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Fandral may have contracted some horrific, strange human disease in Midgard... or he might be overreacting and oblivious.


Midgard had done something to Fandral, though he wasn't quite sure what as of yet.

Sitting in the feast hall at a table with his friends he realized that, once again, something was missing. It was a feeling that had been haunting him since his return from the mortal realm and was steadily growing worse with each day.

The blond asgardian didn't know what was happening to him, and he didn't know how to fix what ever the strange malady was.

Clearly he had contracted some strange, primitive, human illness. He hoped it wasn't deadly… or disfiguring.

And wasn't it just his luck that he was ill and that everyone else was perfectly fine?

…Alright so Thor was mourning and moping, and Sif was hovering with worry, and Hogun was brooding (thought that was nothing new), and no one really knew what had happened to Loki… but still! No one knew what was wrong with him; clearly this should be cause for concern.

What if this ailment turned out to be contagious?

The symptoms were curious and like nothing else he had ever encountered. His hands twitched as though grasping for something that was not there, he had an empty feeling in his chest and a pit in his stomach, and all in all he hungered for… something.

Neither food nor drink could sate his hunger; he had tried both in spades. And so he could only conclude that he was wasting away from a debilitating, human disease.

Catching the eye of a pretty, blond maiden a few seats down from him Fandral resigned himself to make the best of his numbered days. After all if food and drink did not quench this thirst of his that Midgard had left him with, perhaps wenching would do…

What in the name of Valhalla had Midgard done to him!

A few moments into speaking with the wench and he'd lost all interest. Rather than be pleased with her easy-going demeanor or preen at her flattery he'd found her dull and simpering.

And where her looks had seemed fetching before now her golden hair and sun-bronzed skin seemed common place.

He wanted a conversation with some bite in it, a maid who had a bit of fire to challenge him with, not one who merely fawned over his every action. As for her looks… of late his dreams had been filled with hair the rich, dark brown of good soil and soft skin the milk-pale color of the moon…

At this point he might as well go join Thor. The young thunder god was off sulking somewhere pining for Midgard and, as Fandral was dieing from some horrific disease of theirs, the two could benefit from being miserable together.

Hopefully this ailment didn't manifest in pockmarks or scars, he had half a mind to woo Thor's woman's pretty little friend when the Bifrost was repaired.

So long as he didn't die from this human plague first.

Poor Fandral, he has no idea what's going on and is completely overreacting... its funny how men in Asgard are so similar to men on Earth. This is something that popped in my head today and I had to write out.

I suppose I should officially announce my allegiance to Darcy/Fandral.

Much Love.