Chapter Text
Heimdall did not reflect on his childhood fondly. He was naïve and foolish back then, clouded by the potential of the Nine Realms to realise the truth of it all. A truth only his father, the All-Father, had been kind enough to show him in his lessons of control. People were never good. If you looked deep enough into their intentions, there was always doubt, lies and horrors to be found.
It was only in his final moments, as the beast of a god before him squeezed his throat with a strength not even Thor had in his anger, that Heimdall felt vindicated of that fact. That when he gazed into the eyes of the Ghost of Sparta, he knew that he was right. That no matter the words people said, no matter the character they played on the outside, they were all the same. Cruel, evil, and monstrous in nature. Kratos played the character of a harbinger of peace in this land, but his eyes told a story of horror. That Heimdall felt every agony he inflicted, the deaths of his own blood stained him loudly to the world and yet they could not see as he could at that moment, that the doom of Asgard lay with a monster of a man. Heimdall felt in that moment the death of Asgard and it ruined him, he foresaw the fall of his father and he could do nothing but struggle against the hand that would crush his throat.
He was powerless to do his duty. He failed. His father... the disgrace to his name would be unending. To think he had wasted his father’s time to end up like this was shameful. A failed project like Tyr, even Thor was useful in his obedience. But father demanded more from Heimdall, he demanded the certainty of the future, he demanded the protection of Asgard, it was his purpose, his being.
And he had failed.
He was scared.
And then something switched in the god of war’s eyes, something muddled by the rage that filled his veins blinding Heimdall to any other thought that was running through his head at that moment. Whatever that thought be, it lessened the pressure on his throat and Heimdall dared to take a greedy breath of air out of fear he would not be allowed another. When the sound of the blood in his ears lessened from the pounding to a mere faint beat and he could hear the wind rustle the leaves on the floor, hear Mimir’s grating voice talking in hushed whispers to the god who was no longer over his body. He had not noticed the being get off of him which was odd. Yet, when Heimdall looked to the sky of Vanaheim, seeing the stars speckle the hues of darkness, he found he could not care for the words they spoke.
It was the first sense of true peace he had found. Since his birth, he had been plagued by the intentions of the world, opened to horrors unyielding and thrown at them to conquer without direction. If this was what near-death could bring him, he wanted to edge close enough to it to drown in its peace. He didn’t even know he had spoken, his voice rough and raw, he felt renewed blood coating his mouth, delicate to taste on his tongue.
“Please finish it.”
The words were soft and foreign, a contrast to his vicious and bitter nature. It was hard to conjure that bitterness when he drowned in the stars around him. Drank their soothing spirit. It looked as though autumn was nearing, the leaves were turning a beautiful shade of orange, and the dark blue of the sky rolled with the colour and shrouded his vision. He was glad the moon had returned; it would have ruined his blissful trance too much to not see it there. The air was nice too, though humid, it was cooling with a nice tinge of ice to the breeze. If he had to choose a place to die, a moment to end his pitiful existence that was shrouded now with shame, he would have it here.
“No.”
And suddenly it was all ruined. Because it was not as though he was doing anyone any good alive anymore. He may as well be more useful dead and yet this oaf of a god would deny even that from him.
“Finish the job, kinslayer,” Heimdall goaded, it was easy to twist intentions his way, easy to coax that evil outside of everyone. It was in their nature, so why not make it known? Kratos, God of War, the Ghost of Sparta was a vengeful god, Heimdall saw it. He would have the world know it too. “Or I will tell your runt of a boy exactly how you butchered your family, I felt their suffering, felt every agony you delivered in your rage and he will know exactly who his father really is.”
He expected the rage back in the God of War’s eyes and yearned for his small victory on the battlefield today. It would be there; he was sure of it. Mimir was begging Kratos not to, not out of fear for the God of Foresight, no, but out of fear for the God of War because he truly believed that the man he called brother was changed. But Mimir had not seen what Heimdall had, and could not know that a man like that could not possibly change. His father was right, he was always right. The All-Father knew best. He was all-knowing. Heimdall could not falter on that one belief he held.
“No.”
