Synopsis: The last thing Odin wanted was a distraction on his constant pursuit for knowledge and to avoid death entirely, with Rome’s own God of Death showing up at the walls of Asgard however, death seems inevitable for the both of them. But as the years go by, being close to death just might be Odin’s newest obsession.
Inspired by: We Who Remain, Part The Second
General Tags (ish???): Odin x OC (Platonic), Gen Fic, Father Figure & Surrogate Child (gone wrong?) and angst (both hurt/comfort & hurt/no comfort, depends on the chapter)
For the content warnings of the overall story (and if you're looking for the first chapter) read here!
Chapter 6: With A Bottle of Tears
CW: Depictions of (Past) Physical Chíld Abuse, (Past) Violence, Trauma-based panic attacks, Intoxication, Drug Use (Fictional THC-type wine), Lepidopterophobia and perhaps other subject matter. Despite being a work of fiction, these topics can be quite triggering and/or distressing for some folks, read with caution.
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The soft singing echoing in the hall brought the young child's attention. She stopped her movements, the moths as well, as she look at the song's direction.
A gentle, melancholy tune. One she's heard quite a few times in her small life—in both melody and voice.
Her mother had told her to not mind the singing, to steer away. Not because the voice itself was dangerous, but the potential wrath of those who don't want anyone talking to it, let alone a child such as her.
She turned, looking up at the large door. Her mother was in there, talking to the healer and his daughter. They seemed nice, and her mother said that he will be her healer.
Given the child's boredom —and also her annoyance on not being allowed in even though it was her healer— she ignored her mother's warnings and moved her little toddler feet to where the melody was.
The sea of black moths followed her as always, some of them even rested on her short moving legs and bare feet. She was three, almost four, and yet still refuses to wear sandals. They were always too tight, too restricting.
Her smile brightens when she hears the sound getting close. "Me-seek!" she squealed in delight, the moths squeaked along with her.
Excitement built up when she sees a flicker of blue out in the balcony. But the excitement evaporated in an instant when a god burst out from the door to her left, bottle in hand and almost hunched over, his braided dark brown locks covering his face.
The child takes small steps back, instantly feeling unsafe. But it didn't seem to matter as he moved his head to her direction, dark eyes staring at her in surprise, then slowly, anger.
"Well, well…." The god slurred, tilting his head. "Look who it is! Where's that mother of yours, hm? Busy being a…whore?" He speaks the last word with despicable venom.
He leans forward, his presence and the smell of his intoxication making her flinch and take a step back, lips quivering as her big eyes start to water.
He laughs at her frightfulness, taking a swig of his drink before continuing. "Y'know…it's great that you're here. Truly." He glances at the bottle in his hand. "'Cause since that wretched father of yours destroyed somethin' of mine…." He starts to squeeze the bottle tighter and tighter before it shatters, shards falling onto the marble floor. "….I believe it's only fair if I destroyed somethin' of his."
Before he could grab her, the moths flew at his face, their contact releasing decaying burns to his skin, making him reel back as he tries getting them off him.
The moment he moves back she makes a run for it, bringing herself around back to that door. "Mama!" she cries out, her little hands hitting the wooden door as hard as she could. "MAMA!" Red flowers spill from the cracks of the door, making her step back.
A yell echoes in the hall as something flies past the girl, when she looks over, her moths in a slowly-liquidized clump on the floor.
She looks to her left and sees the god slowly looking at her, his face red—covered in nasty burns.
"…Get back here." He says with such terrifying calm. But it was clear he wasn't calm with his eyes glowing blue and the mixture of alcohol and pure rage coming out of his pores.
Despite the fear nearly bumping out of her chest, the child bolts. She ran up the hallway, moving her little legs as much as possible away from the raging man.
"I SAID—GET BACK HERE!" He roared. He was getting closer, making her heart pound louder and louder.
She was just about to reach the corner when he grabbed her by the arm and yank her towards him.
"You little shit!" He growls, lifting her up. "You think you can disrespect us and get away with it? No, that obstinate fool cannot protect you anymore!"
"No, no!" Sobs coming out, she tries desperately to wiggle and thrash out of his grasp. It only made him worsen his grip, pain shooting within the nerves of her arm with a sickening brittle snap!
A screech rips out of her throat, but was cut off when he threw her to the wall.
