That foolish little thing called Freedom

by 247Elena

Summary:

'To think he had wasted his father’s time to end up like this, it 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.'

-
An AU in which Kratos does not kill Heimdall in Vanaheim and starts the journey of redemption for the wayward arrogant Aesir god. Odin in his all-knowing wisdom has convinced Heimdall his worth is dependent on his ability to comply with his wishes and has convinced the young Aesir god that that is what family love is.
In his 'capture' with the group of traitors, Heimdall's captors try to convince him that he is not unlovable as he has always believed himself to be. Heimdall is not so sure that he agrees with their sentiments though.

Notes:

Y'all, why must I fall for underdeveloped, snarky, arrogant little shits?

Why must they be the focus of my writing muse? Why?

This game kickstarted my writing funk and I've managed to spew over seven thousand words into this story so far. Also! Put ya hand up if you are ready for some hardcore backstory into Heimdall's childhood because I'm here to project some trauma and my boy Heimdall is suffering for it! Wanna know why he's such an arrogant little brat? Read to find out!

Also, forgive any errors, this has been written madly and I have no beta reader!

Chapter 1: run you down, down 'til you fall

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.  

Chapter 2: a duty of care

Notes:

Wow, did not expect this chapter to work up to ten thousand words but that's just kinda where it finished nicely for me. I'm literally writing this non-stop and I'm trying to get as much of it written before my eventual burnout and I start slowing down with my writing!

Events in these next few chapters are much the same as the game progression, I'm taking artistic license to draw out the timeline to better suit the needs of the story. Much of this involves flashbacks and a lot of people trying to care for a grumpy and spiteful Heimdall.

Heed the tags, there is an exploration into childhood abuse and trauma further in this chapter so again, just be aware of what the story is about and take care of yourselves first and foremost.

Heimdall screamed his lungs out until he felt them burn with the level of terror he felt inside. What had he done?  

Father would know what to do, he thought. He had to, Heimdall gathered himself up as best he could and stumbled through the hall and down the passage that connected to Odin’s chambers.  

“Help!” he cried, shoving the door open.  

In his complete terror at his own mistake, he hadn’t noticed his father’s expression shift from surprise to annoyance and loathing at the sight of his son.  

“Father, help, I don’t know... I don’t understand what I have done, I was- I was just trying to conjure a wisp but now- now it won’t go away!” he raced forwards, wanting to be held in his father’s arms as his conjuration grew larger and larger without his consent behind him, it had followed him through the Great Lodge. He had never been adept at it; father had told him constantly that it was a useless ability for someone of his station as the God of Foresight. As a son of the All-Father. But he had wanted to try, to try and impress his father and show him it could be useful. Though his father was reluctant to hold any of his children, unlike how his mother was before she left, Heimdall craved the comfort of a parent right now and his father would understand that. His mother had cherished her time with him, but his mother also wasn’t here, surely his father wouldn’t deny him some comfort while he was clearly so distressed.  

“Stop, Heimdall!” His father’s words were cold, freezing Heimdall in his place despite his distress. Heimdall was shocked at his father’s tone, his eyes dared to try and meet his father's before a slap came quick and sharp across his face, Heimdall felt the sting and burning of it long after his father's hand lowered. “What have I said about doing that, Heimdall? I told you; you can’t use your gifts on me, it’s impolite and frankly so disloyal that you would even think I have nothing but the best of intentions for you.”  

“Sorry, Father, but I-”  

“Did I say you could speak?” Odin scoffed, staring down at Heimdall again with heightened disappointment, all too noticeable even without his gift for foresight. “What have you done?”  

“I- I...” Heimdall hiccupped, choking on his words. If he could simply see what his father wanted, then he would know how to speak and know what to say to make this all better. “I was practising my conjuration... I wanted to create wisps to patrol the wall... but they wouldn’t stop growing and now I don’t know how to make them go away! Please, please make them go away, I didn’t mean to, I promise!”  

Odin stared down at his son, a calculating expression drawn on his face before he sighed in exhaustion, “Heimdall, you stupid, pathetic boy.”  

The silence afterwards echoed in the chamber.  

“I- I’m not stupid,” Heimdall sniffled finally finding the words that were caught in his throat, his eyes felt like they were burning with fiery tears. “I was helping, I was just trying to help. If mother was here-”  

“Your mother is a wanton whore, you think you’re any special in the litter she has, dear Heimdall?” His father said calmly as if the words weren’t knives to Heimdal’s chest. “You would neglect the one duty I have graciously given you, where you lack both your brother's strength and fight, many fathers would have thrown you to the wolves, but I- in my love and wisdom- have found the one task you are good at, and you are already trying to neglect your duty by your silly conjurations!”  

“No, no, I’m not!” Heimdall sobbed, “I’m sorry, I’ll do better, please!” 
 

“Heimdall, cease your wailing, it’s unfitting for a son of mine,” Odin commanded while Heimdall shook his head, refusing to digest his own father’s words. “You are weak and feeble, Heimdall, you fail me in being a true warrior. However, the Norns have taken pity on you by allowing you to have a role in protecting Asgard. I will fix your useless conjurations, just so I don’t have to look at your failures so plainly for longer than need be.”  

“Thank you,” Heimdall breathed, shuddering in relief as he tried to stem his sobs. Odin placed a hand on Heimdall’s shoulder and Heimdall could feel the familiar touch of his father’s magic washing over him, severing the ties to the conjurations until they faded into nothing but a shameful memory for Heimdall. 

“There,” his father said, his hand quickly retreating from his son’s shoulder as soon as the task was complete. Heimdall sighed in relief, the anxiety ebbing away from inside him. In his relief, Heimdall sort comfort in his father’s arms. Odin sneered, catching the boy’s arm in his hand and raising it till he was dangling off the floor. “You would seek reward for your mistakes? Heimdall, do you think you are deserving of anything more from me? After all, I’ve just done?”  

Heimdall struggled in his father’s grasp, the rejection hurting perhaps more than the hand in a death grip around his arm. But... his father was right, he asked too much. He... he was just like his mother. Demanding and greedy. “No, father.”  

The All-Father settled his son back down on the floor, the same hand that squeezed Heimdall painfully so now laid on his shoulder in a mockery of comfort. “See? You can be smart and obedient. I always believed that you could be a good son. You try me sometimes, Heimdall, but know that it is my love that causes me to act so, if only you behaved like a proper son of mine then I wouldn’t have to discipline you.”  

Heimdall drew in a shaky breath and nodded, he could behave, he could be better. He had to be, he would not disappoint his father once more. “Yes, Father, thank you.”  

“Good, now get out of my sight, you disturbed me while I was doing very important work.”  

Heimdall fled from the All-Father's chamber, any thoughts of the conjuration now forgotten in his mind.  

---  

The bouts of consciousness came in flashes, each one pierced with the shouts of voices throwing back and forth between one another. Continuously, they argued and Heimdall came to the conclusion that all these people did was bicker. Was it purely because they did not wish him peace even after they defeated him? Or was it the norm amongst them? If this was how they conducted themselves, then Asgard truly had no fear because they will simply bicker right through Ragnarök. Heimdall may be able to deal with that if he was not the victim of their wailings right now.

“Oh no, oh no, no, no, this is bad, really bad.” One voice stabbed through Heimdall's head like a hot iron. 

He remembered... remembered the fight with Kratos, remembered the running and the boat. The wyverns flying over them and then... 

“The fuck you want us to do with him? Fucker looks on death's door.” Another iron to his skull and Heimdall wanted to tear his hair out in frustration. 

The conjuration, his magic weaving and threading together to form a beast to rival the wyverns. It had been beautiful yet disgusting at the same time. Odin would not have been pleased. 

“Odin’s wrath will be immeasurable; his son is leaking all over my place! The dirt! The blood- oh god the blood!” The voice gagged and heaved even as it spoke the words. “It’s everywhere!”  

And he paid for it when his body broke at the expense of his magic. Yet he had continued on, pushed until his body trembled with his exhaustion. It had been too much. 

“Quite your whining! We’s was already royally fucked up the a-hole, might as well add to the shit pile with Odin’s royal horn blower!”  

Why were they still talking? Why were they so loud?

“Kratos, do you believe it is wise to have claimed Odin’s son as a war trophy?” That voice was distinctly familiar, one Heimdall had not heard in some time since he was a mere child. How had they managed to get his brother Tyr here? It was rather odd unless that brat snuck into the dungeons of Asgard, not unbelievable considering the treachery held in the half-breed stain. 

“He’s not a war trophy!” The little runt sounded almost indecent at the prospect! My, my, Heimdall thought, how naïve the little giant was! “Father wanted a peaceful resolution, just like you! And Heimdall saved us!”  

“Saved you?” The familiar voice, Tyr, seemed cautious, a dangerous tilt in it that Heimdall swore only the All-Father could have. "I find that difficult to believe."  

“Who woulda thought!” Freyr giggled, Heimdall’s eyes finally opened to slants to catch the Vanir God cringing in pain at the mere movement, it made Heimdall happy to see the smirk quickly dissipate even when the lights of the room assaulted Heimdall's senses. 

“Yngvi! Hush!” Freya urged, a forceful hand holding her brother still. “It is true, Heimdall’s conjuration skills are more impressive than I remember them to be.”  

“Yeah! You should have seen it! He conjured a wyvern! It was so cool!” The boy piped in, though Heimdall would not turn his nose away at compliments to his abilities, as grand as they were, the boy’s voice was worsening his headache still.  

“If you all insist on regaling my wonderous talents, do so in a quiet manner, your voices are grating on my delicate ears,' Heimdall ground out through clenched teeth, he still hung on the Spartan war god's arm like a sack of meat, his body heavy with exhaustion still. 

“Kratos, lay him down somewhere, once I’ve stabilised my brother well enough, I’ll deal with Heimdall’s injuries," Freya instructed.

“Wait, wait, wait!” The gruff voice, that Heimdall could now pinpoint to the blue dwarf when his senses aligned enough for him to have a picture of the room around him. “How the fuck we know this ain’t some All-Father trickery bullshit?”  

“I can assure you; I am unable to so much as perform any ‘tricks’ as you are to reach the tip of my nose you stunted creature, and I would rather see Thor naked than have my arm dismembered from my body in order to trick your pathetic lot,” Heimdall sneered, but it came out weak and without his usual malice.  

“He can have my bed, father, I haven’t been using it much lately anyway.” The rodent giant offered, annoyingly nice in tone and Heimdall turned his ire to him instead now. 

He could feel the god of war looking at him, really looking at him with his stern eyes as though he intended to burn through Heimdall's skull. The ogre of a god was too easy to read, he practically screamed his thoughts at Heimdall. He thought of Heimdall with pity, pity for his belief in the All-Father, pity that he was still loyal to him. Heimdall wanted to gouge out the god's eyes in response to it, the man knew nothing of loyalty, and it was plain to see that. But riddled throughout that pity were strands of respect that the Aesir god could not understand. It did not make sense for Kratos to hold respect for Heimdall, it was rooted in the Aesir's demonstration on the boat, perceived as an act of sacrifice for them all. That respect was misplaced and unneeded, Heimdall only acted in self-interest, and he would make the other god see that. The idiot war god was simple enough to mistake it for anything but. 

But yet, Heimdall was too tired to argue. Too tired to correct him on his false belief.  So, he allowed the old god of war to drag him into the little runt's room without protest, his bouts of sleep were becoming his own blissful and cowardly way of escaping from this horror. 

---  

Atreus looked at his once- well maybe he still was despite current circumstances- hated rival and bully. Everything about the arrogant god was off. Though he was sure it had to do with the humbling of defeat his father gave him, Atreus could feel something else brewing inside the Aesir that he was sure the Aesir god had not even noticed. The god’s posture, his voice, the way he clung to his father as if he was going to faint again should he let go. His once pure white clothing was stained horribly with hues of clotted red and dirty brown from the battle. He remembered in their own fight when Atreus had first arrived in Asgard when specks of dirt had gotten on the God of Foresight, it had him recoil in disgust much as Sindri would. To now see his golden hair, perfectly groomed and braided, matted with blood and leaves was quite startling. To not see the Aesir be proud was just as strange and it was oddly saddening. Despite Heimdall’s treatment of him, Atreus wasn’t joyed to see him like this. His gut told him that what troubled Heimdall so was much deeper than he could see, a deeper cut than whatever wounds his father gave Heimdall today.  

His father laid the young god down on his bed, he was tender in his actions, making sure the furs hugged the young god comfortably so. It was odd to see his father be this gentle with other people, though Atreus was sure that if Heimdall was awake, his father wouldn't have taken as much care as he just did. 

“I should go get some water and a washcloth, he needs his wounds cleaned,” it was not so much his wounds as Atreus simply thought that Heimdall would be furious if he woke once more in filth. His father nodded in agreement, trusting Atreus in the care for the golden-haired god, there was much to discuss with others now that they had returned, and his father had never been one for tending to the wounds of others unless it was absolutely necessary. 

Atreus had done this many times with his father, their battles often left them ached and bruised and despite their god-gifted strength and abilities, it did not mean the wounds of battle simply disappeared. His father often pushed himself too far, running off pure adrenaline unless Atreus forced him to stop and rest. His father often preached about the necessity for self-care in the strange way he did, but Atreus had noticed he sometimes lacked the ability to practice it himself, making it Atreus' task to slow them down when necessary. He dapped the cloth in the water wringing it slightly before wiping the dirt away in soft strokes from Heimdall's brow. It was a strange situation indeed, Atreus mused, to have the god who mocked him and teased him be in his care now.  

“You know, I never wanted any of this,” Atreus muttered as he continued his work, his hand hovering over Heimdall’s missing limb as he grimaced at the sight. “I just wanted to save my father, we’re not so different in that way, are we?”  

Heimdall did not even twitch in response so Atreus continued on.

“You’d say something mean to that in that higher-than-thou voice you’ve got, probably about how you’re nothing like me, you’re the finest of the Aesir and how dare I even compare myself to the likes of you.” It was easy to vent to the other god when he did not try to belittle him, in fact, it was cathartic to Atreus as he continued his work, his hair was rather difficult though. Even as Atreus unbraided it to rinse it of the dirt, blood and debris of the forest floor, there was an apprehension that the Aesir would suddenly wake and stab him for the affront of touching him. But he rather did like braiding his hair once more, it reminded him of when he would do it for his mother. Yet, it was done and Heimdall remained unconscious to the world. When Atreus finally rinsed the washcloth clean, Freya entered the room, sitting by Atreus as she carefully looked over the wounds. Though she fussed over the wounds Heimdall had littered over his body, she seemed more worried about his magic than anything else, though she said he was lucky that he had stanched his own arm before he performed such conjuration as he did on the boat.  

But despite Atreus' efforts to clean the Aesir, he had quickly become drenched in sweat once more, chest heaving in deep shallow breaths as though he was still fresh from the fight with his father. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Atreus asked his eyebrows furrowed in concern as he looked between Heimdall and Freya, her own face pinched with concern as she watched Heimdall struggle to draw in breath. “I thought he’d be getting better-”  

“He was not in a state to even think about conjuration on that level, little one,” Freya shook her head, the goddess looked tired. Atreus couldn't imagine the tiredness she must be feeling not only from the battle but from the healing she had done afterwards. “His magic plagues him.”  

“What plagues me, is all of your incessant presence,” Heimdall finally spoke, his voice was oddly slurred and dragged the syllables out. 

“How are you feeling?” Freya questioned, her eyes downcast as she busied herself arranging the herbs needed, passing a bowl to Atreus to busy himself with mixing.

“Wretched. I believe that should make the both of you happy,” Atreus shuffled, his hands found solace in the work of busying themselves with the herbs as Freya applied them gingerly to Heimdall's wounds. “Don’t you dare start with that pity, I want it not from the likes of you.”  

“Heimdall,” Freya warned, though her delicate hands counteracted her harsh words. “Your illness is worsening?” Heimdall gave a halfhearted shrug, barely noticeable as he didn’t seem to have the energy to do more. “Do you need-”  

“I need nothing, not from you, Frigg nor the half-breed. Now go away, and do not bother me.”  

But the two did return, Atreus more so now that Heimdall felt the little runt was merely doing it because of his weakened state. And with each time, Heimdall cursed at them a little less, as the nights and days passed, Heimdall’s pallor and fever grew tenfold. Atreus wanted Heimdall to heal not only physically but mentally as well if it was even possible. The Aesir was screwed up more than Atreus could even understand and that was an achievement against the others Atreus had met in the past.  

The first night of their return was met with distrust amongst everyone on the decision of Heimdall’s stay. The dwarves were worried about the revelation of their home, Tyr was adamant about Heimdall’s loyalty to Odin, that they could not trust him within these walls and that his return to Asgard was a must despite the need for him to impose Ragnarök. Freya was surprisingly quiet on the matter, tending to the golden-haired god without prompt, and Freyr as he worded it, had a ‘debt owed to the arrogant bastard for saving Birgir’. Kratos, in turn to everyone’s doubt, took responsibility for the young god and whatever consequences that would draw. 

Atreus was sure he would live to regret it as Heimdall made it all the more difficult to care for him. It seemed sickness had made his personality worse. He bickered and moaned, glared when words were obviously too difficult to speak and his mind unable to form them.

On one such visit, Atreus frowned at the God of Foresight. “You don’t look like you’re getting any better, I should get-”  

“What? Frigg? I’m sure she tires of caring for a little thing like me. Ridiculous,” yet even as Heimdall bit the words out like weapons to the young giant, he shivered in his blankets, uncontrollably. Atreus stepped forward and Heimdall does not even protest. When Atreus touched his forehead to feel the heat, he withdraws as though he touched an ember.  

“It’s a passing illness,” Heimdall said, yet even his voice could not deliver enough conviction to believe his own words.  

“It’s been weeks!” Atreus groaned, sighing in frustration at the god before him when he had nothing to say to it. “And you’re getting worse, not better! Why are you being so stubborn!”  

“I’m the same as I was.”  

“Then stop shaking, if you are.”  

Heimdall glared at him, stopping his shakes for a moment, looking at the little giant in defiance before a violent shake rolled through his body without consent and the shuddering returned just as strong. Atreus shook his head, gathering up more blankets to throw over the god and receiving nothing but a glare in return for his efforts.  

“Why do you continue to torment me? Has my treatment of you not spurned you away from such pleasantries?”  

“I’m not that bad to be around.”  

“I’m absolutely positive that you are merely urging my illness to worsen.”  

“You don’t actually mean that.”  

“I do, oh I do,” Heimdall gathered what strength he held to steady himself up, sitting to face Loki. “I do not understand the persistence in my wellbeing from you, if all you have need of me to do is blow Gjallarhorn to bring about the ruin I’ve seen in your eyes, this coddling is entirely unnecessary, and I would much prefer you to admit you would rather see me slowly rot away.”  

“I don’t want to see you slowly rot away; Odin must have really messed with your head if you can’t see when people are just trying to be nice to you.”  

“Do not bring my father into this. You know not his love for me,” Heimdall spat bitterly, “This charade you are playing is not going to change the fact that I see the destruction of Asgard in your eyes, that no matter what else you feel, deep down you are the harbinger of chaos to Asgard. I see cities fall to your words, your manipulations, you are trying to manipulate me and it will not work!”  

Atreus sets his mouth into a firm line. This visit was turning into one of the worse ones that they'd had, not as bad as the time when Heimdall was spitting curses and insults until he had accounted for every single person in Sindri’s home. Things had gotten quite... graphic in his details of torments he’d inflict on them when he could stand once more. Kratos had simply shut the door that time and let the Aesir god tire himself out.  

Heimdall had started to shiver again when his temper died down once more, his spurts of energy were becoming less and less these days. It had dawned on Atreus that Heimdall was more agitated after receiving care, he could understand now why Freya often timed her care when the Aesir god slept. Every act of kindness from them was met with obstinacies and vitriol in equal measure.  

It made Atreus unbearably sad in turn.  

“Catch ya later, Heimdall.”  

There was no response as he left Heimdall’s room, it was no longer his now that it was obvious the god was not to recover anytime soon.  

---  

When Kratos decided to visit, Heimdall’s fever had heightened, there were contrasting spots of colour on his cheeks against the pale pallet of his skin tone nowadays and sweat beading at his temples. Heimdall, in his better days, would do more than sit listlessly in his spot on the bed watching as the Spartan god entered the room, glassy eyes tracking the war god as he sat.  

“Your fever has worsened, you should eat,” Kratos stated so plainly that Heimdall smirked at the absurdity of it. 

“Surprising you are not the god of wisdom,” Heimdall wrapped an arm around his stomach. “The thought of eating more of that swill you call food is nauseating.”  

“Hmm,” Kratos grunted, his eyes trained solely on the Aesir god. “Your heart is out of rhythm.”  

“So not the god of wisdom, but instead a healer, I’ll have to tell queen mistletoe she’s replaced,” when the jab did not elicit the expected response that Heimdall wanted he relented. “Maybe it is because the monster who nearly beat me to death is sitting feet from me and I cannot possibly do anything to protect myself.”  

“Your heart remains out of rhythm even when I am not present, Freya has said as much.”  

