The days are gone when the Old Norsemen proclaimed him and Loki gods, claimed Valhalla for their warriors and sailed forth to the seas. Heimdall keeps vigil, but the life of mortals is but the blink of an eye to an Aesir. Their bones litter the earth, their stories fade.

Fondness grows anew after New Mexico, rooted firm after New York. In nine hundred years the world has changed so quickly and so much that he stands by Heimdall, asking that he describe what has become of those who once called upon the might of Asgard. There is potential, and soon Midgard will come to know the higher forms of war that are commonplace in the cosmos, and see that it is not merely Loki who wields mischief.

Sometimes, Heimdall says they call to their old gods. Thor has no desire to claim the obeisance of mortals without fully earning it — as everything now that lives must be earned. They respect him because he protects them, and when they call out —

There is a flash of bright, blinding light. The ground shakes on his landing. The invaders stop, and the rain beats down harder on them, only them. The sky over the villagers and the warriors they have with them is clear.

'I have come,' he says, calmly, 'to accept your surrender. Leave now and no harm will come to you. Fight, and you will most assuredly die.'