The word no was becoming Heimdall’s most hated word and regardless of the pure and total exhaustion that permeated his entire being, his mind refused to damper the bitterness that was building inside himself. He alternated between throwing another futile punch towards the war god in hopes that it would break him out of whatever false sense of pity he was feeling towards Heimdall or simply putting his own sword to his gut and ending it. But that was shameful, shameful as though he was in life, he would not have that final indignity laid upon for others to mock and ridicule him. No, he would find death in the other. He had to.
“Do you know ANY other word in the piss poor Midgardian tongue,” He struggled to find purchase underneath himself, his magic, his connection to the Bifrost diminished with his injuries so great that he had little strength left in him. But he was stubborn and he would face the god before him on his own goddamn feet, so even when his left arm crumbled under his weight, even when his legs felt too tired to hold him. He stood, panting as he was with the stress of it. “You WILL finish what you started here, you... you have to finish what you started.”
He didn’t mean his words to falter, didn’t mean to show more to the god of war, a weakness to exploit at this moment. But his body was tired and his mind... no one could comprehend the burden of seeing into other’s minds. No one could understand the pain he felt when he looked into the future, and the past and saw every intention, every grievance and battle, every love and loss as if it was his own. It... it was a weakness he should have conquered and, in his shame, he had not done so for his father. Yet another reason he could not return alive from this battle.
“Why must I?” Why did the man sound curious, why did he not sound vengeful? Why did he not do as Heimdall believed him to? It was infuriating. It was... it was not as All-Father said it would be. The All-Father could not be wrong, he assured that whatever little intention Kratos had of peace would not be enough so why was he not killing Heimdall and tearing Gjallarhorn from his body?
Heimdall stared at him in horror, looked into his eyes and saw a true horror that he could not comprehend. Because Kratos had no intention of killing him, had no intention of ripping Gjallarhorn from his bloody body. Where once his eyes confirmed the All-Father's word, it was now filled with doubt and questioning.
He stumbled back at the realisation and let out a cry of anguish. He could not be wrong, his father... his father was always right, he knew best. But the worst thing about the god of war’s eyes was the sadness and understanding.
Heimdall screamed in anguish. Why would his father lie to him?
“I cannot go back,” His father would know, would know the shame of failure, would know Heimdall questioned his guidance. Death was preferable, the war god could have his prized horn and Heimdall would find solace in death knowing it meant nothing. “He will not understand this failure.”
“Then do not return to him.” And Heimdall laughed, his grin bloodied and gold teeth stained. This simple man could not understand the gravity of those words, of the impossibility of them. “Come with us.”
The head protested on the man’s waist, for once Heimdall let the insufferable goat speak its mind in the hopes the war god would heed his friend instead. “Ahh, brother, mayhaps you should consider the company we keep; I don’t think all would be too fond about having the Watcher of Asgard in their homes.”
“It is decided.”
“It has NOT been decided!” It was indignant, it was absurd. He tried to play into this feeling of unsafety that Mimir stirred because it was about the only good thing the useless head had spoken about in this entire exchange. “You would think to invite me into your home, after my threats for killing your little runt giant? You are more stupid than even I could comprehend. I will lay wondering on the many ways to tear the limbs from your boy-”
“Quiet.” It seemed to pinch a nerve though Heimdall saw no heat in his eyes as he had in battle when the same threats were lodged at Kratos. No, no, no, no, such a route would no longer goad the war god to action, not from Heimdall at least. He saw that much. “You may return to your father if you wish, but know that you have safety with us.”
There was no ill intent behind the words, no matter how desperately Heimdall searched for there to be. Where All-Father would reject him, this foreign god welcomed him. He saw no future in Asgard where he would remain at his station as he once was, no future where he was still the pride of Odin. And he would not live as Thor does, in filth and disgrace, a tarnish on the Asgard realm. It was... beneath him.
Heimdall looked around at the greenery of the Vanaheim forest, eyeing for stray ravens as though he thought this was a test from his father for his loyalty. It would not be the first time that his father had seen such great lengths necessary. This was though, the one time he would fail the test if it.
“Fine,” Heimdall sighed, his resignation laying heavy inside himself. “It’s not as though any of you could blow Gjallarhorn without me anyway, so the way I see it, either way, you fail to bring about Ragnarök.”