“You were asking about my well-being? Are you sure you are not unwell yourself?”  

“Very amusing,” Freya had asked as much when Kratos enquired into the Aesir god’s wellbeing. It should not be shocking that he had an interest in him, he had after all spared the young god’s life. “She fears you are not getting better, why?”  

“Why?” Heimdall laughed sinisterly. “Now if only Frigg had asked me that herself!”  

Kratos ignored him. “The injuries I gave you have since healed. Freya’s healing abilities should have aided in your recovery yet they have not-”  

“Precisely,” Heimdall said, an air of condensation in his tone.  

“Then why-”  

“Do you ask me infuriating questions due to my muddled mind, seek to take advantage of me some more?”  

“I’m trying to help.”  

“Well, don’t,” Heimdall snapped, yet when Kratos could not muster the intention of rage as Heimdall hoped he would, Heimdall had not the will to challenge the subject further. “I do not know why I am not replenishing my magic stores as I should nor why it is causing me this ailment-” Heimdall swallowed. “Perhaps Odin, in his infinite wisdom was right, that I could never escape his wrath should I ever stray from his guidance.”  

“You have questioned him before?”  

“As a child would rebel against any father in their stupidity, so did I,” Heimdall looked at Kratos and his eyes are shining. Kratos could not tell if the tears were from the fever or from whatever else stirred inside the young god. “It was easier to follow than to stray.”  

---  

Heimdall flinched violently as the door to his room was slammed open, his head banging on the wall as he sat up.  

“Brother mine! I need your aid!” The voice boomed, excitable in its tone as it called for him and Heimdall relaxed somewhat, rubbing the back of his head when the pain radiated.  

It was not Odin.  

That was good then.  

Heimdall quickly gathered to his feet, it was not often one of his brothers would venture to the top of the wall for him, so he could gaze up at Thor. His older half-sibling was the picture of destruction with tousled hair, and clothes muddied which had Heimdall cringing at whatever game his brother had planned.  

“Heimdall, the matter is most urgent,” Walking over to his younger brother, a dirtied hand on his shoulder that had Heimdall fighting the urge to escape. “Lady Sif has insulted my honour this very day and I would have your aid to defend it so.”  

Heimdall rolled his eyes, he could see well enough Thor’s misplaced intentions and knew more than the oaf himself what he really wanted to do. “Thor, if all you wish is to court Lady Sif, I refuse to be a party to whatever games...”  

“She has insulted my honour, bested me, the Son of Odin, in combat and mocked me relentlessly!” Thor huffed, folding his arms over his chest. “She used trickery, I swear by it! Magic or the sort to catch me off guard and in a moment of weakness, tripped me! It is not a slight to be taken lightly and as my brother, it is a slight to your honour too!”  

The Lady Sif had been the heart of Thor’s attention the most recently. Every time the maiden passed, Thor would practically jump at the chance to show his strength and valour. The clear infatuation was vomit-inducing if Heimdall had any say in the matter. The radiant goddess knew of Thor’s infatuation as well, Heimdall could tell, and did little to quell Thor’s attempts to grab the attention of herself. Yesterday morning, Thor had been boasting his swordsmanship rather loudly at breakfast, it was no wonder she challenged him to a duel of swords.  

“Thor,” Heimdall said slowly and with as little dismissiveness as he could possibly manage on such a childish matter. “Lady Sif is training to be a shield maiden; I do not think that your strength in swords compares to hers. Your speciality lies with your hammer.”  

Thor scowled at him. “This is yet another reason for your aid! Use your foresight to get Lady Sif to admit she merely was trying to court me and that I allowed her that small victory to spare her feelings.” Thor’s smile was wide, ear to ear as though he was hatching something mischievous. “Brother, I have noticed of late that you have remained on the wall more than with us, you seem very sad. I am hoping that by aiding me, it will make you happy again.”  

Heimdall’s eyes widened. He hadn’t foreseen that intention in Thor, he had seen his self-interest loudly enough that he needn’t look further into his mind, believing that was all there was to it. He wanted to laugh at the fact that it had taken Thor nearly two decades to realise that Heimdall frequented the city below less and less now, that he had not gone on hunts with any of them and refused to drink in their celebrations. As much as he wished to help Thor in whatever game he played with Lady Sif, it would do well that Odin not find out and think he was being remised in his duties on the wall. “Thor, brother, I would love to help you but I am sorry, I cannot leave my post.”  

“Why?” Thor demanded and Heimdall grew envious of the lack of duty his brother held, as his face had lost mirth and he could not understand Heimdall’s refusal. It was easy for Thor to presume a carefree nature on his own part, but for Heimdall, it was not. Heimdall remembered well the last time he had neglected his duties on the wall, in truth, he had been foolishly following Thor and Baldur’s lead and hunting in the Vanaheim wilds. He had not been gone long, he thought, Odin would not mind or even notice his absence.  

Odin, however, had and had been less than pleased upon his return. After he had yelled at Heimdall about his disgusting disregard for the safety of Asgard and how he was a coward in his nature to think he could hide from punishment upon his return, he had proceeded to beat Heimdall with his staff until he had almost passed out from the pain of it. Even though Heimdall knew of Odin’s promises to discipline him when he strayed from his guidance, (it was hardly the first time Heimdall had been tempted away from his station on the wall at his brothers' behests), it was still difficult to accept the consequences no matter how much he should. Odin was right, it was in his nature to be a burden, unruly, it was only with his loving hands that Heimdall would be a good son, worthy of the title of Prince of Asgard. Thor should understand as such but it was not in his nature to challenge the orders of Odin, he was perfect that way. Born perfect, unlike Heimdall. It was the one thought he held when he carried himself back to his chambers on the wall that night, bleeding from the cuts the staff had inflicted on his body.  

Heimdall had remained hidden in his chamber for some days after that, the All-Father telling his brothers of some task he was on to remain undisturbed. His wounds slowly healed on their own in that time, and by the end of his confinement, none would be the wiser that the untouchable god had been beaten so.  

“Brother?” Thor questioned, noticing the forlorn look in his little brother’s eyes. “Will you not help me? Your duty includes patrolling the streets of Asgard as well, no one will suspect anything more than you were simply by happenstance there at the same time. You are barely at meals with us anymore, you no longer hunt with Baldur and I, he has missed you.”  

“Baldur does not miss me.”  

“In truth, he has become too cocky, I miss your ability to shut him up,” Thor laughed and Heimdall couldn’t help the grin that was shyly gracing his face for what felt like the first time in a while.  

It suddenly dawned on Heimdall that he too had missed his own brothers in turn, just as it seemed that they had missed him.  

Thor was right. He was not enjoying himself these days and he grew fearful of stepping out of whatever invisible line Odin had drawn for him. Looking at the determined nature of Thor, realising his task today was not just to court Lady Sif but to also coax his brother out for fun, Heimdall decided to dare adventure today. Odin could become furious if he liked, Heimdall was not overstepping in his duties nor neglecting them for that matter, he should be able to be happy with Thor and Baldur again, even for a brief moment.  

“Fine,” Heimdall agreed and Thor’s face lit up in excitement, Heimdall could practically feel the secondhand buzz of happiness coursing through his head at that moment. “What do you propose we do?”  

---  

His visitors started to vary, the longer Heimdall stayed. Where first it remained just Atreus and Freya, eventually Kratos followed. It was strange since Heimdall knew the god was not a healer and had no patience to listen and tolerate his outbursts when he grew tired of others pestering. Even so, Heimdall thought those would be the extent of his visitors. The others had no reason or want to see the fallen Aesir god, maybe just to gloat about their defeat of him perhaps.  

So, it was troubling when the dwarves started showing up. At first, it was only the meek one, Sindri, Heimdall believed he heard him introduce himself, but he had not honestly been paying attention. Sindri had busied himself cleaning the room, muttering words of disgust at the piles of rags Atreus had left when he all but forcefully bathed Heimdall by hand after his bouts of sweats. Heimdall thought for a moment that he might be invisible when the dwarf seemed to acknowledge every part of the room but the Aesir god.

“Alright time to change the sheets,” The dwarf clapped his hands, spinning to Heimdall. The dwarf was jittery, his eyes looking everywhere but Heimdall’s as though he was actively trying not to be read by the Aesir god. It was... amusing to the Aesir.

“Oh? So, I am here, here I thought I had become invisible in my long captivity."

“Deepest, apologies my-my Prince, I was- hmmm, not avoiding you more so...”  

“Avoiding me out of fear of confrontation because it was you and that blue little creature that crafted the spear that shamed me in battle, deformed me so and made me a disgrace to Asgard?” Heimdall glared, revelling in the fear he felt radiating from the dwarf despite the fact the Aesir god could not so much as lift a finger in his state. “Fear that I want to strangle both of you in your sleep.”  

The dwarf's eyes widened in shock, all but confirming the fear the dwarf held. “How did you know? I thought you could only read minds with eye contact.”  

“I don’t need that when it is plainly obvious to even the dullest of creatures,” Heimdall scoffed. “Fear not though, that lovely spear of yours has made my need to feel the life leave your bodies with both my hands quite impossible, you have enough time before my magic is able to conjure my arm back once more to craft a little trinket to protect your ugly little necks.”  

He could tell the dwarf had not planned for such confrontation, that it had taken the weeks for him to even work up the courage to venture into Heimdall’s space to clean it, an obvious need for him with how he fidgeted at the sight of even a speck of dirt. That, the proud Asgardian prince could understand. He, himself, had been absolutely revolted at the state of affairs he was in yet as a prisoner he knew even his limits for graces with his hosts. He could spurn them for their manipulations, but he would not lower himself to begging for their pleasure, they would not have that from him.

Heimdall found he could not blame him for what possessed the dwarf to overcome that fear of death to clean this rather... horrid state of affairs he found himself in. Heimdall, ever untouchable until now, had grown too disgusted by what dirt and filth represented. It meant he had been touched and defiled, and that he was something he was not supposed to be. It was like a mark of open shame if Heimdall was not in perfect condition, a disgrace to the standards that Asgard should be. He, after all, was a beacon for the Aesir and a point of direction for them to aspire to. 

Heimdall broke his face into a twisted smile after a moment, he had played the dwarf for long enough and in truth, he was appreciative of what the dwarf was trying to do. But he would not tell the dwarf that. “I suppose you want me to get up?”  

“Oh, if you would!” Sindri seemed relieved, then he stopped himself looking at Heimdall and his state. The fever was still obvious on his skin, his arm shook as he leveraged himself up. Even the simple act of changing positions in his bed seemed to drain the Aesir considerably. Sindri’s face twitched at it. “Maybe I should go get Freya, you do not look well enough-”  

“I am well enough to stand on my own!” Heimdall bit out between his teeth, but he felt his one arm shake beneath and he knew his pride would fall once more as he collapsed back onto the bed, spitting out curses under his breath. “Don’t need the care or concern of a bunch of traitors.”  

“They’re just worried, you know,” Sindri glanced at the young Aesir god to gauge his reaction. It was a rather daring and courageous feat considering before he had done all he could to avoid the God of Foresight's gaze. Heimdall lay there unblinking, his face a mask of indifference but Sindri couldn’t help but notice the tremble in his fingers.  

“That worry was neither needed nor asked for dwarf, and if I were in the position of wanting the opinions of creatures lesser than me, I would not come to ones so easily bent to the will of their greaters."

And Heimdall saw it, a flash of challenge in the dwarf's eyes, a spark of something he certainly kept hidden from others, it was rather delicious to see it. "Ahhh, there it is, as weak as my foresight may be, there's no denying that spiteful little spitball of anger inside yourself. I truly wonder what it would take for you to turn vengeful, maybe dear brother's death, the allure of darkness is rather sweet, I can show you, even the purest of hearts are easily drawn to it."

"Don't ever talk about my brother like that again," the look was serious, but it was but a moment before Sindri dropped it just as quickly as it appeared. The dwarf truly was trying to hide that part of him, it seemed. Heimdall found that rather interesting, more so when the dwarf morphed before him, placing his hands on his hips as he looked down at the Aesir. "Now, I  will have you know that this is my house, you are a guest and therefore it does concern me as long as you stay under my roof. Now take my hand and let's get this place in a state befitting a Prince of Asgard.”  

“I do not need your aid,” the Watchman of Asgard dismissed, a second attempt to get up was in the works.  

“Oh yeah? Well too bad, princeling because I am known to be quite pushy,” he was not but he sure was not wasting this bout of confidence that had dangerously taken hold of him. He daringly grabbed the Aesir’s hand, ignoring how disgustingly slippery it was with fevered sweat and leveraged the frightfully light god up and off the bed without ceremony. “Oh- oh my. This is- a LOT of sweat, so, so sweaty. How are you sweating this much? O-oh, deep breaths, in and out, in and out.”  

“Why pray tell, are you trying to coach me through breathing exercises?” Heimdall asked exasperated, wincing as the dwarf all but dumped the Aesir into the chair beside his bed before quickly cleaning off his hands in a feverish fashion.  

“Oh, that wasn’t for you, that was for me. That whole ordeal was rather strenuous to me, I’ve never had to touch so much sweat in my life.”  

Heimdall made no move to comment from his spot on the chair, in fact, he looked rather exhausted from the whole ordeal. It was the exhaustion and stun from the dwarf’s own boldness that had Heimdall silent. If he had been at his full strength (and Heimdall had long since relented that he was not) he would have squashed the dwarf under his boot without a second thought.  

“Well,” Sindri prompted, finally looking satisfied with the cleanliness of his hands after he spent a good moment cleaning himself. “You’ve made quite an effort in absolutely ruining these sheets, can’t believe no one has changed them since your arrival.”  

The god finally recovered and slowly lifted his head up to the dwarf, watching as he all but discarded the soiled sheets in the garbage pile before fitting fresh and honestly sweet-smelling linen in turn. “I do not think it was of the utmost importance as far as Kratos was concerned.”  

“But Atreus knows better,” Sindri scolded the absent boy. “Are you drinking enough water, this level of... sweat cannot be good.”  

Sindri watched him curiously now but refrained from commenting further before the god spoke himself. He did not envy the position the Asgardian was in, he was practically at their mercy, defenceless. Sindri would never impose such a presence but he was sure that no matter Kratos’ words of peace, the Aesir god still held fear of change in the man. What would Sindri do in his place? It would be impossible for him to be Sindri in every sense of his being. Of course, he was sure he would have his brother’s aid, but what would Sindri do without his smithing as the Aesir god here had without his abilities and strength? It was a humbling thought, he understood how the Aesir god would feel pitiful in his own existence. Sindri reckons he would go mad himself and fast a that.

He waited for a few minutes for the god to gather his thoughts, Sindri was the more patient one of the pair of brothers after all and he had dealt with Brok’s stubbornness so this was nothing.  

But after another long moment, when the only sound in the room was the echoes of the wildlife outside, he fidgeted slightly where he was standing and truly started to wonder if Heimdall had simply forgotten he was there, to begin with. Sighing, the smith decided that the burden of conversation would remain with him apparently.  

“Don’t tell me they aren’t watering you,” he said tentatively. Sindri had never been adept in the arts of care and healing, too many germs and fluids in the process for him to even stay awake long enough to start the process before he fainted at the sight.  

“Watering me?” Heimdall finally spoke a look of disbelief plastered on his face at the dwarf’s wording. “You think me a flower in Freya’s garden?”  

“Bad choice of words, yes,” Sindri frowned. “But the question remains.”  

“They are giving me water.”  

“Well,” Sindri’s hands met his hips in contemplation. “We should make regular efforts to avoid this catastrophe again, twice a week should work until the fever’s gone and I’ll grab a new pair of clothing for you. Brok’s already on crafting you a new set of armour for when you’re well enough again but I don’t think that’ll be all too comfortable to sleep in.”  

“He’s crafting me armour?” Heimdall straightened in his seat, visibly shocked by the statement and berated himself for that feeling of appreciation that bubbled up inside of himself.  

“Of course, can’t have you fighting in that filthy one you had on, it’s all stained and bloody.”  

“I would not be in more of your debt,” Heimdall's voice was cautious, but again Sindri noticed a conflict on the young Aesir’s face, the tremble of his fingers. What was he itching for? His fingers twitched as though they yearned for something, his magic perhaps? The dwarf could not tell, but it was definitely a nervous gesture if Sindri ever saw one. He was somewhat of an expert on those, one he was sure Heimdall wasn’t aware of.  

“You won’t be,” Sindri assured. “I mean- if you want to think of it that way, maybe think of it as a symbol of reconciliation for the spear we made.”  

“I will... consider it, the trade does not seem fair seeming as I lost my arm, however, I will concede to the extenuating circumstances.”  

Sindri nodded at the god, seeming pleased with the progress he made in his short visit. It wasn’t friendly but it was a darn sight better than Sindri had hoped. At least he’ll be able to sleep a little better tonight not thinking the god would crawl into his room and murder him while he slept.  

“I’ll grab you a change of clothes and let you get back to bed and rest.”  

---  

Heimdall’s heart was positively racing in his chest as he ran through the streets of Asgard’s city, hot on Thor’s heels. The clattering of metal together sounded not far behind the brothers as the Einherjar followed suit, Heimdall cursed himself for ever agreeing to help Thor. Of course, of course, the oaf would get himself into more trouble and ‘accidentally’ let loose a herd of gradungr in his attempt to ‘save time to get to Lady Sif.  

One of the guards attempted to grab Heimdall, he dodged the grab but now found himself cornered by three of them with no room to escape unnoticed. He had realised then that he had been caught clearly neglecting his duties now by the guards. Not only that but causing disturbances to the peace of Asgard by releasing the gradungr herd.  

“What do you think-” The guard started.  

“Guard!” Thor bellowed, his stance dangerously looking as though he was about to charge them which Heimdall saw ending in further devastation for all parties involved. “You would do well to allow my brother free passage!”  

“What is the meaning of all this shouting?”  

At the sound of the voice, the entire group fell deadly silent.  

Heimdall froze, his eyes downcast in horror as Odin approached them. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and was certain his throat had seized and restricted, air barely managing to fill his lungs.  

“Guards, there’s no need for you to be here, I can deal with my sons,” Odin’s voice was soft and dismissive, deceptively so, and the guards left the three with no hesitation. Not that Heimdall had noticed their departure, his mind felt as though it was spinning with terror and the only coherent thought he had was that he had failed once more and there would be consequences. “Heimdall?” Odin asked, his voice was still light and soft but Heimdall had grown to notice the distinct sharpness of it when directed at him. All Heimdall could do was bow his head further, there was no point arguing against whatever the All-Father deemed necessary, he was all-knowing and kind in his punishments to better Heimdall after all.  

“Father, it was I who let the gradungr escape, I apologise for my actions,” Thor said solemnly. “I only asked Heimdall to aid me in seeing Lady Sif’s intentions...” Odin looked exasperated at the retelling of events, as though he had already known what had transpired but still let Thor continue, Heimdall found he could not listen to Thor’s retelling either, his mind too focused on Odin.  

“I see, I see,” Odin nodded thoughtfully after Thor finished. “Thor, I’ll have a word with you later, go to your room.”  

Thor nodded, it was clear he was displeased that they had not finished what they had set out to do, his anger directed at his father’s demands to send him away but he did so without fuss.  

Odin waited carefully until he was sure Thor had left them alone before turning to Heimdall, his staff shot painfully up under Heimdall’s chin digging into delicate skin and snapping his head up, he trained his eyes carefully down. Heimdall winced at the pressure of it, finding it difficult to swallow as Odin started to draw blood and Heimdall had to get on his toes to try and relieve the pain.  

“I thought you were smart, Heimdall, what were you doing listening to that half-wit brother of yours, neglecting your duty no less?’  

Heimdall wanted to protest, it was not as he said, after all, it was simply him trying to help his brother out. But he couldn’t find the words to speak.  

“Come along, Heimdall,” Odin commanded, his spear finally gone and Heimdall felt himself wobble on the ground with his renewed freedom. It was short-lived however when Odin grabbed his arm, a swarm of black ravens circled around them until they were in the room beneath Odin’s chambers.  

Heimdall stumbled in disorientation, struggling not to think about what might happen now that they were out of sight, he felt the burning of tears in his eyes but he did his best not to usher them. Odin was always displeased when Heimdall cried. A true son of Odin would never cry. It was just another reason Odin’s training and punishments were necessary.  

“I have tried to be gentle, tried to allow you to discover on your own why your duties are so important, Heimdall,” Odin shoved Heimdall to the floor of the room sending the child sprawling on his hands and knees as he let out a cry of pain. “Yet, you continue to disappoint and that’s not your fault, really. The blame lies on me for being so soft in my teachings.”  

“No, no, it’s my fault, father, I-”  

“Oh, Heimdall, don’t think agreeing will get you out of this,” Odin was towering over him now, though not a big man by Aesir standards, Odin carried himself with a presence to be feared. “Do you have no excuses for your actions today?”  

“It was Thor, I only meant to keep an eye on him,” Heimdall’s voice quivered, a sob dangerously echoing in it. “I’m sorry, I should have known- should have seen-”  

Odin cut him off with a sharp kick to his side and he curled in on himself.  

“And that is the problem we are having Heimdall, you believed Thor had the best of intentions because you refused to see the worst.”  

