“Irritating, pompous, arrogant, arsewipe.” With each insult that leaves her mouth, Lia's movements grow more sharp and deliberate. By now her knife should be sharp enough. But as of right now, keeping busy with maintaining her weapons is the only thing keeping her sane. “Just who the Hel does he think he is?!”
“An Aesir god?” Atreus doesn't stop her venting, but he does point out the object she's currently taking out her frustration on, “If you make that blade any sharper, it might cut somebody with a single look.”
“Maybe that's the point,” she grumbles. “How Asgard isn't a constant war zone with someone like that around is beyond me.”
A silent pause passes between the two of them. Grabbing some of the bottles of herbs Atreus had been kind enough to bring her, she begins mixing them in the mortar and pestle. “So, how was Muspelheim?”
“Huh?” The teen sits up, abandoning his lounging position on her bed. “How did you—”
The mortal laughs and shakes her head. “Thrúd talked my ear off about it yesterday after dinner. Gotta say, getting sent on a mission from Odin after spending less than forty-eight hours in Asgard has nearly everyone gossiping.”
“Since when are you playing the role of a fly on the wall?”
“Since you decided to chase after some magical artifact for Odin.” She pours a bit of water into the crushed herb mixture, forming a thickening liquid, “And since he's not knocking at my door to make me some sort of apprentice, I figured keeping my ears open around here would be beneficial.”
“You make it sound like I'm working for him.” Atreus accuses, a bit peeved.
But Lia merely shrugs in response. “Aren't you?” She counters. Her hand reaches behind her and pulls a handful of arrows from her quiver. Carefully she submerges the arrowheads in the poison mixture she just created, allowing the fletchings to rest against the wall. Next she rinses her hands in the wash basin, ensuring that any trace of her concoction isn't clinging to her skin. She turns to face him fully, a serious expression crossing her face as she dries her hands, “Just…be careful. No matter how much Odin or anyone else here appeals to you, you can't trust them.”
“I know, I just….” The teen trails off, as if he himself isn't entirely sure just where his own train of thought is going. He sighs, draping his arms over his lap. “We haven't been here that long but, even now, I never expected the people here to be so…”
“Human?” She suggests. Setting down her things, she stands and wipes her hands on her pants. “I know. I expected a bunch of bloodthirsty gods who looked down on anyone from outside Asgard. And while some people certainly fit that description, a majority of the people here are just living their lives, oblivious to the suffering in the other realms.”
“Yeah,” He agrees sullenly, and Lia can't help but feel sorry for him.
In an attempt to offer some sort of comfort, she places a hand on his shoulder, “Hey, you have a big and open heart, and that's nothing to be ashamed of.”
The young giant cracks a smile. It fails to reach his eyes, “You're pretty much the only one who doesn't see that as a bad thing.”
His admission stings, but she can't also see how others would see it that way, especially someone like Kratos. Empathy can form bridges and bring even the most unlikely people together. But it can also be easily taken advantage of. Lia ruffles his hair playfully, laughing as he tries to fix it, “You're a good kid, Atreus. The best of us, in all honest—”
She suddenly siezes up. It's like an icy shard piercing into her chest—so cold that it burns. A cry escapes her lips and her knees hit the ground. Immediately her fingers claw at her clothing. Her blood rushes in her ears, drowning out nearly everything else other than the pain. But despite everything, she can hear Atreus's panicking. His hands are on her shoulders, likely trying to steady her. She only feels the weight of them for a moment before he abruptly yanks them away, as if he's been burned.
No, she looks up, a sickening realization hitting her, he was burned. “A…tre…us…!” She chokes out his name, concern etching onto her already pained face. She doesn't know what's happening. Then again, the condition that plagued both her and her mother had always been a mystery. Though, she can't ever recall her mother suffering from it this badly. Her mind isn't able to process much. Her heart feels as if it's on the cusp of bursting in her chest. To brace herself Lia plants both of her palms firmly on the floorboards. The angry glow in her chest intensifies—spreading through her veins and down her left arm.
Her limbs shake and tremble until they're unable to hold her up any longer. Her cheek hits the floor and her legs move automatically to curl into her chest. The last thing she sees before losing consciousness is Atreus running out of the room and calling for help.
Lia doesn't dream, but it feels only minutes later that she's opening her eyes again. She blinks once. Twice. The wooden beams of the ceiling don't really clue as to whether or not she's still in her room or if she's been moved elsewhere.
And speaking of moving…the mortal attempts to sit up. But it's as if she's unable to support the weight of her own limbs, and she falls back down. The pain is gone, much to her relief, but she still feels strangely…cold. She tries to wrap her head around everything that happened. Not only is her condition limited to occasional pain, but the strange magic that seems to be tied to it is enough to elevate her concern. What's worse is that she can't recall her mother suffering from the same side effects, despite having suffered the same curse as her. Lia takes a moment to take in her surroundings. It's not her bedroom, but rather the infirmary she had been treated in only days prior.
As if on cue the door opens, and holding a tray with various medicinal herbs, flasks, and tools, an Aesir healer steps in, the same one that treated her injuries after her unfortunate run-in with Heimdall.
“You again?” The healer's greeting isn't exactly warm, but their scolding tone isn't nearly as harsh as Lia anticipated, “If this is going to turn into a habit with you, I might need to invest in a Midgardian emergency kit.”
Lia cracks a smile, returning the banter in kind, “Making me feel special eh, Arne? Gotta say, you're doing a better job than most people here.”
The Aesir waves away her words, “Ah more people will warm up to you eventually.” With the tray set down, they begin mixing various herbs and liquids in the mortar, grinding Everything into a consistent and thick paste.
Again she attempts to sit up, managing to at least slide back on the mattress and lean against the headboard. “Did Atr—I mean, Loki—bring me here?”
“He did,” Arne confirms. Their hands work quickly in assembling a few different medicines, “I suspect he'll be in shortly. He was quite worried about you.”
She can't blame him, of course. Even if he had been a witness to her mysterious attacks in the past, their frequency and increased violence is concerning. An intervention is looming, she can sense it. But at this point, she's more concerned with his problems than her own.
As if sensing their conversation, the door creaks open, and the young giant pokes his head in. Arne pays him no mind as they continue their work.
“Hey,” he greets, looking both somehow relieved and on edge at the same time.
“Hey,” Lia replies. Arne hands her some sort of dark-colored liquid with the instructions to drink it. If the smell is anything to go by, she doubts it will be a pleasant experience. It burns on the way down, hitting her stomach like a punch to the gut. The only blessing is that it goes down quickly. Arne gives her another vial, instructing her to massage it into her chest before bed each night before leaving to give the two of them a bit of privacy.
The air between them is taut, but not awkward, and the mortal can feel his worry and frustration from across the room. She purses her lips, debating if she should say something first. “I'm sorry if that scared you. You know, with the whole collapsing ang glowy-thing.”
He walks across the room, arms crossed over his chest. “So,” he begins, “Are you gonna tell me what's going on or are we just supposed to pretend that you didn't nearly die on the floor a few hours ago?”
“I wasn't dyi—”
“Well it sure looked like it!” The teenager cuts her off. “Your face was…” He trails off, shaking his head. And before she can question him on that, he continues venting his frustrations, “Look, I've been honest with you about coming here and everything. Don't you think it's fair for you to be honest too?”
She bites the inside of her cheek. While she doesn't appreciate him trying to bargain with her like this, he's the closest thing to family she's got. Lia sighs, adjusting her position on the bed and pats the spot next to her in an open invitation. He sits down next to her. “The last thing I want is for you to worry,” She starts off.
“Too late.” Atreus comes back with, somewhat lighthearted. It dispels some of the tension that's settled between them.
“Long story short those attacks have been getting worse over the past few years,” Lia explains, “And according to Freya, my mother wasn't that far off when she called it a curse.”
“Freya?” He echoes back, “When did you—?”
“Right before I came to find you.” The mortal answers swiftly. “She gave me something to help but said the pain would return eventually. And shit did it return with a vengeance.” Almost reflexively she lifts a hand to her chest, massaging the skin over her heart, as if it would chase away the phantom pain that still lingers.
“If Vanir magic couldn't help, maybe someone here could—”
“No.” She cuts him off, but her voice is barely above a whisper. “Freya says the magic causing it isn't from the nine realms. She said she'll do some more research in the meantime but…for now it looks like I'm stuck with it.”
It isn't good news by any means, and Atreus seems more than reluctant to accept her answer. His fingers curl into fists in his lap, the whites of his knuckles bleeding through his freckled skin.
Lia offers a few words of encouragement but they don't land. Still, she returns to her designated room with the excuse of some much needed rest. She isn't sure just how long she spends laying on her bed and staring at the ceiling with only her thoughts for company. But a knock followed by the appearance of a servant in the doorway has her sitting upright in a flash.
“The All-Father wishes to speak with you.”
It's the only information she gets out of the Aesir messenger before she finds herself walking down the corridors of the Great Hall once more. Just what Odin wants with her, she isn't sure, but she makes a mental note to keep her guard up no matter what. The servant escorts her to the All-Father's study, which, upon first glance, is filled to the brim with books, scrolls, and loose papers, but the old one-eyed king is nowhere in sight. But before Lia can even ask where he is, the doors behind her slam shut, leaving her alone in the overly cluttered room.
The sudden silence in contrast to the merriment in the Great Hall is almost jarring. Her eyes gloss over the vast collection of knowledge stored within Odin’s private library. She can't even imagine just how long it took him to acquire it all.
The minutes tick by, with no god in sight. And while she knows she shouldn't probably just stay put, she finds herself wandering within the enclosed space, perusing the shelves of collectibles and old tomes. Statues, weapons, portraits, tapestries—Odin certainly didn't lack interior design. Just how many seas has he crossed over the centuries? What strange and foreign lands has he visited?
Her fingers trace along one of the aged wooden shelves. Not a speck of dust clings to her skin, even amidst the clutter. She finds herself staring at a bronze figurine propped up against a pile of books. It contrasts against the surrounding objects, and its particular design catches her attention. A quick glance around the room confirms that she's still alone, and she takes advantage of the fact to take a closer look at it.
It's aged and worn, clearly depicting a woman in robes with some sort of musical instrument in her grasp. It doesn't match the typical design of a Dwarven artisan, nor the angular features of Elven sculptors. Regardless, for some reason it piqued her interest.
The sound of a door creaking open behind her nearly makes her drop the tiny statue. And still holding onto it, she whips around, concealing it behind her back. Scroll in hand, Odin emerges from the door at the back of the room. Two ravens follow suit, both landing on a wooden perch behind the large desk. One regards her with a single bright blue eye, as if it's staring right through her—reading her thoughts and piercing into her very soul. Lia swallows, but tries to brush the uneasiness aside.
“Ah, Lia, sorry about the wait,” The old god apologizes. He sets down his scroll on the desk next to a slew of paper piles and books before approaching her, a kind and charismatic smile on his face. He chuckles, “Between Loki and my own personal projects, I haven't had a whole lot of time to welcome you properly.”
She nods, opting to keep things curt and professional, “Thank you for permitting me to say. I know my presence here was unexpected.”
“But not unwelcome,” The All-Father reassures. Again, he laughs softly, and returns to his desk, “I should've guessed that Kratos wouldn't let his son come alone. As bright as I'm sure Loki is, he's still just a kid.”
“Yes,” Lia agrees, taking a few strides. Her eyes look up to the secured iron chandelier, along with the various storage crates stacked within the rafters, “Young and impressionable. I wouldn't want him diving blind into hostile territory. No offense.”
“None taken,” Odin dismisses with a wave of his hand. Gathering a few papers, he sits at his desk and begins scratching a few notes into the parchment with his quil.
A wave of silence passed between them as he works. Surely he summoned her for more than just a friendly chat? Not wanting their conversation to fall short, she changes the subject. “I also wanted to apologize for blowing up your property on arrival.”
“Yes,” The old man drawls out, switching to a different piece of parchment. One of the ravens abandons its perch in favor of sitting next to its master, earning a few feather strokes as a reward. “That certainly was a surprise. But apart from a wagon full of fresh vegetables from the field, the damage was minimal.”
“I let my temper get the best of me. It won't happen again,” It's the very least she can promise, considering everything that's happened so far. As much as she despises Odin's watchdog, she can put up with him so long as Atreus remains in Asgard.
A smile tugs at his whiskers, “I should hope not, but if it makes you feel better, you aren't the first person to blow something up because of Heimdall.”
That is something she can believe, even from Odin’s lying mouth. And against her better judgements, she smiles too.
“Now,” The old god finishes his quick notes and rolls the parchment into a scroll. The raven at his side eagerly picks it up, and disappears in a plume of black feathers. “From what I understand, you've been having some health troubles lately.”
The mortal stiffens. Had Atreus…?
“I'm always on top of Arne's schedule,” He answers her unspoken question, “And I have to say, it's been a while since I've come across a blood curse as bad as yours.”
Lia turns towards him. She can only imagine the dumbfounded expression on her face. “A blood curse?” She echoes. Already that's more than Freya had told her. As far as she knows, her ailment is tied to some sort of unstable magic, not necessarily a curse.
“Curse, hex, whatever you want to call it,” He stands, making his way around the desk, “Bottom line is that it's a pain to deal with and nearly impossible to get rid of without knowing the source.”
Her brow furrows as the words sink in. She knows there's some sort of ulterior motive—there has to be. But he's piqued her interest regardless. A little prodding for information couldn't hurt? “Can't say I know much about them, other than I'm not the only one in my family who's been affected.”
Odin nods, as if understanding her plight without the need to ask, “It often spans across multiple generations—poisoning an entire bloodline, if you will.” He laughs, the sound almost sharp against her eardrums, “Makes me wonder just how badly one of your ancestors pissed off the wrong person.”
It's not funny as far as she's concerned, but rather than bite back with some witty comment, she keeps the conversation moving. “Is that to say you know how to cure it?”
The old god sighs, folding his hands and turning to face her fully. “Yes and no. I can't necessarily destroy the source of your curse permanently. But I can alleviate those nasty side effects.”
Lia's jaw clicks. Already alarm bells are going off in her head. It sounds too good to be true. “If the old bastard tells you the sky is blue he's lying.” Mimir's warning comes to mind. Yet a promise of no pain tempts her like nothing else. She knows it's only a matter of time before the pain strikes in a dangerous situation with no one else to help her. Either that or she'll end up like her mother—so overcome with pain that she reaches for a knife to end it once and for all. “What's it going to cost me?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he waved away the question, “After all, I'd rather not have my guests writhing around in pain on the floor if I can help it. It's just a simple spell—allow you to walk around pain free. As long as you remain in Asgard. I can't make any guarantees that the effects of Fimbulwinter in the other realms won't weaken it.”
She can't name a time where she hasn't been afflicted. While not as bad when she was young, the borderline necrotic pain had always impacted her life in one way or another. It's certainly a tempting offer. And although her mind screams that there's likely another angle to this, or that Odin is flat out lying to her, the fact of the matter is that without any sort of intervention, she doesn’t have that much time left. At this stage, her mother already had one foot in the grave.
As if sensing her apprehension, Odin speaks up, “Trust is earned, I get it. And with the company you keep, you're not exactly getting an unbiased view.” He crosses the room towards where she initially stood and picks up the bronze figurine, looking it over curiously for a moment before placing it in her awaiting hand, all whilst under the watchful eyes of his remaining raven. “But I can assure you that I only want to help. And I swear that on my last good eye.”
Lia's skepticism wavers. She looks down at the small statue within her hands, tracing over the aged metal. Though he wears a kind and gentle smile akin to an old grandfather, she knows well enough that a snake lingers beneath the surface. Submit and gain his trust, one part of her argues. Don't allow this to bite you in the ass later, another counters.
“Tell you what,” He suggests, “You think about it. My offer will still be on the table as long as you're here. If you change your mind just let me know.”
A diplomatic move if she's ever seen one. Lia nods in agreement, offering a sincere “thank you” before extending the small sculpture back to its rightful owner.
“Keep it if you like it that much,” He offers with a kind smile, “Consider it a gift. And besides,” He turns and waves, returning to his desk, “It was just collecting dust there anyways.” With a lift of his arm his remaining raven returns in a cyclone of black feathers, joining its brother once more only to fly and disappear into the tattoos on Odin's arms. It's a blatant display of his power, though whether it's simply to flaunt or a subtle reminder that the person she's conversing with is in charge, she isn't sure.
“Thank you,” Lia replies sincerely, “I'll be sure to take good care of it.”
“Good,” The old god hums. “Now,” he ushers her towards the door, where a servant is already waiting for her, “Feel free to poke around as you please, I only ask that you don't leave the city without a guide. For safety reasons, of course.”
“I understand.” She isn't about to object now, especially if it means jeopardizing Atreus's mission of finding out just what Odin is up to. If anything, she's just grateful her first encounter with the All-Father didn't go sideways.
Lia awakens the following morning to sunlight streaming through the cracks of the closed shutters. She quickly becomes aware of the dull ache behind her eyes and in her back. Then again, sleeping on the floorboards certainly isn't an ideal location. With a groan she pushes herself up into a sitting position. Strands of strawberry hair cling to her face, undoubtedly sticking up in every direction imaginable.
She thinks back to the previous night and just how she ended up spending a majority of it on the floor. Her chest is almost immediately afflicted with a ghost of her usual afflicted pain. Her brown eyes flicker down to the floorboards. A noticeable divot of rotting wood and even some ash serve as a reminder of the new symptoms she experienced mere hours ago. The mortal rattles her brain, trying to remember if anything similar happened with how the strange curse affected her mother. Apart from the pain and occasional lashing out, she can't recall anything offhand.
