It wasn't far to the river - this restaurant had a brisk enough business in the summer from people who would grab a meal to go eat on a riverfront bench over battling it out over the place's few cramped tables.

Loki would feel it, intimately familiar, second only to his own magic. Frigga was at the disadvantage, faintly disoriented from her dip the river, though she'd managed to keep ahold of her sword. Mere moments ago she'd been fighting Malekith, half a mind on him and half on the illusion of Thor's human, buying time until her family could catch up. Was this the Convergence? Had she slipped through by mistake?

She sat on a nearby bench for a moment, dripping wet and trying to collect herself. A familiar feeling nagged at that back of her mind, one that made no sense. Her son was imprisoned, in a cell so secure surely even a warp in space time could not free him.

"It's the transition," she told herself. "Not as gentle as the bifrost."