Heimdall’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, his hands finding purchase underneath as he tried to steady himself.  

Odin looked down at him, a look of consideration at his crumpled son that lay near his feet before he reached down to cradle his son’s head. Heimdall shut his eyes, not resisting the way he cringed at the touch but not pulling away either. There was nowhere to go, not here, not anywhere. Odin’s hand travelled to his forehead, resting there and Heimdall could feel the familiar tingle of the All-Father's magic flow through him.  

And suddenly voices started to grow, except he shouldn’t be able to hear them all the way down here. They shouldn’t be this loud... this hateful.  

“No! No!” Heimdall cried, he could hear everything! This couldn’t be happening; this couldn’t be happening! “Make them stop, please!”  

Yet when his eyes searched for the All-Father, he was only met with a cold expression. He couldn’t hear his father’s thoughts, couldn’t focus on anything as the spiteful voices whispered horrible things in his mind. Horrors he had never imagined any of his fellow Aesir to have.  

“Please, father, stop it, stop it!” Heimdall screamed, but Odin continued to say nothing, just reaching for his hair to drag Heimdall to his feet. Heimdall had no strength to hold himself upright, the pain of the grip his father held on him was faint compared to the agony he was hearing inside his own head. They echoed and cried, screamed and tore at him. He had never known them to be like this, to be clawing out his insides as they spoke.

“Listen to them, Heimdall, listen!” The All-Father said firmly. Heimdall screwed his eyes shut tightly, as though he was trying to force the voices out.  

“I don’t want to,” Heimdall sobbed, he felt broken, felt hollowed out and used as a vessel for their hatred. 

“But you must,” Odin implored. Heimdall could feel the voices grow louder, it felt as though he was listening to the whole of the Nine Realms, every deceit they held, every lie or manipulation hidden behind falsehoods. It was unbearable. His mind collided with each one and Heimdall had no way to halt it, no way to stop hearing the monster inside every single person. “You must protect Asgard from people like them, Heimdall, don't you see?”  

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Heimdall whispered, unable to stop the flow of tears that streamed down his face, taking in every terrible thing people had done. Their monstrous nature was absorbed into his own, staring back at him like a feared reflection of what was to come. “I’ll do whatever you want, please, I swear it.”  

Odin finally dropped him back down to the floor, watching his son fall ungracefully to the floor once more. Heimdall forced himself to straighten, whatever dignity he still held being the last remaining drive for his strength to remain upright. If he focused on something, anything, other than the voices in his head then he could find relief for but a moment. It was getting difficult to listen to it all, his solitude before had been his lifeline to escape the thoughts of the masses. Of course, Heimdall knew that not everyone had the purest of intentions, but it was comforting when he did not have to face it every day. Now though, even in solitude despite the All-Father's presence, the voices found him instead.  

“I think a week should do,” Odin said, his voice calm. “A week to have the lesson sink in, to really listen to people’s intentions. And you can reflect on why your duty is so important. At the end of that time, we will see if you are smarter than your brother Thor.”  

Odin turned and walked away.  

And suddenly, Heimdall was furious. He had been nothing but loyal, tried to listen and learn and Odin could not understand that. “Wait! Turn it off, turn it off!”  

Odin didn’t turn to acknowledge his son, his ravens circling him before Heimdall could even finish his sentence and with his reason for trying to hold himself high gone, he shrunk to the floor in misery.  

For a long time, Heimdall did not move from his spot on the floor. His shakes grew larger with every moment that passed. He had tried passing the time, tried reading, tried pulling out his hair in an attempt to distract himself from the voices. His heart hammered in his chest as he felt his own despair sinking in and his breathing turned ragged.  

Heimdall did not track the days he spent down here, he had alternated between running his nails up and down his arms and pulling at his hair just to feel something other than the vile things the voices spoke to him. After a time, he could no longer cry tears and his throat dried. Odin had not instructed or left any food or drink for him, so he did not wander for some. He wondered who had noticed his absence. Freya was on yet another trip to Vanaheim to ease political tensions once more, so that left his siblings. Heimdall was sure Odin had fabricated a wonderful story for his disappearance again though that may not have been needed, as Heimdall had not been socialising with them for some time.  

When the week ended, Heimdall actually found himself looking forward to seeing his father again. On the start of the eighth day, Odin came back inside, taking in the shredded appearance of his son, rivers of red and mattered clumps of bloody hair dishevelled the proud princeling’s appearance.  

His father’s hand laid on his forehead and Heimdall couldn’t help but lean into it for comfort, craving the tingle of magic that crept into him and eased the pain, the voices changing from screams to whispers and then nothing.  

“Do you understand, Heimdall?” His father coaxed; his hand was still dangerously on his head as though to threaten him with the voices return if he didn’t understand his lesson. “Do you understand now, why you must see everything, to protect Asgard so vigilantly?”  

Heimdall nodded feverishly, he did. He did understand now. “I have been poor in my duties father, I see it now. I will not fail again.”  

Odin smiled at him, nodding in approval before aiding his son to his feet. “I’m so happy to hear that, Heimdall.”  

Odin had healed his self-inflicted injuries and trusted him to make it back to his post on the wall by himself. It was regrettable when he passed Thor and Baldur on his journey back.  

“Brother! You have returned!”  

Heimdall scrunched his face, the stench of mead and death still lingered on his brothers, from a recent hunt it would appear. All the while Heimdall wailed his brothers had found themselves drinking and hunting to their heart's content.  The merriment of their neglect was absolutely disgusting.

“You reek, brother,” Heimdall spat, recoiling as Thor made to grip him into a hug. Baldur threw a questioning gaze but did not speak, his lack of concern for Heimdall’s wellbeing was well behind his eyes when all he could think about was the next round of drinks. “I’m busy.”  

When Heimdall made to move, Thor stepped in front of him, his eyes looked concerned, but Heimdall saw that he was more upset about his dismissal. “Brother, you do not seem well, what ails you?”  

“What ails me, you absolute swine is your incessant need to drag me down to your pitiful level.” Heimdall had not felt this bitterness in himself before. As much as Heimdall would have appreciated his brother’s attempts for kindness before, Heimdall was unable to see it not as a lie, a front for his true intentions. That he thought Heimdall beneath him, that Heimdall’s dismissal of him was an insult. “Now, why don’t you go do what you do best? Get drunk and be a stain on the All-Father's name.”  

There was a flicker of hurt that swam through Thor’s mind and Heimdall felt a sharp shock of guilt for placing it there. But that hurt morphed quickly to anger as Thor took a swing at Heimdall, if he had not been paying attention to that violent intention, Heimdall may have failed to dodge the attack. But he did and he laughed because it was as Odin said! That every ill intention lay underneath people’s carefully crafted falsehoods. “Oh brother, I would rather spend my time listening to the crow's screech than have myself play to your drunken, disgusting ego whenever you fancy a bout. Run along and go embarrass the Odinson name some more.”  

Baldur cocked an eyebrow staring between the two, a sly smile danced across his face, feeling the urge to goad the never before seen rift between his brothers. "Ha ha, is this Heimdall finally growing a pair?"

"Not all of us can hide beneath our mother's dresses, Baldur," Heimdall sneered. "Absolute fucking stains the pair of you, shameful and deceitful." 

Thor growled his hand flexing once more. "This time I won't miss."

"But you will. Judge me for the truth I speak, but just know, your anger only confirms it. You are no true brother of mine."

One thing was for certain, Heimdall thought as he left his brothers seething behind him, he would never, ever doubt his father’s wisdom again.  

Notes:

Thank you all so much for your love for this story! It's lovely to hear your thoughts :)

Chapter 3: breaking

Notes:

An actually reasonable-sized chapter for once? Who am I?

This chapter explores Heimdall's and Freya's past together and also worked up the courage to write in Baldur a little more. Also a little Mimir and Heimdall 'bonding' if you can be so nice to call it that when we're talking about Heimdall.

Whoever said that sleep meant rest was a fool.  

Heimdall woke up with a gasp, though in truth it was more of a strangled scream that was caught in his throat. His foresight strained to gather his surroundings, it waned and could not get much past his own body. He was somewhere foreign though, that was clear. Not in his house upon the wall, in the comfort of what was his own. When that realisation hit, his chest tightened, and panic was building up inside him. Heimdall was not used to this type of blindness, even without the sight that every being had, Heimdall would be able to see better than them all. But his foresight... his foresight was not doing what it should. Without it at full strength, to guide his actions, and to see those around him, it was like his vision was truly gone and he was a blind man.  

“It’s alright, laddie,” a voice called out, it sounded far away but Heimdall knew that not to be the case as his foresight ebbed and strained to focus on it. “You’re at Sindri’s house, Kratos brought you here, remember?”  

Despite the thought of having to have that relayed to him sending Heimdall into a pit of resentment for his situation, it helped his mind focus and catch up again. The God of Foresight groaned when he remembered his recent misfortunes further and tried to press his head further into the pillow to will himself away from it. The fucking goat, Mimir, had to be here as a waking nightmare, the Norns torture him in his sleep and in his waking in their continued amusement of his life. Heimdall would insist on them simply ending his miserable life since he seemed to just be sitting here wasting away. He’s more surprised when his captors? That word did not seem right as Heimdall did not know where he would go should he leave, but they actually seemed to tend to his every need without malice. Not that it mattered really, not when Heimdall would prefer nothingness to this. Heimdall never really did get what he wanted, not that he knew what he wanted. It was Odin’s wishes, not his own, and for a time Heimdall was placid in the fact that the two were the same. What Odin wanted was what he wanted. Did Heimdall want death? Or was that what he thought the All-Father would want of him? He was unsure.  

“If only I could forget for one blissful moment,” Heimdall gritted between his golden teeth, he didn’t offer his father’s old councillor any more acknowledgement than his words, not so much as turning to face the man as he continued. “Instead, they now place a decapitated head in my room to be a constant stain on my existence.”  

Heimdall stared blankly at the ceiling for a long time. He was absolutely certain at this stage he would not be able to fall asleep again tonight, not without good reason though. The memories of his childhood had been plaguing him since his fight with Kratos, Heimdall had long since thought he had conquered such ridiculous childish fears, but now he seemed constantly reminded of things he had not thought of in so long. After all, Odin had reason and purpose for his actions, he should be grateful for his strict teachings and even firmer hand. Yet... even now he woke up with his heart pounding and a fear that Odin would swing the door open at any moment and punish him for his disloyalty. This state of uncertainty was not something Heimdall was comfortable with.  

Heimdall was baffled that he was even letting these fears infect his mind like this. It was truly disgraceful for someone of his station to allow such things to affect him so. He felt bile rising in his throat at the mere thought of it. And the doubt that echoed in him... the Norns, he was truly pitiful compared to his father’s greatness if he was trivialised like this.  

“I know you’re not asleep, Heimdall,” the goat persisted in talking. “You’re more peaceful when you sleep, fewer wrinkles on your face from the constant scowling.”  

“Why are you here, you insufferable doorstopper?” Heimdall asked, trying subtly to relax his face. He did NOT have wrinkles; the goat was just jealous that Heimdall had skin that wasn’t as leathery as a snake’s. “Come for a gloat?”  

“Hmm, no need for name-calling at this late hour,” Mimir began with all the poise a decapitated head could muster, all the calm of a man who could not so much as flick his opponent in defence. “But if you have to know, Kratos and Atreus had to adventure off, left me to watch over you.”  

“Guard me is the more astute term,” Heimdall muttered. It was indeed too late to be listening to this, for sure, so what else could he do at this god-awful hour to distract himself while completely bedbound? “Forgive me, I could not quite recall, when did you manage to spawn a new body and legs in order to prevent my leave?”  

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Mimir sighed. “I ain’t here to guard ya, as you said I lack the limbs to do so, and you lack the strength to so much as sneeze me off this table.”  

“I’ll do a lot more than sneeze you off a table, you blight on the Aesir,” Heimdall’s violet eyes finally turned to Mimir, glowing brightly in the darkness of the night.  

“Again, with the name-calling, I’m simply here to make sure you’re alright, laddie.”  

Mimir remembered the God of Foresight in his youth. He had always been arrogant and too sure of himself for Mimir’s liking but he had been playful and bright once upon a time and in truth, Mimir had enjoyed talking with the boy about the many wonders of the realms, Heimdall had an insight into things that not any other person possessed. He looked closer at the Aesir and frowned. He seemed more stressed than usual, his shoulders rigid with tension and his eyes were darting from one shadow of the room to the next, as if anticipating an ambush or something similar. Lately, the god had become somewhat relaxed here compared to his first week but now it seemed he had gone back to how he was.   

“Bad dream?” Mimir asked after a moment.  

“No,” Heimdall answered swiftly, too swiftly for Mimir’s liking. Something had plagued the young Aesir. Was it simply the fever? Fever-induced nightmares? Mimir was not certain he’d get a truthful answer on the matter, but he continued to try.

“Laddie, it’s near the middle of the night. People don’t often wake in a fright at this time unless they’ve dreamt something terrible.” Mimir stated more than asked. It made sense, he had seen Kratos be plagued with similar problems and talked through them when the older war god felt it necessary. Normally, he would suspect, the Watchman of Asgard would scoff at the mere prospect of having nightmares but Mimir also suspected he had been having one too many lately to outright deny it.  

“It was not terrible, just another demonstration of how far I have fallen if such insignificant things affect me,” Heimdall said dismissively, but the truth was that he had needed to talk through the turmoil inside him, whether he fully realised it or not. It was not just the memory that plagued him, after all. “They are mere memories, of Asgard, of my childhood. Such things should not be causing me distress now.”   

“Well, that’s perfectly natural, you’ve gone through a lot these past weeks, perhaps even questioned your old man’s-”  

“I have not doubted the All-Father's wisdom!” Heimdall snarled at Mimir like any dutiful son would, “I have simply been- reassessing my own strength and usefulness. If one defeat has me so wretched, how am I supposed to serve my purpose as protector of Asgard.”  

“Have you ever considered that the path Odin has you on isn’t the only way to save Asgard?” Mimir asked. Heimdall looked at him with suspicion. “You may be able to read minds and intent, laddie, but you don’t consider the full picture! Just because Kratos is planning to bring about Ragnarök doesn’t make that his primary intent. He only intends to protect his son.”  

“My father showed me well enough the faults of having too much faith in the goodwill of people,” Heimdall thought about his next words carefully, weighing the pros and cons before sighing. “It was a memory of Thor and I. We were young, he was insufferably in love with Sif and was trying to get her to admit it first, I was stupid enough to believe that Thor had simply wanted to spend time with me.”  

“So, a mere brotherly tiff then?”  

“No, not a mere brotherly tiff,” Heimdall glared. “Odin found out I had left my post to indulge in my idiot brothers' games and taught me that everyone has ill intent, no matter the goodwill they try to parade around.”  

“What’d he do?”  

“He did what he had to, a week in isolation listening to the worst intentions of every being on Asgard,” Heimdall told him so plainly as though he was describing the passing weather of the day. “I did not question his wisdom after that.”  

“I think I remember your week absence- oh the Norns, you were just a child.”  

“A foolish, naïve one.”  

It was probably a grave mistake to voice his own troubles to Mimir, with his position here he was so weak and vulnerable that it made him sick to his stomach. Heimdall shouldn’t be giving them more to use against him later on. It would be something Odin would chastise him for if he ever found out or cared enough for him now to do so.  

---  

Heimdall’s reputation had become well known throughout the Nine Realms, spreading like wildfire unheeded. It was now known that Odin’s third youngest son was not one to be sneered at lightly and that his words were almost as strong as Odin’s. Where Heimdall spoke, Odin’s voice echoed just as loudly.

On occasion, Heimdall would find himself wandering to the tavern for some... relief and challenge. All-Father did not mind anymore and trusted his son to know where he was needed and where he was not. The mead was a slight dulling to his own perception, but not enough to ignore the people around him. A damper to his perception that was needed from time to time for his own sanity.

One drunkard stumbled towards Heimdall, missing the prince as Heimdall stepped to the side to avoid the mead in the drunkard’s tankard spilling all over him. The drunkard thought of his barely of-age daughter’s own breasts and Heimdall felt his fist clench.  

Heimdall would visit the disgusting stain later, his duty to Asgard demanded it. His finger twitched as the newest fools piled into the tavern. They thought of themselves, as kings, among the Aesir for their strength when each of them knew that they were cowards upon challenge.  

Heimdall’s foresight pulled him elsewhere though, to the drunken rowdiness that was his brothers, Baldur was loud, but Thor was louder as if their thoughts did not scream enough. Both were equally lost in their stupor, both equally bringing shame to the All-Father's name as they slurred and spilt their drinks all over the place.  

Baldur felt suffocated by his mother and her persistent need to protect him, Thor was trying to pretend he was still Odin’s favourite. It was all rather sad really how far they had fallen.  

Once Heimdall had thought the Aesir were beacons for all the Nine Realms to aspire to, but as he walked amongst them it was clear to see how far from the truth that was. They were all depraved. Sheep to their desires and lusts. In all his life, Heimdall had thought that he would find a pure will in his people, yet he was constantly disappointed. Disappointed by how unclean they all were, no respect was held in any of their minds for who they were supposed to be. They were gods! Should they not hold themselves above the whims of Midgardians? Yet they did not, instead, they were stupid, ill-tempered and stained. Once, Heimdall had thought they were more. More than the dwarves, the Vanir and the elves. But Heimdall was continuously disappointed, no one in the Nine Realms was pure.  

The mead dulled his mind, his father would not now begrudge him from his own indulgences anymore it seemed, not when Heimdall proved he had the restraint to not lose himself in it. It was a daring notion when Heimdall first tried after his enlightenment but instead, the All-Father granted him this relief. Heimdall stared at his jug, the amber liquid bubbled with temptation. It was alluring, he would give his brothers that much. But they had no reason to escape, not as he did. They were blessed with the quietness he had never known. Yet they flaunted it and abused it to no end.  

With each thought that assaulted him, Heimdall ordered another jug.  As he drank the last drop of his fourth, he felt the loud thoughts of another draw near. It was Baldur- sunken into the sweet abyss that the mead offered and bold for it- looking to poke Heimdall for a reaction.  

Baldur thinks himself better than I, Heimdall saw in his brother’s head, he wanted to challenge the untouchable nature of his older sibling and to feel something for it. Heimdall didn’t move to avoid the confrontation, no, it was about time Baldur knew his place.   

Try it, brother mine, Heimdall thought. Heimdall would not make a move- not yet at least, it wasn’t necessary. But the familiar apprehension that grew inside his stomach, the tinge of battle to come that was tainted by his opponent. It was all so predictable.   

Heimdall had not realised how tight he clenched his mead until he felt the crack in the handle beneath his touch, his fingers twitching for something more.   

“Heimdall, how nice of you to grace us with your all-seeing presence,” the words were laced with a sweetness to hide the venom underneath as they drawled from his brother’s lips. “How- hmmm, lucky we truly are.”  

“Careful,” Heimdall cautioned, he held no venom in his own voice yet, but Baldur was pushing for Heimdall to react. “Your wants are leading you down a dangerous path.”   

The tavern seemed to still when Heimdall finally spoke, his mead still nursed in his hand as his eyes turned to his brother. Thor even had the respect to look cautious when the tone of the room shifted.  

“My wants,” Baldur groaned the words out, slamming his tankard down next to Heimdall’s as he leaned on the bar, “My wants, Heimdall, are for you to stop looking down your nose at me.”  

“Oh, brother, but how else am I to look at my lessers?” Heimdall met Baldur’s eyes. “But you’re right, I should not even be giving you that much attention.”  

Heimdall felt that with every moment he absorbed the horrors around him he was a second more to imploding and the only way to relieve that pressure inside himself was to release a bit more into the world around him. It was a balance as all things are in the world, a natural order to things. If the world deemed it fine to burden him with the intentions of others, he deemed it fine to level it with the same hatred.   

His brothers were worse. They should understand, should know and yet they were no better than the other scum on the streets of Asgard. They did not even care.  

Baldur’s hazy eyes, clouded by the mead and fueled by the spitefulness he had bottled inside, levelled at Heimdall’s.  

“Move yourself elsewhere,” Heimdall rose from his seat, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he threatened Baldur. “Before I move you myself.”  

Thor laughed, his voice booming in all corners of the tavern and filling its space. In the years since their falling out, Thor had grown bitter towards Heimdall. Where Odin had once favoured Thor, his attentions turned to Heimdall, and Thor was no longer the son he called when he needed a second opinion. Heimdall could feel the resentment rolling off his older brother in waves and it secretly made him feel better. Better that he was the ire of Thor because it finally meant that he was better than him. “Such big talk for an Aesir who could not lift his own sword to strike an opponent in true combat.”  

“Not difficult to outsmart you, Thor, all I’d have to do is put a barrel of ale in front of you,” Heimdall spat back. “Look at both of you, you both talk with high threats and insults to me but neither of you has the sense to actually challenge me. Disgusting, disgusting to even call you my brothers.”  