Lia lets out a defeated sigh. Freya’s spell gifted her a few days of no pain, something she knows she'll always be grateful for. She recalls the goddess mentioning a stronger brew when she saw her. The young woman mentally kicks herself for not visiting the goddess again sooner.
For now though, she focusses on getting herself dressed and freshened up. She pulls on the armor from yesterday but spends more time than usual on her hair. A collection of rings and and other accessories she finds in an untouched box. A single braid on the left side of her head and a few rings is enough to satisfy her for a somewhat fresher look.
As if on cue, her stomach growls. Breakfast is starting to sound really good right about now. Grabbing her quiver and damaged bow, Lia leaves the privacy of her room and ventures out into the Great Hall once more. She debates on checking to see if Atreus is still asleep, though she realizes she never asked him which specific room he's staying in. The main feast hall is much quieter than the day before. Then again, considering just how much the Aesir liked to drink, she wouldn't be surprised if most of the city is still asleep.
A few servants move about the room, though thankfully, there are no Einherjar in sight. The mortal relaxes a bit. Her eyes quickly zero in on the large steaming pot of porridge mixed with honey and cinnamon sitting out on the main table. Grabbing a bowl and wooden spoon, she grabs a serving for herself. The delicious aroma has her mouth watering. And eagerly, she digs in. She can't name the last time she had so much flavor in her food. Ever since Fimbulwinter, the chance of finding anything growing amidst the freezing snow was always close to zero. Not to mention the limited amount of seasonings she and her family tried to ration throughout the past few years.
“Hey.”
The sudden voice nearly makes Lia jump ten feet into the air and release an embarrassing yelp. Just how many times is she going to have the living Hel scared out of her while she's here? What her eyes catch sight of first is a head full of red and golden hair, accompanied by an amused smirk and polished armor. “Hey yourself,” the mortal replies, her mouth still full of porridge.
“You're the Midgaridan that came with Loki, right?” The Aesir asks, “Sorry we didn't get a chance to see each other yesterday,” She extends her hand with a friendly smile, “Thrúd Thorsdottir.”
The mortal stares down at the hands for a moment. Swallowing her mouthful of porridge, she eventually shakes it. “Lia Hamdirsdottir, but Lia is just fine.”
“Kinda jumpy, aren't ya?” It's not necessarily a question the young god expects an answer too, but more so just voicing her thoughts aloud. “Then again, you're the first Midgardian to set foot on this side of the wall since….well, before I was around at least. Don't worry, most of us don't bite.”
Lia stares at her blankly. It takes a moment for her to process everything that was just said to her. “Most of you…?”
But Thrúd brushes off her confused words and juts her chin towards the door. “You want a tour? I don't think you really got a chance to look around yesterday after you're mishap with the exploding supply wagon.”
“Uh…sure,” the mortal sets down her bowl and follows after the young Aesir, “Wait, you know about that?”
“Oh believe me, everyone knows about that,” Thrúd laughs. She stops in front of the Great Hall's doors, and with one shove, pushes them wide open.
Lia shields her eyes momentarily from the bright sunlight. As she follows, she looks to her left, spotting some of the remnants of her unintentional destruction from the day before. A few wooden splinters are still strewn about, along with some charred supply boxes and a noticeable small crater in the stone ground. She cringes. It certainly didn't set a good impression.
“Gotta say though,” Thrúd turns around, flashing a practically gleeful smirk as she continues to walk backwards, “It was hilarious watching Heimdall pout yesterday.”
Lia cracks a smile of her own. “What's his deal anyways? I've never met someone who sits on the line between trigger happy and stiff grouch so easily.”
“That's just Heimdall,” Thrúd shrugs, “For as long as I've known him anyways. Guess reading minds makes you a pretty bitter and antagonizing person.” She twirls around her mace, lightly swinging it back and forth as they walk. “And a killjoy at parties.”
Lia hums, accepting the nonchalant explanation. But she quickly rids the arrogant god from her mind and instead focuses on the buildings and people they're currently passing. Thankfully Thrúd doesn't appear to be in any sort of a rush. She calls out various points of interest. The Black Thunder, a local pub that's usually full with drunken Einherjar and lively music into the later hours of the night, sits rather close to the Great Lodge alongside the local Blacksmith and Butchery. But what surprises her most of all is just how…normal everything seems. Aside from the occasional Einherjar, most of the people wandering in the streets appear to be just as average as her.
“You think all Aesir are gods?”
Much to her own annoyance, Heimdall's words resurface. Farmers tend to crops and business owners tend to their shops. Children rush past them, kicking a ball and passing it between one another. She can't name the last time she was around so many people, but “normal” seems to be the best word to describe Asgardian citizens thus far.
“Not what you expected, is it?” It's As if Thrúd read her mind, but the touch of a smile on her face answers her own question for her. “Believe me, I get it. All those stories giving off the impression that Asgard is some mystical realm paved with riches certainly doesn't help paint a realistic image, now does it?”
“Can't say that it does,” Lia pauses, the sound of clashing steel alongside strict orders catching her attention. She spots what she assumes to be some sort of training field. Amidst hacked up training dummies, undead Einherjar spar with one another. Swords and shields clash under the watchful eyes of winged warriors.
Thrúd, catching her sudden interest, inclines her chin towards the field. “The valkyries are training the new batch of Einherjar. Wanna check it out?”
Again Lia follows the young god and props her elbows up on the fencing beside her. Two undead warriors just ahead of them collide. A battle axe clashes with a greatsword as each struggles for the upper hand. The back and forth continues before a battleaxe is disarmed and flying across the battlefield. At the mercy of his opponent, he freezes, but the blade poised above his throat remains frozen.
“Strike him down. No mercy!” One of the valkyries orders. And like a viper poised to strike, a scorched wing slices through the air.
Lia looks away, narrowly missing the decapitation taking place right in front of her.
But Thrúd doesn't appear to be disturbed in the slightest. If anything, she's leaning over the fence, her face bright and filled with awe and admiration. “Aren't they amazing?”
Amazing certainly isn't the first word that comes to mind. But Lia isn't about to crush the god's obvious excitement. She steals a glance back to where the Einherjar had been slain, only to spot a pile of disintegrating ash on the ground. While she didn't pry all that much when it came to gods, the other realms, or magic, she does know that undead warriors summoned straight from Valhalla are out of the norm. At least from what Mimir has told her. “She cut that brute down like it was nothing.”
“That's the valkyries for ya,” Thrúd sighs, resting her chin on her forearms, “What I wouldn't give to see them in action. I mean, training the Einherjar is important and all, but they can't exactly be killed since they're already dead. But this is as close as I get. Mom won't let me train with them,” She laments. But a smirk tugs at her lips, and pulling her weapons from their holster, she gives them a twirls, “But that didn't stop dad from getting me these babies. With enough training, I'm sure to impress grandfather. He'll make me a valkyrie.”
“Keep telling yourself that guppy!”
Lia cringes at the familiar voice from behind. Like a screeching bird the sound alone makes her jaw clench. But still, she turns around to face Asgard's arrogant watchman.
“Oh,” Already Thrúd's tone changes to overwhelming disappointment, “And just when I was actually starting to enjoy my day poof,” She mimes the sound effect with her hands, “it's ruined.”
“You're letting the mortal feed your delusions now?” Heimdall jeers. The antagonizing smirk on his face widens at Thrúd's scowl. “Farm boy refuse to listen to your whining this time?”
Farm boy? Lia looks to the young Aesir at her side. The teen only appears to grow more frustrated as evident by the whites of her knuckles bleeding through her tattooed skin.
Sensing that things are only going to escalate from here if something Isn't done, Lia attempts to diffuse the situation. “No one's feeding anybody anything. Thrúd was just showing me around. You know, being a welcoming host.”
The comment earns her a swift annoyed glare. “If I wanted to have a conversation with a sow, I would've gone to the stables.”
A muscle in her face twitches. Again with the name calling. Did he honestly have nothing better to do? “And if we wanted to invite a pompous jackass to join our conversation, you would've received a personal invitation.” She knows better than to engage, but she can't help herself. The last thing she wants is to cause trouble while she's here, but if there's one person that's already making that task difficult, it's Heimdall.
“Damn,” Thrúd is taken aback, “I didn't take you for someone with a mouth. But that was a good one.”
“Hurl all the insults you want,” Heimdall taunts, “But know that the All-Father's grace is the only reason you aren't in a cell. Or better yet—a bloodstain on the ground.”
She hates how right he is. A threat forms on her tongue—to convince Atreus to go home and cut his trip here short. Then again, would that even be considered a victory on her part? It's not as if Odin needs the teen here. “You're right,” She admits, though it stings to do so, “I'm grateful for the All-Father's hospitality and generosity. And that alone warrants my respect.”
The scrutinizing glare on Heimdall's face lifts slightly, but the skepticism remains. “Tsk,” He chides, still incredibly haughty, “Bowing your head like a dog with its tail between its legs,” He barks a mocking laugh, “As if that wi—”
“But,” She walks towards him, stopping only once it's required for her to tilt her chin up to meet his burning gaze, “that doesn't mean I'm required to respect you.”
It's as if an invisible string is pulled taut between them, capable of snapping under the lightest change in pressure. She knows she's playing with fire, but a reckless part of her wants to test just how close she can get before burning herself. His foresight is exceptional, at least from what Mimir's told her, and his terrifying ability to read minds actually aids her in this confrontation. Just how much and how far ahead is he able to see? Does he know that one wrong step would shatter any bridges that both sides are currently trying to build? That harming Atreus would end up being disastrous regardless of intent?
The tension remains with each passing second. A muscle in Heimdall's jaw twitches and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. Lia can tell he isn't used to backing down. She waits for another jeer, or perhaps even a shove or a swift punch to the gut—something that would give him the upper hand again.
“Okay!” Thrúd breaks through the silence. Clapping her hands together, she steps forward, not exactly wedging herself between them but getting a message across nonetheless. “You haven't seen the plains or anything yet. I can ask grandfather if it's okay to borrow Hugin to go outside the city limits!”
“Yes, do enjoy your time here while it lasts, little spy.” Heimdall's voice drips dangerously low. His fingers flex at his side, as if he's itching to make things physical. “I'd hate for you to miss any of Asgards splendors.”
Lia resists the urge to stick out her tongue like a child. Pompous, irritating, arrogant shitstain. The insults rattle off one by one in her head. But she holds her tongue and instead answers Thrúd, “Yeah sure. Sounds great.”
The young Aesir goes first, shooting Asgard’s Watchman an irritated glare. But a heel meets Lia's shin upon trying to pass him, making her nearly trip. Luckily, the young woman catches herself. A growl sweeps under her breath. But, she tells herself, when it comes to Heimdall, at least their distaste for one another is mutual. Which makes her all the more determined to enjoy her time in a realm that isn't frozen over. And more importantly, to gather what intel she can while she's here.
Lia's lost count of just how many salves have been plastered onto her skin. That combined with the awful brew forced down her throat by the healers, has cleared up most of her injuries. With an additional bottle shoved in her hands to help with any additional aches and pains, she's practically dumped into an empty bedroom without so much as a goodbye and the door slammed behind her. Her nose wrinkles and her expression sours. For a realm glorified by word of mouth and historical texts, the people here are rather snobbish. But whether that's limited to the gods and Odin's personal staff remains to be seen.
With nothing else to do, she pokes around the room she's been left in. Modest, but also spacious, the room contains a number of hanging decor and furniture. Her attention is drawn to the wardrobe first. Artistic carvings cover nearly every inch of the wood, something she imagines took a skilled hand to meticulously finish. With a low groan the doors pull open, revealing a number of clothing, jewelry, and even armor inside.
She skims through the tailored garments—a mix of rich greens and blues accompanied by silver armored plating. Unable to stand the mud soaked fur and clothing currently clinging to her skin, Lia discards the ruined clothes and helps herself to a fresh change. Surprisingly, the first one she tries on fits. Clean and much more presentable, she opts to, at the very least, peek out into the hallway.
The wooden door opens with a low groan. A head of strawberry blonde hair tentatively looks out of the room she's had been hastily dumped into. Nothing. But the muffled sounds of several individuals indulging in idle conversation come from somewhere nearby. An annoying voice in the back of her mind screams for her to remain put until someone calls for her. Then again, already she can tell a mere mortal such as herself is merely an afterthought compared to Atreus. And, she steps out, closing the door behind her, she's nothing if not curious.
Her footsteps fill the otherwise vacant hall. “So far so good,” The Midgardian mumbles to herself. No servants or gods had emerged from the other rooms to usher her back to her own. As she ventures down the hall, following the sounds of laughter and merriment, she catches a glimpse inside the few rooms that are open. Other bedrooms, from the looks of things, and not as lavish as she expected. For a home belonging to the King of the Aesir, it certainly is humble, that much she'll give him. The main hall that Lia had originally walked through with Thor, however, is a different story.
The mortal stops in the doorway, eyes wide as she takes in the scene before her. Einherjar along with either other gods and servants feast and converse beneath lit goat horn chandeliers. Ale and mead flow like honey from giant barrels littered throughout the open space. Plates and baskets of food are piled onto the table, a feast unlike anything she's ever witnessed before. Her stomach growls in jealousy, reminding her of just how little she's eaten.
Already her feet are moving on their own accord, approaching one of the side tables with a platter of fresh and untouched fruits. She swallows. Both the vibrant colors and smell tempt her. Surely this food meant for the gods and gods alone? If she were to pocket some for herself, would she be struck with some sort of magic curse? Be tackled and scolded by an Aesir bodyguard? Her hand outstretches but hesitates, hovering just above a particularly ripe and juicy looking apple.
“Are you going to eat or just stare at it?”
Lia jumps at the sudden voice. Her hand knocks into the metal tray, spilling every bit of fruit onto the floorboards. If she had been determined to remain inconspicuous before, that certainly wasn't an option now. “Sorry!” She apologizes, “I'll clean—”
“Don't bother. The servants will handle it.”
She looks up, catching a glance of the person speaking to her. He couldn't have been much older than her, maybe a bit younger judging by appearance alone. Tall and almost spindly looking, his blue eyes regard her with almost a sense of boredom. Long dirty blonde locks are tied back almost haphazardly, with a few strands sticking to sallow cheeks.
“I wasn't sure if this food was up for grabs or not,” She explains, “I'm—”
“Clearly not Aesir or one of those brainless Einherjar.” He cuts her off again, clutching a cloth full of miscellaneous snacks snagged from the main table, “Which means I can only assume you're with the giant.”
The giant. He surely didn't bother hiding his disdain. And she can only assume that this will be a theme with anyone else she has the pleasure of bumping into. “Yes, I am. Lia—by the way.”
The tall individual just stares at her extended hand, completely unphased. Juggling his collection of food in one hand, he reaches into his satchel and pulls out a rolled piece of parchment and places it into her extended hand.
Lia looks down at it, more confused than anything else. “Umm…what is this?”
“A record of the assets you destroyed outside the Great Hall earlier.” When all he receives is a shocked and bewildered stare, he elaborates further, “I doubt the All-Father will take action, but a tally of all the damages and fines are listed at the bottom.”
“Fines?” She repeats in disbelief. But before she can inquire further, he's already walking away. “H-Hey!” Lia chases after him, but upon rounding the corner that led to the hallway she had just come from, finds no sight of him. Strange is the only word that comes to mind the longer she dwells on what just transpired. Curiously, she unravels the parchment scroll. It doesn't do her any good to even attempt to read it. The runes, while a handful are familiar to her from Atreus's reading lessons, she can't make a lick of sense of the long paragraphs etched into the parchment. She shakes her head and grumbles under her breath, “Weirdo.”
She grabs as much as her hands will allow her and retreats back to her assigned room, thankfully without any trouble. One bite of the delicious meal has her practically wolfing down the rest. Bread, cheese, apple slices, roasted nut clusters drizzled with honey—all of it fills the empty pit in her stomach. But her temporary peace and quiet is interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Hastily she attempts to wipe the crumbs from her face, freezing like a deer in the eyes of a predator the second it opens. A familiar head of red hair peeks in, much to her relief. “Oh, thank the Norns, it's just you.”
“Yeah, were you expecting someone else?” Atreus asks, shutting the door behind him. Lia takes notice of his fresh change of clothes as well—a dark and green colored tunic adorned with silver armor. A near perfect fit, compared to her own clothes, as if it were crafted with his measurements in mind.
She doesn't comment on it. “Maybe,” the Midgardian finishes off the sweet honey treat that she had pounced on first. “I'm just glad it wasn't Heimdall or something.”
“That guy's a jerk.” Disdain laces his icy words. But behind his anger, concern lingers. “He didn't hurt you too bad, did he? No permanent damage?”
She shakes her head, “The healers pretty much took care of everything. I'm fine, all things considered.”
Atreus visibly relaxes. “Good.”
“What about you?”
“Huh?”
“Where did Odin take you?” Lia presses. She needed to know, for her own sanity. Despite the All-Father coming to their rescue earlier, she trusts the manipulative Aesir about as far as she can throw him.
Atreus shrugs and nabs a piece of untouched apple tart from her collection of food and plops down onto her bed. “He just took me along on some of his errands. Nothing major. He didn't hurt me if that's what you're worried about.”
“Uh-huh…” She trails off sweeping over him for any signs of injury regardless. “Well, good.”
“Oh! I almost forgot!” The young god sits upright again and reaches into the satchel attached to his belt. Pulling out a small leather bound journal, he hands it to her. “I uh, added some more notes in here if you wanted to take a look. You know, to brush up on your reading if you wanted to.”
Lia takes the book from his hand and sets it down on the table beside her. “Thanks, ‘Tre.”
