair glinted under the flickering light, and her sharp gaze tracked Loki's every move, like a hunter sizing up a particularly slippery quarry.
Odin, at the head of the table, let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temple with a calloused hand. His single eye, sharp as a blade and heavy with the weight of millennia, fixed on his wayward son. "Loki," he said, his voice a low rumble that carried the authority of the All-Father, "before you embarrass yourself further, know this: you are here by my will. Your limited freedom was earned after your... rehabilitation." The word dripped with skepticism, as if Odin himself wasn't entirely convinced. "But you are still watched, still guarded. Do not test my patience."
Loki's lips curled into a slow, mocking bow, his movements fluid and exaggerated, as if performing for an audience only he could see. "Behaved, indeed," he drawled, his voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade. "Such a dreary term, Father. One would think Asgard wished me to be boring." He straightened, his eyes glinting with mischief as he turned his attention to Peter, circling the high table with the predatory grace of a panther. "And you, oh curious guest... A spider dressed in borrowed magic, sitting at the right hand of the All-Father. Tell me, what brings a mortal, or whatever you are, to Asgard's hallowed halls?"
Peter, or Anansi, didn't move. His posture remained relaxed, his hands resting lightly on the table, but there was a stillness to him that was almost unnerving. His eyes, flecked with that faint golden glow, met Loki's without a hint of fear or deference. The hall seemed to hold its breath, the air growing heavy with anticipation.
Susan's grip on her goblet tightened, her knuckles whitening. Sable's fingers twitched again, her body coiled like a spring, though her expression remained impassive. Thor, seated a few chairs down, leaned forward, his massive frame tense, Mjolnir resting beside him like a silent warning. Even the Asgardian warriors and courtiers lining the hall, their goblets forgotten, watched with bated breath, sensing the brewing storm.
Loki stopped just behind Peter, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a silken taunt. "What's this, then? A man in a costume, wrapped in another costume, playing at godhood? Have you come to impress Father with your new toys, Weaver? Hoping he'll call you 'son' next? Shall I make room at the table for you, little spider?"
Peter's expression didn't change. No smirk, no frown, just that cold, unyielding calm. Then he spoke, and his voice was no longer the rough, New York cadence of Peter Parker. It was deeper, older, resonating with the weight of epochs, as if the very stones of Asgard recognized its timbre. "Save your posturing for those swayed by it, boy," he said, each word deliberate, cutting through Loki's bravado like a blade through silk. "Your endless shifting of loyalties only proves the emptiness of your words. You are privileged to stand in the presence of your betters, and you should know not to speak until you are spoken to."
The hall froze. The air itself seemed to still, as if time had paused to let the weight of those words settle. Even Thor, who had once wrestled frost giants barehanded and laughed in the face of storms, looked wary, his blue eyes flicking between Peter and Loki. Susan's breath caught, her gaze darting to Peter, while Sable's lips twitched with the faintest hint of amusement, though her eyes remained sharp.
Loki's smile faltered, a crack in his polished facade. His pride, that fragile, glittering thing, had been nicked, and the sting was evident in the tightening of his jaw. "Oh, how grand you sound," he snapped, his voice losing some of its practiced smoothness, betraying a flicker of genuine irritation. "Wearing another's skin, speaking ancient riddles. Don't mistake borrowed power for your own, Weaver. You're nothing but a parasite pretending to be a god."
Peter, or Anansi, turned his head slowly, his movements deliberate, almost leisurely. His eyes, now glowing a vivid gold, locked onto Loki's, and the divine presence that had been simmering within him surged forth. It was subtle but vast, like the weight of a galaxy pressing down on the hall. The air shimmered faintly, as if the threads of the Web of Life itself were weaving through the room, binding every soul in its invisible strands.
"I've been here since the beginning of creation, boy," Anansi said, his voice no longer just speech but something akin to scripture, each word resonating with the authority of a god who had shaped realities. "I've woven my webs, spoken my spells, and sung my songs longer than your birth-realm of Jotunheim has existed. When the light of the galaxy fades and the stars go dim, I will still be here, spinning my webs, speaking my spells, and singing my songs. So, with that in mind..." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unyielding, his presence cold and omnipotent. "I invite you to contemplate how insignificant I find you."
The silence that followed was deafening. The bards' strings lay still, the fires in the hearths seemed to flicker lower, and even the Asgardians, hardened warriors and immortal beings, stood frozen, as if afraid to breathe. Loki's mouth opened, then closed, his usual arsenal of clever retorts failing him. His pale face flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation, his eyes darting to Odin, to Thor, to the gathered courtiers, searching for an ally and finding none.
Odin, still seated, gave a low, rumbling chuckle, his single eye twinkling with amusement as he hid his smile behind his goblet. "Well spoken, Weaver," he murmured, his voice warm with approval.
Thor clapped once, the sound low and deliberate, echoing in the silent hall. "Well said, Brother Spider," he boomed, his grin wide and genuine, as if he had been waiting for someone to put Loki in his place.
Peter, or Anansi, leaned back in his chair, his golden eyes dimming to their usual brown, though a faint glow lingered, like embers in a dying fire. He picked up a piece of roasted boar, tearing into it with casual indifference, as if the exchange had been nothing more than a minor interruption to his meal.
Loki, his scowl deepening, spun on his heel, his robes flaring dramatically as he stormed toward the doors. His exit, meant to be a grand display of defiance, was undercut by the low ripple of laughter that followed, Odin's deep chuckle, Thor's hearty guffaw, and the quiet, almost imperceptible snicker from Sable, who leaned toward Susan with a wry smirk.
"God of Mischief?" Sable muttered under her breath, her voice laced with dry amusement. "More like god of temper tantrums."
Susan hid her own smirk behind her goblet, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter as she glanced at Peter. He caught her gaze and gave a small, almost sheepish shrug, the gesture so quintessentially Peter that it was hard to reconcile with the divine force that had just silenced a god.
The bards, sensing the tension had passed, struck up a new melody, softer now, a soothing counterpoint to the storm that had briefly swept through the hall. The Asgardians returned to their conversations, their voices a low hum, though many stole glances at Peter, their expressions a mix of awe and curiosity. The feast resumed, the clatter of plates and the clink of goblets filling the air once more.
But high above, beyond the golden arches and the shimmering skies of Asgard, something stirred. A presence, ancient and watchful, felt the echo of Anansi's voice ripple through the cosmos. It was not a god, not a mortal, but something older, something that had known the Weaver of Stories in the dawn of time. It lingered in the spaces between realms, its attention drawn to the golden hall, to the mortal vessel that carried a god's essence. And as it watched, it began to weave its own plans, its own threads, into the tapestry of fate.
Peter, unaware of the eyes upon him, took another sip of mead, his thoughts drifting back to the warmth of the moment. For now, he was content to be here, in the heart of Asgard, surrounded by gods and legends. But deep within, the Web of Life hummed, a quiet reminder that stories, once begun, were never truly finished.
Thanks for reading everyone.
Special thanks to my patrons
Bryton Maldonado
Joe Thigpen
Follow me on X/Twitter @KaulusNoctis
Follow me on Tik Tok @thecrookedcannibal Subscribe to my YouTube Channel @KingCannibal2004
Catch me streaming on Twitch @ Twitch.Tv/CrookedCannibal
Please feel free to support me on Patreon.com/KingCannibal