Baldur clenched his fist, Thor had not even the coherence to respond, “I’ll take you apart, limb from limb-”  

“Ah, ah, mother dearest would not approve when I’d have to defend myself,” Heimdall said, and true enough Frigg had walked into the tavern when word quickly spread of the commotion between the brothers. “I believe I’ve had my fill tonight.”  

Heimdall finished his mead, walking away from Baldur and past Frigg out of the tavern.  

“Heimdall!”  

He had known she would chase after him, knew why she haunted her son’s every step. Odin had talked and Heimdall confirmed the suspicions.  

“Oh yes, step-mother?” Heimdall sighed, spinning on his heel to face her. “What can I do for you this fine evening?”  

“Stop these games, Heimdall,” She spoke with a power she had not held in some time, Heimdall found that rather amusing. The way she talked to him was as though she could change anything. “You have been provoking my son and I ask that you cease before it goes too far.”  

“Before what? Oh, you mean before that prophecy happens,” her face draws and there is a fear there that matches her insides. “Do not worry, Frigg, it won’t be by my hands. I would not dream of it, unlike you, I value the oath of family bonds despite its constant disappointments.”  

He directed his words with pointed precision, watching the way Frigg was shaken by them.  

“Heimdall, I swear-”  

“You swear you will rain down every agony on me if I even utter a word of it? I won’t, the All-Father has no need of me too, you will bring about your own ruin, in due time.”  

Frigg did not speak in kindness to him after that. She did not so much as look at him with anything other than hatred.   

---  

Heimdall had been counting the grooves on the ceiling. He had been counting seconds earlier but lost track easily when he felt his heart jump for no reason. He could have sworn he heard the croak of a raven outside the window of his room. Heimdall did not know what other way to occupy his time other than counting the way the wood weaved and curled in this room, it was dull, but it was the only way to get time to move around him. Time had seemed too insignificant for a god who knew hundreds of years but now it seemed a minute was an eternity. A form of torture, surely.  

He hadn’t moved an inch since the nightmare with Mimir that other night. There was no use for it anyway. And his mind was tired and throbbed with a constant pressure he did not know how to dispel. He imagined there to be something inside his head, lodged between flesh and brain matter, the tissue around it trying to push it out but instead poisoning him with dullness and fear. He had never felt anything like this, never even thought it possible that he could find himself in this state. The pain of... the mind? His body? It was rather peculiar.  

“Heimdall, how are you feeling?” It was the same question each visit, Frigg asked as she settled to her task, interrupting Heimdall’s train of thought. He snorted at her.  

“What has changed in you?” The younger god asked, his eyes following a particular groove that curled into a spiral. It was the most interesting one he had found yet. “If my foresight was as it normally was, I wouldn’t need to ask, but I find myself lacking right now. So tell me, why haven’t you tried to smother me in my sleep like you once promised?”  

“Must we do this, Heimdall?” She shook her head, an ever-staying frown worsening on her face. Heimdall let his gaze be interrupted from the grooves to look at Frigg, she seemed focused and unwavering. Heimdall let his eyes fall back to the ceiling and he now started to count the grooves in the wood once more.  

“I rather think so.” A memory resurfaced at the touch of her delicate hands. It was a deceiving one, a falsehood of happiness and love from her. He shouldn’t be thinking about it.  

“What answer would satisfy you?” It was a strange memory, hundreds of years ago when Frigg had acted more like a mother than an enemy to Heimdall. It kept pressing on that point inside Heimdall’s head.  

“The truth.” He remembered when he wouldn’t doubt her motives when she cared for him when he wouldn’t see a hidden intention behind it. Just a pure act of motherly affection he so craved in his childhood. The pressure in his mind worsened.  

“The truth is... I despised you for being Odin in voice and mind. I could never truly feel safe with you around, leaving Baldur with you. I also- I also saw my own failure in you.” It was the truth, in a sense of what the truth actually was. It was her truth but not Heimdall’s and not the true reality of what had happened so long ago.  

“Now, now, don’t stop there. That makes you seem rather sympathetic, which we both know you are not.” The stirring inside her spoke the truth, she was conflicted yes. He had remembered sensing that even when he was a child, had not realised until he was older that conflict resided in the All-Father and her doubt in him. “You see me as a bargaining chip against my father, you would not have cared if the brute Kratos had killed me but now you see a usefulness for me after all of it.”  

Frigg laughed, stopping in her ministrations with the herbs for a moment to look at Heimdall. “True, I see your usefulness against Odin, especially if we need you to start Ragnarök. But is it not possible that I have also mourned the child you once were, Heimdall? The child that would come into my gardens and tend the flowers with me with just as much care?”  

“That child was stupid.”  

“But he was sweet and caring, and on instinct, he would help others,” Heimdall kept counting the grooves, the pressure in his head felt like it would crush his skull at any moment. “On the boat, I saw that child once more, if I cannot bring back my son and repair the damage Odin has done to him, then I will take solace in doing better with you.”  

He didn’t notice he’d clenched his fist so hard that, when he opened it, he felt the air cool against the fresh cuts of his fingernails to his skin. So, he closed it right back, his grip tightening further, and he felt the blood well in his palm until he was sure it bled into the white linen beneath him. It spread like a poison filling a river entirely, one strand spreading and reaching out. The sting was negligible compared to the steady and pressing memories of Freya- Frigg. And even more insignificant compared to the comfort he found in them and craved now most. He suspected this was her intention all along now.  

He kept counting the grooves as the pressure in his head grew.  

---  

The family dinners were a duty, but it was also the most awkward situation Heimdall had ever had the pleasure of witnessing, which was quite a feat for his family. The table was neatly divided until his brothers and nephews entered and they all but forgot their manners, Heimdall had taken to politely ignoring the others while he waited for the All-Father. It was amusing how everyone at the table pretended not to hate one another. Thor and Sif thought more of the ale house than they did their children, Baldur would rather be amongst his friends trying to remember the love he once had for them, Frigg hated everyone at the table spare her own son and Heimdall could not even dull his senses enough to put up with it all. It was all so pathetic. It was all for the sake of their father though, so Heimdall held his tongue and attended without complaint, which was more than Thor and Baldur did as they moaned about an evening lost to this family farce, even Sif looked bored in her attendance.   

All-Father finally arrived at the table, surprisingly on time for once, and started toasting to his sons and grandsons. Of course. The All-Father still adored them despite their lack of conviction for Asgard’s honour. The tension in the room is oppressive, only Baldur is daring enough to break the silence to whisper snide remarks to Magni about the whole ordeal of being here. A further toast was made to Thor, the failed older son of Odin, and Heimdall doesn’t drink after that one. It is noticed, but no one dares to make an outward comment just yet. By the Norns, did Thor refuse to freshen up before coming to dinner? He’s half a table away and Heimdall can still smell his stench, stronger than ever with ale. Nauseating, Heimdall could barely think to stomach the food before him.   

Odin finally stood and made a speech on the power of family bonds, Heimdall wanted to scoff and say it would fall on deaf ears to this lot, that the attempts for uniting them all were long since passed. It was rather late to change such people, Heimdall knew, but Frigg looked longingly at the concept and there was a guilt and sadness in her that clouded her mind.  

Heimdall would have been shocked without his foresight to see Frigg stand for a toast, well wishes for all of Odin’s sons and grandsons as if they were her own. It was a farce; Frigg held no love for any of them anymore save her own son and Heimdall could see she was only playing a long game of cat and mouse. But Odin smiled and bowed his head as though he believed his wife’s words. Clearly, they all wanted to believe in falsehoods tonight and are pretending as though the moment they leave this room they won’t go back to conspiring behind each other’s back. Heimdall internally scoffed when he felt that they all actually wanted to believe in the show that was tonight.   

It was... it was all fake, a moment of calm that signalled a storm. Heimdall saw that Thor made to make a fool of himself, rising to make a toast towards Sif, as he always does during feasts. Yet, Heimdall could not stand to listen to more of this, Heimdall raised too, cup in hand and his Bifrost violet eyes glinting in the low lighting of the candles.  

“And I raise my cup to my siblings, family. All of them a true credit to the All-Father's name, but in particular my youngest sibling, Baldur, I hope for him a long and happy life,” Heimdall smirked while looking at Frigg, and Heimdall could feel her bristle under the veiled threat. “With health everlasting.”  

“Heimdall,” His father sighed, he sounded more tired than insulted but Heimdall had his full focus on Frigg. “That’s enough now.”  

“Why? Was only doing as step-mother bade us all do in wishing no harm upon my brother, I hold my oath proudly, maybe my brothers aren’t so proud of their own oaths.”   

Baldur shot to his feet immediately, anger taking over him. How dare his own brother to mock him and his mother like that, Heimdall heard him think. Not that Baldur held much respect for his mother of late himself. “Say that again, you arrogant little shit.”  

“Do you not wish yourself, good health brother? Feeling a little- emptier for it perhaps?” It’s a jape that Heimdall knew would push Baldur over, his inner conflict for the whole situation was positively ripe for Heimdall to prod. A nestle of hatred blooming for Frigg in Baldur that Heimdall would see pressed.  

Frigg and Odin are loudly arguing, Odin dismissive of Heimdall’s nature and Frigg outraged by the insult. Heimdall scoffed at it, Baldur thought his older brother distracted enough to lunge for a swing, but Heimdall swerved out of his reach, his eyebrow cocked as he returned the favour with a shove, sending Baldur stumbling back.   

“I’ll rip your tongue from your skull, Heimdall!” Baldur snarled. Everyone at the table was looking between the two with varying degrees of shock and resignation, except for Frigg who appeared infuriated at Heimdall.  

Before the situation could escalate further, Odin raised his hand, “Enough, all of you. Can we not have one nice family supper without you all acting like bratty children? Is that too much to ask for?”  

“Your son just made threats towards mine and you would call the behaviour ‘bratty’?” Frigg’s eyes are wide with disbelief, a reaction of a proper mother if Heimdall could not tell that she felt herself rapidly losing everything and one she had that would call her such. “This is hardly the first time he has made threats. Baldur is your son too, Odin, will you do nothing to remedy the situation before it worsens to a point we cannot handle?”  

Baldur looked at his mother as though he was uncertain of what she meant. Heimdall held no love for his siblings, the ones who turned their backs to him when he had been under the ire of the All-Father, but if Baldur actually had the balls to confront his own mother, he might start to deem him worthy enough for Heimdall’s reconsideration.   

“Frigg, I love you, but you are making this a bigger deal than it has to be,” Odin glanced towards Heimdall and held it. “Heimdall, you didn’t mean it did you? Just a brotherly tit for tat?”  

Heimdall smiled in return, this jape had played its course well enough, and the evening had not turned out to be as boring as Heimdall thought it would be. “Of course, father, just merely expressing my wishes for our family’s health.”  

“See? No harm, no foul,” Odin blew off, Heimdall not missing the ire Frigg shot towards him.  

Let his step-mother show her true colours! The only thing Heimdall wants from this all is for Odin to see the truth in her, if Heimdall has to see Baldur’s blood running down his own fingers for that to happen, so be it.  

“Well, I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” Sif said, her eyes turning with disdain towards the food but eyes lingering with love towards the mug of mead.  

Heimdall could not agree more, “Father, if I may be excused?” His father waved a hand at him. Heimdall loathed the heavy silence that took over the room afterwards, turning his heels and leaving the Great Lodge for the wall. He would rather the wall's silence than his family's loud silence any day.

Notes:

Again, I'd just like to thank everyone for leaving kudos and comments for this story! It's really helped me keep my focus on writing it! Hope you all enjoyed this chapter and looking to finishing up the next one for you all!

Chapter 4: spurs of rebellion

Notes:

A little more Mimir in this chapter with a dash of Tyr.

It makes me so happy to hear all the feedback I have for this story! I write this purely for my own amusement and it is such a joy to hear others feel the same way. I hope I can actually continue to live up to that expectation but I'm just trying to write as I normally do and that seems to be working so far!

Heimdall would not admit how long it took for him to work up the courage to challenge Tyr on his lack of acknowledgement. In truth, his eldest brother had been a strange imposter of who Heimdall remembered him to be.   

The memories of their time together all those years ago had not faded despite how long ago it was. It seemed, though, that Tyr's had. Because the traitor did not even pretend to care about Heimdall now. No show of false family love. Nothing. Tyr did not even share words with Heimdall, not once did his scheming brother try to say hello so Heimdall could spit vulgarities at him, merely brought in bowls of food and water at the same time each day. Not that Heimdall even wanted to talk to him, he despised Tyr the most out of all his brothers.    

One night, when Heimdall felt himself between sleep and wakefulness and the fever was pitching to a height that caused untethered horrors into Heimdall's mind, his mind supplied Tyr to be a vengeful captor of his. Heimdall turned so sharply it hurt his body, his hazy dulled Bifrost eyes unfocused as he tried to search out Tyr. His body trembled and his heart raced when he couldn't find him.   

“Tyr?” Heimdall slurred through the sweats. He could barely hear himself over his laboured breathing, over the crashing thunder of his heart and the onslaught of pain he felt twisting in his stomach, “Tyr?”   

But he was ignored. He heard Tyr place the bowl by his bedside, but it... wasn’t Tyr. How had... how had- he heard Tyr speak but it sounded harsh and violent on his tongue, more suited to his father’s than it would his brother’s. There is no false comfort to be found in it or anything of the sort. Only the still unsettling feeling that Heimdall was soon to be punished.   

“Father?” The words dragged much like how his eyes tried to meet Odin’s only to see Tyr before him. His mind was muddled, and the pull of sleep was too strong to stop.   

When he woke up, Tyr was gone. The nightmare of his father here faded into the back of his mind, but the fear still trembled at his fingertips. Heimdall shook his head, yet another cursed nightmare plaguing now his waking. They had become too common now and something in Heimdall worried at the lingering thought that his health was not getting better. That he was deteriorating further.  

Tyr ventured into Heimdall’s room only when dinner was to be served. Heimdall didn’t tempt to bring up the fever-induced nightmare after it had happened with Tyr and his brother did not comment on it either. Heimdall then assumed it had simply been a conjuration of his mind and nothing more. He still held a trace of bitterness towards Tyr, and as it happened, Tyr did not try and dispel these notions in Heimdall like he would try when he was younger. Perhaps his brother had finally learnt that trickery and falsehoods would not work on his little brother any longer. It was unlike Tyr to give up so easily though, imprisonment must have run his brother down further than Heimdall thought it would. He did not so much as even look him in the eyes to challenge Heimdall on his beliefs anymore. But at this point Heimdall did not care anymore, their relationship had soured beyond repair long before his brother turned traitor to the realm of Asgard. Before Tyr would apologise over ten times for his faults, for leaving his family to be amongst other realms, lying that he tried to return to them as soon as possible. It was annoying, so Heimdall started to ignore Tyr when he was young just so he did not have to see the deceit behind his false words. Tyr had tried to mend that bridge between them at first but then he stopped greeting Heimdall on his returns and that brotherly bond was soon lost.   

It was better that way.  

Heimdall, though, did not like to be ignored and treated as an invalid. It was fine when Heimdall deemed it so, Heimdall could ignore and choose to be ignored if he wanted to, but Tyr had not even attempted to talk to Heimdall.  Tyr would not even hand the bowl of broth to him, just placing it on the table beside the bed as though he was not even there! Heimdall would not be ignored like this.

“What? No attempts at reconciliation brother? Here I thought you were the god of peace now.” Heimdall snarked, his eyes holding the bowl of broth with contempt. Tyr had been... trying to imitate Asgardian flavours, much to the displeasure of the dwarves Heimdall was sure. Was it a silent act of treaty he was giving to Heimdall or a form of mockery? Either way, it did not sit well with Heimdall.   

“You would not listen to me, Heimdall,” Tyr had been just near the door before Heimdall had spoken, he did not even have the decency to turn to face Heimdall. “Why try and convince you of something that is not a lie?”  

Heimdall let out a puff of air, an empty laugh that he could not feel truly in himself. “That is the first time you’ve even admitted to deceit! Why confinement must have changed you, brother.”   

“No point in denying it, your gift is too great to try.”   

Heimdall stilled, he had just taken to tasting the broth before him, spoon in hand. That spoon had quickly left his hand though, falling back into the broth as his eyebrows furrowed. What odd wording. Tyr had never called his abilities a ‘gift’ nor had he ever likened them to greatness, no Tyr had always been apprehensive of them, fearful even. It was strange... wrong even that his brother chose that wording. But when Heimdall looked up to see what truth was hidden behind his brother’s eyes he was long gone.   

---   

Ever since his... enlightenment, Odin had Heimdall by his side to accompany him more often than not. It made Heimdall preen, made Heimdall comforted. It truly was as his father said, he had done it out of love, for Heimdall’s betterment and now Odin cherished Heimdall by his side and trusted him the most in all of Asgard. Heimdall remembered how his brothers had spurned their father’s gifts for them, Thor becoming a drunkard and Tyr running away from the home at every opportunity. Heimdall, however, saw the value in how Odin taught and as such, had become a very important and valuable person in Odin’s circle. Odin now took him to meet several people for delegations, peace treaties, and war meetings if such things were necessary. His father confided in him that he needed Heimdall’s gift to challenge the words of others, to see through their lies for the betterment of Asgard and Heimdall could not agree more. Heimdall assumed the role of Odin’s shadow, as watchful as his ravens yet more insightful as he stared into the eyes of all those who would speak to the All-Father. His brothers could never hope to reach this level of importance, only Heimdall could ever be this cherished. Valuable. No one could replace him.     

And all it took was a glance from the All-Father and a gesture from Heimdall to seal the fates of those who would dare to lie to the All-Father. With one nod, the deceiver's heads would roll to the floor and Heimdall felt nothing because such people did not deserve another breath for their treachery towards the All-Father and Asgard. Heimdall acted as judge, jury and executioner and it was empowering.     

Heimdall had not come across many who spoke with truth and purity, most of the time they were, as the All-Father said, many were, evil and false. But every time Heimdall saw that in someone, saw through their smiles and false words of peace, the All-Father smiled true at him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.    

But Heimdall found now that people would deceive for the most insignificant of things. Where they said they were ‘fine’ they truly were miserable, where they said ‘how they missed someone’ in truth they would rather that person dead. Even now to himself, Heimdall saw how people truly thought of him, they would greet him with pleasantries and show outward respect but in their minds, they spat his name and would do anything to leave his company the second his back was turned to them. All liars, every last one of them. A stain to the purity that Asgard should represent. Frigg would smile at him in the company of others and comment on his fine talents when in truth she was repulsed by his presence, fearful even. Thor at least did not hide behind kind words anymore, that was the only thing Heimdall respected from that inbred. Baldur was more honest, but he didn't speak half the truths he thought, he found Heimdall to be weak, unworthy to fight. That Heimdall was cheating through his abilities. It was all rather infuriating now that his mind was enlightened to the truths of others.    

Sometimes... sometimes Heimdall wished his father had kept him ignorant of it all, to spare him from the constant exhaustion he felt and despair in the failures of everyone around him. But it was a burden Heimdall was honoured to have, to be trusted by his father to protect Asgard, to seek truth in a sea of lies. It was only him that could do it. It was his strength that allowed him to bare it.    

Before, when Heimdall was ignorant of the truth, he had little reputation compared to his brothers. He did not want to be favoured in the spotlight and had no need for it. Thor had been under the firm hand of Odin for some time, Odin only ever wished for Thor to be both a hammer in body and mind, but Thor failed, as he always did. Heimdall understood now that respect and fear were the only way in Asgard. With every battle he won, with every feat he walked away with untouched and with destruction all around him, people began to know. Began to see that Heimdall was not a person to be tested, not a person to challenge if they wished to live. It was his gift, like Thor’s lightning. No matter if it wore down his trust in others. Trust was a weakness, after all, his gift allowed him glory in battle and the truth of a person’s mind. Nobody would ever touch him again like they had in his childhood.    

“Heimdall, my dear brother.”    

Heimdall had been caring for Gulltoppr outside the Great Lodge, the beast had become the only beacon of pure intentions amongst a sea of impurity, it was dull and boring and perfect. Heimdall would walk towards the creature and the creature would be happy. Heimdall would listen to the nothingness of its mind and see nothing but purity. Heimdall brushed along its fur, unknotting the tangles of hair when the voice interrupted his strokes of the beast's fur. It caused his face to twitch; nobody would dare to interrupt Heimdall anymore. Nobody wanted to so much as speak to him and invoke displeasure inside themselves. The voice in question had not been in the walls of Asgard for nearly fifty years.    

So, Tyr had returned home finally. Heimdall often believed his second eldest brother would never return in respect for the shame he was bringing to Asgard and the All-Father's name with his futile attempts at negotiations with other realms. Tyr had always had a warm presence to Heimdall before he left. Though Heimdall could tell at the time that Tyr had discomfort in Asgard, Heimdall had chosen to listen to the joy his brother held towards his siblings instead. Their father was never happy when Tyr ran off and disobeyed continuously, as such Heimdall now looked about his brother with an air of disgust at his brother’s blatant disrespect for the All-Father's wisdom.    

Heimdall had been an ear after his father’s trust in him was earned, to his many thoughts on Tyr included. On Tyr’s conflicted loyalties, his Jotunn blood tainting the Aesir too much and bringing shame. He’s hardly a son of mine, Odin had once said to Heimdall, you are what a true Son of Odin should be, perfect in every way Heimdall.    