Mors felt every bit of impact of that stone wall before they woke up. A fear-striking scream bolted from their lips as they jolted upright—hands grabbing onto whatever their hands could tightly and heart hammering fast as their eyes darted around the room, looking at their surroundings.
Asgard—they're still in Asgard—far away from….that—in both distance and time. But their hands wouldn't let go of the furs on the bed, refusing to let go despite every logical part of them knowing that everything was fine. Right now though? That logic was swallowed by this overwhelming fog of fear, taking over everything.
Their lungs felt like they were on fire, heavy, overworking as each panting breath of air enters and leaves more quickly than it should. When Mors looks down, they could see the dark purple of their fingers beginning to spread, fester up their hands and slowly heading to their forearms.
Calm down—calm down—calm down! They close their eyes shut, trying to clear the seemingly endless storm in their mind. Calm the fuck down, Mors!
The soft flutter of wings upon their skin brought everything to a halt, like the storm and its dark clouds were slowly dissipating, leaving just a few small gray clouds and a drizzle in their depart—a drizzle Mors lets roll down their face.
Their panic attack and hyperventilation made their whole body feel sore, their lungs and ribs hurt and ache with each sob and cry escaping out of them. They allowed themself to keep letting it all out, just for tonight, while everyone else is gone and asleep in their rooms.
Despite it feeling like forever, it was oddly pleasant. They hold onto that, remembering their friend's advice; close your eyes, close off your mind and focus on your other senses, all while breathing slowly. Mors' eyes were already closed, so they just had to follow the other steps. They began steadying their breathing.
The cold midnight air brought soft kisses on their skin, cooling off their overwhelmingly warm face. The gentle comfort of the moths snuggling against them brought Mors great solace, wings softly brushing upon their skin, it nearly tickles. The room sounded quiet, even outside the room it seems. The only thing Mors could hear was the gentle breeze outside the window, and the soft flutter of wings and content squeaks from their moths. And of course, their own breathing. Gentle, slow, soothing.
They stayed like that for a while, even when everything was better. When they opened their eyes, they looked down at their hands, seeing that the dark purple returned to just their fingers. A long exhale leaves them as they lightly pulled and brushed their hair with their fingers and hands.
They bring their hands down, laying back down on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. Despite them now going back to normal, Mors didn't feel tired anymore—the nightmare seemed to scare any potential exhaustion from them.
A groan leaves them as they sat back up. Great. Now I'll have to stay up late.
Annoyed, their eyes started looking around the room, searching for something to do during such a late hour. They could write again, but they don't really have anything to light up any candles. Besides, they didn't want to send out too many letters in such a short gap of time, they should at least wait til sunrise. They couldn't really read any of the books because—again, they are unable to light up any candles for them to see—and also because the language in those pages are unfamiliar, interesting, sharp shapes.
When their eyes locked onto their bag, they got out of bed and picked it up before searching through it. After a moment of digging they felt something cold, hard and smooth, they instantly wrap their hands around it and pulls it out.
A clay jar, tightly sealed and filled with wine—the type of wine that'll have Mors relaxed for at least the rest of the night.
Perfect. "Come on," They says gently to the moths, whom quickly went alert from the sound of their voice. Mors grabs their cloak, gets up from the bed and head out of the room, the moths following them in an instant.
The torches in the hallway were the only lights showing around this hour. It was oddly comforting for Mors, the soft amber fiery glows reflecting against the earthy pleasant browns of the wooden walls.
But they don't need that right now, they need fresh air.
Given that it was the middle of the night, there wasn't much people hanging about the large feasting hall save for the passed out drunks and the odd servant currently sweeping the floor. Why is she working so late? She should be getting rest and—
Mors mentally shook those thoughts off. Now wasn't the time to be a metaphorical pot calling the metaphorical kettle black.
The sounds of fumbling footsteps and barely contained laughter catches the death god's attention. Speaking of drunks.
From their left, right out of what seems to be a broom closet emerges a drunken Mimir with his arms wrapped around two women who were also drunk….well, not as drunk compared to Mimir clearly.
"Listen…" he slurred quietly, leaning close to one of the women's ear. "Listen, how about we continue this in me room, aye?" he purred, pulling the two women even closer, earning a giggle from them. "…Gonna show ya a real good time."