“You're welcome.” Atreus stands once more and heads to the door turning to pause with his door on the handle. “See you in the morning?”
“Of course.”
His shoulders relax and he flashes a lopsided grin. The door creaks shut behind him, leaving the Midgardian alone once more.
She busies herself with fixing her bow, though after nearly an hour of messing with it, she's forced to accept the fact that she'll need a new drawstring, and makes a mental note to ask someone for some supplies the next day. The exhaustion of the day creeps up on her like a stalking tatzelwurm, and she opts to turn in for the night.
The bed is soft and comfortable, and before Lia knows it, she's drifted off. And in doing so, the maze returns. Stone replaces metal beneath her feet and stretches as far as the eye can see. Though snow no longer falls from the sky above, the chill still lingers.
The giant tree still looks far in the distance, ever out of reach and extending far into the clouds above. Still, Lia is drawn to it, and she continues walking down the set path ahead.
It's the first time she's able to get close enough to where she can truly get a good look at the enormous organic marvel surrounded by man-made walls.
It's bark is dry and cracked, with splintering pieced occasionally falling to the ground below. A faint glow eminates from beneath the outer protective shell, pulsing slowly and steady, as if the plant has some sort of heartbeat. Suddenly the light flares and with it, the tree groans and cracks further.
Lia wakes with a start and a familiar but debilitating pain in her chest. A small cry escapes her lips and with a loud thud, she hits the floor. Her fingers claw at the fabric and skin over her heart, as if she can reach within and pull out the cursed magic responsible for her agony.
The last few days of no pain had been absolute bliss. So much so that it left her ill prepared for when Freya’s spell would inevitably wear off. The mortal curses herself under her breath for being so ignorant. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip to prevent herself from screaming. Already she's afraid and embarrassed that she may have awakened half of the Great Lodge.
The taste of warm iron floods over her tongue. There are no footsteps rushing to her door and no worried flood of questions of whether or not she's okay and if there's anything that can be done to help. A small blessing that she's thankful for. She doesn't need to cause even more trouble on her first day in Asgard.
But much to her surprise, the pain is already lasting longer than usual. Get up, get up! A voice in her head orders. Clenching her jaw, Lia attempts to push herself up. A strange crackling and sizzling sound drifts to her ears. Upon looking down, to her utter horror she watches as the wood beneath her begins to weaken. Almost as if it's rotting beneath her touch.
In a panic she flinches away. The mortal squints her eyes shut. “No, no, no,” She whimpers. This must be a side effect of Freya's magic, she tries to rationalize. Either that or she isn't really awake. Regardless, her panic is multiplied tenfold.
Alone on the cold wooden floorboards, Lia curls in on herself, and prepares for the long night ahead.
I just came across your profile and I really like your writing!❤️ I wanted to ask you a question, will you continue the Heimdall fanfic "Pushing buttons" not? It's really good story for it to be orphaned now!
Byeee🌸
Hi! Unfortunately Pushing Buttons is discontinued. My other fic, A Blinding Light serves as more of a rewrite and a deeper dive into the God of War lore, so that's where my focus is currently.
"Sick of Sizzles already?" Heimdall teased, earning a playful elbow to the ribs from her.
"Maybe," She smirked, "I've lost count of how many times he's proclaimed his love and appreciation for everyone and everything. And besides, I think Brok and Sindri's house has gotten a bit too crowded. I could use some space."
That was something he could agree on. Between the cautious side-eyes, the faux smiles, and the old goat's stories, he was itching to get some semblance of solitude. "Where?" He huffed, "There's hardly any place to go here."
Her smile faltered, a single brow arching in question. Eyes that contained the spark of a flame looked him over, "You know, you're not a prisoner here."
Heimdall bristled at the use of the word. But based on the intentions and thoughts of those around him, he had a hard time believing that wasn't the case. "Could've fooled me."
She seemed surprised, and honestly a bit irked by his bitter tone. A determined look crossed her face, and grabbing his wrist, she began pulling him towards the gate that they had traveled through just a few days ago. She pulled out a world tree seed, and the door formed from the crumpled pile of rocks and debris.
"Where are we going?" Confusion clouded his mind, masking the bitterness that still lingered on his tongue.
"You tell me," Her hand stilled, hovering over the runes of the realms that had been carved into the door.
Pulling his hand free from her grasp, his arms locked over his chest, and his eyes scanned the various realms that she and her companions had likely traveled to over the past several years.
There wasn't much to choose from, at least in his eyes. Nothing compared to the splendor of Asgard. The suffocating mines and cowering dwarves of Niðavellir were near the bottom of the list, along with any realms that lacked any sort of sunlight or warmth. "Alfheim."
Her brows raised momentarily, but with a nod she complied, activating the rune and stepping through the door.
The woven paths of Yggdrasil's branches were empty. Even Nidhogg's offspring, which spent most of their existence gnawing on the overgrown roots and branches of the world tree, were so far down that they were barely noticeable.
"Penninger for your thoughts?" She asked lightly, breaking the silence.
He looked up, meeting her gaze. Nothing but his own reflection stared back at him, but in an odd way, the silence was…comforting. For the time being, his mind wasn't clouded with the vile and hideous intentions of others. The steady and headache-inducing sound of metal colliding with metal in the Huldra brothers forge was gone, and for the first time in days, he felt as if he could actually think properly.
"Your comrades are clawing for a future that's not there."
"What do you mean?" She asked, hanging back to walk alongside him.
"A future without the All-Father—without someone to keep the realms in balance—will only lead to more destruction and chaos."
"Why do you think that?" She challenged, "Who's to say someone else won't step up to claim that responsibility?"
"You're referring to that failure brute of a god?" He asked, offended by the very idea. The god that had committed too many atrocities to count. The god that bore the blood of thousands on his hands and carried the sins of his past on his own skin. The god that destroyed his own homeland and was well on his way to destroying another. As much as the former God of War wanted to convince himself that he had changed, that he could so easily abandon his nature and turn over a new leaf, he was still a monster through and through.
"I wasn't referring to just him, you know." Her eyes turned to the path ahead again, a far away and thoughtful look glossing over them, "Oftentimes the best leaders are the ones who don't want to lead."
Observant, but he hated to admit that he was right. But before he could voice his own opinion, a doorway illuminated in the swirling colors of the bifrost appeared ahead of them.
They passed through it, and were met with the howling winds and drifting sands of Alfheim's desert. The area they had entered was empty for the most part, though, if Heimdall concentrated hard enough, he could pick up the faint sounds of a Dark Elven camp somewhere amidst the stone highlands.
He expected her to prod. After all, she had a knack for not just getting under his skin, but also for pulling out any sort of useful information. Perhaps that was why she really had suggested that they abandon the crowded home of the Huldra brothers. It was where his train of thought always instinctively went. Her footsteps shifted and lightly crunched against the coarse sand. Taking a seat on a nearby rock, she tapped the remaining space next to her. "Sit."
"I thought the point was to go for a walk." Heimdall pointed out.
"We did." She countered.
"Traversing Yggdrasil's branches hardly counts as a 'walk', Ditzy."
"Then think of it as a temporary pause," She folded her hands in her lap, "We can wander through Alfheim's sandstorms in a bit if that's what you want. But your hair needs attention first. Now sit."
He was going to ask her what exactly she meant, but then it dawned on him. Between mending his wounds and broken pride, and eagerly dragging him along to the little resistance party against the All-Father, he had little time to dwell on his overall appearance. At the reminder, he lifted a hand to his hair, long dried and cleaned of the blood that had stained the blonde locks but lacking the soft braids that he took daily care in pricing himself on. He couldn't name the last time he had willingly let his appearance degrade so much.
He sat down next to her, draping his arm over his lap, "You should feel honored. Not even the servants in Asgard were permitted to perform something so intimate."
"Yes, because braiding your hair is the most intimate thing we've done, Heimdall." She combed her fingers through his hair, de-tangling what knots she could.
Silence fell between them as she began to weave the strands together, undoubtedly trying to mimic the usual style he wore it in. Heimdall was content to sit in the silence, though after a few minutes of peaceful silence, he felt her hands still for a moment.
"Heimdall, can I ask you something?"
“What?”
“Do you think war is unavoidable at this point?”
He turned, causing her to drop the strands of hair she was currently braiding. “Obviously. Do you honestly believe we can just talk ourselves out of Ragnarök?”
“Well it worked for you.” She stated matter-of-factly.
“I followed you because that's what I wanted to do.” He rationalized, “How do you know I won't just stab you in the back later?”
“I don't.” She opted to sit next to him, “Personally, I don't think you want war all that much either. I mean, you're the Watcher of the Aesir—their protector if you will. Do you really want your people to be in harm's way?”
His brow furrowed into a contemplating glare. He huffed, “How presumptuous of you. You've known me for less than a month and you think you know everything, don't you?”
“Not everything. But enough.” She resumed her braiding, finishing off the last bit, “There, good as new.”
Heimdall reached up, grazing his fingers over her handiwork. Although he can't see it, it feels neat and at the very least presentable. Shaking his head, head turned away. “If you think I'll point my sword at Odin, you're sorely mistaken.”
“I'm not asking you to.”
“Then what exactly are you suggesting?”
“That you do what you can to protect your people.” She placed a hand beneath his chin, forcing him to look at her, “Like you said, not all Aesir are gods. When the time comes, get them to safety.”
Alfheim's desert wind howled, kicking up a fresh plume of sand. They couldn't stick around much longer unless they wanted to be caught in a sandstorm.
Sighing, Heimdall gets to his feet. And arms crossed over his chest, he looked out to the forming storm in the distance. “Do you have another one of those seeds?”
“Yeah I do,” She sounded surprised by the sudden question. “Why do you ask?”
“If that brainless brute of a god and his pipsqueak son are as determined as I assume they are to bring about this war, I can assume just where they've already run off to.” He scowled at his own words. Never in a million years did he ever think he would be in this situation, much less potentially aid in bringing about the very event he swore to help the All-Father prevent. But the seeds of doubt when it came to unquestionable faith had been brewing in the back of his mind for quite a while, that at least he could admit to himself now. “And I can tell you right now that they are going to have a difficult time succeeding.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned, regarding her for a moment. “You're going to need that extra Yggdrasil seed. We're going to Niflheim.”
It was quiet. Well, as quiet as things could be for Heimdall.
The realm between realms was an interesting place. In a strange way, it was almost a blind spot when it came to his Foresight. There was no real reason to peer into Yggdrasil's branches, not when the rest of the realms were so vast and often required his attention. As much as he hated to admit it, the dwarves had been clever to choose this place to avoid Odin's looming sight to organize their coup.
Battle plans were still underway. Atreus had gone back to Asgard, confident he could find the final mask piece and ultimately trick Odin. While he had faith the little urchin could accomplish the first task, outsmarting the All-Father was unlikely.
Yggdrasil's winding paths were vacant, framed by its ever growing branches and falling leaves. It would seem that Fimbulwinter had taken its toll even within the realm between realms.
He had heard the footsteps early on, though he didn't bother to speak up until they had grown still. "It's rude to eavesdrop, runt." He glanced over his shoulder, piercing eyes glaring at the halfbreed that had gained more praise and favorable with the All-Father in just a few weeks than he did in centuries.
His harsh words didn't appear to affect Atreus in the slightest. "Sorry," He apologized, shifting awkwardly. "I uh…Sindri told me to give you this."
Heimdall stared at the object that was extended towards him. The half-breed's thoughts were loud and borderline obnoxious, but he quickly pieced together just what had been offered. He scoffed, turning away, "I have no need of anything made by dwarves. Especially those two." A part of him delighted in the twinge of anger and frustration that crossed the teen's face. It was a strange sense of normalcy in the current mess he found himself entangled in. Unable to keep his mouth shut, he continued, "Contrary to what everyone wants to believe, I'm not here to hold hands and cheer on the destruction that you are so keen on bringing about."
There was a pause. He could see a response forming in Atreus's head, but waited nonetheless to hear just what the runt was going to say.
"It's not like I want Asgard to fa—"
"Don't lie." Sharp, quick, and forceful enough to make the boy keep his mouth shut, he continued. "The Champion of the Jötnar—you want nothing more than to be put on a pedestal and worshiped for your oh so heroic deeds. You're more than willing to lead Ragnarök to Asgard's wall if it means destroying Odin, and you'll sacrifice anyone and anything that gets in your way." His lips twitched into a mocking grin at the glare he received in response, and he huffed a laugh. "Seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
The Aesir wouldn't deny that he was itching for a fight. While those around him feigned smiles and acceptance, he craved a sense of truth—a direct confrontation of the bitterness and resentment that all of them harbored towards him. And he knew the half-breed would be the easiest to crack.
Yet Atreus exhaled slowly, trying, and failing, to brush aside his anger completely. Heimdall had seen it coming of course, and lifted his hand to catch the small trinket that was thrown at him. "A ring. How fitting," The Aesir mused, voice dampened by heavy sarcasm, "A memento from those two little traitors?"
"Draupnir made millions of copies of itself," Atreus rationalized, "Can you blame them for wanting to put them to good use?"
As logical as that thought process was, Heimdall couldn't help but see the irony. Even if the intent of the Huldra brothers had been innocent, wearing a constant reminder of the weapon that had royally kicked his ass wasn't something he was keen on. The temptation to hurl it down to the tangled roots of Yggdrasil was a strong one. But even still, he couldn't deny its usefulness. Not to mention that the war lingering ahead of them would demand more strength than he currently had.
While he was unwilling to put it on and give both the runt and the dwarves the benevolent satisfaction they so craved, he tucked the ring away for safekeeping. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to avoid your annoying illusory superiority complex and spend some time alone, Loki."
Atreus wrinkled his nose. He had no objections to the use of the name, but knew well enough that it was phrased as an insult to his current inner turmoil on just who he was supposed to be. He huffed. "You sure you didn't put a spell on her? Hard to believe that she genuinely likes you."
"Really?" Heimdall asked flatly, "You went for that low blow? Honestly, if you have nothing of substance to say, you're just taking up space out here, runt."
"I'm being serious."
The Aesir sighed, rolling his eyes. Loki was on par with an incessant and annoying fly that wouldn't leave him be. "If you're that confused, half-breed, then go ask her. I'm not obligated to entertain that chaotic prepubescent mind of yours."
A glare had plastered itself onto Atreus's face. But the teen took in a deep breath, forcibly pushing his rising emotions back down. "She's the best of us," He stated wholeheartedly, "She's had her fair share of tragedy and I've already seen her heart broken once by you. If you do anything like that again—"
"You'll what, junior?" As sharp as Heimdall's voice was, it lacked the usual sarcasm and mockery that he used with the young giant. "Don't make threats that you can't follow through on." A look into the runt's brain and he was confronted with the gruesome sight of his own face, bloodied and utterly beaten to a pulp. The sight was almost laughable. "Try by all means, but we both know you won't land a single hit."
"Maybe not. But we both know there's someone who can."
Ah yes, of course the half-breed would remind him of his one failure. A lapse in judgment—that's all it truly was. He wouldn't make the mistake of falling prey to the Draupnir spear again. "Relying on daddy to take care of your problems?" He taunted, "How noble." But another look into the teen's riled up mind made him realize just how protective he was of the scatter-brained female that they had rescued from the threat of Fimbulwinter. He felt compelled to give some reassurance as well as clear his name of ever stooping so low again. "Illness and other ailments that befall mortals are more likely to cause her harm than me at this point. If anything were to happen, just know it would never be intentional on my part."
Atreus was skeptical, but it was something he supposed. Before he could say anything else or question the Aesir further, the doors to the Huldra Brothers home opened, a firm "Atreus, come," being called from a familiar tattooed brute.
"Run along and do as daddy says, junior." Heimdall jabbed with a mocking smirk, eager to dismiss the conversation and enter the solitude that he craved and found comfort in. He ignored the sour look the giant gave him and waved the pesky runt away. His ears practically sang with the silence he was left with.
That is, until it was interrupted yet again. He didn't need to turn to see. He had grown accustomed to the sound of her footsteps, which included a miserable attempt at moving quietly and nearly tripping over her own two feet at least once. He sighed, "Honestly woman, how do you expect to fight in a war when you can't even walk properly?"
She came to a stop beside him. Faint circles were visible beneath her eyes, but the exhaustion that lingered in them seemed relatively contained. Those pretty lips pulled into a small but all too familiar teasing smile. "Says the god who may have to wield his sword left-handed and actually rely on his combat skill rather than his foresight."
"I'm perfectly capable of conjuring another right arm."
"During a fight when you're already using how much of your strength to stay focussed?" Her brow creased slightly, disapproval and worry filling those silent eyes. "You should use the ring."
He let out an exasperated sigh, "Did the little runt come crying to you?"
"No," Her lips twitched again, "But knowing you, I figured you'd throw a fit and refuse to wear it."
"Throw a fit?" The very idea was insulting, "I'm not a child, Ditzy."
"Could've fooled me, Pretty Boy."
He fought back a smile. "As adorable as that sharp little tongue of yours is, I won't be giving in that easily."
"Don't I know it." She sighed, rocking back on her heels. "Care to join me for a walk?"
It was the last place he wanted to be. And that was certainly saying something. "I'd rather sleep in the brute's bed than take one step into the dwarves' home."
"I think you're being a little overdramatic," She pointed out, walking along the winding paths of Yggdrasil. "If you're worried that they'll jump you the second they lay eyes on you, don't be."
"In their eyes I'm the enemy."
"You're someone who's been manipulated and used just as much as any of them," She argued, glancing over her shoulder, "I'll make sure they listen."
And strangely enough, he believed her. After all, if she was able to convince Kratos to spare him, something that not even the old goat Mimir could accomplish, then there was a small chance she could persuade the rest of the opposing war party.