“Ah, Heimdall, I almost didn’t recognise you!” Tyr’s voice was cherished like honey mead through his wide grin, deceiving with its sweetness, hiding the taste of poison underneath it. “You have grown so much!”    

Heimdall did not return his brother’s smile, nor his pleasant greeting, “Tyr, you have returned.”    

“Yes, finally. I had not meant to stay away for so long.” Lie. “I’ve missed everyone here greatly.” Lie.    

When Tyr’s grin turned down to a slight frown it was obvious Heimdall’s mood had not been the one he expected to receive upon his return. “I know I have been gone a long time, little brother. Matters were urgent elsewhere and I did not want to leave before I was assured that it would not get worse if I did so.”    

Heimdall saw the truth in his words, though Heimdall could also see that Tyr had not made the effort to return quicker. His true intentions were muddied by his own self-interest and that had been lined with not returning to Asgard.     

“All-Father’s in the Great Lodge in his chambers, he’ll be expecting you at once,” Heimdall said before resuming his care for Gulltoppr. The beast was more pleasant to focus on than his brother.     

Tyr reeled for a moment, standing and staring at his younger sibling as his mind swirled with confusion. It wasn’t as he expected, he thought, something was off, changed. What did he expect, Heimdall thought bitterly back, when you abandon the family for nearly half a century and neglect your true duties.    

“Has something happened, Heimdall?’ Tyr asked, there was still a tinge of happiness in his tone but that was a mere cover for the concern that he held. “You were always happy to escort me around and listen to my stories.”    

“Indeed, when I was a child, if you have not noticed in your absence that I am not one anymore,” Heimdall bristled, his cold demeanour, even if Tyr did not have his power of insight, was clear and dangerous. Most would have left Heimdall alone immediately, most would not have even dared to even start a conversation with Heimdall, to begin with. Maybe if Tyr had been around, he would have learnt that lesson sooner. “You will leave again, that much I see, and you will not mourn us in your absence. Why should I waste my precious time doing you a courtesy you can’t extend to us?”    

“Heimdall, where has this bitterness come from? You used to see the good in people, now it seems you are plagued with darkness, I-”    

“Stop the excuses, brother,” Heimdall snapped, his eyes glowered fiery with the hues of the Bifrost. “As a child, you may have had me fooled with the belief that you truly cared deep down for our family, for our duty. Yet you flaunt your station without care. Tell me, brother, where is your duty? Where is your sacrifice for your family’s honour? For all I see is it being trampled under your own selfish desires. Do you even care for the well-being of Asgard? No, I don’t see it.”    

Bless the All-Father, bless him for the enlightenment that he graced Heimdall. For he could see now the truth of the pollution in Asgard’s walls. His gift allowed him to see it was not just threats from the outside but from within too and without Odin, Heimdall would have failed in his duties to see that. Blinded by his own wants, his own delusions would have killed everything he loved and held dear to himself. He once thought of Tyr as a part of those he cherished but... how could he cherish someone who thought so ill of Asgard? That would not think of and believe in the All-Father's wisdom? It was difficult to comprehend that Tyr would be a threat, another person that Heimdall saw lies in. Be someone Heimdall would rather see dead than live to be a threat.    

Heimdall wanted to smash the brush in his hand into Tyr’s face, wanted to scream at him for making him lose yet another part of himself, another reason that Heimdall could not trust. His hand clenched the brush, and he felt his arm rise but before he could lift it, Odin’s voice rang from the Great Lodge.    

“Ahhh, Tyr, wondered when you were going to show up,” Heimdall bowed his head, the anger inside himself contained though no less there. “Come inside, we have much to discuss.”     

The two were gone and into the halls of the Great Lodge, Heimdall though felt something pressing in Tyr’s mind. Something about himself and Heimdall would see exactly what his brother was planning against him, what ill words would he try to pour into their father to cloud his trust in Heimdall? Was it that Heimdall was weak? There was something in Tyr’s mind that screamed at him that he thought Heimdall was wrong.    

Heimdall followed at a distance until they were in Odin’s chamber and Heimdall could listen through the door without disturbance.    

“You know, son, I’d almost forgotten what you’d looked like-”    

“What has happened in my absence, All-Father?” Tyr’s tone was calm, and diplomatically respectful, much like all those who had tried to deceive his father. If only Heimdall was in the room to prove Tyr’s deceit.    

“Well, fifty years is a long time, and it will be, quite frankly, too tiring to tell it to you, Tyr,” Odin excused, dismissive of the question and its hidden agenda. “If you want to brush up on our diplomatic meetings, the books are over there.”    

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Tyr was getting... annoyed, but he held his tongue still and reined on whatever grievance he was having. “Heimdall is different, what have you done?”    

“What have I done?” Odin asked. “I suppose it’s to be expected, the boy is going through puberty, and you missed a lot of milestones in his life. All boys rebel when they’re young." A pause. "Some still do after it seems.”    

“No, this is different,” Tyr’s voice was once again measured, Heimdall could tell he was crafting his words just as carefully. “I know of how you parent, All-Father. You beat Thor, same with me, I had thought Heimdall would be different. That with Frigg around you wouldn’t... Heimdall once saw the good in people but now it is as though he sees nothing but the worst, what have you done?”    

There’s a creak, a strain of the wood beneath the All-Father's feet, “Being blindly faithful in the goodwill of people was doing the boy no good, I have simply allowed him to see that, thought you of all people would understand the importance of honesty.”    

“That is not honesty,” There is a tense silence. “That is manipulation, you have manipulated that young boy, your own son, into your games. I know what type of games you play, father, it will only end in pain and suffering for him.”    

“His gift sees through everything, you know this Tyr, how can I manipulate him?” Another pause. "You afraid of something, Tyr?"  

“He may see into people, but his perception of reality bends to your whims,” Tyr hissed, finally a show of his true self. “What is truth but what we believe it to be? What is Heimdall’s truth but what you tell him it is?”    

Heimdall could stomach no more of Tyr’s lies and falsehoods, to make accusations at the All-Father was treason. Heimdall had killed others for less, but the viper was allowed into their home through the blood he shared. It was disgusting, it was against Heimdall’s duties to simply let the man walk amongst them. Yet he would not try to go against the All-Father's command, no matter how much Heimdall struggled with the concept.     

Later, when Tyr’s betrayal was in the eyes of everyone and the All-Father imprisoned him for his treachery, Heimdall smiled. To the world, Tyr was dead, but Heimdall knew the truth. For he was right all along, his sight had not been a manipulation. Whatever foolish feelings of remorse and sadness he felt when his brother was imprisoned was just a lingering weakness of a time when Heimdall was naïve to the truth of the world.     

---    

Heimdall found that Mimir had taken it upon himself to be left in his room at night more and more since he had caught Heimdall in the throes of a nightmare. It’s not that Heimdall was a weakling, but the nightmares had slowed down in their intensity since Mimir’s presence and he was silently appreciative of the company. In truth whatever ailed him had slowed his mind and his will to fight against his captors' persistent need to talk and care for him against his wishes.    

After forming this silent agreement between himself and the head, they took extra care to not poke into whatever memories Heimdall was plagued with without his willingness to divulge first. It ultimately paid off, even if at first Heimdall would not acknowledge his existence after the first night and he nursed his terrors by himself without the goat interrupting him.   

Now though, Heimdall seemed less defensive, and more adept at trying to communicate his problems without cursing others out in the process. It was by no means easy to talk to the Aesir god, but it was better than before to at least hold a conversation with him. And thanks to Mimir’s observation skills and quick mind, he was able to tell now when he could press the prideful god and when to hold his tongue, landing a bit more progress in unravelling what truly plagued the Aesir god’s mind each night that passed. He had had practice with Kratos in the art of dealing with stubborn gods, but Heimdall and Kratos were two different beasts entirely. Where Kratos was silent, angry at times, yes, but his defence in dealing with emotions was to ignore the conversation entirely, Heimdall’s was to insight hatred. Hatred at himself in others. Mimir had noticed it early on, seen the way Heimdall would pick his words carefully to mould a perception. Sure, it was hard to like the Aesir god, but it was only because he made it so difficult to try and be nice towards him.     

Just as though his father told him people’s worst intentions were their only intentions.    

With that thought in mind, Mimir had the perfect conversation planned out for tonight. Mimir had started off with mindless talk of whatever adventures the trio had gone on for the day. The conversation was more of a smoke screen for his actual intentions, it was easy to hide his intentions with Aesir god when he did not have the perception he once had in his illness.    

“Tell me, Heimdall, what’s it like reading people’s minds?”   

The Aesir god turned slightly to stare at the head, his hands placed calmly over his chest as though he had been meditating. It was hard to gather intentions at this moment, but Heimdall could not see any alternative motive behind the words besides perhaps gaining an upper hand against his abilities. It was pointless now anyway. They had conquered his foresight already.   

“It’s hard to explain such a concept to people who could not possibly comprehend it.”    

“Well, they don’t call me the smartest man alive for nothing.”   

“So far I’ve only heard you call yourself that,” Heimdall rolled his eyes. “It is loud, and confusing at first, so many threads inside the mind that it can feel impossible to untangle. The little runt giant, for example, he thinks loudly but thinks of many things. It is chaotic in his mind, but I have trained myself to see his true intentions, seen cities crumble by his words, the death of Asgard by his feet.”   

“You say true intentions, but that’s only your perspective,” Mimir reminded as gently as he could muster. “Can’t be the only intention the boy holds.”   

“It is the only one that matters.”    

“Is it though? The boy is young, he is learning and reacting to the world, perhaps you could focus on the good instead of the bad.”   

“You speak of better intentions, but I’ve seen yours well enough,” Heimdall sounded so sure of himself, a confidence grown out of necessity for it to be the truth. People like Mimir could not possibly understand it, their minds too literal, too confided to their rational, that the thought of even seeing the pure truth would break them. “I saw the intention you held on the battlefield when the brute was beating me to death, you talk now as though you care for my wellbeing, but your true intent relies on the war god’s perception of himself, you did not want to save me out of concern for my life but for his redeemability.”   

“And that is where you are wrong,” It was strange how expressive a talking head could be without his limbs to emphasise his words and feelings, but Mimir managed it with ease. “I watched you when you grew up laddie. You may not believe it, but I do still care for you despite the path you have chosen. You’re right that I didn’t want Kratos to fall into his old ways, but I also didn’t want to see you dead either.”    

“It matters little about what perceived guilt you hold towards me, not when the more sinister intentions outweigh any goodwill hidden underneath them,” Heimdall dodged the true point of Mimir’s with ease, he had spent centuries rationalising his position in this world to not be rebuffed by such petty excuses. He scowled at Mimir’s words though still, he sounded much like Tyr had.   

“Is that what Odin told you? Have you ever seen his intentions, ever questioned them? Seen something hidden?”  

You’re still trying to manipulate me against Odin, liar. Heimdall thought bitterly at the comment.  

“To do so would be to question his wisdom and love for me, I’m his son, it is not my place,” his cheek twitched as Mimir continued to press the issue, continued to try and lie to him, the Aesir thought.  

“Then you’re just as obedient as your brother, stupidity was never your colour, Heimdall.”    

“You would dare-” Heimdall’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the comparison to Thor, to that staggering, drunken fool who had no direction, no purpose beyond orders and drinking. At least Heimdall strived to go beyond his duty, to live by it with honour and represent the All-Father's name with pride. Thor knew nothing of that concept despite their father’s best efforts to teach him otherwise.    

“Laddie, enough of this ‘you would dare’ crap,” Mimir did not relent in his words, not even when he noticed a shift in Heimdall’s demeanour, there was no time to tread lightly on the issue, not when Heimdall was ignoring the reason he was in the state he was, to begin with. “Do you not see how much you have to blindly defend the man? How often do you have to get defensive over his actions when you have not even a rebuttal for them?”  

“He would- he would not lie to me.”   

“Did he have to tell you that?” Mimir asked, Heimdall tore his eyes away from him. Inhaling sharply as Mimir continued. “I noticed you never looked him in the eyes, did he tell you not to? Is that not odd? If his intentions are as pure as he says they are-”   

“Enough!” Heimdall shouted, only now does Heimdall realise he has not a true comeback to what Mimir is saying. He felt his heart crack at the thought, something deep inside himself twisting with what that meant. “Enough, I wish to sleep.”   

---   

Heimdall had grown accustomed to Mimir’s guidance, though the man spoke with an air of cockiness too much for Heimdall’s liking. He was intelligent but not untouchable. Not like him. But for some reason, his father valued the man’s counsel and Heimdall had not found an excuse to discredit his intentions. He was useful, Heimdall supposed, smart and cunning enough that Heimdall rather enjoyed watching Mimir’s plans play out in the All-Father's favour, the dwarves had been especially a sad lot once Mimir was done with them.    

Mimir, though, had grown distant from Heimdall. He remembered once, when he was a child that Mimir would often come to him, Thor and Tyr and tell stories so wonderous that Heimdall yearned to see the places he spoke of. Begged even, when Mimir was off on business to travel with him for once.    

“Aye, one day laddie, when you’re older.” Mimir had told him.    

Heimdall was older and the realms were oh-so disappointing.    

“You remember, laddie, that place I once told ya about? In Vanaheim? I figured while we’re out and about, we should make the detour.” All-Father had commanded them to go to talks centring around him, Vanaheim was just a fickle realm and the Vanir even fickler in their devotion to Asgard. Apparently, talks had gotten rather heated in the realm’s last congregation of leaders, words were thrown in the All-Father's name. Words Heimdall would see their tongues ripped from their skull for.    

“We should not waste time,” Heimdall hated the air in this place. It felt heavy and humid, the realm was deceivingly beautiful and that made Heimdall hate it even more. Not to mention his step-mother soured his opinion on the place greatly. “Such transgressions against the All-Father must be answered swiftly.”    

“The issue isn’t that dire, lad, and the people here are still proud, we shouldn’t begrudge them-”    

“You would allow such thoughts on the All-Father to fester in this realm till it grew into a rebellion?” Heimdall’s violet eyes met Mimir’s golden ones, each surging with the power of the Bifrost. “I am his sword, and I will strike such treason before it shows as inspiration.”    

“Of course not, lad, didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”    

The Vanir in question was loud in his treason, bellowing before the Vanir court on the woes the All-Father inflicted on them. On Frigg’s betrayal of her people, of the shame they now lived under. Heimdall stood poised behind the man as he continued on, Mimir, ever tactful in his words tried his best to reason with them. It was getting boring. It would not work. But Heimdall let Mimir have his farce. Until the Vanir spoke something poisonous to Heimdall’s ears.    

“The All-Father is a deceiver, too cowardly to come himself and instead sends his lap dog and son to fight battles and I will not bend the knee any longer to the bastard.”    

Heimdall’s sword lifted before he had the thought of consequence. The swing sang in the air, the sharp blade making neat work of severing the vile filth's body from his head. It landed with a loud thud to the ground, Heimdall standing behind the body, his body resting on his sword held in front of him as he glared at the court.  

“Then you will never bend the knee again.”    

The court was a flurry of commotion thereafter, it was only due to Mimir’s careful words that the two left without resistance.    

“Did ya have to do that, lad?” Mimir asked, wincing as he thought back to the Vanir’s body falling to the floor in two pieces, a pool of blood running from his corpse.    

Yes, Heimdall thought. He did not vocalise it though, as counsel to Odin, Mimir should know the answer already. He should understand the anger inside Heimdall.    

“When the day comes, Mimir and your guilt outgrows your love for the All-Father, you’ll hope the All-Father shows more mercy than I would.”    

And when the two stood before the All-Father, Heimdall could sense the animosity Mimir held towards him, their return to Asgard had been a quiet one laced with a tension between them. Heimdall saw the stir of distrust in his mind towards the young Aesir. His shock at Heimdall's actions, the disapproval of it.  

"You made quite the impression on the Vanir council?" Odin asked as he leaned off his desk, his ravens cawing at his side, their message obviously entailed of the happenings in Vanaheim. When his father looked between the two, the tension was obvious, though he made no comment on it. Odin just raised an eyebrow as his gaze went from one to the other in silent judgement. It was Mimir who spoke first.  

"Aye, if I may, All-Father, I don't think the best course of action was the one your son took," Heimdall scowled as the man spoke, Mimir daring in his words to question him in front of the All-Father. "His position as Watchman of Asgard is not to be wielded at his own whims, it is an extension of your will."  

"I was enforcing the All-Father's laws," Heimdall defended, his stance straight and unyielding despite the anger he felt at this... creature questioning him like this. Questioning him in front of his father like this. "Wouldn't you agree, Mimir, that treason is against the law of the realms?"  

"You made a public spectacle of sheer brutality, that is not in favour of the All-Father," Mimir challenged equally, his golden eyes flashing with the unchecked anger he had at the situation. It made little sense to Heimdall, that the man cared about one worm's death, not after the devastation he himself did in the All-Father's name.  

"We have vipers in every corner of the Nine Realms that would whisper treason to shake the All-Father's rule, do you want those whispers to grow into a full-fledged rebellion?" Heimdall turned to Mimir now fully, his ire tangible in the air. "You might not know this, as you lack insight beyond your words, but there are those who would listen to such treachery and become inspired for it. Under the All-Father's rule, safety for the realms should be our main priority."  

"I could not agree more," Odin nodded, his face turned into a grimace though. "Just maybe, think a little more, before you act, Heimdall. I don't need another headache right now and you're starting to give me one."  

"Of course, father," his head bowed in submission.

Heimdall wondered what All-Father would do without him after he left the chambers, if he only had the advice of Mimir, he would be too soft. Too... deceived. Mimir did not appreciate what Heimdall offered for all the realms, he did not so much as even make pleasantries with Heimdall thereafter.

Yet another person Heimdall was better off without.  

Notes:

Comments and kudos are always much appreciated for this story!

Chapter 5: 'Monster.'

Notes:

Hope everyone had a safe and peaceful holiday for those who celebrate at this time of year.

Thank you all for the continued and amazing support you have all been giving for this story- warms my heart and soul to see it every time!

Heimdall and Atreus had an unspoken yet comfortable agreement. Atreus would refrain from offering any form of help, no matter how difficult that may be for a bleeding heart such as himself, and Heimdall would not make remarks about his father or anyone in Sindri’s house while Atreus was there. It was the only middle ground the two could agree to, ever since Atreus noticed how Heimdall became quick to anger at any inclination of care. So, he doesn’t offer comfort when he noticed Heimdall shiver despite the layers of furs he was bundled with but maintained that carefully cultivated distance between them so as not to raise the heckles in Heimdall.  

In that regard, Atreus supposed Heimdall was not unlike a wild animal and that was something Atreus could understand. Where Atreus offered his hand in kindness, Heimdall was more likely to bite it off and snarl more in fear. He was sure Heimdall would spit on him for that lovely comparison, but it was not untrue, much like a wild animal Heimdall needed to be approached with caution and care. It was a delicate process to earn trust.  

But in all honesty, Heimdall was looking a little better today, the colour was returning to his sickly pale skin, where his eyes had dulled, they sparkled a little more with reminiscence of the brightness they once had with Bifrost. However, Heimdall still moved slowly, a gingerly care was taken whenever the Aesir god tried to straighten himself or had to change position to avoid discomfort while he lay in bed.  

There was a burning question that was burning a hole in Atreus’ tongue, that was burning a hole through his head and honestly had been the moment Heimdall was obviously not improving. Part of him, the smallest part, did not want to press the issue to avoid that confrontation with Heimdall, they had progressed so much that Atreus did not want to lose it. “Is it your magic that’s doing this?” Atreus said, tamping down, or at least trying to, any curiosity and concern on the issue. Though, at this point, Atreus wasn’t even sure that Heimdall knew what was wrong with himself.  

Heimdall’s eyes darken, still focused on the furs of the blankets around him with a common intensity. Atreus looked closer and realised the Aesir’s fingers were white-knuckled in them. “Of course, it is!” Heimdall looked up, and the full force of his gaze is thrown at Atreus. “The All-Father warned me to not play with magic such as conjuration and now I suffer endlessly for it,” Despite the doubt that continued to fester in his mind, moved further by each time any of these people spoke to him, a part of Heimdall clung to the fact that his father was still right. That this was punishment for Heimdall straying from his teachings and wisdom, but he could not silence the whispers that told him otherwise.  

And what did that mean? Atreus thought it sounded like something ominous had been woven into the phrasing and the exact instinct that kept Atreus from backing off. “Why would it do that? If you were born with it, why would it hurt you like this? Doesn’t make much sense.” The little giant was so foolish to Heimdall, he did not understand the concept of temptations, and did not understand why they were necessary to test the loyalties of people. Heimdall knew, and once he prided himself on resisting them.  

“Is this a visit or an interrogation into the will of the All-Father?” Heimdall snapped, but the bout of anger faded as quickly as it had surged, his eyes weary as he looked at the young giant now. The boy was... lost and wayward in Heimdall’s eyes. There was a thought, that if Atreus had been under the care of the All-Father sooner, that perhaps he would not be so inclined towards destruction and chaos as he is now. Suppose that was in part due to being the child of a war god.  “The All-Father said my talents laid with foresight, not conjuration such magics are for the station of women, and last I checked I lacked neither the parts nor abilities to be one.”  