Mors instantly left the building without a word, not wanting to see or hear whatever that was. They got off the dirt path and onto the grass. It took them a bit of walking before finding a decent spot; a round grassy hill, empty and peaceful with no buildings or people close-by, the only buildings that could be seen are in the far-away distance.
Perfect. Wine in hand, they lay themself down, feeling the cold, slightly damp grass on their pale skin. They interlock some of the green blades between the fingers of their free hand. Absolutely perfect.
It took Mors some trial and error of breaking open the seal that kept the wine from spilling out during their travels, but they thankfully managed to do it. Mors brings their nose close and breathes in the smell of their wine, the smell alone was already bringing them at ease. It had a captivating smell— like a mixture of lavender and a small hint of mint. But Mors knew that the wine contained nothing of that sort, of course not, that's just the smell of the berries used for this particular sort of wine.
The second they take the first sip, the wine immediately felt feathery and soft upon their tongue. They smiled as they felt the gentle and cooling effects starting to spread within their entire body, bringing that nice and soothing buzz in their mind.
Yeah….this is nice. They closed their eyes, letting themself fully relax against the soft, cloud-felt ground as they listened to the gentle cold breeze moving with the grass. The moths began to feel the effects as well, fully relaxing onto Mors. Very nice.
The sound of clumsy squelching against the grass made Mors open their eyes and glance over. Mimir was drunkenly climbing up the hill, almost stumbling over a few times all while wearing a fur cloak and nothing else—leaving little to the imagination, much to Mors' misfortune.
Mors could tell he was still drunk not just by his stumbling, but also the way he turns and slowly goes to sit down next to them, having one of his hands out underneath to find where the ground starts. It reminded Mors of a toddler trying to sit down, though, isn't that normally what drunk people are? Toddlers in the form of adults? His goat legs seemed to give out, because he ended up falling on his ass with a quick "oof!".
Mors didn't say anything, not even bothering to question why he's even here, instead they just stare at him. They really hope he didn't break anything, they're too high to deal with taking him to any healer's office—they don't even know if Asgard even has one or where it would be if it did exist.
After a moment—perhaps two—Mimir glances over his shoulder. His face was slightly flushed red, mainly around his cheeks, and if it wasn't for the smell of alcohol leaking out of him, Mors would've just assumed that his cheeks were red from the cold weather. He squinted his yellow gifted eyes at Mors before speaking. "Y'know, ya don't 'ave to give me tha' look…." he slurred.
Mors' eyebrows furrowed at that. "….What look?"
He flopped his hand around in some attempt to gesture to them. "That. All…judgy 'n stuff…."
"I'm…not being judgy." They said slowly, both from their confusion and the fact that they're stoned. They weren't judging in the slightest. "…only thinking if you broke anything….during the fall…"
Yeah sure, it was a three inch gap between his bottom and the grass, but you never know—especially with an old…goat-man. What even is he?
Instead of saying yes or no like a reasonable person, he just gives a lazy shrug. "Guess we'll find out in the mornin'….or somethin'." he says it so casually, as if the possibility of hurting himself was no big deal. And that made Mors more "judgy" than anything, he should be concerned about his physical well-being.
"….Shouldn't you be back in the longhouse with those two women?" Mors decided to say. Why was he even here? Did he know they were here or was it by chance somehow?
Mimir looked at them as if they suddenly grew two heads, then laughed. He laughed so hard that he fell onto his back, holding onto his stomach. "Fuck—" he wheezed. "Yer—yer more drunker than me, lass!" he says it as if it was the most unbelievable concept he ever thought of.
Their eyebrows knotted together. What was he on about? They're not even drunk. "I'm not—"
"You are!" He shoots up with a toothy grin. "I finished with those two an hour ago!"
An hour ago? That—that can't be right. No. Mors swears it's been at the very least twenty minutes.
"Shit, maybe even more than that…." he chuckles before glancing to the bottle in Mors' hand, he reaches over to grab it. "What sort of drink is that—"
They pulled it away. "The not-yours sort of drink." They didn't want to sound or be mean, but he was really starting to annoy them.
"Ouch, grouchy." he laughs.
"…I'm not grouchy." Anger was starting to boil in their blood, but they took a deep breath, lashing out and making more than one enemy in this realm wasn't gonna do them any favors. "Nor am I drunk."
"Lass, yer speakin' as slow as me, don't lie—"
"It's not that kind of wine." They blurted out.