An opening in the bifrost had appeared, and without any hesitation, she stepped through the doorway. He followed close behind. The realm between realms wasn't a place he bothered to peer into that often. But at the very least, he knew a house hadn't been carved into the ancient bark of the world tree the last time he had looked.
The voices within were hard to miss. "My stepmother and those two slimy traitors that forged the Draupnir spear?" He chuckled bitterly, "Good luck, Ditzy."
She hummed, ignoring his patronizing comment. Her boots came to a halt a few feet from the door. "Wait here."
Heimdall reluctantly listened. Doubt crept up on him, worming its way into his mind and urging him to turn around and leave this place. Even if he trusted her, a part of him wondered if this truly was all some sort of test the All-Father had concocted in order to test his loyalty. He was on a thin and tight leash as it was, and he knew all too well just how creative and cruel his father could be when it came to those who disappointed him.
And so what if she convinced them to even lend an ear? Any alliance formed now would be shaky at best. Aside from his role to announce Ragnarök with Gjallarhorn, surely they could storm Asgard on their own. Or rather, attempt to.
He tried not to listen to the grueling conversation from inside the house, though that was easier said than done. From the disbelief and anger from Freyr, to the distrust of his former stepmother and half-brother, to the snide comments from the dwarves, her persuasive skills were certainly slipping.
"This is near to hopeless," The Aesir hissed under his breath. He had half a mind to simply go off on his own and let this little war party figure things out on their own. But as logical as that step was, it didn't sit well with him for a number of reasons.
Lost in his own head space, it seemed only moments later that the door opened. She stepped out first, followed closely by both Freya and Kratos.
Neither looked particularly enthusiastic to see him, but he could honestly say the feeling was mutual. "Step-mother." He greeted curtly. A sour aftertaste lingered in his mouth at the title, but he swallowed any creative jabs or insults that crept up his throat.
"Heimdall." She matched his tone. Her guarded gaze flickered to the foreign god on her left, her mind made up to follow whatever decision he ultimately decided upon.
The brute that casually paraded around and called himself a god was more like a rigid and impenetrable wall than a fearsome demon. But one look into those eyes and Heimdall was forced to see the atrocities he had committed. The word "monster" never had a better face attached to the definition. "You will help us?"
Low and calm, the god's spoken words were a stark contrast to the ferocity that plagued his past and his tactics on the battlefield. "Obviously." The snarky remark was made more out of habit than a direct intent to be mean. But a swift warning glance from the mortal standing between the two gods had Heimdall reluctantly rephrasing his answer, "I will help her."
The Spartan's gaze was unwavering. Tragedy and destruction followed him wherever he went. It would seem that the vengeful person he was desperately trying to distance himself from clung to his very skin. Yet his recent intentions weren't out of a spiteful thirst for vengeance. No, the Ghost of Sparta didn't fight for himself. He fought for the foolish little runt that hid inside the house with the rest.
Kratos grunted, accepting the response. "Come," He encouraged, already turning around, "We will discuss this more inside."
By "discuss" Heimdall assumed any nature of battle plans would involve talking and hunching over a table filled with maps and scattered notes. But apparently it meant breaking off into smaller groups and either cooking dinner, locking yourself in a broom closet, or fretting over an injured fertility god.
The Aesir watched, as he often did, gauging the minds of the people he would label as an enemy in a heartbeat. From uneasiness, to distrust, to downright hatred, he scarcely saw a positive thought about him. Even Tyr, who rarely had an unkind thought or word about anyone, was increasingly reclusive and passive-aggressive towards him than what he remembered to be normal. Then again, could he blame them?
"Continue to glare like that and your face might just freeze that way."
His gaze flickered to his left, and then down to the steaming bowl of food that was offered to him. "That, Ditzy, might be the dumbest thing you have ever said."
She rolled her eyes, "It was meant as an encouragement to try to be something other than brooding and angry all the time. Here," She shoved the warm food into his hands. "Eat."
"Why?"
"Why?" She repeated, "What do you mean, why? All you've had in the past two days was broth. You need something solid—to keep your strength up."
He was going to object. While not awful, the food presented to him was definitely below the standard of what he was used to. Then again, knowing the trouble that awaited them, he conceded. She lingered nearby while he ate, handing out food to the others as well as assisting Freya with her half-wit of a brother.
Jealousy reared its ugly head, and he unconsciously found himself stabbing his food with more force than necessary. The fertility god hardly knew what was going on. Between the mead and medicinal herbs flowing through his veins, his only concern at this point was gushing about how much he adored his sister but disapproved of her apparent taste in men.
Perhaps left unspoken, but there was something more than just a simple truce between his former stepmother and the retired God of War. Heimdall couldn't label it as "love" per-se, at least not yet. But there was a strong bond—a kinship that was forged through tragedy and loss. They were two sides of the same coin, more alike than they were different. And their shared experiences caused both of them to gravitate towards the other.
"Finished waiting on Sizzles?" He couldn't resist jabbing at her once she had a break from running back and forth. A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. She began eating her own meal, taking a seat at the table in the room. "I wouldn't have to help him if somebody hadn't stabbed him."
"Considering that he's been set on fire before, I doubt a simple scratch is much to worry about. Besides," He glared at the gushing and smiling fertility god from across the room, "I think he's enjoying himself way too much."
"Just because you're in a sour mood doesn't mean everyone else has to be." She chided, taking a bite of her meal, "Besides, there'll be plenty of time for petty insults after Ragnarök. This alliance is only temporary."
"Your optimism is on the edge of foolishness." Heimdall sighed, pushing aside what remained of his food. "The All-Father won't fall so easily." His gaze shifted towards the dwarves, both of whom were busy working away in their forge.
She stilled for a moment and swallowed. "I know." While softly spoken, the doubt and uneasiness lingered beneath her words. But before Heimdall could press or say anything else, she abruptly changed the subject. "How's your arm holding up?"
His eyes narrowed. The usual frustration as a result of her closed off and silent mind plagued him. She was troubled, that much was obvious, but something else lingered behind those eyes, hidden behind a black curtain that not even his exceptional sight could peer behind. He flexed his fingers, the thrumming bifrost energy moving just as well as flesh and bone. "Fine. For now. It's taking more concentration and strength than I anticipated."
His words only seemed to dampen her troubled look further. "Brok and Sindri might have something that could help with that. You should ask them."
He laughed at the mere idea of the suggestion. "I think not." But the look on her face indicated that she was being completely serious.
"Why?" She asked. Genuine innocent confusion reflected both on her face and in her words. "They've agreed to help."
A pause followed her statement. While the Huldra brothers did agree to an alliance just like everyone else who had put their faith in Kratos, he doubted said agreement extended towards anything outside of storming Asgard. "I suppose, given your apparent lack of knowledge, I will enlighten you." Dry and somewhat bitter, he wasn't afraid to slap her in the face with cold reality. "Despite what that optimistic mind of yours wants to believe, old wounds won't be forgotten so easily. The dwarves have been under the heel of the Aesir for centuries. I've quelled their rebellions more times than I can count. I doubt they'd simply give their services without a price."
She hummed, seeming to think for a moment. "I see your point. But even so, it's not Brok's or Sindri's nature to be unreasonable. Asking wouldn't hurt anything."
Another wave of silence passed between them. Leaning away from the wall, Heimdall discarded his empty bowl alongside some of the others. "I'll think about it."
Nightmares of ravens plagued him. It was arguably the most restless he had been in a very long time, and it seemed that even in sleep, his paranoid senses listened for the sound of flapping wings and the smell of feathers that burned with Aesir magic. But it was the dwindling warmth of the hearth that forcibly pulled him back to the waking world. Despite the layer of furs trapping his own body heat, Fimbulwinter's chill ended up creeping its way beneath his skin, burning and gnawing away at the warmth his own body produced in an attempt to combat the cold.
Heimdall pushed himself up with a drawn out and frustrated groan. He wasn't sure just how long he had slept for, and as his mind gradually started working once more, realized that it had done very little to sway his decisions one way or the other. A quick survey of the small log cabin produced no trace of the mortal that had gone out of her way to save his life.
A sense of panic set in, and he rather ungracefully tossed the warm furs aside and sprung to his feet. He listened. After all, he could see and hear better than anyone. The crackling of the dwindling hearth, the cold howling wind, the creaking wood of the cabin...Amidst the internal and external sounds, he could hear a familiar voice from somewhere outside.
Already having made a decision to leave the warm confines of the house, Heimdall painstakingly tapped into his influence of the Bifrost to regenerate his arm. It certainly wasn't the most pleasant experience in the world, but the second limb allowed him to move around more easily.
Fully dressed and Gjallarhorn in hand, he stepped out into the frigid temperatures.
It didn't take long to find her. A small campfire down the rolling hillside and her gentle cooing gave her position away.
"Svanna, stop bothering your sister. Who's a good girl, Speki? Huh? Who's a good, brave girl?"
Sitting cross-legged in the fluffy snow, she smothered the two wild canines with affection, brushing through their thick and matted fur with a coarse brush.
"Coddling a bunch of mangy wolves," He broke the silence, announcing his presence, "Why am I not surprised?"
She hummed, ignoring his condescending tone, "Well someone has to take care of them." As if on cue, one of the canines practically fell into her lap, resulting in a painful "oof" from the young woman. But she didn't seem to mind in the slightest, scratching along the wolf's jaw and showering the creature with even more affection.
He tore his eyes away from the soppy sight and decided to change the subject. "It's freezing out here." He shook free a clump of snow clinging to his boots, "How can you stand it?"
"Fur lined clothing can work miracles," She shrugged, quietly shooing the large canine off her lap. Wiping any excess snow and wolf hair from her clothes, she stood. "I see you've got your strength back."
"Obviously."
She rolled her eyes, and tossed another log onto the fire, "Looks like even a near-death experience won't change that snarky and spoiled attitude, huh?" Arms crossing over her chest, her lighthearted smile faded, replaced by a cautious but genuine seriousness. "Have you made your decision?"
The question weighed on him heavily. A part of him argued that there was no decision to be made. Out of all his brothers, out of all the mindless Einherjar and tools of his father, he was the most faithful—a rook among a sea of pawns and knights. He was untouchable, he was highly valuable. He knew his role and had intended to play it at all costs.
Yet this...mortal, this little insignificant and scatter-brained vixen had inserted herself onto the playing field, surprisingly bringing the game to a standstill and making him—him of all people—question things. The path ahead was no longer straight and narrow, but had split off and revealed a way unpredicted by fate.
And it frightened him.
Fear wasn't something he felt often, not when he had control of the Bifrost and could see everything coming. But with her nothing was set in stone. Nothing was clear. He was angry at his own confusion, but worst of all, he felt vulnerable. "I can't," He shook his head, but his voice lacked its usual conviction, "I can't—"
She had stepped forward, cold fingers wrapping around his wrists. The action tethered his mind to a standstill and kept him rooted in the present. Her eyes held him, "Listen to me," Her tone was gentle, but firm, "Change isn't impossible, but only you have the power to make that decision. You have to want it—for yourself and no one else."
He searched her face for something—anything. Deception, ulterior motives, but most of all, he sought the answer. The Aesir slowly pulled his arm from her grasp, reaching behind his back to take Gjallarhorn from its holster. He looked over the physical reminder of just who he was, and his responsibilities. "I am the Herald of Ragnarök. Scion of the Aesir." The words were a frustrated hiss through clenched golden teeth.
"This is your decision," She reiterated quietly, refraining from persuading him one way or the other. "But I will say this," Her hands moved to his face. Caring and soft, she cradled him as if he was something precious rather than useful. He was reminded of their kiss from the night before, and how loud her actions had been in contrast to her silent mind.
"You're not a tool that needs to play a designated role in some prophecy—to either bring about destruction or order." She continued, "You're not a high and mighty god destined to be alone because of his gifts and talents. To me, you're just Heimdall. And that's enough."
Her words sank in. Maybe it was because they were words he had never heard before and silently yearned to, or maybe it was her unbridled honesty. But Gjallarhorn had fallen from his hands, and before he knew it he was kissing her—holding her, clinging to her warmth and precious nature that he knew he feared losing.
Fingers cold from the icy wind tangled in his hair, tugging at the roots in an attempt to pull him closer. A certain weight had been lifted from his shoulders, one that he had grown so used to that it felt alien to feel its absence. The past, the future, both were forgotten temporarily. As in the present, there was just her. And for now, that was enough.
He pulled away with a stubborn growl, "I may be missing an arm, but I'm still fully capable of taking care of myself." To prove his point, Heimdall tugged at his tunic, trying to worm the fabric up and out from beneath his belt and faulds, only to have the stitched cotton get caught and tear. With each passing second he grew more agitated and annoyed, until he ultimately shouted in frustration and managed to rip the tear even further. His chest heaved with exhausted and frustrated pants.
"Are you finished?" She asked, hands still hovering in place. Her tone wasn't necessarily sarcastic, but it was a far cry from gentle and coddling. It only made him even more frustrated. But her question seemed more rhetorical than anything else, as she didn't wait for a response. Instead, she took hold of the fabric on either side of his waist and carefully pulled it up his torso, slipping it up and over his head much to his chagrin.
She tossed the ripped tunic aside, reaching for the bowl of water and clean cloth that she had somehow managed to salvage from the cabin's supplies. Again, she didn't even ask, and pulling up a stool in front of him, pressed the damp cloth to his cheek.
He flinched at the unexpected cold temperature, earning a swift but quiet "sorry". But she worked quickly, wiping away the dried blood that clung to his skin, and dabbing around the strangle marks still present on his throat. He watched her.
"Hm," She hummed, eyeing the cut on his cheek. "It doesn't look like this one wants to heal."
The words stung just as much as the icy wet cloth, and stirred the rage that was still simmering deep inside him. Losing his arm was devastating, but having that big brute mar his face? It was a direct attack and insult to his title as "the most handsome among the Aesir".
"It's not that deep, but it'll leave a scar," She cleaned the wound thoroughly, rinsing off the stained cloth before turning her attention to his arm. Or rather, what was left of it.
Skin had already grown over the exposed bone, but the blood and phantom pain remained. If given the choice, Heimdall would've grown it back using the Bifrost, but his exhaustion and lack of strength were hurdles that he couldn't presently tackle.
Like she had done before, she began wiping away any blood and dirt still clinging to the amputated limb.
He took the opportunity to take in his surroundings. She had lit the hearth not long after their arrival, but the flames did little to ward off the chill of Fimbulwinter. How could anyone stand this? Vanaheim's humidity was a pain, but Midgard's dry cold literally seeped into his bones. Then again...His eyes flickered to the roof. The hole in the mix of wood and thatch certainly wasn't helping.
"You can thank your brother for that," She spoke up upon catching him looking, "Apparently using the door was too much to ask of Thor."
"That fat drunkard froths at the mouth at any opportunity to destroy things." The Aesir god sighed, leaning forward and propping his good arm on his knee once she was finished.
She discarded the red-stained liquid from the bowl, and replaced it with fresh water. Only this time, upon facing him once more, she hesitated. "Your hair is just as filthy. I'll wash it for you, if you'd like?"
He should refuse. He should. But not only had she already gone out of her way to clean the rest of him, she had also asked for permission. As if she knew just how much pride he normally took in upkeeping his appearance. A nod was all that was needed, and with a soft smile, she maneuvered to sit behind him, her fingers nimbly working to remove any hair ties and untangle his braids.
She gently coaxed his head back into the small basin, wetting his hair and combing her fingers through the matted strands.
It wasn't uncomfortable—far from it, in fact. The soothing motion practically coaxed Heimdall into relaxing, putting any manner of troubles on hold just for a few moments if just to live in the present for a bit. He was reminded of those same fingers tugging at his roots, fingernails scratching at his scalp and back of his neck as she drew him closer, hungrily devouring his lips, crying out his name as she chased her release—
He abruptly cut off that thought before it could unravel any further. By the Gods, he truly was a fool.
"I can braid it once it dries," She broke the calm silence, wringing the excess water from his cleaned locks. Her hands guided him into sitting up once more, though they seemed to linger on his shoulders a tad longer than necessary. But just as the thought had crossed the Aesir's mind, she had stood and went about discarding the bloodstained water out the window. And adding more kindling to the fire, she cleaned up what messes she could. "You should get some rest," She encouraged, inclining her head towards the larger bed at the other end of the room, "There's extra furs under the framing if you need them. The fire will only help so much."
"I'm a god," He spat, brushing an annoying strand of wet hair out of his face, "The cold won't affect me nearly as much as it does you."
She didn't look convinced, but shrugged, "Suit yourself. It's there if you need it."
As much as he wanted to toughen it out, he couldn't deny that his body was practically begging him to rest. But his mind weighed heavy with questions. "Why did you stop him?" It wasn't a far-fetched question as far as he was concerned, and while he had his suspicions on what her answer was going to be, he wanted to hear it just the same.
She stilled for a moment. Every twitch of muscle, from her fingers to her shoulders were important clues as to what was going on within that shrouded mind. But she ultimately turned towards him, a look of disbelief on her face. "Why?" Her voice shook, the word coming out as nothing more than a low hiss, "Why do you think?" She tossed the rag aside with more force than necessary, shaking her head in disbelief, "Can't the Watchman of the Aesir—who sees farther than anybody—see what's right in front of him? See when someone truly cares about him?"
Her words confirmed his suspicions, but outside of the occasional one-night stand, he didn't pursue romance. Lust he knew well, but love was a waste of time. Always a distraction. He shook his head. "What is it you want from me? To fall into your arms?" His tone gradually grew more bitter, "To turn my back on Asgard and my people? To spout sappy love songs and poetry? To betray the All-Father? To proclaim my undying love?"