Heimdall chose his words carefully, though Atreus could see how open it was to not be interpreted in various ways- there was a hint of Heimdall’s own doubt in the All-Father's care for him blooming, yet it was not enough to accuse the man of doing anything abusive outright. But Atreus caught the hesitation, it was too long before Heimdall had answered Atreus and that was his mistake. A mistake that Heimdall blamed entirely on the sickness that was rattling through his body right now.  

“I know that it can be draining to do magic you’re not skilled at, I’m not a great healer but I don’t generally keep getting worse after I use it,” Atreus pressed the issue, watching as Heimdall’s eyes met his with contemplation this time, whether he would say it or not, Heimdall was absorbing Atreus’ words. “It also sounds stupid that it’s only for women, if you’re born that way, nothing’s going to change the way you are.”  

“I see your implication, yet it is unsupported, little giant. If you have not noticed the All-Father is not here to worsen my condition and Freya would have severed whatever ties he had hidden away in me to keep this quaint little house safe,” Heimdall seemed certain of that fact. It was the only certainty he held nowadays, the crux of his conviction that remained the only pillar inside of him that kept him sane. For if he were to believe that his father would do this to him, despite his loyalty, then... well then Heimdall would not have much of a purpose anymore.  

No answer came to that, but those eyes, and that’s as good as any other answer that Heimdall was breaking away. Atreus had once made a list, of all the questions to ask the Aesir when he met them as if there were some all-knowing entities bound to obfuscate any revelation that could rattle in his head about Ragnarök with the right wording. But then he met Heimdall, and he had forgotten that list in an instant. Heimdall had been unwilling, confrontational, and most of all he viewed Atreus as the enemy without so much as speaking to him. Now, now he could ask those questions and suppose he would at least get half-truths from it, but that was not what he wanted anymore. Not now that the Aesir were not points of unattainable idolisation.  

“I went back to Asgard,” the change of topic was welcomed, and Atreus was smart enough to know when circles were being made in conversation. His father was a great teacher in that regard, simply not responding when answering Atreus’ many questions seemed redundant to him.   

“Oh?” Heimdall couldn’t hide the way he froze at the statement. The thought of Asgard had been pressing in the back of his mind like a migraine that grew, of how it was faring without him. It was... well Heimdall cared much for Asgard, it was his drive and focus that guided his every action. Every aspect, every part of him had been moulded for his role of Watchman of Asgard, now that he lacked that part of him, he was lost and without guidance beyond the will to return. It would not simply leave his mind despite the situation he found himself in. “I’m sure everyone has been failing miserably there without my guidance, obviously so if they even allowed you to step one foot there after your treachery.”  

“Sif thinks you’re dead and tried to have me arrested for it,” Heimdall couldn’t hide the way his face broke out into a smile. Sif was... ever resourceful when she had her mind on something. It was one of the few traits that Heimdall could muster admiration for in the warrior. Sif, much like Heimdall, had despised the very notion that Atreus was allowed within Asgard’s walls as a guest, though they had very different reasons for it. Sif for the loss of her sons and Heimdall for the future he saw. But nonetheless, Sif and Heimdall had for the very first time in centuries agreed upon something, so much so that Sif had actually come to Heimdall to learn of Atreus’ intentions. Heimdall would not begrudge her some semblance of revenge for the loss of her sons, still as fresh as a cut that would not heal and he would feed that hatred like a flower, nurture it even if it meant Atreus would leave Asgard. His desire for the Jotunn’s demise had been as strong as Sif’s.  

Heimdall laughed, “Such the opportunist she is, truly she hated you just as much as I had.”  

“Had?” The insufferable brat of course clung to that word. Of course.  

But how was Heimdall to blame for that tiny slip up? It had been some time since he had stayed under the constant care of all these traitors to Asgard, he may be stubborn in his convictions and beliefs, but he was not infallible. He could not help that he was finding it more and more difficult to be as hateful as he once was towards them all. With Atreus becoming an almost constant presence here, it was hard to maintain the jabs and harsh words all the time. Positively exhausting, they had no clue. He would assure them every so often that he had not changed his nature with curses and slights, but he could not hide the fact that his resentment towards them all had lessened considerably in their care.  

Heimdall grimaced still at the notice of his choice of word, more so when it seemed to make Atreus happy. He went to bite back at the word, to disregard it as his idle mind confusing him and that Atreus was disgusting for taking advantage of him in such a way before raised voices seemed to pick up in volume from outside the room. They had been louder of late, Heimdall had noticed. Normally, the house was pleasantly quiet, Heimdall could often find peace in meditation when he was not constantly harassed by whoever came into his room. But today especially they had begun to raise their voices as though they were in the throes of an argument that had no end. By Heimdall’s guess though, it was probably due to the mask that sat snugly on Atreus’ hip now. A feeling of impending finality settled in Heimdall at the sight of its completion.  

“You would incinerate every soul in Asgard and call it self-defence?” One of the voices pitched loudly. Heimdall cocked his eyebrow at Atreus in question, the boy shrugged his hand unconsciously resting on the mask as Tyr continued to argue on. Heimdall looked at the object in question, he was more surprised that Atreus had made it back to the dwarf’s house with it than it finally being whole. The All-Father would never have let it out of his sight. It was strange indeed.  

The door to his room opened and Freya entered, seemingly exhausted from the arguments outside and finding peace in the quietness of the room. It was rather a funny prospect, that Freya would find peace in the same room as Heimdall. But he would not comment on it, Heimdall wasn’t in the mood for an argument today.  A bowl of broth was held steaming in Freya’s hands, Tyr was obviously too wrapped in the talks to pay Heimdall’s supper much mind it would seem.  

“What is the meaning of their pointless babbling, my head will split from the relentless stupidity,” Heimdall questioned her when she finally looked up at him.  

“They are talking over the best course of action, your brother Tyr seems to be against the invasion of Asgard,” Freya placed the bowl down next to him, the woman was busying herself checking over Heimdall, though he battered her hands away when she fussed over something insignificant in his mind. He did not know what he preferred more, the care or her cold indifference that she once held for him. At least with the indifference, Heimdall did not have to dwell on their shared history with regret and doubt. At least then he did not have to question what the All-Father told him. “He was just about to bring you dinner before he got distracted.”  

“Half-brother,” Heimdall corrected, Heimdall eyed the broth before his stomach rolled with the thought of food. “But at least he sees some wisdom in not destroying Asgard, suppose years of imprisonment finally caused the giant mongrel to see some sense.”  

“Hey, Freya,” Atreus was eyeing the bowl of broth with peaked interest, his eyebrows furrowed as he noticed the little white petals that he had never remembered before seeing in any of their previous meals. In fact, he hadn’t even seen it in tonight's food. “I’ve never seen that herb before, what’s it used for? Healing?”  

Freya finally turned away from Heimdall and her fussing to look at the bowl’s contents, her face was drawn down with concern. Freya had not paid much heed to it herself, with the loom of Ragnarök inching ever closer before her, she found herself lost more in her own thoughts as of late. At the evident concern on Freya, Heimdall straightened to attention, however. “No- no these are not herbs for healing, Heimdall, have you not noticed these before?”  

The little white flowers were innocent enough, hardly spectacular enough for his attention, but now as he looked between Freya and Atreus, he found a flood of horror being shared between the two reflect into himself. “No, I have not much paid attention to whatever filth you’re feeding me these days, though Tyr’s attempts to imitate Asgardian flavours are somewhat appreciated.”  

“These flowers are datura, child, did you remember nothing from my teachings?” Freya admonished, suddenly the bowl was forgotten as Freya fritted over the Aesir god, Heimdall himself unable to stop the flood of fear that Freya was practically throwing at him. “No wonder you have only gotten worse.”  

“Maybe, Tyr didn’t know?” Atreus tried to reason, though even Heimdall could see that the boy didn’t believe his own words, his eyes staring at the offending white flowers that swam in the forgotten bowl of food. “None of us have gotten sick.”  

“That is because Tyr has been poisoning Heimdall’s bowl.” The accusation was heavy and brewed from Freya’s own doubts towards the old Norse God of War.   

Atreus fidgeted at the tone, his discomfort at the prospect of what that meant heavy inside, but didn’t deny it though, he was confused, disturbed perhaps, Heimdall thought. After a short pause, Heimdall heard his quiet voice. “Why though?”  

“Let us find out,” Freya said. She had doubted Tyr for some time, something had changed about him that she could not quite place. He was Tyr, in voice, in demeanour and face. Mannerisms were the same but it was the little things, the slight words he chose, and his lack of understanding of the nuances of their situation. Why did he lack that anger that Freya had towards Odin? Freya had known Tyr for too long, at first, she had simply placed that strangeness on his need to heal. He had been imprisoned too long, at the mercy of Odin’s torment, anyone would need to recover their mind from that. But in no scenario would Tyr dare to poison his enemy, especially not one linked by blood. Heimdall, for all his faults, was Tyr’s brother. Tyr may have agreed that Heimdall’s death was a necessity, but he could not initiate the act himself. Not the Tyr Freya once knew. Heimdall himself felt a rage bubble inside himself that was a welcome change to the endless tiredness he had felt for the month he had been here. “No, Heimdall you must rest.”  

“I think not, step-mother, I have every right to confront my poisoner,” Heimdall hissed and tried to move up, but Atreus reflexively caught his arm and helped him, almost forgetting who he was trying to help. And surprisingly Heimdall did not flinch away or spit at the gesture. “Even the little archer with a hero complex understands.”  

Heimdall heard the conversation outside draw near as Atreus all put hobbled out the door with the Aesir’s weight on him, his breath hitching as he felt the strain of the movement burdening his body after so long in bed. Atreus glanced at the table, still seeing the conversation going around in circles with little end in sight and Heimdall could feel the inexplicable urge the young giant had at screaming at all of them for arguing. The room was filled with conflicting emotions and Heimdall was not in the state to unthread them and make sense of it, the poison was idling his senses too much. Their feuding was assaulting his senses, with temper mixed with annoyance, speckles of anger in there too. It was too much.  

“Does he ever suggest plans or just crap on everyone else’s!” Freyr groaned, pacing back and forth at the table, making the others glance at him with shared frustration.  

“The obvious plan is staring you in the face.” Tyr continued, Heimdall weak as he were could not lift his head to look at the man, his half-brother directly, but the pit of anger that rose inside him was positively growing with every word he spoke. “We don’t need Odin to use the mask, we could slip into Asgard and do it ourselves, right under his nose. We gain the knowledge we need to shatter this prophecy of war once and all.”   

“Except- begging your pardon- you don’t have a way into Asgard.” Sindri interrupted, it was a large flaw in Tyr’s plan. Heimdall, of course, could use his horn but that would mean the start of Ragnarök, and they all seemed intent on avoiding that outcome so soon when they still dwelled on avoiding war.  

“Heimdall is intimately connected to the Bifrost if we use-”  

“Odin would know of Heimdall’s betrayal,” Kratos challenged Tyr, causing Heimdall to lift an eyebrow in surprise, the man sounded as though he was concerned for Heimdall’s wellbeing, but he couldn’t be certain of that fact. “It would be foolish.”  

“Speaking of the little devil, Heimdall, up and somewhat about I see,” Mimir declared, more for the sake of the others in the other to tread lightly with their words on the matter. “Though that’s putting it nicely.”  

“You do not appear well,” Kratos had visited on occasion at the behest of his son, though he did not want to aggravate whatever wounds the Aesir held towards him. He did not see much point when he could not aid the Aesir god in his healing. It was not beneficial. But Atreus seemed insistent, and Kratos would not deny his son when he believed in something so strongly, especially so when Heimdall had become a symbol of the god of war’s change that his son held close to his chest. So, he sat with the Aesir and joined in with the meditation sessions Heimdall found himself relying on more and more to focus on himself. At first, Heimdall found it to be the opposite of relaxing but now he did not mind so much. Not when the war god made no attempt at harming him.  

“Why, yes, one would not be so well when they are being poisoned daily, I suppose,” Heimdall had wanted to sound stronger, but that blasted poison was working too well and all he could muster was a half-hearted sneer that he hoped would suffice.  

“Poisoned? You surely mean figuratively,” Mimir said tentatively, his golden eyes flashing across the room as though to gauge what everyone else heard as well.  

“It is the truth,” Freya’s eyes met Tyr’s, the challenge and accusation laying heavily in her cold gaze. “Datura, in his food.”  

---  

At the threat of conflict, Kratos found himself drawn to a defensive position, his hand flexed unconsciously for his axe, yet he did not dare make an outward motion for it. Yet.  

He sat straighter in his seat, his eyes leaving Freya’s when he saw the seriousness of her words, the warning of what might transpire in the next few moments was all he needed to know to prepare for it. He looked to Heimdall, the once proud and gloating god now hanging from his son, who he once swore brutality on. The Aesir looked no closer to being well as he did the first day he arrived, his skin still pallor and sweat glistening from him. His heart skipped beats as it struggled to keep in tune. Poison. Poison was so subtle that it was masked by the Aesir god’s frail condition, to begin with, and excused with the belief something was wrong when he did not get better. It wasn’t just that though, there was a belief that no one here would even act to harm the Aesir god, to begin with. That Kratos’ claim of responsibility for the Aesir would be enough to quell anyone’s doubts and need to take such actions.  

“What are you implying, Freya?” Tyr asked carefully as he rose from his seat. His stance was guarded yet still placating. A careful mask that Kratos saw go up in an instant, he did not need Heimdall’s foresight for it to be so plainly written for everyone to see. “Heimdall is my brother, the accusation you make...”  

“Woah, hey, nobody is saying anything like that,” Atreus said uncomfortably, swaying with Heimdall’s weight and the nervousness he felt at the impending dangerous shift in the group.  

“That is exactly what we are saying,” Heimdall’s voice was dripping with venom, the glint of his Bifrost eyes sharpened through the slated glare he tried to throw at Tyr. “I am the one who is suffering because of that would-be assassin.”  

“Now, whata say about this idjit’s cookin’!” It was Brok who spoke then, he held no love for Tyr, his distrust easy to make out since the giant first arrived but he held his tongue until now. “Seems to me a whole lotta things haven’t been making much sense since he’s gotten here.”  

“Simply because I took your station with cooking you would accuse me of killing my own brother?” Tyr walked towards the dwarf, a towering challenge as though he dared to intimidate the dwarf into silence.  

“Well, if he’s your brother, you sure don’t like spending too much time with him. I may hate my brother sometimes-”  

“Hey!” Sindri’s look of indignation on his face as he shouted in protest.   

“But I sures don’t just spend five seconds dropping off food to him and running out the door without askin’ hows he doing. And now, you suddenly reveal that he’s our hot ticket into Asgard?”  

“It was a last resort; one I did not want to use...” Brok’s finger pointed at the man but that did little to fend off Tyr, even as the old war god tried to rationalise himself to them.  

“Oh sure, ya didn’t, because ya care so much about him.”  

“If you simply allow me to explain, Loki, a little help-” Atreus looked torn between the two. It was clear his son had no wish to take sides on the issue but in truth, he could not deny the evidence before them that was growing with each second that passed in conflict.  

“Explain, you never done no explaining before-”  

“Brok, maybe just take a breath,” Atreus tried to placate but it did little to lessen the anger the dwarf seemed to be rolling with.  

“I ain’t gonna take no breath,” Brok argued. “This ain’t right. All the pieces ain’t wielding together true. He don’t even talk about his brother, and what’s with him calling you ‘Loki’ anyway? You know that ain’t his name. Hey, I’m-”  

Within a moment, Heimdall was gone from Atreus’ side, the boy stumbling back some from the loss of weight. In the next, he had Tyr’s arm in a vice, shaking from the force that it took to meet Tyr’s to prevent the blade from meeting the blue dwarf’s gut. Heimdall could hardly believe his own strength at that moment nor his ability to slow down time either, he had to blink to make sure he hadn’t simply imagined he could do it in his desperate state. But even as he did, the truth remained in front of him, Brok had stumbled back and let out a slew of vulgarities, the blade just inches from his stomach. If Heimdall had been better, it would not have even made it that far.  

If he had been better, the hand to his throat would not have made it.  

But it did, the hand gripped him tightly as it shimmered a bright blue and Heimdall could scarcely believe his eyes when he finally saw it. It was reflex to lower his grasp against the hand to his throat and his eyes lowered in submission too, instincts telling him not to fight against his father, not to fight against Odin.   

“Good to know you still know your place, Heimdall.” Odin tsked, it was strange, Heimdall thought, the power his father held to make him feel as though he was still a child even now. “But you have still failed me immensely, if all it took was a month to shake your loyalty to Asgard, to me.”  

“Odin! Let him go.” Kratos’s voice was strong whereas Heimdall’s would not be in this situation. The others had not taken a second to draw to the defence, each one held a weapon raised as they circled around Odin and Heimdall.  

“You know what? I don’t think I will till you hand over that mask,” Odin’s grip on Heimdall’s throat tightened, and he winced in discomfort as he found it increasingly difficult to draw breath.  

“Let go of him, Odin, and face me!” Freya shouted, her edge for blood increased with her temper at the sight of the All-Father, their marital sword drawn against Odin, a thrill to see it covered in his blood made clear.  

“Loki, do you really value that mask over a life, even one like Heimdall’s?” Odin’s eye met Atreus's, the boy posed with his bow drawn, and a nervous look was swaying between Heimdall and Odin.  

“I will kill you, plan on that.” The threat from Freya was true, promised. Also, an attempt to draw Odin’s attention elsewhere failed miserably.  

“What’s the big deal, Frigg? You never liked the little shit before,” there would be a surprise in Odin’s voice to see his ex-wife defend his son so plainly if he had not watched in disgust the two form a bond over the past month. Her poison continued to affect everything around him, Odin thought viciously as he tightened his hand once more and felt Heimdall’s throat spasm underneath, his son sputtering for air. “But, of course, you don’t actually care, do you? He’s just another means of hurting me. Isn’t he?”  

“You are outnumbered Odin, do not move,” Kratos warned and Heimdall felt the All-Father twitch at the statement, it was true. The All-Father had little options for escape, his leverage entirely relying on Heimdall’s worth to these people, which should not have been much. It shouldn’t have mattered to this group whether Heimdall lived past this moment.  

“Outnumbered, yes, but you won’t let me kill Heimdall in front of your kid, will you? Not when you’ve tried so hard to show him that you’re not the god you once were, the mask please Loki?”  

“Release him!” The war god inched closer, his hand clenching around his axe as the urge to attack grew.  

“I am in control here! Give me the mask, now!”  

Atreus looked between Heimdall and Odin, Heimdall was making no move against his father, even as his eyes rolled into the back of his skull and his lips tinged a dangerous blue. All they needed was a moment, just for Odin to let go long enough. That was all Atreus needed. “Heimdall, don’t you see he doesn’t care for you, the mask matters more to him, more than Asgard! Just look at him Heimdall.”  

And Heimdall dared, call it his father being right for he did not have the loyalty in him anymore to listen to his father’s teachings, to not challenge the purity of the All-Father's will. Violet eyes gazed up to meet a blue sapphire one, just in the complexity of the builds of it he saw rivers of truths poisoned by self-interests. He saw his every grasp for knowledge outweigh his love for Asgard, the love for his children. So blinded had he been in the belief that he had been on the right path for his realm, that his father only saw the longevity of Asgard. But it mattered not to the All-Father, his father cared little for his people, that Heimdall saw Asgard burn, and Odin was satisfied for his love for knowledge was achieved. He saw Thor butchered, so obedient, so loyal, by the All-Father's hand and yet there was no reason for it. Nothing mattered to Odin, not blood, not the realm. Only the unattainable pursuit of knowledge that left a pit inside his father that would never be filled.  

“Monster.”   

Heimdall choked out the word. It felt vile on his tongue, and he struggled to verbalise as the All-Father tightened his grip once more when Heimdall met his gaze. There was anger, the control Odin once had was slipping between his fingers and Heimdall felt that rage attack him from the inside out like little knives slicing away at him. Odin tsked, his nails digging into Heimdall’s neck, but Heimdall finally reached his one hand up to meet Odin’s digging his own into the All-Father's skin.   

“Well, now that is a horrible thing to call your father.”  

He saw, he finally saw, the monster all those around him spoke of, his dearest father, in all his horrible colours and deceit, glaring at his son with a disdain that Heimdall had not even seen in his childhood, as determined as ever to view Heimdall as an obstacle in his path now. When Atreus threw the mask over Heimdall’s head, just in reach for Odin’s grasp, there was no hesitation between his choice. Heimdall was forgotten in a moment as he had never mattered to his father, Heimdall felt his neck spasm when his father’s rough hands released him, and his body crumbled only to be caught by Freya’s soft hands. Heimdall could not take his eyes off Odin though, because he was not even in his father’s thoughts anymore.  

“It must have been so difficult,” Heimdall's voice was hoarse, his throat ached just as much at the words he said as it did through the pain of use after such brutality. “Hiding beneath a veil of your own righteousness and wisdom, but I can see it now. I see you.”  