“What does he mean Head?” Kratos, Heimdall could sense, did not like surprises it seemed. At least the God of Foresight had one victory today.
“Oh?” Heimdall raised his eyebrows, “Did the mighty all-knowing Mimir not know that only I can use Gjallarhorn? That the summons of Ragnarök must be with my consent?”
The goat stuttered, “Well-well now, I didn’t expect the text to be that literal! One would assume anyone can blow a bloody horn!”
“So, it would seem that Ragnarök would be dependent on you being alive long enough to signal its beginning.” Heimdall narrowed his eyes at the other god, the implication of his words written clearly behind his eyes.
“You dare insinuate that the All-Father-”
“It would not be the first time gods have used their own son’s lives for their self-interest.”
The argument could have continued, Heimdall could argue despite the evidence laid clear to him because his conviction disallowed such accusations to be true. The All-Father may have lied, may disown him, maybe disgusted with him. But he would not sacrifice his own son for a potential future. He had to believe that much. But they were stopped short when an explosion sounded before them, the power of it shaking the earth they stood on so much so that Heimdall found his legs too weak to fight against it. He would have fallen to the ground if not for Kratos catching him in his arm, and holding him upright.
Heimdall had not the time to sneer at the touch, they moved, although slower than Kratos would have liked, that much Heimdall could see even without looking into the god’s eyes. It seemed his choice was made on the matter as he did not resist the hold the Spartan god had on him.
Well, maybe if you hadn’t beaten me within an inch of my life perhaps, we would not be in this predicament.
It went unsaid, Heimdall knew when to keep his mouth shut despite his father’s accusations that he did not. It wasn’t long till the noise of the battle grew closer and closer; the smell of magic was heavy in the air. His own ached under the strain of his healing. He would be useless in battle right now; one gust of wind would have him on the floor in his current state.
“A little help here!” A voice screeched. The little half-breed was still alive it seemed, much to Heimdall’s dismay, he had hoped luck would grant him one pleasurable thing in the little twat’s death. Kratos moved quicker, all but dragging Heimdall along his path as they moved.
“You cannot fight, remain here.” Kratos directed towards him before plunging into battle.
Heimdall laughed as he all but felt placed in a corner while the adults worked, “Why of course, simply discard me like an infant, for what use could I have in battle?” He was bickering to himself he realised that he simply liked complaining at loud decibels, one would call that a healthy coping mechanism. Yet Heimdall did not mind the view, the destruction was quite significant with collapsing stone thundering the earth, he already saw a bloody but victorious battle unfold before it even finished, one with no cost of lives to all the little traitors it seemed. Would you not be a traitor yourself, dear Heimdall? His face scrunched at the voice, a bitter distaste growing in his mouth.
That bitterness could not sustain his strength, however, as it once would. For the first time since the end of his battle with Kratos, a heaviness set in his limbs. Heimdall, unlike Kratos, was not a god versed in strength. He had ungodly strength, yes, but that was not where his talent lay. His mother, before she ran off to be a broodmare elsewhere, had said his talent lay in his gifts of foresight. That with nurture and time, he would foresee as well as the Fates did. However, she did not deem him worthy enough of her time to teach him of that ‘soft’ nurture. The responsibility fell to Odin, and Odin was not soft in his teachings. Odin didn’t think it necessary for Heimdall to learn of anything more than reading the intent of others, it was the only thing he was useful for. His magic was not versed in healing, he had never needed to even use it before now and it was regrettable, to say the least.
So, he could not fight the pull of darkness that encroached on his senses, the way his body pulled him into an idyllic relaxation. It was... preferable to the reality of his situation. His father would be disgusted with him if he could see how pathetic he was.
But the feeling of tranquillity did not last long when the feeling of a rough hand yanked him from his perfect slumber. He yelped in surprise at the sudden disturbance. “You deny me death, deny me sleep, for what more could you do to ruin my existence?”
“Father!” Heimdall winced, feeling his headache worsen as the little frost giant yelled after Kratos. “We need to go!”
“Now you taunt me with the doom of Asgard worsening my headache, my suffering knows no bounds.”