He arches his brow at the god of death, clearly not believing them. "Oh really? Then enlighten me, what kind o' wine do ya got?"
"It—" They struggled to find the words, how does one go about explaining the concept of getting high off of wine? "It….don't make you drunk really."
After a beat Mimir moved his hands, gesturing them to continue.
"It….makes you high?" Mors eventually gets out. "Like…smoking herbs kind of high?"
He didn't say anything at first, just stares at Mors, then the bottle of wine, then back at Mors. With no warning, he snatches the bottle from them.
He uses his free hand to keep Mors away. "I need to taste this for meself, 'cause there's no fuckin' way…" he trails off before taking a swig from the bottle.
Mimir went quiet, limbs going a bit limp but thankfully didn't drop the wine. After a moment of smacking his lips, he finally spoke. "….Holy shite."
Mors manages to snatch the wine back before Mimir laid himself back on the grass, quiet for the first time in who knows how long.
As much as it should be a good thing for Mors, they were starting to get unease from the old man's silence. "….You good?"
Mimir nods slowly. "This….this is…."
"Aye…." He put his hands over his chest, fingers intertwine with one another as he stares at the night sky. "How….how is this possible?"
"Bacchus. Made it out of tranquillitas berries….it's good stuff."
His eyebrows knotted a bit. "He's….the god of wine, right?"
"Yeah…well-meaning guy, but can be a bit much…" Mors shrugged.
"….I'd like to meet him." he eventually says.
"Why? You wanna hook up with him too?" They instantly froze the second those words left their mouth, regret filling their mind.
Instead of being offended however, he chuckled. "Naw, naw….for all I know he's probably fuckin' butt-ugly." he looks over to Mors. "…Am I right?"
They shrugged a bit. "I wouldn't know, everyone has their own views on what's considered ugly or attractive."
"Hm…." He was quiet again, slowly twiddling his thumbs. "….Do you think I'm attractive?"
"…." Mors sits up a bit, looking at the intoxicated man with pure bewilderment. "…You hitting on me?"
"Ew! No!" He almost coughed out, eyebrows scrunched together and face pulled in a grimace. "You're hardly my type…..no offense though…."
"None taken—was about to say the same thing." They breathed out, relief easing them.
The two went quiet, not the typical silence however. It was awkward, uncomfortable in the now dead air.
Mors laid back and looked up, the stars were spattered upon the obsidian sky as if someone were to flicker their paintbrush onto some stone canvas. Despite the similarities in structure, it felt unfamiliar, foreign. Though obviously it's foreign to them; they're in a different realm, far from home.
Home. Mors' heart clenches at the word. All they want is get the damn lemures and return home, but they can't do that right now, not in this state—and that frustrates them more than anything. They needed to get home off their mind, at least for tonight.
So they decided to continue the conversation, no matter how awkward the topic was for the both of them. "…Besides, my idea on ugliness and attractiveness is bizarre….according to my peers I guess."
They didn't have to look at him to know that he's intrigued, his voice told it all. "Oh?"
"….It's not the phys….physical aspect that I think of when it comes to the topic of attractiveness…but more of the morality aspect." They explained slowly—though due to their current state, they had no choice. "…..Goodness is what makes a person attractive."
Mimir scoffed. "Morality is just one big puddle o' mush…no one is truly good."
"I'm not saying a person needs to be squeaky clean their entire lives…..just…how they're acting now and their intentions with it….I guess." Mors shrugged.
"…Which one would I fall into?"
"I don't know, this is the second time I met you."
"Mmm….fair." Mimir laughed before turning his head to look at Mors. "….Despite my thoughts on morality….thinkin' someone's attractive by their actions isn't really that bizarre."
"You would think that…but when you call someone conventionally attractive ugly because of how they treat mortals with "worthless offerings", guess it's considered blasphemy or whatever…."
"…Y'know…." he moisturized his lips. "…You're strange for a god…"
They couldn't help but agree. "…Yeah…" they let their fingers explore the grass, feeling the cold texture of the green blades. "…You're interesting for a Celt."
It felt like the breeze in the air halted, making a full stop the second those words left Mors' lips.
"…What?" he sounded like he was caught off guard. And Mors didn't know if it was just the wine, but he also sounded upset.
They didn't want him to be upset. "…Is…that not the right term? Do you prefer Gauls instead—"
"No. I don't "prefer" any of those stupid names you Roman wankers put onto us!" he raised his voice.