“Really, Heimdall, you’re just as dramatic as your mother,” the black ravens circled his father, his eye not leaving the mask, even as he spoke. Heimdall could feel his own eyes grow wet as he watched his father leave. Despite- despite the betrayal, the anger Heimdall felt inside could not outweigh the sadness he felt. Against his father, Heimdall looked as small as an insect cradled in Freya’s grasp as her magic purged him of the poison his father had been feeding him. “Just as disloyal too, the way she flittered around opening her heart to any man that so much as batted an eye at her. Looks like war after all.”  

When Heimdall heard the sharp thud of the spear hitting wood, he had not been sure of what it was, his heart doubling in pace as he watched the All-Father leave with his most prized possession, clear and dampening in his chest. Their eyes finally met and Heimdall felt a twinge of pure frustration, anger mixed, once more, defeat meeting defeat, and Heimdall almost smiled at that feeling, to know Odin felt defeat even if he didn’t know why. Then, after the sea of black ravens speckled with illuminating eyes passed, Heimdall saw Kratos’ spear nestled snuggly in the wall, its prize was caught. The mask hung on the wall like a displayed victory.   

But then...  

Heimdall heard the silence thereafter, his own heart pounding in his chest. Then came the echo of footsteps and the creak of wood as they all stood, shifting in the shock of what had transpired. But Heimdall could not avert his gaze from where the All-Father once stood, and his heart leapt from his chest and ceased to beat entirely.   

He was alone. His father was gone, his mother gone, Thor disillusioned from Heimdall’s own treatment, Baldur dead and Tyr still imprisoned or presumably so. Who had Heimdall left that had not been pushed away from his father’s own manipulation? It felt as though a final plunge into his heart had been made and had twisted his heart out. A fear born in his childhood had grown ugly in its adulthood. Heimdall had wanted to be loved, wanted to be chosen. Wanted to be seen and his father had nurtured that childish want until it became twisted and disfigured into something other than love, a perverted creature in of itself. The God of Foresight had been blind, religiously following the commands of his father because his father cradled that love that he so desired, yet he had not seen that love falling away. Had not even understood what love was to know it had not been there, to begin with. There was something cold in the young Aesir’s heart, a fragile fear of a rabbit willing to hunt down a snake to win the raven’s favour. The rabbit felt the fool when the raven had pecked out its eyes.  

“Heimdall?” Her voice was laced with the softest silk, Heimdall could not deny her to be the embodiment of love as was her title. But even the love in her had been twisted by his father’s will, had it not? Love toyed with by Odin to strike fear and desperation in her. How many people had suffered such similar fates as them? Just as many in the room, Heimdall realised with sickening clarity. And he had been a willing soldier to those acts, positively preened when Odin made them all examples of why Heimdall was better, of how proud Odin was of him that he had not failed as they had.  

Heimdall breathed in and didn’t breathe out. Instead, he reached his only hand to his chest because he wanted to tear it open and find out what was so wrong with him. He croaked at the pain he felt, falling further into himself, and almost simultaneously-  

Darkness enveloped his senses, a calm lull into nothingness and he did not have the will to turn away from it.  

Notes:

Comments, kudos and bookmarks are always appreciated!

Chapter 6: hold my heart too weak to beat

Notes:

I was absolutely floored by all the love for the last chapter! It could have gone either way, but you people really make my life a little happier

Thought this one was going to be a little shorter than usual but somehow editing brought it to just over 5k words again. A hint more of Heimdall's backstory and some much-needed time in everyone's headspace right now after the events of the last chapter.

Hope you guys enjoy some brooding!

Heimdall scowled at the welp dwarves who had scurried this rebellion.   

They wrapped themselves in armour and made themselves soldiers. It hadn’t taken Heimdall more than a day to root out the treachery and squash the rebellion from acting further. Heimdall had heard the whispers early, dwarves often talked loudly but they thought even louder. They had been waiting for some time, rounding up followers by the day.  He told the All-Father immediately, but his father stayed with Heimdall’s urge for bloodshed.  

‘Patience, Heimdall. The dwarves are nothing, they’ll be punished of course, but they aren’t our true enemies.’   

At first, Heimdall saw the wisdom in that. The dwarves were not strong-willed enough to challenge the All-Father. It was instead a Jotunn that had been the one at the lead. The second the tide for rebellion shifted against the dwarves, the Jotunn had been nowhere to be found, even with Heimdall’s eyes raking over every inch of that pitiful realm. Heimdall saw it for what it was- a coward coated in bloodlust for vengeance against Asgard. The Jotunn played an ugly game of war wishes, Heimdall would test that commitment to war and see if the giant scum had the conviction to play it. And the dwarves would serve as a beacon to all those that agreed to play it too.  

Impatient, that’s how Heimdall felt as he shoved away one particularly offending dwarf from the line-up they had gathered. He didn’t have time for this; there was this drunken thrill to simply end them here and now, a rush still lingering in him from the battle. His tongue felt thick and cloying in his mouth, his head spinning as he looked at the last remnants of the rebels before him, intents waning with each passing moment. Heimdall often forgot what it was like, after a battle, with his heightened senses everything was so much... more. The sun above beat down too brightly, and the sounds of the waves lapped against cobblestones near the docks. He could understand then why his brothers were so tempted into debauchery with primal lust afterwards.  

It was only when the acclaimed ‘leader’ of the dwarves shuffled in his place that Heimdall felt his senses hone into him like a focal point, a wide grin plastered on the Aesir’s face as he looked down at him. “You are no leader,” Heimdall had hissed, his eyes glowered at the dwarf proclaimed as a leader, Durlin. “Where is Laufey?”  

“Don’t have a clue who you-”  

Heimdall raised his hand, a finger edged towards the dwarf’s lips, silencing the would-be leader before him. “Do you have any idea who you are talking to? I am Heimdall, God of Foresight, and you think yourself capable of lying to me?” His voice is rough, like metal scraping over stone.  

The dwarf does not speak against him and Heimdall does not press. The prince slid his hand over the hilt of his sword, grinning a fierce thing of pleasure, and began to prowl down the line of rebels, accessing each one with careful sight as though he was a wolf stalking a lost rabbit in the woods. The dwarves truly do not know where the Jotunn scum is it would seem, none planned to even follow. Even when their breaths caught in their own throats, some with a want to tell the Aesir everything he desired but they had nothing to give. He knows he will not find the answers his father seeks here any longer.  

“You know,” Heimdall chuckled, a cruel smile spreading on his face as he stopped his pacing, his own hand now clutching the hilt of his sword desperately as he thought. “I will be... merciful today. Let you all bask in the mercy of the All-Father despite your treachery.”  

Heimdall knew from the beginning what he had planned for the dwarf leader, he was all about symbolism after all and the irony, well that was too good to pass up really. The good thing, about dwarven cities, was the accessibility to fire. They lined every street with a forge for their crafty little work, you’d think for such conditions their skin would be thick and steeled against the heat. But they were not, Heimdall had seen as much during the battle when he opened a dwarf from groin to throat. Heimdall turned to the forge on the street, picking up the forge hammer that had been used as a symbol for their pitiful resistance early on. His movements are slow and purposeful, he looks at the hammer seeing nothing but a simple thing as he turned it in his hand. How something so small could even have the ability to inspire such defiance was truly baffling to Heimdall. He was highly aware of how the dwarves’ eyes were tracing his every movement.  

“I will let you all live.”  

Heimdall placed the hammer into the furnace of the forge, the heat threateningly close to his skin as he watched the flames dance and lick the metal. His soul sang out to the fear he felt growing behind him. This was his purpose, the sword of the All-Father's will and Mimir was no longer there to dampen his mood and cry to the All-Father. It was truly a perfect balance in all the realms now.  

“Do not fret, dwarves,” Heimdall said, twirling the hammer in his hand as though to heat it evenly. He sauntered over to them until he was close enough, he was sure they felt the heat too. To feel a taste of what was to come. "I will grace you with a reminder of that mercy, so your small minds do not easily forget what happens when you cross the All-Father.”  

The Einherjar moved to Heimdall’s gesture, grabbing the ‘leader of the rebellion’ Durlin and dragging him forward. For his credit, he tried to steel himself. Put on a face as though Heimdall couldn’t feel the tremble that resonated with his fear as he stared back at the Aesir god, the rebellion hammer in hand glowing a vengeful red.  

Just moments before the rebellion was squashed, Heimdall had seen the dwarf spit the insults to the All-Father's name as he laughed, a vicious little creature tempting the gods for action without a second thought; and yet the moment the dwarf was detained and brought before one, he was rooted to the ground, his hands shaking like leaves in an autumn wind.  

“Do try to keep still, I have no intention of taking your eye.”  

When contact was made, the dwarf squealed filthier than ever, his skin bubbled and peeled with the heat of the hammer, but Heimdall fixed the dwarf in place, a pleasing sense of delight filling him as he got the satisfying feeling of submission. Heimdall reached to pull the dwarf’s head roughly up, looking into its eyes to see the message sear into his mind.  

Heimdall felt the pounding of the dwarf’s heart as it held his own gaze, the fight dwindling like a dying fire in a winter’s breeze.  

Heimdall removed the hammer at that moment when the message was burnt further into his mind than the hammer could sear his skin, and the Einherjar dropped the dwarf without care. He curled in on himself and trembled with shock.  

“Look upon him and know,” Heimdall’s eyes met each of the dwarves who survived the fray. “The next time you insects think to bite the hand that feeds you, you will not share in the mercy I have shown here today.”  

Pleased with the silent answer he got, Heimdall called out to Odin’s ravens, let the Einherjar deal with the cleanup for all he cared, Heimdall would not busy himself with such work. Within seconds the swirl of ravens clouded his vision. Completely satisfied with his work, the rebel dwarves were demoralised and order restored in the realms, there was no doubt in Heimdall that his father would be pleased with the outcome.  

He entered his father’s study; his father again was pouring over texts that Heimdall had seen scrutinised again and again by his father. His two closest ravens were nowhere in sight, pesky little birds had the tendency to haunt his every step when out on errands for Odin, so he was surprised to see their absence still upon his return.  

“Heimdall, you’re back I see,” his father greeted him gently, though his eye had not strayed from the texts, waving a hand absently to usher Heimdall forward. “How was the rebellion, all done and dusted I hope?”  

“Of course, father,” Heimdall nodded his head, following his father’s lead and stepping forward to the desk. “The rebel insects have been squashed and made a reminder of your infinite mercy.”  

“What about Laufey?” Heimdall had made himself accustomed to the slight changes in his father’s tone, such as now, there was a heaviness weighed carefully in each word he spoke. Measured and prodding. It made Heimdall hyperaware, his hands anxiously clasping each other behind his back as he thought about what he would say.  

Heimdall could not lie to the All-Father, the muscles in his forearms tensing with stress as he clenched his hands together tighter. “Gone before I got there, they knew nothing of the giant’s whereabouts.”  

“By the Norns, Heimdall, I gave you one job,” His father finally looked up from the papers, the tone of critique does not go unnoticed by Heimdall, his fingers twitch at it. “Just one, capture the rebel leader and bring them here.”  

“The rebellion is no more, this Laufey has nowher-”  

The strike is sudden and Heimdall’s head cracks to the side with the force, his teeth grit in his mouth as the familiar taste of cooper filled it. He tried his best not to look frenziedly at his father for more than a second before he straightened himself upright once more. A buried part of himself was crying desperately, hard and violent and more like a feral animal at the memories that filled him once again. He tongued the tear in his cheek, the bitter sting of pain resonated as he wiped the blood over his teeth, and he wanted to growl at the shame for it. His hands now fisted behind his back, gripping each other till he was sure he felt skin break under the force.  

“You know I hate to do that Heimdall, really upsets me when I have to,” Odin shakes his head, one hand rubbing his forehead in exasperation as though he was merely telling off a child. “You just- fail to see the bigger picture sometimes.”  

“I will continue my search for Laufey,” Heimdall tried in vain to correct his error, the All-Father would not begrudge him the attempt. Heimdall will do better next time. It was a mindless need and desire to prove himself to his father.  

The All-Father had none of it though, his eyes locked onto Heimdall with a distant look of disapproval. “No, no,” Odin walked away from Heimdall, a cold judgement crept into him until Heimdall shuffled on his feet at it. “I just- don't think you’re up to the task. Take a break, rest up.”  

“The fault is mine, All-Father, I would have my mistake correct-”  

Only when the door opened to the All-Father's chamber did Heimdall gather who the All-Father intended to send instead. His eyes widened only a fraction as he felt the vile presence fill his senses.  

“Ahh, Baldur, just the son I was looking for, I’ve got a very important matter that needs your attention.” It was as though the All-Father was praising Baldur for a task he had yet to complete, he clapped his hands together and Baldur stood next to Heimdall despite the way his older brother oozed with fury. “Oh, Heimdall, you can go now.”  

Baldur’s eyes immediately went to the red marking on Heimdall’s cheek, a gleeful little smirk spreading across his face, “You heard the All-Father, Heimdall, you’re no longer needed right now.”  

Heimdall’s eyes turned to Baldur’s- the insufferable waste of space had the audacity to... Heimdall turned on his heels. He exited the chambers, his steps heavy to the wood floor and everyone made a point to avoid the Aesir god’s ire as he stormed through the city.  

Always the one by the All-Father's side, Heimdall had always been the one to consult on such matters, and one mistake. Just one and Baldur had slithered in his place like a viper coiling around the hare. It was not even that grand of a mistake, the dwarven rebellion was no more and yet it was as though Heimdall had done nothing! A dangerous quiet swept over the streets of Asgard as Heimdall moved through them, he savoured that simple power he held over them. It was only perchance that as Heimdall passed the tavern, that his brother Thor leaned against the doorframe, a jug of mead nursed in his hand and a gloat about him when he looked upon his brother’s indignant temper.  

“Have a drink, little brother,” Thor said, raising his mead at Heimdall in a mock toast. Heimdall’s fury met Thor’s jovial taunt, it only worsened when Heimdall saw himself in his older brother now. “It’ll help.”  

---  

Freya laid her hand to his forehead when the young Aesir god would not heed her voice, she felt the explosion of pain inside him, though she did not have the foresight to see it literally. She remembered that pain all too well, remembered how far she had spiralled into her own madness and grief that she did all she could to spare Heimdall that grief now as she lulled him to sleep with her magic.  

The dwarves were fussing over each other, or in more plain and correct terms, Sindri was freaking out over the prospect of how close Brok had been to death once more while Brok was getting annoyed at his brother’s attention and fusses.  

“Like hell that All-Asshole could put me down, slimy two-faced terrible cook,” Brok grumbled out, batting Sindri’s hands away from him and he looked down to Freya and Heimdall, the anger in him settling a fraction. “How’s the little golden prick doing?”  

Freya hummed, the poison, now she knew of it, would not be a burden upon the Aesir god any longer. His mind, however, she could not predict. Trauma was a unique hurt that no one person could predict, where hers had been anger and others' deep sadness, she could not say where Heimdall’s would take him.  “Physically, he will be well, now I know of the root of his ailment, I can purge it from his system with ease, his mind is what I fear most right now.”  

Brok grunted, though try as he might to mask whatever feelings he had towards the Aesir’s condition, it was easy to see the concern. The Aesir god had saved the dwarf’s life just moments before and that was not an easy debt to dismiss. A debt that both Brok and Sindri recognised with a protective nature they held towards those they considered their own. In their rejection from their own people, the dwarves had humbly recognised the strength of self-made bonds. It was a realisation they held dearly onto and every person in this room had earned it to some degree.  

She looked back down; through the flow of her magic, she almost saw the child she had once held in her garden. The one that had played with Baldur in delight and saw wonder in the bloom of the flowers she cared for. Her gaze landed first on his face, the hard lines that adorned it when he was awake were smoothed with the unburdened nature of a dreamless sleep, soft and rounded, sadness beyond belief at another child changed by Odin’s intervention. Then her eyes slipped over her shoulder and settled on the hard ones of Kratos, she could not read minds, but she too felt his understanding of the turmoil the young Aesir god was going through. Kratos breathed in even breaths; his hands clenched and unclenched as he thought. Freyr had been the one to collect the mask, though she could tell it was more out of security for it being in their hands once more.   

“Kratos, help me put Heimdall to bed once more,” she called to him, and the man aided with no hesitation. Past the onlookers, they carried him to bed and settled him as best they could. Freya felt something inside herself, crooning at the motherly instinct to protect and shield the boy in front of her as if he were her own son. She knew he wasn’t Baldur, knew no one would ever replace her own son, but she yearned for the chance to do something now, change if that were at all possible for the both of them. “I loved him once, when he was a child, you would not recognise him. He was... hopeful, Kratos. Saw wonder in everyone and I scarcely believed it was possible. He and Baldur would play in my garden, as true brothers and it warmed my heart to feel as though I was a part of so much love.”  

“Children are often beacons of hope,” Kratos supplied, his words carried an understanding that was not just from Atreus.  

“They are,” Freya nodded, her fingers ran through the Aesir god’s golden locks, masterfully detangling the braids and smoothing them out. “His foresight though, he saw so much. I would tell Odin he needed to be protected.”  

“And he did not listen,” it was said rather than asked by Kratos.  

“Heimdall was a tool, just like Baldur,” her fingers remembered the pattern of braiding Heimdall favoured, weaving the strands together as though she had been doing them forever. “At first, I wanted to stop it, but then... Heimdall made threats to Baldur, he knew of the prophecy.”  

Her magic lulled over Heimdall’s body, coaxing the poison out little by little.  

“I cannot even say when the change happened,” she sighed. “Only that one day Heimdall was smiling at me and the next he looked at me as though he wanted to kill me.”  

Kratos's hand found her shoulder, “That is not your burden to bear, Heimdall was not your responsibility.”  

“But he was, Kratos,” Freya shook her head. “I was as much a mother to him as I was to my own blood, I saw the treatment Odin put the boy through and did nothing because it was easier. And in the end, it didn’t matter, Baldur is dead and Heimdall is broken as is everyone who went against Odin.”  

“We are not broken,” the hand that rested on Freya’s shoulder gave a tight squeeze, the comfort much needed and yearned for by the goddess.  “We remain, perhaps beaten, but not broken.”  

“He will pay for this,” the determination was as strong as ever in the goddess, yet another reason added to her vengeance against her ex-husband.  “Odin will die.”  

They don’t wait long in their silence when Atreus hesitantly stands in the doorway.   

“Father?”  

They had no moment, truly, after Odin revealed himself to really gather themselves. Focus had been on the mask, on Heimdall. His own son had grown quiet quickly and had not said much until now, “Atreus.”  

“I- this whole time, he was-” Without clear direction, his son fumbled the words. His mind was heavy with the burden of Odin’s revelation. The house was not aiding in it, a pressing reminder of who had been living in these walls for so long.  

“Come,” Kratos stood, Freya, eyed the two but did not stop in her care for Heimdall, she nodded to Kratos before he even spoke of their leave, understanding entirely. “We will return, Freya.”  

“Where are we going?” His son asked, eyes lost and unfocused.   

“Home.”  

“Take the time you need,” Freya nodded, and it was true, they needed the time to think, Freya would not begrudge that need from them. Not when she found herself needing that time herself. “We will be here when you return.”  

When they reached the door, Kratos had hoped his son would at least speak. Question his father’s motives as he would normally do. Instead, he followed without question and that stoked the concern that burned within Kratos. His son’s chin is tucked to his chest, his hands lost to his sides, and he fidgeted nervously. He looked deep in thought, his eyes trained far away. Even still, the moment Kratos opened the door, Atreus followed without prompt. There is the quiet resolve that had seen Atreus confined to his own thoughts.   

---  

Midgard, from memory, seemed to worsen in the cold if such a thing was possible. Atreus thought to the white-capped trees, scarcely a sign of life in his mind. Their home... it had not felt as such for some time. It felt empty, an echo of what Atreus remembered it to be.  

“Why are we going home? They need us back there; Odin can’t get away with this-”  

“We are to hunt,” Atreus’ eyes landed solely on his father’s back when he spoke.  

Hunt.  

His father wished to hunt right now when the doom of the Nine Realms edged ever closer.  

“Hunt? You can’t be serious.”  

“I am,” His father said simply, his steps not faltering for a moment as they walked along the walked along the tree’s branches. “Odin will be as he was after we hunt.”  

“He’s not going anywhere, Atreus.” Mimir comforted or tried to in a way that was more gently put than the way his father spoke. It fell on deaf ears though.  

Atreus had not the will to argue with his father, in truth he silently welcomed the numbing pursuit of the hunt. His mind had been a jagged mess since Odin had revealed himself. Tyr, from the start, had been a disappointment. Where Atreus thought he found something to push change, Tyr had been anything but. Things shifted; Atreus found. ‘Tyr’ had become a blockade in their plans for moving forward and Atreus, in his naïve beliefs, had allowed his own thoughts to cloud the reality of it. Only when ‘Tyr’s’ hand had gripped Heimdall’s throat, the knife held menacingly towards his stomach in a veiled threat for them to move, did Atreus realise his mistake. Brok and Heimdall had almost died because of him.   