She didn't answer. Those doe-like eyes just continued to stare, hands hanging at her side. Those pretty lips parted slightly, making way for a frustrated and tired sigh. But there was no bitter response or retort. Instead, she closed the distance between them, stopping once she was directly in front of him. Her hands cupped his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. Even without looking into her head, he saw the emotion and intention forming in her eyes. But he did nothing to stop it. After all, didn't actions speak louder than words?
Sweet and warm, the kiss lacked the feverish and devouring nature that they had both shared that night. No, this was something else entirely. He knew well enough what it was, but the disgust and ugly burn he expected to rise in his throat were nowhere to be found. There was only calm, a moment of blissful serenity as she cradled him in her hands. He was tempted to kiss her back, to indulge in it for just a bit longer. But before he could, she pulled away, the absence of her touch leaving behind an aching trail as he was thrust back into the troubles of the world once more.
Her soft yet unwavering eyes held his own prisoner, gazing into the murky depths that most wouldn't dare look into. "Right now, I want you to sleep," She spoke slowly and softly. Her thumbs stroked his cold cheeks, still damp from her gentle scrubbing. "Tackle any thoughts or decisions with a clear head tomorrow."
Her smile was free of ill intent, and against the persistent nagging of his own thoughts, Heimdall took her advice.
The bed was soft, and the warm furs lulled his aching muscles and troubled mind to rest. He was surprised that he had been able to sleep at all; that his mind had decided to gradually grow silent in an effort to help his body heal. It felt like only minutes had passed from the time his eyes slipped shut, to when a hand on his shoulder gently shook him awake. "Heimdall?"
He snapped awake, alert and slightly panicked. The throbbing ache from behind his eyes temporarily sent his senses into overdrive, and he cringed as every sound practically assaulted his eardrums. Voice heavy with sleep, he turned to glare at the woman sitting beside him, "What?"
She extended a wooden bowl towards him, filled with liquid that was still steaming. Upon receiving a puzzled and distrustful look from him, she rolled her eyes. "Relax, Pretty Boy. It's just bone broth with herbs. You need to get something in your system."
He eyed the hot liquid skeptically. Pride reared its ugly head, but he pushed it back down, and took the food that was offered with a reluctant grumble.
It felt weird balancing the bowl in his non-dominant hand, but he forced down the hot liquid, cringing at the sensation of it hitting his empty stomach. It didn't warm his core as much as he would've liked, though he surmised that very little could ward off Fimbulwinter's bone-chilling temperatures. "How long was I asleep?"
"A few hours," She answered, "The sun's been up for quite a while."
He hummed, taking another sip of the bland broth. He swirled the liquid around, sorting through the questions that still pestered his mind. "Where is Gjallarhorn?"
"I took it off you while you were sleeping," She gestured towards the artifact currently resting on the wooden table, "I didn't think it would be all that comfortable to lay on. Your tunic is also drying above the fire. I took care of the rip you put in it last night as best I could, but I'm no Asgardian seamstress."
"Where are the others? Are they still in Vanaheim?"
"Well they haven't stopped by here if that's what you're asking. Though I doubt they'd have any reason to."
Simple and unbridled honesty. If there was one thing he could appreciate about her, it was that. But still, he sought more information about his enemies. "If not here, then where are they?"
Her lips pressed into a firm line, and he could tell that it was a question she wouldn't openly answer. "Fine," He looked away with a glare.
She folded her hands in her lap. "I'm just protecting my family. You, of all people, should understand that."
And that was the problem. He did understand. The pain in his head seemed that much more prominent. Tilting his head back, he downed the rest of the broth and handed the bowl back to her, wiping away any excess liquid with the back of his hand. "I want to rest more."
There was no protest from her, no lovey-dovey kisses or offer of advice. "Okay." She just nodded, and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I'll be here if you need anything." With that, she stood from the edge of the bed, and left to give him his space.
His mind was conflicted. Regardless of what he chose to do next, he would have regrets. This wasn't supposed to happen—there was no prophecy of the Watchman of the Aesir betraying Asgard. No prophecy of a stupid mortal worming her way into a war among gods. His path was laid out for him from before he was even conceived. He never before had doubts in his purpose or drive.
Yet here he was.
Mind at war, he slowly laid back onto his side, pulling the warm furs up and over his head.
He was beginning to think that he underestimated his opponent, though his confidence in beating this supposed God of War hadn't wavered yet.
The lengths he was willing to go just to protect that miserable runt was almost...admirable. With an emphasis on almost. A big brute with a hot-headed temper, this fight should've been textbook with an obvious outcome. Then again, anything that seemed to involve this stocky pile of beef derailed prophecy and put a dent in supposed "fate".
Heimdall's head was spinning. Every time he tried to get a read on his opponent, he either drew a blank or was bombarded with a monstrous headache that clouded his senses. It had to be the spear, there was really no other explanation. So he fought—relishing in the bloodlust of an actual battle where he was truly in danger.
No matter how many times he used the bifrost, slowed time, or charged at that ghostly figure, the big brute wouldn't go down. But he refused to give up. He would never surrender to the likes of him.
Even when he was pinned to the wall and had his arm blown off due to his running mouth, he refused to accept the mercy presented to him. No, this was a fight to the death. "Only one of us is going to see Ragnarök, and it sure as shit will not be you!"
He was running off adrenaline, charging, punching—anything to bring Kratos to his knees. It was easy to throw all of his frustrations into his actions. Speed was on his side, but he couldn't keep it up forever. His strength was waning, and all it took was for the Ghost of Sparta to get a good hold on him.
He was hit once—twice—each blow of the fist had him stumbling in his footing, and he was tackled to the ground. The Aesir tried to get up, but pain exploded from his face as his head was driven repeatedly into the ground. Blood was everywhere, hands were clasped tightly around his throat—squeezing, squeezing...
Blackspots danced in his vision as he struggled to breathe, clawing at the furious face boring down at him. Damn him...damn him! Damn them all! It was only then that the fear truly started to set in. He had failed. He would never fulfill his role as the Herald of Ragnarök that the All-Father had groomed him to be, never again breathe in Asgard's fresh air in his solitude atop the wall, never confront her again or smile in satisfaction as Freyr took his very last breath beneath his crushing heel. "Monster." The word was spat through clenched golden teeth. He was slipping away and teetering on the edge between life and death. His magic was waning, sizzling away into nothingness as his throat collapsed beneath constricting fingers.
There was an angry scream, and suddenly, the crushing hands around his neck were gone, his opponent shoved crudely out of the way. Blessed air filled Heimdall's lungs, and he rolled onto his side, clawing at his throat that still felt like they were being squeezed. He rolled onto his side, eyes searching and getting a good look at just who had intervened.
"What are you doing, woman?!" Kratos demanded. The brute had thrown the attacker off of him, pulling a knife that had been embedded into his shoulder.
Fiery eyes glared through strands of stringy hair. Dirt and grunge clung to nearly every inch of her, though the whites of her knuckles were visible even beneath the filth.
She didn't speak, but her chest heaved as if she had been running for miles. It was as surprising as it was alarming. A mere mortal determined to wedge herself between two gods? It was a foolish, even for her, and a suicide attempt.
Despite the absolute monstrous form of the God of War, she didn't falter or hesitate. Even when he was standing directly in front of her, casting a long shadow over her exhausted and weakened form, she stood her ground. "Move." The word rumbled in his chest, a serious warning that Kratos expected her to heed.
"No." Her voice was a deep growl, matching the ferocity that lingered in her eyes.
"Hn," The Ghost of Sparta grumbled, spear standing upright at his side.
Heimdall remained apprehensive and angry, never taking his eyes off the two, who seemed to be having some sort of stare down—an internal weighing and battling of wits.
Smouldering eyes carefully looked between the enemy and to the woman he and his son had come to accept like family. Calculating, cautious, and even a bit of curiosity lingered in them. She was determined, Kratos could see that much. But accompanying that was a simmering fire. It showed in her coiled muscles, her jagged gaze, and her heaving chest. Kratos knew this mentality well, and understood it just the same.
A peek into that empty head provided very little, but Heimdall could see that the aggression he had been on the receiving end of had vanished, leaving only a simmering distrust and apprehension. The former God of War took a step back, and with a flash, the spear in his hand vanished. "I wish you no harm, but do not underestimate the lengths I will go to to protect my son."
She took the threat at face-value, and despite his looming size and skull crushing strength, she wasn't afraid. Like an impenetrable wall she stood between the two gods, pivoting and following Kratos' every move as he turned his back and left.
It was only once the god was out of sight that she turned her attention to the bloody and beaten Aesir. Her knees hit the ground, hands outstretched and itching to check the extent of his injuries. "Heimdall—"
If looks could kill, then she would've been dead where she stood. He slapped her hand away, his anger still fresh and bleeding. "What are you doing here?" Voice a black and corrosive venom, he glared, both furious and confused at her presence. "Come to rescue your beloved Vanir prince?"
Clouded worry and relief slowly melted away, replaced by confusion. "This again? I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. What does Freyr have to do with any of this?"
He growled, the low sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Don't lie," The god struggled to push himself off the ground, his remaining hand flying to what was left of his right arm once he sat up. "The letter. It was in plain sight on the windowsill—you didn't even attempt to hide it, you little skank."
There was no dawn of realization on her face, no immediate fear that she had been caught and no pathetic attempt to explain her actions followed. For all intensive purposes, she looked genuinely confused. "Letter? What letter?"
"The stupid love letter you wrote for that careless and flirtatious windbag!" He barked, teeth clenched and bared. "I saw it with my own eyes. You've been playing me this whole time—trying to win my favor while gathering what information you could to aid the enemy. Freyr my beloved. Freyr my shining star. The love sickness was nothing short or nauseating."
Her brow furrowed even further, incisors coming down onto her lower lip. She avoided eye contact, fingers wringing nervously in her lap. "So that's what you think," She mumbled, "That's why you're upset?"
His glare must've been enough of an answer, though the words were still on his tongue. "What do you think?"
The shame and embarrassment in her face was unmistakable, and for the first time Heimdall felt some sense of satisfaction. Yes, there it was, she had finally been backed into a corner and confronted with the truth.
"Heimdall, I can hardly read...let alone write."
It took a few seconds for his brain to process just what she had said. His emotions stalled, a slow and sharp "What?" Being the only thing he could manage.
She shifted uncomfortably, as if he had somehow stumbled across some sort of deep and terrible secret. "It's...embarrassing. My family and I spent more time trying to cultivate and survive up in the mountains. Between hunting, gathering, and protecting ourselves, such a thing was more of a luxury than a necessity." She wrung her hands, "Atreus started teaching me shortly after I started traveling with them." She exhaled a short and quiet laugh, "My handwriting is horrendous—looks more like a tatzelwurm tried to write with its tongue."
There was a pregnant pause. Her words were convincing, but Heimdall wasn't falling for it, "Liar," He hissed, "I've seen you read."
"Yes—one of Atreus's old journals," She explained, "He um...taught me word for word what it says. I pretty much have it memorized at this point."
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Heimdall was torn, and hated that he couldn't get a solid answer by looking into her eyes. But the windows to her mind were opaque and blacked out as always. If he was going to believe her, it would have to be purely on a trust basis. "You really expect me to believe that." The words were intended to be a cold and harsh hiss, and while they were spoken through clenched teeth, they lacked the seething rage that he had intended. Those kindling flames were slowly dissipating whether he liked it or not.
"Who benefits from driving a wedge between us?" She asked, her fiery gaze bright and burning, "Who benefits from eliminating your distractions?"
The flames were fanned ever-so slightly, his glare deepening. "You would suggest that the All-Father would—"
"Yes!" Her hands flew to her head, eyes rolling as she huffed an agitated sigh. "How is it that you can see farther than anybody, but refuse to see what's immediately around you?"
He hated how genuine she sounded. How raw, untampered, and vulnerable she was being. He didn't—no, he couldn't believe it. There was just no way. Even if the letter had been forged, there was no proof that the All-Father was involved. Her accusing him of practically being blind? The idea was as much of an insult as it was a tasteless joke. Pain still lingered in his face and arm, gradually draining his energy and anger. Rather than arguing with her, he changed the subject. "How did you even get here?"
"The dwarves," She answered, "They gave me a fail-safe in the event I needed to get out of Asgard. I regrouped with them and they helped me get here once I heard Kratos had every intention of killing you."
He growled again, distastefully shaking his head. "Poking your nose where it doesn't belong." A grunt rose in his throat as he painstakingly pushed himself to his feet. His unscathed arm flew to his throat, feeling over the still irritated skin. There were undoubtedly bruises, but he had faith that they would heal rather quickly.
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. The glistening in her eyes grew more noticeable. She sniffed softly and averted her gaze. "That's what you think, huh?" Her hushed voice had risen an octave, continuing to climb as she vented. "You disappear for two days, I high-tail it out of Asgard and nearly get killed in a wild jungle...for you to just tell me that I wasted by breath?!" She had sprung to her feet, fists clenched at her side as she invaded his personal space, glaring into the eyes that so easily picked apart the minds of others. "For crying out loud Heimdall I was willing to fight a man I considered my family to save you! Doesn't that mean anything to you?!"
"That was your foolish choice."
"What, was I supposed to just let him kill you?!"
"Yes!"
Her jaw went slack, face painted in utter horror. The sound that rose in her throat was almost a broken sob—a disgusting sound that made Heimdall's insides twist uncomfortably. "How…how can you say that?!"
The god rolled his eyes, wiping off clumps of soil and grass from his clothes. "I never asked you to come to my rescue. I didn't need i—"
"Bullshit." Scratched fingers took hold of his tunic, bunching up the fabric and yanking him towards her. Practically nose to nose, he was confronted with her raw emotion as she slapped him in the face with the cold truth. "You were losing. Just how the hell is the Herald of Ragnarök supposed to do jack-shit when he's dead, huh?! Riddle me that, Heimdall!"
Her name fell from his lips in protest, but she was having none of it. "Don't die for something as foolish as pride, please." Her fingers shook, a few hot tears slipping down her cheeks. "I've seen it kill too many already."
He didn't want to listen. Yet that face. His heart was small, and had little room for anyone or anything else apart from his undying devotion to the All-Father. But she had wormed her way in, and her plea rang in his ears. He clenched his jaw. "You're asking me to give up? Surrender?" His bitter words hissed through clenched teeth, "To that weasel's father? Doubt and betray my own?"
"If that's how you see it, I guess I can't stop you." She shook her head. "But, I guess what I'm asking you is...to think about what it is you really want."
"And how do you know that wiping out my enemies isn't exactly what I want?"
Her chest rose as she took in a shaking breath. "I don't." The admission was painful, but honest. "I just...hope that you want more out of life than just killing."
Silence fell between them. Honestly, what could he say? The humid air buzzed with insect life, a constant drone in the background. He had no doubt that Freya had already made a swipe at rescuing that half-wit brother of hers. And as for Kratos? He wouldn't be surprised if that ray of sunshine had run off to try and rescue Odin's "apprentice". A gentle tug on his wrist pulled the Aesir from his thoughts, and his eyes met hers.
"Come on," She encouraged softly, though her face portrayed anything but joy, "There's no point in lingering here."
He jerked his arm free from her grasp, eyes narrowing him in annoyance. "And why should I listen to you?" He challenged. "Even if I believed everything that came out of those pretty little lips, why would I go with you instead of just going my own way?" Unexpectedly, upon taking another step, his legs gave out beneath him. But before the pompous Aesir could hit the ground, she had grabbed hold of his arm, heels digging into the dirt as she struggled to pull him upright again.
"Well for starters, you're injured." She pointed out the obvious, much to his annoyance. "Wander into the jungle alone, and I'm sure you'll make a nice snack for some wild wulvers or gulons." She swung his arm over her shoulder, ignoring his icy glares and protests. "Now are you going to continue whining, or are you going to let me help you?"
Stubborn, annoying, foolish...the list of insults rambled on and on in his head. As much as he hated to admit it, she did have a point. The All-Father wouldn't tolerate his failure, he knew that much.
The eyes staring back at him rolled at the scowl he gave her. And supporting his weight, she began leading them both away from the desolate battlefield.
Then again, it was the only distraction Heimdall had at the moment. So long as he could take his mind off of her, he could keep a level head.
Under normal circumstances, he would've simply done what was asked of him and nothing more—grabbed what the All-Father had wanted and returned to Asgard post haste.
Angering Sköll and Hati wasn't something he had planned originally, but a fight with the giant wolves allowed him to embrace the thrill of the fight, prolonging the inevitable just a bit longer.
He took delight in messing with the little half-breed even more than usual. Every poke and prod at the runt's failure and disastrous unleashing of Garm kept the rising flames within him to a steady simmer.
"Take some Einherjar and go back to Vanaheim," Odin had ordered once Loki had left with his tail between his legs, "I want you to take that lovesick and delirious fool that they call a leader hostage."
That had piqued his interest. As much as he hated the humid jungle that the Vanir called home, he couldn't resist the smirk that pulled at his lips. Undoubtedly a reward in the eyes of his father for retrieving the moon.
"Now I want him kept alive," The All-Father stressed, "Once that...brute of a god and my dear ex find out he's been taken well," He chuckled, "I'll let you do the honors of making sure they cause no further problems."
He was practically grinning ear to ear. "Of course, All-Father."
He didn't waste any time. With Gulltoppr and a legion of disposable Einherjar, he led the assault. He allowed the mindless soldiers to run havoc, sating their bloodlust by killing any form of fauna that their little black hearts desired.
