Dead Things and Broken Wings | Closed
He could not feel the light here. In truth, the crumpled figure on the rock-strewn floor could barely feel anything, save the pounding pain that he could almost believe a heartbeat. A lie, though, just like the lies that had killed him and sent him to this dark place. A place that echoed so acutely with his own mind, until all Baldr was was a dying ember surrounded by the black of Helheim and the black of his soul.
But all he could see was the slow clotting crimson that dried from his chest.
With no pulse to take time from, with no sun or moon or swirling stars to check the day, the once-god knew not how long it was until those expected footsteps came. He knew their creator, he knew who his brown eyes would gaze upon when he finally turned his head from the ground and looked up into those cold eyes. He knew, with a certainty that had escaped him before.
''Hel.''