Kratos grunted, “I will have Atreus carry you to the boat rather than Freyr if you continue to complain.”
“I’d rather not get fleas.”
“Then quiet.”
The travel to the shoreline was rough, and though Heimdall joked about his headache, it did worsen considerably so. It wasn’t as though it was surprising considering how Kratos almost splattered his brains on the forest floor with the brute force he applied. Yet Heimdall refused to be a maiden in distress in this entire scenario, his foresight was not hindered and on instinct, his eyes swirled in hues of deep pinks, the Bifrost lighting beneath his eyes as he saw the path play out before them.
“To your right!”
Kratos easily dispelled the would-be attacker, grunting in appreciation it seemed. Heimdall would not say that he knew Kratos well enough to discern what grunts were what, but he could tell the difference well enough now that he had heard both grunts of anger and ones of appreciation directed towards himself.
When they reached the shore, the forest thinning in their peripherals, and the noise of Odin’s grunts dying in the distance, Kratos looked to the water expectantly. He thought something was supposed to be there.
“Where is the boat?”
Heimdall looked out and indeed, nothing but settled water was before them and Heimdall felt giddy at the whole prospect of death catching up to him yet. “You spare me only to lead me to death anyway! The Fates are truly merciful in their wisdom.”
The mockery earnt him a glare, fury clear behind the god’s eyes and Heimdall held his tongue on further insults. Were he in better form, he would have tested further on the god’s patience but alas today was not that day.
Atreus, Freya, and Freyr were not soon after them. Freya was quick to take what appeared to be a folded piece of paper from her brother’s hand and threw it into the water, and there before them emerged a magnificent ship. Heimdall would seldom admit it, but Freyr did have a few useful things up his sleeve. Even in his pathetic excuse for a rebellion, there was admiration to be recognised for being a resilient little cockroach.
“Hurry now, that won’t hold them for long,” Freya urged as she drew her bow back to the forest, Atreus following form. It seemed none of them had truly taken in the extra god in their midst, only when they had settled onto the boat and the danger seemed to ease with the adrenaline of the battle. Freya’s eyes narrowed at him; her eyes quickly glance towards Kratos. “Heimdall.”
“Oh, thank god you guys can see him too, I thought I was entering Helheim,” Freyr sighed in relief, it was wheezed and strained though, the grievance of his injuries not quelling his tongue it appeared.
“Step-mother!” Heimdall grinned with sickly sweet mockery, his gold teeth shining with the blue hues of the boat. “I would hug you but I fear I may be in terrible form to do so due to the unbound mercy of the little giant’s father.”
“I would say it taught you to mind your tongue, but clearly not,” Freya quipped back, though Heimdall was not her son by blood, she did raise the boy in part. She knew well his tactics, his ploys for reactions. She learnt well that he relied on reactions, it was rather annoying when people figured that part out.
“Uh... Heimdall, hey- hi,” Loki- Atreus, whatever the little runt was called greeted him awkwardly, it was distasteful how unsure he was, despite his heritage the half-breed should at least try to hold himself in a little higher regard for his station. “I’m happy you’re alive.”
“Oh, yes how happy I feel to be alive also,” Heimdall gritted through his teeth. “Positively elated to be surrounded by those I wouldn’t deem worthy enough to lick my boots clean.”
“I think the fact that he’s actually here, is freaking me out even more,” Freyr muttered in his half-delirious state. “Wake me up when this boat ride’s over.”
A few minutes into the boat ride, after the near-death experience of the boat taking off from the water to air (though it could have been hours for all Heimdall could tell in his state of affairs right now) he thought one of Freyr’s band of wayward lambs had said something, but he was too disorientated to figure out what it was.
The world gradually fell back into focus when the air shifted, where calm had been amongst the travellers of the boat, tension had built. A screech of a wyvern pierced the air, Heimdall groaned as it shook his skull, causing a pounding in his ears that he thought he had finally quelled back to a light hum. He had not realised the reason for the commotion until it glared obviously in his face. He could make out the shadows of the fight around him, though he tried his best to dull it. It was absolutely ridiculous that Kratos would drag him along despite his own request for an honourable death to only be forced to defend the lot when they walked ridiculously into danger. It was unbelievable that they all had survived for as long as they had really.