It was only once the other members of Freyr's battalion were occupied that the Aesir stepped in, pacing along the demolished campsite and approaching the fertility god himself. "Sizzles! Long time no see!"
Despite having nothing more than a dagger and a bit of Vanir magic to defend himself, the god had managed to send a number of growling Einherjar back to Valhalla, with only a few scratches to show from the overwhelming fight. He looked up, glaring at his sworn enemy. "Heimdick," He greeted right back.
His face twitched at the nickname, though the flashing smile that found its way into his face was nothing short of taunting and menacing. "Still the ever loving charmer, I see."
He arched a single dark brow, though he was all too eager to keep the insults rolling. "Still Odin's bitch, I see."
Heimdall drew his sword, twirling the golden weapon in his hands. One quick glance into that carefree and flirtatious head and he was quickly looking away. "Ugh, have you no modesty or shame? Filth."
Freyr shrugged, "I'd take pleasure in slicing open your neck with this knife," He flipped the blade in his hand, fingers curling around it tightly, "Or shoving it straight up your ass." With a quick swipe of his hand, a slew of vines emerged from the ground.
Heimdall dodged the plant life conjured by Vanir magic, having seen the plan form in the flirtatious god's head before he had so much as even flinched. "Tut, tut," He chided, "Are you really that dense? At least try to put up a good fight!" In a blink he had lunged at the fertility god, sword drawn for a wide swing.
Freyr dodged the blow, and so the game of cat and mouse began. Every smack, every kick and scratch Heimdall landed on the dashing pick, somehow both stoked and ebbed away the burning flames beneath the surface. Asserting his superiority, flaunting his control of the bifrost, and taunting the fertility god at every chance he got, he almost didn't want it to end.
"You are foolishly prolonging all of this," The Aesir taunted, watching as Freyr once again charged. But a quick dodge followed by a swift swing of his sword into the fertility god's side, sent his opponent stumbling into the dirt.
"Prick," Freyr spat, hand immediately flying to the bleeding wound on his side.
"That's the best you could come up with?" Heimdall asked, sheathing his blade, "How utterly disappointing." And before the injured Vanir could so much as make another move, a hard blow to the back of the head with Gjallarhorn had rendered him unconscious.
"Bravo, Sizzles," He congratulated, despite knowing well enough that the Vanir couldn't hear him. Rather than tossing him to the Einherjar and letting them have their fun, he began dragging his stepmother's unconscious brother along by the leg. "Still as much of a fool as ever." He called for his mount.
Horns and teeth stained with crimson, the enormous beast was a terrifying sight to most. But once the Graðungr caught sight of his master, the feline practically pranced toward him, chuffing in greeting.
"Good boy," He praised, tossing the limp fertility god over the creature's back. As much as he wasn't looking forward to cleaning the blood and dirt from the beast, he was practically frothing at the mouth to taunt and torture Freyr even more—pull the truths from that carefree brain so that he could feed the embers of hatred and jealousy even further.
Jealousy. It was an emotion that he scarcely dwelled on. His position at the All-Father's side and his pride hardly left any room for such a simple and lowly emotion. Yet within the past several weeks, both the little half-breed and her had sparked those nagging thoughts and emotions that he once thought beneath him. Whether it be Loki obtaining his father's ear and praise, or that pretty little vixen who had toyed with his heart and actually managed to make him think that there was someone worthy of his trust, those burning flames had failed to be extinguished completely.
He traversed through the thick jungle, allowing Gulltoppr to strike down whatever he so desired. There was an abandoned fortress deep within the Northern Wilds—atop a hill and well fortified in the event of a retaliation assault.
With an exasperated sigh, Heimdall dismounted and removed the still unconscious god from his mount's back. "You know," He vented aloud, "Of all the eligible bachelors available to her, it just had to be you."
A few Einherjar stood guard close by, but he was more interested in taking out his anger on the fertility god than anything else. With little care, he dropped Freyr on the ground, giving a swift kick to his side. "Wakey, wakey, Sizzles!"
The charming brunette grunted, but with a heavy cough gradually came to. "Goddamn," He drew in a hiss through his teeth, rubbing the forming bump on the back of his head. But a twinge of pain crossing his face had the god quickly gripping his injured side.
Heimdall drew his sword again, twirling the weapon in his hand, "Have a nice nap?"
The light jab was met with a sharp glare, and a slew of profanities and insults racing through the weasel's head. But it wasn't until Heimdall spotted a familiar face floating somewhere in the womanizing god's head that his tone shifted, stoking the simmering jealousy once more.
So they did know one another. He siphoned through the fleeting thoughts and memories, taking a step towards the collapsed Vanir. "Going after mortals now, are we? Not satisfied with what the Vanir or Elven litters have to offer?"
"What the hell are you getting at now, Heimdick?"
His face twitched at the defamatory nickname. "No need to act dumber than you already are, Sizzles!" He couldn't resist driving his foot into Freyr's chest, pinning him against the crumbling wall. "You know exactly who I'm talking about. Her—that floozy little wretch that spent so much time traversing the Nine Realms with Kratos and his little half-breed son."
Freyr winced, trying to wrestle his way out from beneath his crushing strength. A flicker of recognition dawned in the Vanir's head. Images of her face flashed in his mind. It seemed she had been here not long ago, accompanying both Freya and that brute of a god in order to break the curse binding her to Midgard.
Images of him sweet talking her, her laughs, their time together was short, but there was an attraction there that Freyr wasn't able to hide from Heimdall's keen sight.
With a crushing kick, Heimdall had shoved the fertility god aside. The tender and warm flames of jealousy combined with the sickening bile of his heart aching made for a rather unstable mix. Had it not been for the All-Father's orders to use him as bait, he would've killed the plant smoking and pathetic excuse for a god on sight.
"Oh," Freyr coughed, pulling much needed air into his lungs, "Her." His lips twitched into a smirk. "Yeah, we've crossed paths. Pretty smile, surprisingly philosophical, horrible drinking buddy but not a bad smoking one…" Another kick made him shut his mouth, painfully clutching his bleeding side.
"You're extremely lucky that I've been specifically instructed not to rip you to shreds. Personally, I think your head would look much better on a pike than your shoulders."
But Freyr let out a breathless laugh, eyes taunting and lips twitched into a mocking grin. "I gotta say, Heimdall, green isn't your color. But making the almighty and untouchable God of Foresight a jealous wreck is a personal victory in my book."
Heimdall clenched his jaw, baring his teeth as he tried to rear back his own emotions. Whether it was a stroke of luck, or the timing was simply perfect, the spark of a bright signal flare shooting into the sky from close by warranted his attention. And although the jealousy still simmered, he was practically just as eager to take on the enemies approaching. "Looks like your dear sister has decided to make a guest appearance." He called for Gulltoppr, and practically jumped onto the Graðungr's back. "Don't worry, Sizzles," He grinned, golden teeth flashing against the crackling torches. His envy practically purred in satisfaction at the deadly promise that had formed on his lips. "I'll be back for you later."
"You're going with Loki and Thrúd to find the next mask piece."
The order had briefly caught Heimdall off guard upon entering his father's study. His brow furrowed in confusion. "The mask? But what about—"
"Ah-ah, would you just relax for two seconds?" Odin asked, holding up his hand, "So impatient, I'm getting to that." He rolled his shoulders, and closed the book on his desk, walking over to return it to one of the various shelves lined with similar texts. "Don't worry, I still need you in Vanaheim. You can be on your merry way as soon as those two are dropped off."
His brow furrowed. He tried to piece together just what the All-Father was thinking. Was he finally losing faith in his new pupil? As unlikely as it was, a part of him was hoping that his father was starting to see just what the little monstrosity was capable of.
With a nod, he was fully prepared to leave, only to be stopped once he reached the two wooden doors.
"Oh, I almost forgot," His father's voice lifted above the sound of the crackling torches, his words making Heimdall's stomach twist and his heart increasing its tempo. But he glanced over his shoulder, his glowing eyed locking onto a small scroll that had been extended towards him. "I trust you'll ensure that this gets to our favorite dwarf. Make sure that no...delays or problems arise?"
"Of course, All-Father," There was a sense of relief that washed over him at the simple request. Huginn had already abandoned his perch atop his father's desk, enveloping him in a swirling vortex of feathers and flapping wings.
Svartalfheim was warm and wet, though arguably less suffocating than the humidity in Vanaheim. The smell of belching mines and tempered metal was overwhelming and left a bitter taste in the Aesir's mouth.
Of course he had been transported directly in the center of the dwarves camp. The sound of conversation and hammers assaulted his eardrums, enough to turn his mood from impassive to slightly annoyed.
They parted and cowered at the mere sight of him as he stormed through. And despite their hushed whispers, he heard every single one of them. The fear, the hatred—both made his anger simmer as much as they made him grin in satisfaction. His reputation still preceded him, even after so many years since their quelled rebellion.
The Aesir's sights were set on one dwarf in particular, probably one of the very few he knew by name and who he had interacted with personally before. There was no need to announce his presence, the gossiping whispers and cowering individuals were certainly enough to alert him, but it was only once Heimdall had stopped directly in front of him that the old ward reacted.
"What now, Norðri?" He sighed, "Think asking for a break for the fifteenth time is really going to make much of a differe—" But he stopped short, freezing on the spot once his eyes trailed upwards.
"Hello, Doorknob," The god greeted, lips pulled into a malicious smirk. Hands propped on the lowered table in front of him, he leered close, peering into those wide eyes staring back at him. "Been a while."
"Durlin." The dwarf corrected. Despite the brave face staring him down, the fear was practically oozing in those eyes.
Heimdall ticked his head to one side, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. "What no heartfelt greeting?" He asked lightly, only to be met with a silent glare. "Tatzelwurm got your tongue?"
The dwarf grunted. His guard was up, fully prepared to spring out of the way at the first sign of a physical threat.
The god rolled his eyes, granting the terrified blacksmith back his personal space. "Don't worry, Scarface, I'm merely here on behalf of the All-Father." He reached for the scroll, wordlessly extending it towards the designated man in charge.
Durlin took the rolled up piece of parchment with a heavy sigh, before doing a double-take at the group of dwarves simply standing and staring. "Oi! Who told you lot to stop? Back to work!"
The normal hustle and bustle quickly resumed, filling the tense silence that had slowly settled in. As fun as it was to see them squirm under his intense gaze, Heimdall was eager to leave the warm and smelly realm behind. "Well, as much as I enjoyed our little visit, I'm afraid I'll have to bid you farewell, Dustbin."
"Durlin."
"Whatever." With an eye roll, he was already turning, heading back the way he came. "Huginn!"
The raven cawed at his call, flapping his wings and enveloping the Aesir once more in a dark and swirling vortex of feathers.
Gone was the uncomfortable heat and smell of tempered metal and smoking mines. He was brought back to his father's study, though the king of the Aesir was busy recording notes from a pile of books and scrolls. "Back already?"
It was almost on reflex that the god straightened his posture. There was a sense of pride that he held knowing that he had successfully done what his father had asked. "The message was delivered swiftly and without trouble, All-Father."
The old man's lips twitched into a smile, though his focus remained on the work in front of Jim. "Glad to hear it. Now, go," He dismissed with a wave of his hand, "I'll call once you're needed."
As quickly as that pride had inflated, it had started to wane. While the All-Father certainly wasn't one for words of praise, he knew the man still appreciated his efforts. After all, unlike his brothers or any other devoted individual, he was irreplaceable. He was the most loyal. He was the one who would determine when Ragnarök started and he was the one who always did what he was told without question. Even if words were never spoken, Odin's actions were certainly louder.
With a nod, Heimdall left his father's study, his sensitive hearing surprisingly spared from the usual rowdiness of the Einherjar and his kin in the Great Hall. Odd, but not unheard of.
His feet were already moving before he had even really processed what he was doing. Up the steps and down the hall of lined wooden doors, his eyes and ears were peeled for any familiar sounds.
The door to her room was wide open, though a quick glance confirmed that she wasn't there. If there was anything he knew, by this hour, she was usually away from the public eye. Reading peacefully by the open window, listening to the little runt chewing her ear off about his day…
Something nagged at the back of his mind, but the moment those thoughts arose in his mind, they were quickly chased away. After all, she wasn't a prisoner here. She could go where she pleased and do what she liked, so long as the All-Father permitted it. Placing his hand on the doorframe, he was fully prepared to leave and search elsewhere.
But a slight breeze that drifted in through the open window disturbed something on the bed, sweeping it off of the collection of furs and blankets and onto the wooden floorboards.
His brow furrowed, spotting the familiar faint strokes of ink on the underside of the parchment. The aged wood creaked beneath each footfall. Leaning down, he retrieved the note, eyes glossing over the written words.
Confusion and intrigue gradually shifted to anger. It simmered, growing greater with each sentence, every delicately written letter that he read. Glowing magenta eyes practically burned holes into the parchment, his fingers curling and threatening to tear the letter to shreds. His chest heaved, a furious growl that was nothing short of animalistic building in his chest. The crumpled note fell to the floor, and he was storming out of the room.
He searched and he listened; past the bristling wind, the sparring Einherjar and valkyries, and the drunken brawls of the Black Thunder. He heard her voice—picked it out like a bright spring flower amidst a field of weeds.
She was laughing, talking cheerily with someone he didn't recognize. The sound practically made his blood boil.
Any who saw him steered out of his way, though he hardly paid any mind to their whispers. His gaze was focussed on the woman seated on the fence of one of the training grounds. "You really are quite the little liar, aren't you?"
His voice sliced through the air like a sword, cutting the conversation short. Beautiful eyes peered up at him through long lashes, her delicate brow knitting together at the sight of his sour mood. "Is...there a problem?" She asked.
"A problem? A problem?" He laughed, though there was a cruel and bitter edge to it.
The person she had been talking with quickly made his exit, returning to the stables that resided close by. She looked after him, worry crossing her face for a brief instant. But the fire in her eyes ignited, and with a quick snap, her gaze returned to him. "That was rude," She scolded.
His lips curled into a disgusted snarl. "You filthy and conniving little whore. Did you honestly believe me to be that big of a fool?!"
She leaned back slightly, eyes wide from the sudden insult. But there wasn't any sort of recognition dawning on her face. "What are you talking about?"
Her voice was firm and unwavering. On the surface, she truly did look confused, but that in and of itself was where the problem lay. Looking into those fiery pools produced no answers—no concrete evidence that he could rely on or dismiss. There was no definitive way for him to know.
And it infuriated him now more than ever.
"Don't act so naive and innocent, Ditzy." His voice held a dangerous upward tilt, soft but menacing. He stepped closer, invading her personal space. "Cozying up with the watchdog in hopes he wouldn't turn around and bite once the truth came out, huh?" Like a viper he lashed out, taking hold of her chin and forcing her to look at him. He ignored her struggles, staring into those wide eyes in hopes of burning his words into her shrouded soul. "You know, I have to applaud you, Ditzy. You managed to fool the Scion of the Aesir with those pretty words and honeyed lies. But now I get it, now I see." His fingers moved to her throat, bruising and constricting. "You're a floozy slut who'll spread her legs for any man or god with a handsome face, and then turn around and run back to enemy lines."
Panic flooded her face, though despite the hand that could fairly easily snap her neck, she spoke, choking on the words while futilely trying to pry away his hand. "I..don't know...what...happened but...I never...lied...to you...!"
Teeth bared, the hairs on the back of his neck were practically bristling. "You have the gall to lie even when you've been caught? To lie when my eyes are fully capable of seeing the truth?" He leaned in close, "Oh Freyr my beloved, I despise this realm and all who reside in it. I count the days until I can return to your embrace~," He mocked, pressing his thumb over her trachea. The corner of his eye twitched, frustration and hurt clouding the anger that desperately burned and clawed at his insides. "To think, I actually allowed myself to believe you were any different from the rest," He hissed, loud enough only for her to hear, "You're a liar just like everyone else."
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Her fingers ceased their incessant clawing, but those eyes were desperate—wide like a terrified rabbit that had suddenly found itself in the jaws of a wolf.
It was the caw of a raven that pulled the Aesir from his own spiraling thoughts. His eyes drifted to the bird perched high on a rooftop nearby, its piercing blue eyes watching him closely.
With an irritated growl, Heimdall shoved her aside, releasing his bruising hold. She stumbled, falling to the ground. But as her hand flew to her neck, feeling over the forming bruises as she pulled in much needed gulps of fresh air, those misty and bloodshot eyes lifted to glare at him.
"Do us both a favor and go home." He sneered. The whites of his knuckles bled through his skin, hands curling into fists at his sides. "The All-Father has use for you, and neither do I."
Her arms trembled as she pushed herself off the ground, propping herself up on her forearms. "Heimdall!" She called, voice hoarse and strangled.
Her plea fell on deaf ears, and he turned his back on her, storming back to the Great Lodge with a pace much quicker than normal.
He had heard the footsteps approaching, though he didn't bother to look up from his current reading material. "Well, hello to you too, half-breed." He sighed with a turn of a page, "Tell me, do you start all conversations this way? Or am I just lucky?"
Those raging thoughts were deafening, despite the little runt trying his best to reel in his anger. Heimdall held the book out of reach just as Loki had lunged for it, brow furrowed and nose turned up in disgust. "Try that again, and you won't have any fingers left to grab with."
The teen scowled, lips curling into a firm line as he forced himself to lower his hand. He had the Aesir's attention—that was what his goal had been from the start. "I won't ask again, Heimdall."
"Be more specific, mongrel, and maybe I'll answer."
"I know it was you. Whatever you said to her—"
"Oh her," He shifted, crossing his ankles and leaning back in his seat once more, "You're assuming the mortal is sulking because of me?" The god's voice dripped heavy with sarcasm, "Have you taken a look at yourself, lately? Running errands for the All-Father, translating runes, and hardly giving her the time of day? I doubt that little argument you had the other night left her in an elated mood."
