A couple of days later Fergus stood in the weapon room, hands crossed as he peered down on the time table where many different weapons were laid out for him. 

“You're taking this metal forging thing pretty seriously here don't you.”

The minotaur on the other end of the table scoffed, and Fergus could almost see the puff of smoke coming from his large nostrils. Birger's stare was cold as his pitch-black eyes looked at the nonchalant boy.

“Only fools would play around with weaponry. If you are given a weapon, you must also be able to use it. A weapon can not aid you if you don't know how to wield it. So, choose your preferred weapon.” his baritone voice was nothing like Fergus had ever heard before.

Fergus wanted to ask if Birger uses a comb to brush out his fur or does he simply let it grow. But he refrained himself, looking down on the neatly placed weapons.

Swords, blunt staves, spears, polearms, picks and many more sharp objects he couldn't really name.

Fergus reached out and grabbed a dagger, flipping it in his hands. It got sharper towards the end, and it had leather wrapped around the hilt, preventing it from slipping.

Birger blinked slowly “Like father like son huh. I would have recommended an axe as it seems you could build up your muscles and swing from above. But daggers will do.” he said, and Fergus wanted to ask so bad how can he pronounce properly with jaws like that.

“My father?” he asked instead, immediately scolding himself for sounding so unsure in the stranger's presence. Bringer looked over to him sharply as he collected the swords.

“I hear he is quite a master dagger wielder.” Birger mumbled into his beard —erm, fur. It was as if he didn't want to speak of it much. And Fergus didn't push. He though Birger wasn't the one who should give him answers anyway.

The minotaur stomped outside, Fergus following quietly behind as they stopped in the training yard.
Fergus stopped in the middle of a ring as Birger went to fetch some wooden weapons. He could feel his cheeks heat up, somewhat embarrassed as he realised they were perfectly polished and didn't seem to have been used for a long time. He was just glad nobody else was there to witness it.

“Show me what you've got and we'll work from there.” there was absolutely no mockery nor malice in his voice, it was like a breath of fresh air.
Holding the wooden sword awkwardly, Fergus tried out the balance in his hand, almost dropping it on the ground. 

“Dont drop your weapon, have a firm grip on it. Doesn't matter if it's a firepoker, broom or even a bucket. Come at me.” he said firmly, holding the wooden sword professionally.

Fergus mimicked his stance and went for it. Without realising what exactly happened, the wooden sword was knocked aside and the hilt of Birger's sword smacked the back of Fergus' hand. He scowled, taking a step back as Birger froze, waiting for Fergus to continue. Grumpily, Fergus went to pick up the wooden sword only to let out a yelp as Birger hit his ribs.

“Faster, Lord Fenrir.” he commanded, earning a chilling glare.

“I would if you'd stop being such a brat!” he snapped, feeling agitated at being treated like this.

Filled with growing rage, Fergus swung the sword, using full force and aiming to hurt Birger. He wanted to cause him pain, it was like an instinct as if something was driving him on.

Birger easily dodged, blocking his attack and incoming him a couple of feet away. Fergus landed on his ass, blinking up angrily as the wooden sword landed before Birgers feet.

A snicker made his apple green orbs snap up, zooming in on a tiny figure sitting on the third floor on the wall. Boney legs were on either side of a gargoyles shoulders, the stone statue perching on the grey wall, threatening jaws open and tongue swirling out as if scenting the air.

Sitting atop the gargoyle was Stiorra, munching on some cheese as she curiously looked at the scene unfolding.

“shut your trap, Mare. Or else I'll skin you alive and leave you to the Draugar.” The minotaur growled lowly, his voice carrying all the way across the courtyard, cutting off Stiorras snickering. She quieted down, averting her gaze at Birger's words.

Fergus smiled smugly as he pushed himself up.

“Again.”

Fergus straightened his back, taking a firmer hold of the wooden sword as he tried to ignore Stiorra as much as he could.

Birger dodged his attacks with ease, surprisingly fast on his feet — or hooves more likely.  It didn't take long for sweat to start dripping in Fergus' eyes. Birger corrected him on many occasions, how to keep his feet connected with the ground, how to flick his wrist, how to bend his back, how to swing and aim and control his strength.

Of course, half of it was way over his head. He didn't grasp the information that seemed to be pouring out of Birger.

Just a month ago he had been trekking through the streets of New York city, flirting his way to cheaper breakfasts and doing card tricks for some cash.

And now there was a minotaur teaching him how to hold a sword. 

Fergus had small bruises all over his body as he fell down again and again and again. The snow fell gently around him, mixing with the sand and making the ground slicker.

Birger held out his hand as he helped Fergus up, patting him on the shoulder as he breathed heavily.

“You're a natural.” he said easily, helping Fergus up.

“Natural at falling on my ass” he replied, annoyance lacing his voice.

Birger was about to tell him to pick up the sword again when suddenly the air stilled. It was an odd, soundless moment.
As if the air had been sucked away, the steady, gentle snowfall had stopped and even the clouds seemed to be frozen, hanging above them like threatening shadows.

And then the air split, a cold light emitting from a sharp line that hung just underneath the lowest clouds.

Stiorra glanced towards startled Fergus, yelling at him to run.

“What?!”

“Run!”

The air crackled and a thunderous best rolled over the lands, locking his ears as the tiny split in the air grew wider. The first thing he saw was a scaly nose that ripped through the air, a couple of sharp fangs pointing out of the things parted lips.

Fergus' breath hitched as he watched with horror as the enormous creature easily came through the portal.

Fergus, blinded by terror, turned around and ran, kicking up snow and sand alike as he tried to hide from the creature who was as large as a building and would have no problem gulping him whole.

Fergus could feel it in the air, large wings beating and making the cold air swirl. He stumbled slightly as the thing roared, almost sounding happy, or very very hungry. Fergus saw the gigantic shadow looming above him before a sharp talon the size of half of his body was hooked around his torso. His breath hitched as he was suddenly pulled up into the air.

His back made contact with the creatures scaly, and strangely enough warm chest as it swirled around in the air and crashed into the ground with a happy rumble. Fergus gasped for air as he realised the monster underneath him closed his wings over them and coiled his long tail around Fergus, rubbing his chin over Fergus' ink-black hair as his chest vibrated with deep purring sound.

Fergus was wheezing, convinced the creature had cracked one of his ribs as it got ready to swallow him whole. He tried to push away it's enormous paws, panicking when he realised there was nothing he could do.

He wiggled free of the things death grip, landing beside it on the ground he had flattened with all of his rolling around. Fergus' knees trembled as he tried to run towards the forest, wishing he had one of the daggers with him.

He hadn't made it far until a large hand curled around his wrist, pulling him back with so much force it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

His back smacked against a broad chest as two muscular hands hugged him. Never had anyone ever hugged him like that, and Fergus didn't like it!

“Brother!”

Fergus realised the courtyard was echoing with Stiorras cackling laughter.

A/N

AaAAAAaAAA jörmi :3
Birger always autocorrected to Burger for some reason. 

NORSE MYTHOLOGY FACTS

• While most contemporary readers imagine Thor as a blond (thanks to MCU) in the Viking stories he was always depicted as a redhead. That was thought to explain his warlike temper. The Thor in the legends had a temper like no other. Seriously, dude was the definition of walking testosterone.

• According to legend, Odin was buried on Osmusaar, an Estonian island in the Gulf of Finland. The Swedish name for the island, Odensholm, reflects that legend. (Since it's somewhat related to where I live this fact is one of my faves)

Educating you lot. New facts with each chapter!

I love this man, writing this chapter was so much fun haha

Sending enormous Jörmi hugs to y'all!

All the best
K