“Birgir!” One of the elves shouted in distress.
Oh, now they were just being annoying. The insistent yelling was beyond unneeded and all to find out it was because one of Freyr’s band of idiots was being stupidly heroic in thinking self-sacrifice was needed. The man in question wore a mask of determination and purpose, resolution settled in his mind about what he was about to do. He wanted to ignore it, but he knew the self-pity from everyone else would be drowning him afterwards when they mourned the idiot’s death.
Wounded as he was, it occurred to Heimdall distantly that no one was going to do a thing to stop the idiot. It was unbelievable that Heimdall had to be the one to do something about this. He reached down to test his magic, it waned and sparked, coiling away in protest to his calling. It was dangerously low for the plan he had in mind. Kratos seemed to sense the shift in the Aesir god's demeanour, eyeing him carefully as he tried to focus on the fruitless battle in the sky. Heimdall was not one to take risks, the path he saw in front of him was not in his favour, though there was no certainty of death in it. Either way, it would benefit him either with death or the lack of whining from everyone around them when their friend did not die needlessly.
It hurt just as much to slow time down, the wounds on his body screamed at the diversion of his magic to dull his pain, but it was still the relatively easy part of the matter. The conjuration though, that part would be painful to hold. When he fought Kratos, he had to fall back to his conjuration abilities for added armour when it was clear that god had a chance to harm him. He never liked the use of the ability; Odin had told him it was meaningless for what his duties called for so he had never practised it much since childhood. But when his arm was gone, ripped from his body and the pain and anger of it boiled inside him, Heimdall had called on that ability to reform what he lost. He could do it till now, but it was a waste of magic he did not have to spare. Magic that he needed if he was going to fend off the wyverns long enough for them to pass safely across the skies. It would require a force in equal measure to their own size to do so and it was a conjuration Heimdall had never attempted before.
His movements were sluggish, even with time slowed down to a near halt, he felt he lacked enough speed to actually use the grace period it gave him to finish his task. Birgir, it seemed with sword raised and feet dangerously close to the edge of the boat, was lucky that Heimdall was not as sluggish as he thought himself to be when he pulled the brute back from the edge. He felt the waning of the time shift ebbing away, it was his last moments before he would be able to conjure the beast in mind that he seized. His father would be absolutely furious, he thought absently, not that this little slight to the All-Father's commands of him would compare to him failing and taking refuge with the traitors he was sent to exterminate. He cleared his mind of such thoughts as he felt the formation grow in his mind, envisioning it in the sky. The wings cast long shadows over them, its lean body coiled in knots, talons as sharp as a blade. It was monstrously beautiful, Heimdall thought to himself, though he would expect nothing less from himself. But even with the formation made, his magic had to hold the conjured wyvern’s form long enough to be of use, time sped up as Heimdall sacrificed that magical expense to redirect it towards his wyvern.
“What the-” The little runt uttered. His eyes focused on the hues of Bifrost pinks from Heimdall’s wyvern, Heimdall had not the focus to scoff at his amazement, not when he had to maintain the conjuration. “Is that- Heimdall, is that your magic?”
Atreus looked on in disbelief and awe as Heimdall concentrated on his own creation, the wyverns themselves curling in a dance of teeth and claws at each other, all but forgetting their original target for their new one.
“Atreus! Arrow,” Kratos was quick to action, seeing the failing strength of the Aesir god. When one of the wyverns came close enough, an arrow flew, leaving a sigil for Kratos to use. His blades met their mark and the combustion was loud, sparks flying as the wyvern coiled and screeched in anguish, its momentum for flight gone as it fell from the sky.
The second succumbed to Heimdall’s own wyvern falling from the sky, its injuries becoming too great when the Bifrost wyvern ripped the wings from its back in shreds of viscera when the claws shredded the underbelly of the beast. Heimdall grimaced in pain, his magic had only just managed to survive long enough for that feat and as soon as it was clear the second wyvern would not return, his magic failed. The glow of the Bifrost wyvern faded just as quickly as it had formed before their eyes. Heimdall stood for a moment, the shock of his own exhaustion shook his entire being. He felt himself shake, felt his head spin, he was sure he was to fall off the boat until strong arms steady him back down safely. It was Birgir who had caught him before he fell. A look of... appreciation, intentions true to match it. Heimdall wasn’t sure he trusted his foresight right now though; he felt his magic refusing to work with him after that strain of use.