His scowl deepened, the whites of his knuckles bleeding through his skin as his hands curled into fists.
Heimdall could see the doubt in the jötunn's mind, that it was definitely a possibility. But the runt had effectively made up his mind, sticking to his gut that the cause for her change in mood was no fault of his own. "She's gone out of her way to avoid you specifically. So no, I don't think you're the reason for her acting like a kicked puppy. I know."
The Aesir rolled his eyes. He could tell that the nosy half-breed wouldn't be changing his mind on this—see that the little runt had no intention of leaving until he agreed to do what he wanted. He clicked his jaw, shimmering eyes piercing into that clouded soul that predicted chaos at every turn. "And what makes you think that I'd even consider doing anything for one measly and insignificant mortal?"
Loki rolled his eyes. "Oh come on, you honestly believe anyone's falling for that act anymore?"
Heimdall's brow twitched. The calm mask he had worn up until this point began to crack. "Choose your next words carefully, mongrel."
The warning didn't phase him in the slightest. "Anyone with eyes can see, Heimdall." He shook his head. "Look," He tried to stay reasonable while keeping his own emotions in check, "You're probably the closest thing to a friend she has here. Whatever happened, I can tell she's hurting from it. The least you can do is talk to her."
He arched a single brow, but he wasn't giving in that easily. "Tell me, do you expect everyone to listen to you simply because you asked nicely? Oh-ho, I can see now why you have such a temper when things don't go your way."
The comment elicited the exact response Heimdall had expected. Those blue eyes were flaring, and an image of the boy strangling him played on repeat in the jötunn's mind. But Loki held up his hands, and shook his head, restraining himself from acting on those thoughts. With a sharp inhale he turned and stormed away, "Dick," He hissed under his breath.
"I heard that. Do try to be more original next time." He watched the teen leave, listening until those angry and heavy footsteps faded behind the slamming of a door. While the Aesir was mighty pleased with himself at making the entitled runt miserable, his words still weighed on his mind.
The book in his hand closed with a bit more force than necessary. He sighed. He despised it when his conscience decided to make noise. Growling to himself, he left the otherwise empty Great Hall and went about locating the one person he had been deliberately brushed aside.
A part of him wanted to get this over with—exchange a few words and then go their separate ways. That was it, that was all that needed to be done. The last thing he wanted was to let some girl drive a permanent wedge between him and his responsibilities. Between him and the All-Father.
He had tuned his ears to her specifically, picking apart the sound of her voice, the rhythm of her heartbeat, and the weight of her footsteps.
The cliffs that lingered behind the Great Lodge were scarcely visited. If the wyverns, who often nested down below within the cracks and rocks, weren't enough of a deterrent, the uneven surfaces and sheer drop certainly was.
One leg dangling over the edge, her eyes were glued to the stretch of clouds and flying birds below.
The Aesir sighed, "Eager to attract the attention of the wyverns, are we?" She glanced over her shoulder just as he came to a stop behind her, and he continued, "They have been known to take off a flailing limb...or two."
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, wary, but void and unreadable otherwise. Those pretty lips twitched into a slight smile, and she turned her attention instead towards the chasm once more. "Long time no see, Pretty Boy."
He wasn't quite sure what he had expected her reaction to be, but the lack of any sort of glare or sneer was bothering him more than he liked to admit. He was...confused to say the least.
"Care to take a seat?" She asked, patting the spot next to her.
There was no further prodding on her part—just a simple invitation to join her in the solitude that she had seemingly been enjoying.
His heart thundered in his chest, and he scowled. Yet his legs were already moving, stopping once he was directly next to her.
She was quiet, draping an arm over her knee whilst the other gently swayed back and forth over the cliff's edge. Whether she was simply waiting for the right moment, or wanting him to say something first, he wasn't exactly sure.
But as much as he often found solace in the silence, here, it was steadily growing more uncomfortable. "Loki is of the opinion that you've been...sulking."
She hummed, the slight breeze rustling her hair, "That makes two of us, doesn't it?"
Glowing magenta orbs shot down at her for a moment, though the annoyed look he gave her was met with an eye roll.
"Oh please," She huffed, "You haven't exactly been yourself either, lately. Avoiding me like some disease. Whether you see it as a regret or not, the least you could've done was say something to me."
There it was—the anger he had expected. And while she wasn't screaming or yelling at him, the clear look of disapproval on her face was enough to make his stomach sink. Her words were like a hammer, tapping against his outer shell in an attempt to crack him open. Every chip and crack that had formed in any previous interaction, he had meticulously gone back to patch up again, fortifying them stronger in order to keep her from getting too close.
But already he could feel those cracks reforming, giving way to his vulnerability that she had spent most of her time trying to tap into. Apologies weren't something he gave out easily, but he was quick to explain his actions. "I needed time to think."
"Time to think," She repeated with a sigh, and a shake of the head, "I understand, but you left in such a hurry that it gave me whiplash. It was a lousy thing to do, Heimdall." Her eyes met his, sharp as a sword and heavier than stone. "You ran away." The accusation was spoken through clenched teeth, the muscle beneath her jaw quivering ever so slightly. "You ran away from me."
Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, but just as quickly as Heimdall saw them, she was looking away, swallowing them back down and staring back at the stretch of drifting clouds.
A heavy feeling had settled into his chest. As strong and unapologetic as his pride was, he couldn't turn a blind eye to it. He sighed. Giving in, he sat next to her. "As scatter-brained as you are, even you should understand the consequences. Voluntarily sleeping with the enemy only complicates things. It clouds your judgement and makes everything less black and white."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but hummed in agreement. "It definitely makes it harder to hate the other person, doesn't it?"
He hated to admit it, but she was right. It had only been a few weeks since her arrival in Asgard, yet so much had happened. From genuine frustration and distaste, to condescending flirting and ultimately sex. The simmering distrust that he always retained at the forefront of his mind had dissipated, receding further back as something else took its place. She had referred to him as a friend on a number of occasions, and as hard as it was to come to terms with someone wanting his company, he determined it was an appropriate label.
He was hesitant to assign any other label to their relationship, but even he was none the wiser to admit that there was something more there. Unconsciously he had always sought her out, to patronize and belittle at first. But ultimately, he craved the silence of her mind, as well as her soft smile, and understanding nature. "Yes," He admitted quietly, "Yes it does."
She exhaled slowly, banishing the boiling emotions and tension that had been clawing beneath the surface. There was a long stretch of silence, though some of the tension had thankfully subsided. Her shift towards him didn't go unnoticed, but she made no attempt to disturb his personal space. His eyes flickered down to her hand that lay between them.
Small, and lined with callouses from years of manual labor, it was a stark contrast compared to his own. She was forged in Midgard's frigid landscape, working to survive while he thrived within fortified walls, where a lack of delicious food was merely an inconvenience instead of a life-threatening dilemma.
A mortal and an immortal? It was as comedic as it was tragic.
"If you scowl anymore, your face might freeze that way."
He looked up, greeted by a wry smile and a soft laugh at his confused expression. "At least that's what my mother would say."
He snorted, and tore his eyes away, leaning back onto his hands and kicking out his legs. "That has to be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
"Actually, I was beginning to think that she was right," Her eyes held a teasing glint, her sorrow and anger temporarily forgotten. She inched closer again, narrowing the space that still lingered between them. "It's certainly a rare sight to see you without a sour expression."
"Sour?" He questioned, though the hostility that usually followed such an insult was nowhere to be found.
"Yeah, sour," She shrugged nonchalantly, "All that thinking makes you look more sour than a bushel of crabapples."
"And all that cheerful positivity makes you more sickly sweet than cheesecake."
She wrinkled her nose at the comeback, and the Aesir had to hold back a triumphant smirk.
“But sometimes sweet and sour can work well together, no?” His smirk wavered, and he was met with a triumphant smile of her own. “Gotcha there, didn’t I?”
All he could do was roll his eyes. “The only thing you ‘got me’ on, was how you thought that analogy worked in the first place.”
A vexed yet conceding sigh left her lips. She inched closer, finally closing the space and leaning against his shoulder, "You really can't let me have the final say, can you?"
Heimdall didn't shy away from it. After all, this was nothing—nothing compared to what the two of them had done previously. "We wouldn't want that ego of yours getting too inflated."
"Ha!" She laughed, "Says the peacock who never misses the opportunity to get up in your face to flaunt."
His lips twitched. "Me? Flaunt? Sounds more like someone's jealous of me. I can't help it that I'm naturally gifted and handsome."
She elbowed him, though she couldn't suppress the laugh that bubbled in her chest. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Pretty Boy."
His heart skipped in his chest, and his face lifted, the corners of his mouth pulling into a genuine smile. His gaze returned to the moving clouds. A soft breeze swept through his braids, the cool air blowing through the strands and masking the slight heat that had crept up his neck and face. But words were chewing their way up his throat, pushing aside any reserves he had made to keep his mouth shut on the subject. "I don't regret it."
It was almost shocking to hear the words leave his own mouth, yet they were automatic. There was relief in admitting it, like plucking a pinching thorn from his side. The nagging thoughts of Odin's underlying threats were pushed aside for the moment, and for once, he felt like he was truly living in the present, rather than constantly looking to the future.
A hum rumbled in her chest, accompanied by a soft and understanding smile. Her hand slipped over his, curling around his fingers and giving them a small squeeze. "I know. I don't either."
He looked to her face, searching for any signs of deceit out of pure habit. But there was nothing but contentment lingering in her expression, nothing but a peaceful bliss in her eyes and posture.
He found himself leaning into her, allowing himself to indulge in just a few more minutes of her warm presence.
Yet so at ease, and rooted in the moment, that he failed to see the icy eyes watching them from above. With a flap of its dark wings, the raven abandoned its perch, returning to tell its master of all that it had seen.
He almost never had regrets. The key word being almost. If anything he did somehow managed to backfire onto himself, Heimdall faced it head on. He refused to be a sniveling coward, to drink his problems away like Thor or to outright up and run away from them like Týr. But when it came to the All-Father, if there was even the slightest bit of disappointment or anger, the Aesir god practically had his tail between his legs.
And so, as he stood in his father's study, he hung his head, avoiding eye contact like a child who had been caught stealing sweets when he thought no one was looking. Of course he knew why he had been pulled from his morning duties. Nothing escaped the All-Father in the end.
The door closed, followed by indiscernible mumbling and footsteps walking towards the cluttered desk in front of him. But the lack of any direct communication was making Heimdall grow more uneasy by the second. The smack of a book against the wooden surface nearly made him jump, grounding him firmly in the present.
"You know," Bony fingers drummed atop the polished wood, each sound seeming to match the loudness and intensity of Heimdall's own heartbeat, "When I...encouraged you to play nice and be diplomatic, I honestly didn't expect you to take that to the extreme."
His fingers curled at his side, eyes hesitantly looking up. Words had formed on his tongue, but upon opening his mouth, nothing came out. Fear suffocated him, crawling from the base of his spine and squeezing his chest and throat.
Odin sensed his son's uneasiness, and dismissed it with a simple wave of his hand. "Now, now, I'm not mad." He chuckled, "Honestly, I'm more shocked than anything else. Of all the things, Heimdall." He shook his head, "Of all the things."
His unease didn't dissipate. It continued to simmer, settling in his gut and gnawing its way to sink in his chest. "I…"
"Sjá hvat," The old man mumbled, shaking his head. "We've been through this, Heimdall. You need to think," He pointed to his own head for emphasis, "Think. And by that I mean with your head—not your dick."
His brow furrowed. It was a low blow, and as much as it made his stomach twist, it was still the truth.
The All-Father freed Heimdall from his stern and disappointed gaze, instead turning to the materials laid out on his desk. A raven's caw pierced through the air, accompanied by the flapping of wings. Huginn made his perch atop the All-Father's shoulder, undoubtedly whispering into his ear of what his eyes had recently seen. With a simple nod, the bird inched down the length of his arm, preening his feathers as he came to a stop on Odin's wrist. "Go," He all but shooed away his loyal hound, "Patrol, drink, antagonize—do whatever you have to clear your head. And don't come back until it's properly working."
As sharp as the words were, they were considerably tame, at least in comparison to what he had expected the All-Father to say. But with a hand to his chest and a respectful bow, Heimdall sulked away, exiting the dimly lit study.
He sought a bath first, dousing himself with the hot water prepared by the servants and scrubbing his skin until it was nearly raw. As if he could wash away any and every instance of her. Purge himself of the sin and weakness that weighed him down. But the memories remained. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her face, heard her soft voice as well as those sweet cries that left his throat dry and sent a rush of blood to his groin.
The refreshing cleanliness brought little comfort, and he all but rushed to pull on his clothes again. Routine was what he needed—his solitude patrolling Asgard's wall would force him to focus. There he could be alone with his thoughts. Away from Loki's brewing mischief, away from Thor's drunken ravings and especially away from her.
Stepping out of the Great Lodge and into the open air was like shedding an overbearing weight. And while he was never truly free from Odin's watchful eyes, he was no longer suffocating beneath dimly lit rooms, the gossip of his kin, or the stale stench of mead.
Few wandered the grounds, and the precious early hours of the morning before sunrise were arguably his favorite time of the day simply for that reason alone.
His mount, ever loyal and vigilant, stood near the edge of the small courtyard, having remained there since the night before. Upon hearing his master approach, the large Graðungr lifted his head. Claws capable of slicing through bedrock kneaded in the dirt, and a mouth filled with sharp teeth that could easily split flesh from bone fell open and gave way to a deep and bellowing croon.
"Gulltoppr~." He practically purred, giving the horned beast a soft pat on the neck. Looking into those bright blue eyes provided a window into the animal's true and honest nature. It truly was rare, but appreciated nonetheless, that someone was at least happy to see him.
Mounting the intimidating beast, he turned them both towards the city's main road.
He welcomed the cool morning breeze atop Asgard's wall. While the first few rays of the rising sun created a spectacular view of the realm's beauty and splendor, Heimdall took the opportunity to pace, and think.
Weakness was not something he had to tackle often, at least when it came to himself. His gift and mere existence had him spending most of his time looking outwards rather than in, reading and picking apart the thoughts and intentions of others rather than himself. Was this all just a test of loyalty suddenly thrust upon him by the All-Father? A cruel trick played by the Norns as they attempted to twist and skew his fate?
Regardless, his actions were what mattered most. And he—Heimdall, Scion of the Aesir, the Herald of Ragnarök had fallen prey to nothing more than a pretty mortal and her equally pretty words.
He froze, realizing his own train of thought. By the gods, this was a major fuck up on his part. His actions had been swift and foolish. He had clung to the belief that if he simply acted—got every filthy thought and desire out of his head—that any conflicting feelings he had would up and vanish. But that obviously wasn't the case, at least in this instance. Even here, in his one place of cemented solitude, she haunted his thoughts like a ghostly spectre.
But why her? Why?! Romance was the last thing on his mind. In fact, it wasn't on his mind at all until she showed up. Prancing around, with those stupid thoughts hidden away from his eyes, those stupid pretty smiles that she gave away to anyone no matter how sour they were to her, those stupid kind words that made both his stomach lurch and his heart melt…
In a state of frustration, he kicked the nearest pebble, sending it soaring through the air and disappearing somewhere within the stretch of hills and beaches on the other side of the wall. He glared at the expanse that lay out before him. From his father, to his responsibilities, to Loki's chaotic intentions, to Ragnarök looming over his head, dealing with anything else only created an even bigger migraine for him.
She was a distraction, and a distraction was something he couldn't afford.
Love was rare. Even with Heimdall's keen sight he seldom labeled a relationship or attraction as such, especially when it came to himself. But lust? Lust was plentiful. And in many ways, it was useful. Whether a distraction or a means to obtain information, sex was as much of a tool as it was a luxury.
Skin to skin, with the opposite party begging for release, it was the perfect opportunity to draw out those dirty little secrets and desires that were hidden behind the everyday mask—
Clammy fingers pulled at his tunic, scrunching up the fabric as she all but took control. A sharp shove and he was on his back, laying atop a collection of furs and wool blankets. They had moved—he wasn't sure how, nor did it really matter, but they had ended up in her room, both equally hungry to devour the other.
She straddled him, lips crashing down onto his own again. Reflexively he placed his hands on her hips, holding her steady and in place as she feverishly deepened the kiss, sliding her tongue along his bottom lip, grinding her hips against his pelvis—
The action threatened to draw a moan from him, and he broke away from those pretty lips to allow her to catch her breath. "Keep this up and we'll be doing a lot more than kissing, Ditzy." Half-lidded glowing eyes opened to look up at her. Breathless, flushed cheeks, and swollen lips occupied his vision, but the fiery eyes looking back at him weren't embarrassed or even shocked by his taunt.
Her shoulders and fingers trembled slightly as she took in a deep breath, "Good."
His smile wavered for a brief instant. Either she had done this before, or beneath that kind and playful exterior, she was very intune and unashamed of her carnal desires.
"Intent on sleeping with a god," He smirked, "Most mortals can only dream of it." Especially when it concerned him. He took great pride in his position as the most fair among the Aesir, and as such, he was a prize that very few laid eyes on, and even less who had the privilege of bedding him. But this scatter-brained mortal—this lowly vixen had frustrated and vexed him more than any other person. And to say that he was eager to let loose said frustrations was an understatement. "Well then, in that case," With a quick shove, the roles were reversed, and she was pinned beneath him, "Shall we indulge ourselves?"
