"HIHAAA." A loud roar reverberated around as I swung Mjolnir with its leather strap and jumped with all my might as soon as I was ready to take off.
A tug so strong that, for a second, it felt like my very hand would be dislocated shocked me before I found myself airborne.
It wasn't the weightless feeling but rather something heavy and strong pulling you up—like once, when you were a child and your parent did that to you.
"AHAAA." To my irritation, the earlier shout soon became a scream when I mid-way lost my balance and turned into a spinning top strapped to a very awesome hammer.
#Boom.
A second later, I was back on the dirt, my casual peasant clothes already in their natural habitat—mud, piss, and dirt.
'Fuck.'
Someone had said true—profanities only escape one's mouth either out of habit or out of real emotion.
I pride myself on being an upright man. Should I use "God" now?
Needless to say, that word adequately explained what I was feeling now—completely fucked up.
It's been a while since I left the North entirely. After the whole kissing-a-minor-girl-in-front-of-her-mother nonsense, getting out of the state felt like the wisest decision, even if the said kiss was initiated by the girl.
I had nothing to do with that. Still, I left—for more than one reason, but that kiss was definitely one of them.
So, when I wasn't traveling, and my poor little horse—whom I aptly named Roach, after a certain video game I loved—was given to me by the same innkeeper I had helped out, the one who let us stay at his inn that night.
Roach wasn't any special horse with kingly genes; he was rather underfed and weak as good horses go. What can one expect from a horse coming out of an innkeeper's barn? So, not to overwork him on the journey, we took breaks often.
Good for both of us, since I too had flying to learn. As it already shows, it wasn't going that well.
I have lost count of how many times I've fallen face-first on earth so far. If it were anyone else from Westeros—or from this world—they might have already lost many of their bones. There was nothing to soften my falls.
I was intact only because of my Asgardian durability.
"What in Odin's name am I doing wrong?" I all but shouted the question to the universe, half expecting that perhaps Heimdall might listen and, with his magical voodoo, help me out.
Not that I wasn't improving—I was. Just not as fast as I wished to. I wanted to learn flying before I reached the shore, since I had no money to board any ship going east. Flying was the fastest and most economical option for me.
'If only this damn strap would just keep me straight.' I looked at the hammer in my hand, though my real ire wasn't at Mjolnir itself. No, my partner was doing an exceptional job here—it was all that damn strap's fault.
'Who the fuck thought this was a good idea—an ideal choice to hold onto while airborne?'
Sigh.
After the umpteenth fall, I decided to continue this madness after a bit of a breather—perhaps fall back onto Thor's memories to find what I was doing wrong. I was certain it was my posture that was causing this issue.
In my memories, I could see Thor keeping his body straight and doing minor adjustments midair to keep his balance. However, that balance thing was more instinctive than anything.
Even Thor needed a long time to completely master flying with Mjolnir. And he had eons to figure that out with Asgard's best medics if he were to break a bone or two—not that he ever did with his physique, but still.
What do I got?
Sigh.
Still, thanks to his instincts and memories, I was picking things up faster than he ever did. Thor got Mjolnir only when he was 40 years old—still a kid, both in age and looks, in Asgardian sense.
And he didn't figure out flying until he was over 100 years old. Again, mostly a kid—but a bigger kid.
That's 60 freaking years. It's only a tad bit over 60 days since I was sent here to this world.
A groan let out of my mouth as I saw the shifting terrain ahead of me.
At least the North had green hills and snow to comfort me when I flew down face-first. However, looking at the increasingly rocky terrain ahead, I felt dread.
My plan for the time being is simple enough—it was exactly what I told both the girls and, to some degree, Lady Stark. I don't intend to stay here in Westeros when this entire war is going on.
I wish to fight, but choosing a side is something I refuse to do. It's not like I don't wish to stay here in Westeros. In fact, I planned to travel from here, to see the Seven Kingdoms for myself—
From the highlands of the Reach to the deserts of Dorne.
If there was one thing I always wished to do back on Earth, then it was traveling. However, my wallet couldn't afford that, neither do I think my untrained couch-potato body would have.
But now, I have no excuse. If I don't use this god-given chance, then it's a shame on me.
Unfortunately, sightseeing in war-torn lands is certainly a bad idea.
Forget danger—by now, I doubt anything besides a freaking dragon poses any serious threat to me. However, everything in life has its own mood and flavor.
I don't want to ruin the experience of my travel by staying here when swords are being drawn.
Essos isn't that much better, honestly, in this regard—but at least I could expect a bit less hostile experience compared to Westerosi wartime situations.
I do faintly recall the story from the other side of the continent as well. On one side, wolves, lions, and stags—and on the other, dragons.
'Daenerys should be wed to Khal Drogo by now, right?' I rocked my hazy memory of the series seen long before.
'Not that I intend to mess with her journey or anything. I just intend to travel, and that's what I will be doing—travel and have fun.'
And with that, and a re-energized enthusiasm for future adventures, I got up on my feet once again, hammer already spinning, ready to take off.
'Up, up, AND AWAY...'
xxx
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