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Marvel MK: CH 131 – Before Christmas Dinner
🕑 Added 2025-08-07 17:24:38 +0000 UTCThe cozy cabin at the North Pole was filled with a strange, humming silence, the kind that only happens when a large group of super-powered teenagers is trying very hard to be patient.
“Okay, I think we’ve waited quite a long time,” Scott said, his voice a low, controlled murmur. “What’s happening?”
Ororo, the sole teacher in charge, sat by the crackling fire, her expression a mask of serene calm. “Let’s wait a little longer,” she said, her voice a gentle, reassuring presence. “Jack and Hermes said they were grabbing some food for us.”
The teens collectively sighed. The younger kids, however, were having the time of their lives. They were happily roaming the dormant factory, their excited whispers echoing in the vast, silent space. They were, miraculously, behaving themselves. The sight of the massive, glowing “Naughty or Nice” machine had instilled in them a deep and profound fear of ending up on the wrong list, a fear that was, for Ororo, a welcome Christmas miracle.
In a quiet corner of the cabin, the teen girls had started their own debriefing.
“Can you believe Santa is a handsome god all this time?” Anna Marie said, fanning herself dramatically.
“He looks so young,” Suzanne Chan added, a dreamy look in her eyes.
Jean couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re clearly smitten with him.”
“As if I’m the only one,” Suzanne teased back, her gaze flicking to Jean. “You’ve been smitten with the other god.”
Jean’s face instantly flushed a deep, burning crimson. “W-w-what are you talking about?!”
Petra just laughed. “Hahahaha, honestly, Hermes is clearly much more handsome than Jack.”
Meanwhile, the teen boys were having a more… philosophical debate.
“So, we’re just accepting this?” Bobby Drake asked, gesturing to the empty space where a god had just been. “That Hermes, the Greek god, is real? And he’s Santa Claus?”
“It is… a lot to process,” Armando Muñoz admitted.
Remy LeBeau, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. “We’ve seen a man with a monkey tail turn into a fiery bird. At this point, chérie, I’ll believe anything.”
“Does that mean Icarus was real, too?” Armando asked, his expression turning thoughtful.
The light, chaotic energy of the conversation instantly vanished. The boys went silent. The name hung in the air, heavy with a shared, unspoken grief. Icarus. The boy who flew too close to the sun. A myth about a boy with wings and golden hair. A story that now felt all too real.
They all remembered him. Teacher Warren. His golden hair. His magnificent white wings. And his fall.
As the heavy silence settled over them, a shimmering, golden sphere of runes materialized in the center of the cabin.
Kurt, expecting the return of their chaotic hosts, teleported to it in a puff of blue smoke, a wide, excited grin on his face. “Uncle Jack! What did you bri—?”
His words died in his throat.
It was not Jack and Hermes who stepped from the portal. It was a group of stout, elegant beings, their statures shorter than a human’s but their presence noble and ancient. They had long, silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold the light of distant stars. They were dressed in intricate, handcrafted armor, and their leader, a venerable figure with a magnificent white beard that reached his belt, looked around the cabin with a stern, proprietary air.
The X-Men didn’t know who they were.
From the back of the room, Gabriel, who had just run in from the factory, shouted with pure, unadulterated joy.
“Christmas elves!”
But the teens and Ororo were already on their feet, their lighthearted mood gone, replaced by a cold, defensive readiness.
Aska, the leader of the Alfar, looked at the group of strangely dressed, super-powered mortals who had taken up residence in his sacred factory, his eyes narrowing.
“Who are you people?”
Scott stepped forward, his posture shifting into the familiar, steady stance of a leader. “We are the X-Men,” he said, his voice calm and even, though his hand hovered near the visor controls. “We are here to tour the factory. Who are you?”
“What are you guys?” Alex added from behind him, his tone a bit more confrontational.
The leader of the silver-haired beings stepped forward, his magnificent white beard seeming to bristle with authority. “I am Askasleikir, chieftain of the Alfar tribe,” he announced, his voice a low, resonant hum. “We are here to fulfill our sacred oath. So, I will ask again: who brought you here? From what we know, Lord Hermes does not bring guests to this cabin. Well,” he amended, a flicker of something unreadable in his ancient eyes, “except for that one young god.”
Ororo moved gracefully to the front of the group, her presence a calming counterpoint to the tense standoff. “Yes,” she said, her voice as smooth and steady as a gentle breeze. “We are here as guests, brought by Jack. And we have already had our tour. We are simply waiting for him and Lord Hermes to return. They said they were going to grab some food.”
A look of profound, dawning understanding crossed Aska’s face. “Why not cook…?” he started to ask, then he held his words, a weary resignation settling over him. “Never mind. Hermes can’t cook. So I assume Jack can’t cook either.”