If the air wasn't so silent before, it sure was now. But it wasn't the awkward silence as before, it was bitter, tense.
And after what felt like a minute, Mimir didn't really like it. He looks over to Mors, whose face was looking away from him, but after squinting and really focusing, he noticed something.
Tears were running down their face.
Shit. He didn't mean to make them cry, why did he have to say that? He was supposed to make Mors want to stay longer, not push them away. Curse the booze making him run his mouth so recklessly! "…I'm sorry—"
"No." Mors sniffles, not looking at Mimir as they spoke. "Don't apologize. You have every right to be angry at us….I should be the one apologizing. I'm sorry."
Mimir was astonished. He expected Mors to lash out, defend themself and their empire's actions—like he heard so many Romans do before. But this? Apologizing? Admitting that Mimir had a right to be angry? He was not prepared for that.
Never mind about Mors being strange for a god—Mors was strange for a Roman.
"…You're…apologizin'?" Fuck, he shouldn't be drunk and high for this conversation.
"It's not enough, I know..." They exhaled, sitting up, pulling their knees up to their chest before holding onto their knees, resting the side of their cheek. "…An apology won't undo the damage the Roman Empire had caused to your people." They glanced at him. "I wish I could do more…could've done more."
"…Could've?" He was sitting up now as well.
Mors nods. "I should've fought for your people more, much more." the moths lazily crawled on Mors' arms in an attempt to comfort them. "….Your people were full of life, had so many dreams…all stripped away because of greed." they say the last part with such venom, another tear rolling down their cheek.
That question only made Mors tear up more as they slowly nod. "One of the sweetest souls I've ever met…and I get reprimanded for protecting him and his town."
"You….what?" he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"…I don't want to talk about it….not while I'm like….this." their hand lazily gestured to all of them. A groan leaves from their lips as they rested their forehead against their knees. "…Bellona is such a dick…."
It was muttered, most likely supposed to remain some random mumble. But Mimir caught it. "Bellona?"
"Goddess of War." They gestured their hand around aimlessly. "Cares more about the bloodshed than the actual reason why there's a war in the first place. Also really likes to get under people's skin….my skin specifically."
"Really?" He brings his full attention to the death god. Is…are they?
"Mmhmm…" They hummed before continuing. "Don't know what Venus sees in her…maybe she's into violent people?…I don't know."
Oh fuck…they are! They're actually giving out information about their pantheon! Mimir mentally prays to The Norns that he'll remember this conversation in the morning, regretting getting himself drunk and high.
"Venus? Whatever do you mean?" He asks, trying to relax, leaning against his hands.
"…Venus and Bellona have been….I don't know, lovers? For a while now." They furrowed their eyebrows as they thought about it. "Venus could do better in my opinion, but guess everyone has their type."
"What is she like? Venus?" He asks as casually as he could manage.
Mors shrugged. "Shit if I know, she rarely interacts with the pantheon, not since the incident…"
"The incident?" He looks at Mors, intrigued.
"Her chamber collapsed during some other gods' fight, or something." They took another swig of the wine, which was good for Mimir; it seemed that the wine is making them a bit unfiltered, less closed off when it came to information. "When the rubble collapsed on her, it messed her face up. So she wears a mask all the time, and isolates herself into her work as some kind of war goddess instead of being beauty herself. Maybe that's why she connected with Bellona so easily."
"…I do not know, I was little at the time when I heard about it."
Mimir was quiet for a moment, figuring out the next set of questions. "…What are the other war gods like?"
He could see Mors hesitate, and that just make him more focused.
Finally, they responded. "We don't have many war specific gods, things that relate to war, yes. But not often war itself. We have two war gods, technically three."
"…There's Bellona obviously, as I just stated. Minerva technically is one, but her part is more…strategy I guess."
Mors tenses up, as if saying that name was the equivalent of pointing a sword at them. It took Mimir a moment (…okay, maybe a bit more than that) before he realized why; the Greek Pantheon was dead, slaughtered. Sure, if the story rang true, they deserved it. But when the Roman Pantheon lived closer to that area than any other pantheon, the concept of the Roman Gods being reminded of the massacre terrifying them wasn't too far fetch for Mimir. If only he could recall the name of the man who did it, he knows it's somewhere in the back of his mind.