“What the hell happened?” Freyr questioned, looking around at the others. It appeared most had the same question, Freya left her own brother’s side for a moment to check on the younger Aesir god, her hands glowing with magic as though she was tempting to coax Heimdall’s own to respond.
“You stupid child,” Freya chided, for all the resentment she held towards Heimdall for his loyalty to Odin, she remembered a time when she acted as a mother to the boy. Before, when she had urged his death to Kratos it was easy to displace the child she once knew because it was as though nothing remained of him. Heimdall had grown bitter and cold against the hopeful and warm child she had once seen. The child she knew had died long ago, or that is what she had believed until now. “I can’t feel any of your magic, do you have any idea the damage you could do to yourself?”
“Will he be alright?” Atreus asked, his bow lowered and almost forgotten as he stared at the Aesir god, shaking and seizing at Freya’s feet. “He’s gonna be alright, right?”
“Let Freya concentrate, Atreus,” his father said solemnly, yet he could not dismiss his own child’s worries as they too had become his own at that moment. Seeing the arrogant god in a new light at that moment, perhaps only reinforced his belief for the change in himself to be good.
“I-” Heimdall felt his tongue heavy in his mouth, Freya went to hush him but Heimdall scrunched his face like an annoyed child persisting on in his point. “I- I wo-would not of- of had to if t-this moron, was... not g-going to jump t-the fuc-fucking boat.”
Kratos looked to the man in question when he nodded to the unasked question. It seemed most were left unsure of how to respond. Freya alternated between caring for her brother and Heimdall as the boat ride continued in silence. Heimdall’s condition improved somewhat, his shakes halted though he remained unfocused, his eyes dimmed with his ability for foresight waning. Heimdall had wanted to tell Freya that he grew tired of her pitiful attempts to care for him, that he could well enough heal in his own time without her help. He had done so before and he would again despite what they may think of him. But he couldn’t help but preened at the soothing touch she held, the way her hands held no malice in their intentions. Even Kratos’ watchful eye on him was somewhat comforting, a reassuring presence that someone was watching over his wellbeing was a stark difference from the fatherly care he grew to understand. Even the little runt had grown clingy towards him, it was positively sickly how comforted Heimdall felt in the presence of traitors.
“Thank you for saving Birgir, you didn’t have to,” Loki- Atreus said finally, Heimdall could tell the runt had that bottled up for some time along their journey.
“I did not do it for any of you,” Heimdall mumbled, his eyelids had not opened in recognition of the conversation, the mere thought of the act was too tiring to try. “I have a headache from your father’s brutality and did not want to worsen it by listening to all your woes when your idiot friend killed himself.”
“You saved a man from death despite the sacrifice to yourself,” Kratos said, the approval in his voice was something Heimdall had craved from his own father and it twisted inside of him that he was pleased to hear it from this brute. “It was an honourable act.”
“Honourable would have been granting me death on the battlefield, do not excuse my actions as anything but attempts to relieve myself of the position I find myself in.”
The connotation hung heavy in the air, the others on the boat casting wayward glances at the injured Aesir before resuming their own silence.
Well , that seemed to shut the both of them up, Heimdall thought drily. His foresight was thankfully dulled right now and he could not hear them as clearly as he should have been able to. It was too easy to ignore the two and drift between bouts of sleep and restless waiting.
---
It was all fairly innocent really.
Heimdall, at the tender age of ninety-seven and still a mere child by Aesir standards, was relaxing, perhaps hiding would be his true intentions but no one need know that up his favourite tree in Lady Freya’s garden when the faint sounds of sobbing echoed through the garden, soon followed by the loud trampling that left devastation to the perfectly kept flower beds. Lady Freya would be displeased at the destruction, Heimdall thought as he watched Lady Syn all but crash into the tree Heimdall found himself in.