He sighed, his stern gaze softening as he looked past the tense teenagers and saw the younger children peeking out from behind Ororo’s legs, their faces a mixture of curiosity and awe. He thought for a moment, then turned to his own people.
“At the very least,” he grumbled, “we can give them some hot cocoa.” He then commanded the other Alfar, his voice now that of a gracious, if slightly grumpy, host, “Make our guests some cookies and hot cocoa while they wait for Lord Hermes and the young god to return.”
One by one, the X-Men were handed steaming mugs of hot cocoa and plates piled high with intricately decorated cookies that shimmered with a faint, magical light. The cabin, once a stage for a tense standoff, was now filled with the warm, comforting scent of chocolate and cinnamon.
Aska smiled, a genuine, grandfatherly expression, as he watched the children. He walked over to Tenzin, who was cautiously sipping his cocoa, and gently patted the young monk on his bald head. “Come on, eat,” he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. “They’re imbued with magic that can make you stronger.”
Tenzin’s eyes widened. “Really?”
From the side, Gabriel, who was already halfway through a cookie shaped like a reindeer, chimed in. “Booo, Mr. Elf is lying! There’s no glow on the cookies or the hot cocoa!”
Aska chuckled, a sound like rustling leaves and cracking firewood. “Tch tch. The magic is the nutrition inside them. Hahaha.”
From the teens’ corner, Remy LeBeau let out a low laugh. “Ha. Dad jokes.”
Calvin Rankin, sitting beside him, smirked. “More like your kind of jokes, Remy.”
The room had become cozy, the initial tension melting away into a comfortable, festive warmth. They were all starting to relax, to feel at home in this strange, magical place.
But then…
BOOM!
The newly repaired front door was kicked clean off its hinges for the second time that day, exploding inward in a shower of enchanted splinters. Jack Hou stood in the doorway, a Bag of Holding slung over one shoulder, his face split into a wide, triumphant grin.
“Trick or treat, babyy!” he roared, his voice echoing through the now-silent cabin. He paused, looking around at the Christmas decorations. “Oh, sorry. Wrong holiday. Kekekeke.”
Hermes appeared behind him, a warm, satisfied smile on his face. “Who’s hungry?” he asked, his voice a cheerful melody.
But then, his gaze fell upon the figures standing in the middle of the room. He saw Aska. He saw the other Alfar. And his smile faltered. His eyes, which had been dancing with the thrill of a successful heist, went glassy with unshed tears.
“As… Aska?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “You’re back.”
Aska smiled, a deep, knowing warmth in his ancient eyes. He gave a slight, respectful bow. “We are back, Lord Hermes,” he said, his voice a low, steady anchor. “It’s Christmas. There was no way we would not come.”
Hermes didn’t say another word. He tossed the Bag of Holding to Jack and strode forward, closing the distance between them in two quick steps. He wrapped his arms around the old Alfar chieftain, hugging him with a desperation that was a stark contrast to his usual divine composure.
“I’m glad you’re all okay,” Hermes said, his voice muffled against Aska’s shoulder, the weight of a hundred unspoken fears finally released.
…
The long, single table that now filled the main hall of the cabin was a masterpiece of Alfar craftsmanship. Woven from living, silver-barked wood, it seemed to have grown directly from the floorboards, its surface smooth and warm to the touch. The feast laid upon it was a glorious, impossible fusion of two worlds. Platters of ambrosia cakes from Apollo’s kitchen glowed with a soft, internal light next to plates of Artemis’s perfectly smoked celestial venison. Bowls of Persephone’s jewel-like pomegranates sat beside mountains of intricately decorated Alfar gingerbread cookies, and steaming mugs of hot cocoa were filled and refilled by smiling, silver-haired elves.
The cabin, once a monument to a lonely god’s secret tradition, was now alive. It was filled with the warm, chaotic, and utterly beautiful sound of a family.
The younger kids, their initial awe having melted into a comfortable familiarity, were now happily chattering with their hosts. Gabriel was “helping” a patient Alfar craftsman put the finishing touches on a wooden dragon, his suggestions mostly involving adding “more laser cannons.” Tenzin, sitting beside Aska, was listening with rapt attention as the old chieftain told a story of the first toy he ever made.
The teens, their usual angst and tension forgotten, had settled into a rare, easy peace. Remy was in the middle of a card trick, a shimmering, magical ace of spades dancing between his fingers, much to the delight of a group of Alfar who were trying to figure out the sleight of hand. Scott and Alex were actually talking, a quiet, brotherly conversation that didn't involve philosophical debates or energy blasts.
Jack, for his part, was attempting to teach Jean how to properly eat an ambrosia cake. “No, no, no,” he said, his voice full of a mock-serious authority. “You can’t just bite it. You have to let it dissolve on your tongue. It’s like… eating a tiny, delicious sun. You have to show it respect.”