"…Sorry." He says quietly. It did make him wonder if the Roman Gods and the Greek Gods ever interacted, but he doesn't ask, not tonight, especially since Mors is clearly uncomfortable with even a name-drop of one of the gods.
"…It's fine." They eventually said. "…But yeah, kinda. But Minerva is also a goddess of medicine. She's one the highest gods in the Pantheon…" They pause for a moment. "…in power, not…not what we're doing."
Mimir couldn't help but laugh at that. "Oh don't worry lass, I know what you're sayin'."
With a nod, Mors continued. "Minerva is a part of the Capitoline Triad; a group of three powerful gods consisting of herself, Queen Juno and King Jupiter. So yeah, she's pretty up there when it comes to power….she's also very creepy."
They nod once more. "Mhmm. Acts less alive than I look."
The two returned to the awkward silence for several seconds before Mimir asked. "…So who's the third one?"
Mors looked at him. "…What?"
"You said there was three war gods, you listed two." He pointed out. "So who's the third?"
They went quiet again, but it was different. From their focused knotted brows, Mimir could tell it wasn't out of hesitation, but merely just them trying to form the words.
"Mars." They finally said, their voice oddly soft now, face relaxed. "He's…not like the others. He's not brutal or selfish or careless…he's the kindest god I've ever known."
Mimir watches as Mors formed a smile, it was soft and genuine. He never saw them smile before, so it caught him off guard for a moment. "….Oh?"
"He's sweet, and gentle, and generous to everyone—both mortal and immortal, young and old, poor and rich, it did not matter to him." They rested the side of their face onto their knees, at Mimir's direction. He could see their face light up as they continued. "He always know what to say, what to do in any situation that comes his way. And he sees the best in everyone…even when you don't see the best in yourself."
"…Huh…" It was strange hearing this. For Mimir it was rare to hear a war god being gentle of all things, very rare. In all his years of existence, he only knew of one god of war who possessed any sort of kindness, so it was pleasant hearing about another one. "…Sounds like you really value this Mars fellow."
"….I do." Mors says slowly. "He's one of my dearest friends…my best friend." Their fingers lightly brushes on one of the moth's thorax. The moth let out a strange, purr-like sound as it snuggles against their leg. "…I think you would like him."
"Really?" He raised a silver brow.
They nodded. "…Yeah. He's a very likeable person, never met anyone who didn't like him."
"Well, maybe he can come visit." He suggested, even though there was no way in hel Odin would ever allow that. Mimir lays himself down on the grass, staring up at the sky.
Mors shrugged. "Perhaps. I'll ask him about it the next time I see him…whenever that may be though, he travels a lot."
"Does he?" He lets out a yawn.
"Yeah…it makes visits from him…less than I would like." They sighed, hugging their legs. "…He does make up for it with stories of his travels…and also gifts of things he got from whatever lands he went to…but the stories are much more valuable to me, his gentle voice soothes me a lot…and he's a good storyteller."
"Mhmm…" He hums slowly. The way Mors described Mars was familiar somehow, way too familiar. But the mixture of the mead and the wine was now making it hard to put much thought together, like a complex puzzle scattered in the oceans of his mind.
He could hear them continue talking, and desperately he wanted to pay attention to the words, to gather more information for Odin. But exhaustion was taking over, the effects of his intoxication pulling him under into the depths of slumber. And as he goes to sleep, he swears he felt one of Mors' little moths resting on his face.
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The bright rays of the sun nearly blinded Mimir when he woke up. Pain shot through his head, his hangover hitting him like a herd of two thousand pound horses. His brain felt so foggy and both his eyes and mouth had never been so dry before until now.
When his eyes finally adjusted to the light, he slowly sat up and looked around. Mors wasn't there, neither were their moths, just him and him alone.
Did everything that he and Mors talk about actually happened? Or was it all his and the wine's imagination?
A pang of disappointment hit him before he glanced down and noticed something on the grass. Underneath some black cloth was a small loaf of bread and a wooden cup.
At first, Mimir had thought it was from one of the Aesir. However, when he realizes that the liquid in the cup was water and not any sort of liquor, he knew it wouldn't have been from any of them, but instead the strange roman death god he'd drunkenly conversed with the night before.
His lips formed a small smile at the kind gesture before drinking from the cup and taking bites of the bread, ready to begin the day by telling Odin of his discoveries.
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