Heimdall watched for some time as the young Aesir goddess wallowed and wailed with despair, a feeling of awkwardness settling in himself when he realised he could not move or leave for fear of her noticing him.
He did not know her well truly, outside of his own family, Heimdall had little to do with the other Aesir families. It was by choice, he had grown tired of listening, unintentionally, to all their thoughts. It was better for his own sanity at least to stay away from them.
Of course, Heimdall knew it was not all their fault that they thought so loudly. He had chosen to seclude himself away, perhaps with a large influence from Odin. The association was, however, too great for Heimdall to ignore. The association was that they all had what he could not. Freedom. It was impossible for him to be even acquaintances with the other Aesir without his own resentment boiling inside himself at that mere thought of freedom. But now was alright, as long as the young goddess did not see him, then he could pretend she wasn’t even here.
Until he realised, she was looking up at him. “Prince Heimdall, wh-what are you doing up there?” Her voice was soft, wet with the tears that ran down her face. Heimdall forced his eyes not to widen in fear of being found, as well as his instincts to run away.
“This is my step-mother's garden,” Heimdall shot back as indigently as he could manage. “Why are you here?”
Lady Syn sighed, though the flow of tears had stemmed in her eyes, her face was blotchy and stained. Heimdall didn’t think he’d ever seen someone look so distraught, the small part of him that didn’t feel angry that she had disturbed his peace felt sorry for her.
“I’m sorry to disturb your peace,” she sniffled. “My parents have been... talking about marriages and I- I have no room or choice! I’ve only just turned of age and they talk as though I am a bargaining chip!” Her soft tone had soon morphed into rightful anger. Heimdall had no jealousy towards womanly duties and roles in their land.
“I’m... sorry?” Heimdall tested the word as though he had never spoken it, looking unsure as to whether he had said the right thing to qual her anger.
“You- you are a prince, perhaps you could talk to your father and persuade my parents out of such talks,” It was an innocent request, one Heimdall could see no deceit in but... talking to his father about the matter was less ideal.
Heimdall scrunched his face, “I don’t think it will help.”
“Oh, you must try Heimdall, please?”
Heimdall sighed, maybe now was the time to move past his own resentments towards the other Aesir, he was after all miserable hiding away by himself. Lady Syn didn’t appear to have any ill intent behind her eyes, and she looked to him not as the God of Foresight but as though he was a friend instead. It was oddly nice.
“I could... ask I suppose.”
Her grin was beautiful, despite her tear-stained face. “Thank you, my prince.”
And with that the young Aesir goddess strolled back through the garden, having little care about the paths imposed by Freya so as not to destroy the flowers.
Heimdall had asked as Lady Syn requested and his father even agreed to think about it! All that worrying was for nought on his father’s reaction.
To say Heimdall than put it out of his mind was easy enough, he had simply thought the matter resolved and his part played. His foresight had not seen this turn of events.
He easily sidestepped the furious Lady Syn when she moved to grab him, her glare meeting his eyes as he felt the rage positively oozing from her. She tried once more but Heimdall was easily able to see her moves, despite his combat training, he found himself not wanting to risk the other Aesir gaining the upper hand at this moment. Not when it was clear how much she wanted to harm him.
“You ruined everything!” She spat with such ferocity that Heimdall struggled not to flinch at the power of the words.
“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Heimdall stated, feeling certain that he did know but not knowing how it was entirely his fault that her parents did not listen to Odin. It was an idiotic connection on her part if she thought the blame lay solely on him.
“My parents told me of the All-Father's blessing for my marriage, you deceitful worm!”
“Blessing?”
Syn rolled her eyes, “Yes, a blessing.”
“I swear to you, I did not tell the All-Father to bless it!” Heimdall saw the goddess grind her teeth at him, she was deciding between lunging at him, knowing full well she would not succeed or simply seething some more at him.
“And yet he did! You would call the All-Father deceitful?”
Heimdall’s eyes widened, “No!”
“So, then it is you who is deceitful.”
Heimdall’s eyes hardened and he thought he did a good job masking the betrayal that stirred inside him at the accusation. “Oh,” he taunted. “And you are not? Conspiring behind your parent's back to leave a beneficial marriage.” Heimdall tsked. He saw it in her now, her use of him. It was as the All-Father always said, those true intentions were hidden behind falsehoods of pleasantries.