Jean just laughed, a bright, carefree sound, as she took a bite anyway, a dusting of golden crumbs on her lips.
Hermes stood at the head of the table, a goblet of Dionysus’s finest, now-liberated wine in his hand. He watched the scene, at the laughing children, the relaxed teenagers, the chattering Alfar, and the unhinged monkey god currently trying to juggle pomegranates. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a warmth that had nothing to do with the roaring fire.
He tapped his goblet with a silver spoon, the clear, ringing sound cutting through the happy din. The room quieted, all eyes turning to him.
“I… uh…” he began, his usual smooth, divine charm faltering for a moment. He looked at Aska, at the faces of the Alfar, his found family, safe and home. “I started this tradition as a joke,” he said, his voice quiet but clear. “A way to troll a group of very serious, very talented craftsmen.”
A few of the Alfar chuckled, remembering.
“But you,” he said, his gaze sweeping over them, “you took my joke, and you turned it into something beautiful. Something real. You brought joy to a world that often forgets how. And for that… and for your safe return… I am eternally grateful.”
He then turned his gaze to the X-Men. “And you. You all crashed into my life, broke my door—twice—and brought a level of chaos to my home that I haven’t seen since the Titanomachy.” He paused, a genuine, brilliant smile on his face. “And I haven’t felt this much like I was home in centuries.”
He raised his goblet. “So, a toast,” he said, his voice ringing with a sincere, heartfelt warmth. “To found family. To unexpected joy. And to the beautiful, chaotic, and utterly wonderful magic of Christmas.”
A chorus of “To Christmas!” echoed through the hall as everyone raised their mugs and goblets.
As they drank, Jack stood up, clearing his throat dramatically. “I, too, have a toast,” he announced. He raised his own goblet. “To the greatest heist in the history of Olympus! We got the goods, we made a new enemy, and we didn’t get electrocuted! That, my friends, is what I call a successful holiday. Kekekeke!”
The room erupted in laughter, a perfect, chaotic, and beautiful sound that filled the lonely cabin at the top of the world with the warmth of a family, finally, truly, at home.
…
But while one home was being filled with warmth and laughter, another was being torn apart by ice and sorrow.
On the shattered remnants of the Bifrost Bridge, the air crackled with the raw, untamed energy of the cosmos. The rainbow path that had once connected the Nine Realms was gone, replaced by a gaping, star-dusted abyss.
At the very edge of the broken bridge, Baldur lay on his stomach, his golden armor scraped and cracked, his hands locked around the wrist of his brother. Loki dangled over the void, the Casket of Ancient Winters still clutched in his free hand, its frost a stark, dead white against the endless black.
Loki’s plan had been simple, born of a desperate, twisted love. He would use the Casket to freeze the Bifrost’s control mechanism, severing Jotunheim from the other realms forever. Angrboda and his sons would be safe, free from Asgard’s influence, from Odin’s judgment. But he had miscalculated. The raw, primordial power of the Casket had not just severed the connection; it had shattered the bridge itself.
“What have you done, brother?” Baldur’s voice was a raw, desperate gasp, his muscles screaming as he fought to hold on.
Loki’s expression was that of a dead man, his grand, final gambit a catastrophic failure. He looked down into the endless, swirling void below. “I’ve failed,” he said, his voice listless, empty. “Once again.”
The abyss pulled at them, a hungry, silent thing. Baldur’s grip began to slip on the fractured, crystalline edge of the bridge.
“Hold on, brother!” Baldur grunted, his own body beginning to slide toward the edge.
But then, his grip on the bridge slipped. He lost his footing. For a horrifying second, it seemed that both of them were about to fall, two princes of Asgard lost to the void.
A hand, strong and sure, clamped down on Baldur’s wrist.
“Father,” Baldur breathed, looking up into the one good eye of Odin.
“Son,” the All-Father’s voice was a low, steady rumble.
From below, Loki looked up, a flicker of something—hope, desperation, a final, pleading question—in his green eyes. “Father,” he said, his voice a quiet, broken thing.
Odin looked down. His face was a mask of cold, kingly judgment.
“Loki.”
The name, spoken without warmth, without love, without a single shred of the connection he had just given Baldur, was the final blow. It was the confirmation of every fear, every insecurity, every moment of otherness Loki had ever felt. The last, thin thread connecting him to Asgard, to his family, snapped.
A slow, sad, and utterly defeated smile touched Loki’s lips.
And he let go.
“BROTHER!” Baldur’s roar of pure, heart-wrenching agony was swallowed by the silent, indifferent void.
Odin pulled his golden son back from the brink, his face a mask of stone. He did not look down into the abyss where his other son had just fallen. He simply closed his eye, a king accepting a destiny he had, perhaps, written before himself.