She discarded her top first, and he followed suit. There was a break in their feverish kissing. Her fingers left behind burning trails as she explored, her brow furrowed slightly and her gaze focussed. As if she were looking for something.
"What?" He demanded, annoyed at the absence of her lips.
"Huh," Her mouth twitched, "I'm just...I don't know, surprised I guess? Figured you would've had tattoos hiding underneath all those layers." Her fingers nearly felt like ice against his heated skin, piercing deep yet somehow as light as a feather. "Hidden from the eyes of most," She mused, hands moving lower, "Uncovered only by a select few that the Scion of the Aesir deems special enough."
"Special," He all but scoffed, though a part of him was satisfied, satisfied that he finally got an insight into those vain and selfish thoughts that remained hidden beneath that kind and soft exterior. "You would really think of yourself so highly? To me?"
There was a flicker of something in those silent eyes—confusion but also a twinge of hurt, as if he had just sliced into her needlessly. But she breathed, inhaling and exhaling slowly through her nose. "Then what are we even doing here?"
He glared. It was an answer he expected, but one that even he himself didn't have a concrete answer for. Heimdall had asked himself that question several times, over-analyzing everything in an attempt to come to an acceptable conclusion. But the more he thought, the more frustrated he became. And for once, his mind was nagging him not to think, and just act. His hand reached for the back of her neck, fingers fitting the curve and contour of the soft skin. "Just stop talking."
She hadn't expected the kiss, but with each touch—each caress and graze of teeth against flesh—her shoulders relaxed, and she welcomed the intimacy that both od them had been craving.
He wanted to draw out every manner of noise and reaction, find every sweet and sour spot to figure out just what made her tick. Her moans and mewls were simply divine, sweeter than any music that Asgard's composers could ever render with their instruments.
She pulled at the bottom half of her clothes, though taking into account her current position and uncoordinated fingers, she was having trouble removing them.
"Must I do everything for you?" Heimdall sighed. He didn't bother waiting for a response. With one swift tug, he removed the remaining stitched pieces of cloth that shielded the rest of her skin.
Bare, vulnerable, and at his mercy, he drank in the sight of her. From the arch of her ribs that showed with every breath, to the gentle curve of her hips, nothing was concealed from his piercing gaze now.
The soft and heated flesh of her stomach shivered beneath his hand, muscles curling inwards the further down his hand traveled. The glistening evidence of her arousal coated her thighs and center, and he couldn't resist teasing her. "This excited already, Ditzy? I haven't even touched you there yet."
The "v" between her brows grew more pronounced, but the eyes looking down at him were still lost in a lustful haze. "S-Stop teasing me."
"What ever do you mean?" He asked, feigning innocence. "If you want something specific, Ditzy, then you need to tell me." He had placed his hands on her hips, thumbs massaging the supple flesh of her thighs.
Her eyes squinted shut, chest rising and heart quickening with every pull and prod at the sensitive skin so close to her heated center. "What's the point? You already know what I want."
He hummed, a devious smile tugging at his lips. She was correct, of course. Even without delving into that mysterious head of hers, her face and body were sinfully honest. There was a certain thrill in picking her apart piece by piece, figuring out which buttons resulted in the sweetest sounds and humiliating expressions. He leaned in close, lips at her ear, "But where's the fun in that?" Her muffled mewl only egged him on further; stretching his grin wider. "Now, tell me where to touch you."
"Arse," She huffed, but her stubbornness reigned back, as quenching her arousal took precedence over everything else. "Inside me."
"What was that?"
She grumbled something about his "enhanced hearing" under her breath. Cheeks flushed, those heavy lids opened, staring down at him. "I...I want your fingers inside me. Please."
He hummed, pretending to think it over. "Well, since you asked so nicely..."
Glassy eyes watched him, her chest rising and falling more rapidly as she anxiously waited with baited breath. His hand hovered over her dripping sex, prolonging her aching suffering just a tad longer.
The surprised yet longing cry that fell from her lips once he finally plunged his fingers inside only made him grin wider. Slowly he began sliding in and out. From the way her face twisted and contorted with every thrust, to the way her fingers and toes curled into the sheets and furs beneath her, he devoured every sound and sight. He flexed his fingers, searching for that one spot that would absolutely drive her up the wall.
It was as if an electric jolt had passed through her, and she rose. "There!" She gasped.
"There?" He repeated the same motion, earning a strangled cry in response. A rush of warmth flooded to his own groin as those pretty lips hung agape, panting and desperately chasing her release.
"More," She begged, "More~!"
"So greedy," He purred, tone absolutely condescending, though he removed his fingers, and she whined at the loss. "Tsk, tsk," The Aesir chided, his fingers slowing to a standstill, "Do you need to cum that badly?"
She whimpered, wet walls clamping down onto his fingers. "Yes, yes. Please, Heimdall."
His cock twitched, and he had to clench his jaw to stifle a groan. Every tight squeeze of her cunt had his head swimming with the fantasy of how it'd feel around the thick of him. He had planned on teasing her more—meticulously unraveling each string slowly and painfully to see just how desperate she would grow for him to grant her relief. But with a satisfied hum, he gave into her plea, plunging his fingers deep within and abusing the sweet spot that left her crying and begging.
"Heimdall—Heimdall!" Each desperate whine and sob of his name echoed in his perfect ears and sent blood pounding to his cock. He was drunk off her broken cries, ruthlessly pumping his fingers in and out just to watch her face contort and melt like hot wax.
With a wail the chase came to an end, the winding coil in her core snapping and rendering her insides to a hot and fluttering mess.
He grinned, glowing eyes flickering up to a flushed face twisted and contorted with the pleasure that he gave her. "Poor, poor, Ditzy," He lamented, "Shaking and utterly wrecked from my fingers, yet so painfully naïve to just how much worse it's going to get." His fingers curled inside her once more, sending a jolt of pleasure through her that threatened to push her over the edge again.
He watched her gradually come down from her high, using it as a means to remove the remainder of his clothes.
Those fiery eyes clouded and lost in a hazy mist widened. Realization dawned on that flushed face, and a choked gasp followed.
His abdominal muscles coiled, burning as the sight of her shaking and destroyed sent another rush of blood to his hardened cock. His fingers dug into the fat of her thighs, prying her legs apart even further. The jolt that went through her as his thumbs pressed into the supple flesh had him grinning from ear to ear. "So sensitive," He mocked, leaning forward, and positioning his tip at her entrance.
Her fingers curled into the sheets, incisors biting her lower lip in anticipation. The increased pressure at where her torso split drew a low moan from her lips. Her hands came up to cover her face, shielding those burning cheeks and expressions he hungrily devoured.
Heimdall had acted almost on reflex, grabbing onto her forearm. "No, look at me."
She didn't resist, but rather peeked at him through her fingers instead.
"Eyes on me. And only me."
Her cheeks burned to an even more delicious shade of red. But her hands slowly slipped away from her face, returning to grip the sheets and furs once more.
He eased his way in, drawing a sharp hiss as the searing heat of her insides seeped into his skin and her muscles clamped down onto him like a vice.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. No matter how much his fingers had stretched her, or how wet she was, nothing could have prepared her for the burning ache of so much of him trying to bully its way inside of her. Reflexively she latched onto him, whimpering and clawing at his back in an attempt to pull him closer.
Length sheathed completely, Heimdall tried to keep his head clear for just a moment. But the fingernails raking down his back, the lips and teeth biting and sucking on the tender skin of his neck, the muscles that pulled him deeper and threatened to milk him dry—
"Fuck," He hissed, arms trembling slightly. He swallowed the moan that had been building in his throat, because he almost came. It was pathetic, the last thing he wanted to do was tap out so quickly like a damn virgin. He started moving, using each sound from those pretty lips as fuel to draw this out as long as possible.
"Who's...sensitive...now?" She taunted, face contorting in pleasure with every thrust.
"Just—shut up." His rhythm grew more sloppy and uneven as he chased his release. Blood pounded in his ears, and fireworks burst behind his eyes. The white hot euphoria that consumed them both rose higher, and higher—
Her tight cunt and sweet mewls pushed him over the edge. He pulled out at the last second, his release spilling over her stomach.
While his mind gradually began to clear, the Aesir tried to catch his breath. Norns, he struggled to keep himself propped up. It certainly wasn't helping that her arms were wrapped around his torso, practically coaxing him to collapse into her embrace. Jeweled eyes stared down at the glistening sheen of his release against her soft skin. The coil in his stomach had moved to his throat, constricting and searing as he realized just what he had done. What consequences would follow from this.
Breathless, utterly ruined, and drunk off of him, the image of her sprawled out onto the furs and blankets would forever be sealed into his memory.
Before he knew it he was moving, reaching for his clothes and hastily shrugging them back on.
"Heimdall?"
He stilled for a moment, only to move even quicker. He didn't like the way her voice stirred something in him. How it made his stomach coil and his heart beat erratically in his chest—
"Heimdall!" Her voice had grown more forceful as she grabbed his arm.
With an irritated growl, he pulled his arm free, glaring down at the woman who had managed to worm her way into his head and drive him mad.
Her hand hovered in place, a mix of different emotions twisting and contorting on her face.
His chest heaved as he took in a trembling breath, "Speak of this to anyone, and I'll cut out your tongue."
The menacing threat didn't appear to land, however, much to his dismay. A brow still covered in a glistening sheen of sweat furrowed, but her hand slowly lowered back to her side. "I wasn't planning on it."
His shoulders relaxed, slightly, but the glare remained. Heimdall reached for his sword, and smoothing back his hair, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind h
It was a well known fact among his own kin, as well as everyone within Asgard that Heimdall wasn't the most popular figure at social gatherings. The loud music, the drunken brawls, the pointless schmoozing small talk, and the gossip that it brewed; He hated it all.
He was more of a fly on the wall rather than a social butterfly, keeping an eye on every person coming in and going out, and listening in on bits and pieces of conversations.
People avoided him like the plague, and he preferred it that way.
"—don't you have any faith in me?!"
"I'm just trying to look out for you!"
His enhanced hearing picked up on the heated conversation, though a quick glance around the room revealed that the familiar parties weren't mingling with any of the guests in the Great Hall. And based on the distance and acoustics, he determined that they were likely in the little runt's room.
"I don't need a babysitter!" Loki argued, "I'm learning things—searching for answers that will help us in the long-run."
"But Odin—"
"Wants answers just as much as I do."
There was a stretch of silence, but just as Heimdall thought of turning his attention elsewhere, they continued.
"And what will those answers cost, Atreus?" Her voice had lowered, likely trying to prevent any outsiders from hearing, "What are you willing to sacrifice for them? An eye? A leg? Your life? Your father's life—"
"Who said anything about sacrifice?!" Heimdall could practically see the jötnar shaking his head and flailing his arms.
"There's always a price," She warned, concern laced in her voice, "I just…" Her voice trailed off as she sighed, "I'm worried about you."
There was another pause. Loki shifted his weight, though the deep breath he took hinted that he was currently reigning back his emotions. "Worry more about yourself. Just leave me alone."
At the sound of a door opening and footsteps approaching the Great Hall, Heimdall watched the little runt turn the corner. The two locked eyes for a brief moment. He could see that the teen was tempted to pick a fight with him in an attempt to blow off steam. Golden teeth flashed into a taunting grin. "An angsty teen walks into a party...wow, your life truly has amounted to nothing more than a bad joke at this point."
The redhead's nose scrunched up, a clear glare plastered onto his face. He took a single step forward, but then seemingly reigned himself back. His intention to get in the Aesir god's face dissipated, replaced by a dismissive shake of the head. "Whatever, you're not worth it." He turned and instead wandered into the crowd, determined to put some much needed space between both the mind-reading god and his human companion.
She followed soon after, footsteps heavier than usual and a dour expression plastered onto her face.
"Ah, the scatter-brained mortal herself decides to grace us with her presence." Upon looking up to meet his gaze, Heimdall smirked and took a sip of his drink. "Decided to socialize and make more friends?"
She wrinkled her nose, "No," Her fingers reached and snatched the drink from his hand, and tilting her head back, she took a swig of the liquor, only to grimace afterwards. "I'm here to drink."
While he was irked that she had robbed him of his own drink, the sight of her downing the freshly brewed mead was as comical as it was...depressing. "That so? In that case, my half-wit older brother would be much better company."
The venom in his tone didn't go unnoticed, and those ears seemed to perk up at the comment. "Are you implying that you're not a good drinking buddy?"
"I'm implying that if you're here to make piss-poor choices while you're drunk, you could certainly learn more from Thor than me."
"Yes, because you are the poster boy for good choices." She rolled her eyes and took another long drink. "And besides, I've made plenty of bad choices sober. I doubt being drunk will make much of a difference."
"Oh?" There was a tilt of curiosity in his voice. "Counting your uninvited trip to Asgard as one of them?"
She shrugged, looking down at what remained of the liquor, "I wouldn't say that. Are there things I regret since coming here? Sure, but there were some upsides to coming to 'the Cornerstone of the Nine Realms'."
"I'm sure trading the desolate and bland landscape of Midgard for Asgard's splendor and crowded city was an opportunity you just couldn't resist."
"I really can't tell if that was sarcasm or not." She downed the rest of the drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, "Either way, Midgard isn't all that bad. I'm sure the cold could rival Helheim's at this point. Could do without the bloodthirsty raiders though, and the hel-walkers, draugr and ogres…"
"Sounds delightful." His focussed eyes watched the crowd. The icy glare of Sif passed over him momentarily, before she turned and continued conversing with members of the staff. Thrúd was chatting Loki's ear off, and the walking contradiction appeared to be in somewhat of a better mood. His father was nowhere to be seen, though neither was Thor. Undoubtedly the brute had been sent to kill something or other, or his wife had sent the drunkard to bed before he could do any damage to the hall's support beams. "And that, Ditzy, was sarcasm."
Again, her nose wrinkled and those pretty lips pouted. But there was a flicker of surprise that crossed her features. "Wait, have you never been to Midgard?"
He laughed, though upon realizing that her question was indeed serious, the humor slowly dissipated, replaced by an insulted sneer. "You're talking to a god. Use that brain of yours, Ditzy. I've been alive for centuries. Of course I've been to the less than impressive realm that you mortals call home."
"But not recently?" Her tone had lightened with innocent curiosity, unperturbed by his condescending words.
"I suppose seventy years wouldn't be considered 'recent' to you."
She hummed, "No. It wouldn't."
Silence fell between the two as the party continued around them. People went to and fro, piling food onto their plates and filling up pints one right after the other. Yet despite Heimdall's vigilance in keeping watch over the welcomed guests, he never drew his attention away from the woman at his side, who had already grabbed another drink, downing the mead as if it was water. Her face often gave insights into what she was thinking, he noticed. She was someone who wore her heart on her sleeve, and who obviously had patience to spare. Even he wouldn't deny that. She was determined and dedicated to those closest to her. And while he would rather grind his teeth down to a flat line than admit it out loud, it was something he could admire.
She must've caught onto his staring. A mischievous spark had entered those eyes, followed quickly by a coy grin. "You know, for someone who supposedly dislikes me, you sure do find a lot of opportunities to stare at me." She took another sip, peeking at him through thick lashes. "Is it because you like what you see?"
He answered her question with another question, "Are you that desperate for affirmation on your physical appearance?"
"You're always poking around in other people's heads for the truth. Maybe I just want to get into yours?"
He wasn't sure just how he hadn't noticed her hand moving, catching it only when she had placed it onto his chest. Both grounding and intimate, he could feel the heat of her skin even through the several layers of his clothes, as well as his heart's sudden increase in tempo. The invasion of his personal space combined with the smell of alcohol on her breath had the Aesir god placing his index and middle fingers on her forehead, and lightly shoving her away. "Has the mead clouded that measly brain of yours already? A reminder that we're in a public place, Ditzy."
Her hand fell back to her side. Despite his warning, that grin never faltered. "Well, if that's the only issue…" She grabbed his wrist, and abandoning her drink, all but pulled him away from the crowded Great Hall.
The further they descended the steps and rounded corners, the more the sounds of music and raving drunkards faded.
"And so the shrinking violet musters up the courage to speak to the God of Foresight alone." With a quick jerk, Heimdall freed his hand from her hold, bringing them both to a standstill. "You have my attention, Ditzy. What is it you want?"
"Isn't it obvious?" She mocked his own tone and use of the word, arms crossing over her chest, "I don't call just anyone Pretty Boy you know."
"Oh?" He stepped closer, staring into those blacked out windows that kept every concrete truth and intention hidden. "Is that so?"
"Uh-huh," she hummed. Lashes brushed against her cheekbones, and those pretty lips were so close he could almost taste them—
His head was buzzing, and a rising itch to give in and touch her began to claw its way to the surface.
Hands firmly planted onto her shoulders, he drove her into the wall, crashing his lips against hers. The kiss was far from sweet and loving. No, this was messy, and fueled by a mutual sense of frustration and lust. It was a clashing of teeth, of dancing tongues and nipping of flesh.
Her hands flew to his hair, nails scratching his scalp and fingers tugging at his braids. She moaned into his mouth, and his lips curled into a sinful grin. He deliberately pulled away, glossing over her swollen lips and lustful eyes. "My, my," He teased, running his thumb over her bottom lip, "just how many dirty little thoughts are running through that head of yours?"
The "v" between her brows became more pronounced, but she forced his lips onto hers again, leaping up and wrapping her legs around his waist for good measure.
The taste of her lips, the heat of her body pressed up against his...Heimdall's mind was in a heated frenzy. More, more, more. It was the only thing on his mind the longer her touch lingered. She was a sweet poison that he happily consumed, consequences temporarily forgotten as his only desire was to satisfy every frustration and desire of his own selfish nature.
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