“I thought you different, Prince Heimdall.”
Heimdall resisted the urge to laugh bleakly at her as she stormed off, of course, he wasn’t. Just as she was no different than everyone else around him. How could he forget Odin’s teachings on the matter? He remembered one of his first lessons on the matter when Odin came storming into his own chamber, having caught his son reading one of his many books shelved there. Heimdall had thought the travelling merchant well intentioned when he was invited to Asgard, however, such was not true when he left with many prized possessions from the royal family. Heimdall had winced as the shelves dug into his back when Odin picked him and slammed him into it. Heimdall knew his place well by now and knew not to challenge the All-Father. He was furious at his failure. Furious at his inability to predict the worst of intentions in the man. The hand snaked around his throat and squeezed; his hands fumbled with his father’s out of instinct before his father dropped him to the floor. He had curled up in a ball, shaking as Odin stormed away.
The only peace now he found in his step-mother's garden, refusing to go back to his father’s personal library. It’s where he found himself going after Lady Syn stormed off. Freya had been tending to her garden that day, content in her own peace that Heimdall hadn’t meant to disturb which was unavoidable now as she caught sight of his upset nature. “Heimdall, what is wrong?”
She reminded him of his own mother or the mother he wanted to have. To be frank, he remembered little of his own. Her hands were gentle when she cupped his small face, he could not bear to look her in the eyes though, not wanting to see any ill-intent he may see.
“Nothing.”
“Heimdall, if someone has-”
“It is nothing,” Heimdall insisted and Freya sighed at his stubbornness. They had spent the rest of the day tending to the flowers and fruits of the garden, it was a blissful distraction.
---
The boat was slowing down, and the sight of the camp was within clear distance from the group. It was a relieving sight for all of them, weary from the long fight and tasking ride over.
“We’re almost there, Yngvi,” Freya soothed as the boat was ready into the dock of Freyr’s camp. “Just hold on a bit longer.”
“You know, this is the quietest I’ve ever heard ya be, Heimdall,” Mimir called from his perch on Atreus’ lap, he was correct, the Aesir had not mumbled curses at them for some time. “Is the little shit even breathing, brother?”
“He is.”
“I think he passed out,” Atreus squinted his eyes, his leg even dared to kick the older god in a test to see if he would react. “You know, I heard Thor say that Heimdall once smacked his face on a table when he dodged a cup thrown at him.” Upon no response, Atreus chuckled. “Yeah, he’s out.”
Freya raised her eyebrows as she ushered her brother off the boat, instructing Lunda on herbs and ingredients for the healing balms needed to stem the bleeding for her brother “Heimdall being unconscious is among one of the many feats he has not claimed until today. With much luck, he wakes with a better personality too.”
Kratos had picked up the young god, cradling his warm body against his own. The younger god looked peaceful, more so than he ever seemed when he was awake, his son attesting to the turbulent personality the arrogant god had.
“Kratos, let me have another look at him, his magic is taking longer than it should to replenish,” Kratos nodded at the women laying him gingerly down next to Freyr who whined at the treatment Lunda was giving him. Her hands travelled over his body, a small smile settling on her lips, “It is returning, slowly, but it is.”
“I never thanked you, father,” Atreus spoke, watching as Freya worked over Heimdall with a tenderness any mother would. “I know it couldn’t have been easy, to spare him. He’s... a lot to handle, especially when he tries to make you hate him, but I don’t think he’s a bad guy deep down. I mean he saved Birgir when he didn’t have to. I just think Odin’s really messed him up.”
“Oooh oooh, you can say that again little brother. I remember the training that man put that boy through, it was not something no child should ever face. Too bad the poor bastard still doesn’t understand that Odin would rather sacrifice him to prevent his own death,” Mimir said, his voice laced heavily with disgust.
“No father should place themselves before their children,” Kratos growled, his anger unyielding at the disgrace of Odin’s actions.
“Then we show Heimdall better,” Atreus smiled at him, and Kratos could not help but feel proud of the boy he had raised.