He shook his head.   

He just stared at his father for a few seconds, the path along Yggdrasil winded and curled, and Atreus felt a need to walk upon it forever just to remain oblivious to the conflict outside of its branches. Only when they passed through the white door to Midgard, did he feel an emptiness inside himself as he stared at their home? It felt so long since he had viewed it as such, how he longed to be away from it his entire life and now he yearned to feel like he was had when he was younger. To feel safe in its walls.  

“What would you like to hunt?” his father’s voice asked, it sounded strange to hear his father ask so softly. There was a breeze about them, a quiet that neither of them had felt in so long that it made Atreus on edge that something in the shadowy corners would lunge out and attack them. All the while, there was nothing there, the quietness grew more and more, surrounding them until at last, they knew nothing was truly there. And Atreus felt dull calm fill him once more.  

“Deer.”  

Atreus took the lead, he knew not where he was going, he just stared at the whiteness of snow that grew more and more with each passing year. Yet another taint of the All-Father's influence, he wondered whether he would ever see the greenness in the trees once more fill their home until the birds sang in harmony to create a peace they had not known in some time. He feared they would not. He feared it would always be this way no matter what they did.  

“Where are we heading lad?” Mimir asked kindly, a veil was around the question, something hidden under the words that Atreus had not a care to discover.  

He did not know, and he did not care. He just knew his feet had to walk in a direction till he found a purpose to guide them. Until he felt right again. “In... the direction of deer.”  

The wolves, his wolves, stayed in their homes as loyal as ever. So blindly loyal as Heimdall had been, would they also refuse to bite his hand if he raised it against them? In the canopy of their shelters, he spotted them happily whining at his return. He narrowed his eyes, forced himself to continue to pass them and squeezed through the crack in the rocky surface that had once been his mischievous escape route past their home.  

Stupidly loyal.   

It hurt him to think of it.  

“Do you wish to speak of what happened?” his father now asked.  

Speak of what? What did his father wish him to say that was not already clear? It hurt as if there was a red-hot poker stuck in his chest, prodding and poking and stabbing him like a piece of meat. He had been so arrogant, he wanted so blindly to be their champion, to save his people that he had not seen it. Had let Odin into Sindri’s house and almost...  

“I think I heard something,” Atreus instead said. “This way.”  

And there was talking, he could hear Mimir and his father speak as though he was not just in front of them. But his mind was too scattered to focus on anything other than the hunt because that was the only direction that kept him sane enough to walk. The crunch of snow accompanied each step, his tracks following the ones he saw. The cold of the wind made his body shudder with each inhale he took.  

His father said nothing.  

His father cleared the path for him without direction to.  

It was better this way.  

“Atreus, betrayal changes us,” the log that landed behind them after his father threw it to the ground echoed into the landscape, the rustle of snow and leaves felt the force of it. “You are not weak to feel its effects.”  

“We’re all feeling its effects,” Mimir’s voice had a long-held gravity to each word he spoke, Odin’s own betrayal against him still fresh after all these years had passed.  

They didn’t understand though, Atreus thought, they didn’t understand how much of a fool he was. Atreus continued on in his path, his eyes following the tracks because it was better to focus on that than let his mind think for more than a second. He had gone to Asgard, portrayed himself to be cunning because he thought he had the upper hand, and thought he could outplay Odin when it was indeed Odin who outplayed him. After every victory Atreus thought he had, Odin had been sitting across from him, listening, goading Atreus down a path for his own benefit. Atreus had never been a champion. He had been foolish.  

“We’re heading the right way.”   

The snowcapped trees crowded them, and the world around them looked unlivable. Yet Atreus felt the whirring and hammering of life persisting, his magic reaching out and touching it. It was familiar and demanded his attention, to urge him for change and life renewal here. But he could not, he was not the champion he thought himself to be. He could not save them from this anymore.  

“I keep-” Atreus was tired, he was tired of trying to be something he was not. Tired of making the wrong choices, making mistakes that hurt the people around him. “Thinking about what could have happened. The knife. Brok. Heimdall.”  

“Son...”   

The deer was ahead, barely visible against the stark white snow, “There it is.” They both crouched, his father made no attempt to continue whatever he was going to say and Atreus felt grateful for that fact. He didn’t want an answer as they crept towards the deer, the steady beat of his own heartbeat guiding him as he lifted his bow and notched an arrow, as deafening in the open wilds as the beat of drums.  

Thud.  

Thud.  

Thud.  

Then his father’s hand came to his bow, lowering it before Atreus could release the arrow. The deer ran, noticing the disturbance and was out of sight before Atreus could correct himself once more. “Why? Now it’s running.”   

“And so are we.”  

The words were so casual. So simple. As if his father was stating that the sky was blue and the clouds white.  

“I- I don’t understand.”   

“When an animal is wounded, it must stop the bleeding. Or it will die,” Atreus had felt himself bleeding little by little with every step he took, the humming of the will leaving his body. Something cracked inside himself again when the realisation of it had been so evident.  “We have been wounded, and this... this is a distraction.”  

Thud.  

Thud.  

Thud.  

“It’s my fault...” He felt himself crack even further, and Atreus could not will himself to look his father in the eyes as he crashed into the snow below them, his body tired and weak, unable to hold himself up anymore  

“No!” His father’s voice implored; he shivered as it felt himself be invigorated by it. “No.”  

“It’s just... I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought I was helping,” but was he helping now? Sitting in the snow and allowing himself to bleed out his own will in pity? His father had been right then, he was running to escape and lose himself in the wilds. What good was he to bleed out and never return? “We should go back, and make sure everyone’s okay.”  

Atreus couldn’t run from his own failures any longer. Closing his eyes, he let the bitter breeze sting his face and bite into his skin. He could mourn for his own loss he felt, to the loss of the achievements he felt he had, later.  

Notes:

Kudos, comments and bookmarks are always much appreciated and loved here.

Chapter 7: willing vulnerabilities

Notes:

I am back with another chapter update!

Just a warning for this one though, hence the change in tags as this was entirely not planned until I was editing this chapter for publishing, there is an explicit (at least explicit for me since I've never written anything like it before) sex scene for Heimdall's past, as such it is formatted the same way as all previous flashbacks being italicised and with the usual breaking of paragraphs. Skip over it if it's not your cup of tea, it's mainly just to build upon his character and to incorporate some of the traditional mythology some more.

Heimdall wanted to die, it felt like. In a way that he felt nothing, in a way that was quick compared to this slow death the Norns were determined to give him now.   

But you have still failed me immensely if all it took was a month to shake your loyalty.  

The words were still ringing in Heimdall’s head, he had been awake for some time and yet his mind kept drawing back to that single moment- the moment his father said them, every syllable like a deliberate barb to his core, like a flight of arrows aimed perfectly for his heart. He’d thought- he'd been sure that his father had intended to kill him in those moments, would have if not for his desire for the mask outweighing the rage he held for his son. He was the third child of four and he had been discarded just as easily as the rest of them, but he thought his father might at least try to bring him home- might put up some sort of token of want to have his child returned- not...  

Not throw Heimdall away like he was the rest of his disappointing siblings. Not poison him for a month to keep his mind dulled and unfocused.   

He’d hoped he simply misinterpreted his father’s intent, but instead he had scrambled for the mask as if it was his own blood, his own child. They had all been right about him. Freya had been right. Mimir had been right. That little runt of a giant Loki- Atreus had been right. And finally... his foresight had been right; his foresight could not lie to him. It had pointed out how cruel Odin was, how cruelly his father had sent him to his death knowingly on that day in Vanaheim. It was the truth of it all.  

There’s suspecting your family may have never loved you, interpreting their actions as such but never truly knowing, and then there’s knowing it, and the knowing is the curse that settled in Heimdall’s heart like a shard of ice, burning a cold with a slow and sullen freezing frost. Heimdall had not known grief such as this, he had felt the scorn of his father, the abuse of his hands but he had always believed deep down that his father did that out of love. That he had simply wanted Heimdall to be the best version of himself for the betterment of Asgard and their family. Heimdall suspected this frost in his heart won’t stop until he is nothing but ice.   

For the first time, he was able to rise out of bed by himself without the weight of the action draining him and his body protesting wildly at the slightest movement. There were no guards in his room to watch his actions, there was no need to after all, not when it was clear to all that Asgard was no longer his home. It’s... really ridiculously ironic, here he was priding himself to be the pinocle of the Aesir and he was no longer a stain on its wall to be scrubbed away. An insect he, himself, would have squashed beneath his own boot. A suitable fate for a disloyal son that once was the beacon of light in all of Asgard. His eyes first caught the armour set laid out on the chair beside his bed. In the excitement of the recent evening, he had all but forgotten what Sindri had told him all those nights ago. It was reminiscent of his old armour, gold and white in colour, but the engraving around the collar and accents were different. It reminded Heimdall of the ocean, the way the designs weaved and flowed like waves and were highlighted with flowers he had only seen on Vanaheim. It was rather... comforting oddly but Heimdall had no idea why. It fitted perfectly as well, Heimdall would not question how the dwarfs knew his measurements.  

Heimdall walked out of his room- of Atreus’ room- quietly as one could when the whole room turned to acknowledge his presence the moment the door creaked open. It was horrid to be the centre of their gazes, overwhelming in fact when they rolled with pity and sadness at his state of affairs, all except the blue dwarf, Brok. He kept his thoughts busy on his task at the forge, he did not pity the Aesir the way the others did, respected him, and thought of him as an equal. The prideful part of Heimdall scorned at the mere notion that the dwarf thought himself equal to a god like himself, but it was better than everyone else’s thoughts right now, so he took it with stride and bit his tongue from spitting at it.  

“Don’t be fooled,” Heimdall spoke nonchalantly, continuing in his steps as though he hadn’t felt his world move beneath his feet and his life torn from him. “Do not let my alliance with you all soften you to the horrors I still imagine upon you all. I’m still the vindictive god who would rather feed myself to a gradungr than bear to listen to your thoughts of pity, remorse and ugh- budding friendship you think is possible.”  

“It is not pity, Heimdall,” Freya corrected, though even she knew it to be a lie when she spoke. “We just want-”  

“I know what you want, step-mother, it is not needed,” the Aesir god warned, it was a shame that brought out this side of him. Shame that he had to even demean himself now to a place he thought himself above. “I am going outside for some fresh air; the staleness of this house is suffocating my senses.”  

“Well at least he’s still as bitchy as ever, that’s a good sign.” He heard Freyr comment as he exited the house. Such a comment before may have had Heimdall turning and challenging the individual who would dare to slander him so, but in truth, Heimdall could not care less anymore. If he was stupid enough, weak enough to believe lies fed to him his entire life while he had the power of foresight, who was he to challenge another’s opinion of him? He was a poor god in form and mind.  

What should he do now?  

Heimdall found his feet taking him to the side of the house, it was out of sight, isolated enough that he didn’t feel the press of everyone else’s consciousness on his own and he could pretend for some time that he was anyone other than himself. Heimdall perched himself on a bench facing the vastness of the Yggdrasil tree, he could feel the ebb and flow of Bifrost around him, here it was untamed and wild, his own reaching out to touch it in a yearning fashion. The roots and branches of the tree stretched from one side of the horizon to the other, sinking into the sea of mist, its topmost branches too high up for anyone to see. It was one of the more calming sights Heimdall had ever seen, the mists laced with Bifrost felt like a part of himself was home here more than he ever had felt in Asgard. The vastness looked appealing, Heimdall wondered if he could dare to navigate the treacherous currents of the tree without losing himself, though that was also a tempting prospect too.   

Heimdall could abide by that. And would, had he any idea where he should go once he tried.   

Foolishly, he’d considered himself safe in his position at the All-Father's side. Thought that with all the power Odin bestowed upon him that it had meant something, but he knew better now. He had failed not in his duties to the All-Father, but to his realm, and now he paid the price for it. He had to fix it. It was simple. It should have been simple. But he could not... could not admit it to those in that house- nor to himself most of all- not ask them to listen to his words when he himself distrusted his perspective on everything. They were not as he was, they were not made to see through everything, to prevent the fall of Asgard, to see all threats before they happened. And he, Heimdall as the Protector of Asgard, had allowed the biggest threat to remain inside its walls. What was the fall of Asgard? Had it already fallen under his father’s madness? Was he a party to it when he blindly followed without question? Back in the day, he would not have even considered the prospect of Asgard’s fall coming from his own family; they were the realm’s protectors after all. But he knew where they had failed in that course, so that was firmly a seed in his mind that haunted his thoughts relentlessly.   

Would the realms fair better without them?  

Heimdall had no one to share these thoughts with. A few stray gods, dwarves? Most of whom had long since had their own troubles to deal with. He slammed his fist against the bench in frustration. He doubted any of them cared enough to listen to his troubles with the respect he wanted from others, not with the pity they threw. Not when he had done nothing to earn that consideration.   

He heard the rustle of the door to the Nine Realms thrum with life before he felt the presence of the little frost giant draws near to him. Of course, the little runt thought it was his right to interrupt Heimdall’s few moments of peace, even with his foresight warning him of the giant’s intent that didn’t prevent Heimdall’s annoyance when his face peered at him as he stood in front of his view.  

“It’s good to see you’re looking better Heimdall,” the audacity that that little worm had to sit next to him while he was clearly enjoying his peace. Heimdall looked up at the boy, cocking one eyebrow and almost- almost- rolling his eyes at the boy. The almost may have been important to Heimdall to emphasise but that didn’t stop Atreus from noticing and sighing. “Nice to see you too.”  

“I had not even said a word, frosty.”  

“Well, my eyes don’t need your foresight to see the way your nose crinkles up whenever you see me,” the way the young frost giant dropped himself rather comfortably next to Heimdall, his feet crossing as he stared out to where Heimdall was looking was what irked Heimdall the most.  

“Why, yes, by all means, invade my personal space why don’t you,” Heimdall muttered, more to himself than to Atreus. “Clearly, no one has taught you basic manners, but that is sadly no surprise with the company that has raised you, I suppose it isn’t your fault really.”  

Atreus finally looked at him, a strange and perplexed look on his face. The boy could not comprehend basic manners and it was no wonder when he had been raised by absolute animals but that was not where his confusion laid, no, it was with the word Heimdall had chosen.  

“Are you actually saying something isn’t my fault?” That stupid grin that Heimdall had likened to only be something this child could conjure up, spread across the giant's face in a moment. “I knew we’d be friends.”  

“We are NOT friends, you insufferable roach,” but the words held no malice and Atreus knew that by now, it was entirely annoying that he knew that. Defeated the purpose of Heimdall’s whole character if the stupid boy knew that now. “Stop it with those silly little thoughts, any notions you have of us being friends are entirely misplaced.”  

But Atreus just kept grinning until it became just a relaxed look of contentment.  

“I’d say we are, you saved Brok and that makes you my friend at least,” it was good enough for the boy- better than enough. Heimdall looked away from him as he continued. “I’m sorry as well, about your father. I know we don’t like him but still- he was your father.”  

“I was more focused on foiling whatever scheme ‘Tyr’ had than saving that blueberry,” Heimdall added to his defence, but it fell flat.  

“You didn’t have to save him to do that though,” Atreus reasoned, Heimdall knew he was right though and it grated on his nerves relentlessly. “I’m sorry as well- that I brought Odin here.”  

Heimdall found himself squinting at the giant now, an empty puff of laughter escaped him as he saw the boy actually did blame himself for it, “You are foolish if you think you could have outplayed the All-Father at his own games.”  

The boy, however, continued to wallow in his own self-pitied silence and that- that was infuriating Heimdall even more. The boy was not to blame, and he was even stupider than Heimdall realised if he actually believed that he was!  

“You know, little frost giant,” Heimdall started, “Take it from my infinite wisdom and experience. You assumed, of course, that my father manipulated me into the role I have- that I had.” His chest constricted tightly as he thought more about it, this was no longer being addressed to Atreus, but more a release of everything Heimdall had ever buried. “I mean, why else would I show grief at the loss of my own flesh and blood? A heartbroken little crybaby at the touch of his own father, and my own will to fight leaves my body, eager to seek his approval! How quickly you believe that there must be a reason for who I am, especially when you see so much of yourself in me.”  

“I- I have to believe that people aren’t born monsters. I know you don’t think I understand what my father did before he met my mother, but I know enough to know I wouldn’t be proud to call that man my father,” Atreus started, his eyes looked distant and Heimdall was finding it hard to pinpoint what the young god was thinking while his head was swirling as it so often did in his chaotic head. “But he’s changed, he wasn’t always so close to me. He found it difficult to be a father when I was younger, but he’s come such a long way, saving you just showed me how far he’s come. I don’t believe you’re what you try to make yourself out to be, you try and push everyone away because you’re afraid that when you open yourself up to the possibility that people aren’t what Odin said they were, it means that you spent your entire life by yourself, in pain, for no reason.”  

A day, back when Heimdall was at Odin’s heel when he had found himself at the constant praise of the All-Father, preening to his every word like a hummingbird to honey and oblivious to the words of others because theirs did not matter. Only when he’d settled himself above all of Odin’s cherished children and mimicked his father’s words as if they were his own, did he feel like this was the correct type of love for him? Odin would divulge every secret he had held close to his chest and Heimdall had never pressed him for those, they were given freely and that was the true prize. In his entire life in service to his father, he had never had that trust placed in him before. Never had seen his father look at him and see no hard lines on his forehead, his ever-frowning lips twitched into something that Heimdall thought was a smile, and his once icy blue eye was like a warm sky staring back at him. Heimdall had learnt to not explore his father’s intent, not to look further than the surface of his iris, nor did he want to.  

Happy.  

His father had been genuinely happy with him.  

Looking into the formless chaos of the frost giant’s mind, echoes of himself clear in it and he saw what he lacked compared to the boy beside him, it filled his senses, and he contemplated the giant’s words without dismissal.   

“Tiny little giant, so, you doubt the character I portray myself as? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised standing next to the ever optimist Loki of the Jotnar, how can I be anything but a sorry story of the All-Father's evils? A victim of lies, manipulation, an embodiment of everything wrong with Asgard. That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? And Freya. And, judging by the way everyone else in that room pities me whenever they look at me, it’s clear they feel the same way! No doubt that is all anyone will ever think when they look upon me,” Heimdall was... he was rattling with an energy he had not felt since he was a child, it itched inside him, and he had no clue on how to dispel it. He left his seat next to the giant and paced back and forth in front of the bench, the allure of the vastness of Yggdrasil was taunting his every movement. He had nowhere to go, nowhere where he would be welcomed except here and that hurt. “You have said all you need to, giant... I’m tired of it.”  

“But it can be true, can’t it? It doesn’t have to be your only truth though,” Atreus argued to Heimdall as he shook with conviction, watching the Aesir pace back and forth in front of him, each step made as though to punch a hole through the branch they were on. “It’s time you started making your own path, your own destiny.”  

Heimdall’s foot stopped mid-air, and his heart raced so fast that he was sure the giant was listening to it, throwing Heimdall out of his furious spiral down his own insanity with the force of a battering ram. For a few moments, he just breathed in loud, jagged breaths, trying to calm himself. This all felt like the moment Odin gripped his throat and squeezed, no, no that wasn’t what this felt like. This felt like when he was a child... before Odin had bathed him in love and appreciation. Before Heimdall forced himself to see the worst in everyone and he had been wrenched out from his childhood fantasies by the unceasing hand of his father, bashed against the horrors of the unforgiving Nine Realms only to wake up to the sight of Odin’s love. And in many ways, this was exactly the same. Only this time, his father wasn’t here to guide him through it. He felt alone in it.  

“I know not how to, little giant,” the words were broken but the first full truth he had spoken to the other since their first meeting. “You judge the All-Father for what he has done to me, but I cannot. I was the object of his affection and that came with a pain I cannot understand. The truth is... I have lived long enough to know that love isn’t the strongest foundation between people.” Again, Heimdall felt himself speaking more to himself than to Atreus, perhaps as though if he vocalised the words to the realms then he would understand it all finally. “If that were true then the All-Father would not have treated me as he did when I was young, would not have harmed me until I saw his outlook on the world.”  

His eyes finally met Atreus again and he was not sure whether that was a mistake, his eyes were filled with sorrow, and the urge to reach out and hug Heimdall was only stopped by the fear he had of rejection. Was that truly who Heimdall was now? Someone who people feared to embrace? “It was the decency of his merciful lies. I knew, deep down, that he was lying to me, but he gave me the mercy of lies when I was burdened with truth from everyone else.”  

There were no more walls between the two, no more hostile projections from Heimdall to give that had held together their vitriolic relationship. Just that oh so familiar vulnerability that Heimdall had run from his entire life, his last will gone, strokes of centuries of hiding struggling to stay fresh in the Aesir god. But with no more walls to protect him any longer, Heimdall’s breath caught in his throat.  

He was free. He could leave and not return, even with the necessity for Ragnarök that they craved, and no one here would stop him. He would regain a part of himself and all the power that entailed. Even without the All-Father's guidance, perhaps even more so now, he could reach heights he had not realised himself capable of and put the thoughts of his old life into memory. He could force his aching self, hurt in soul and mind, to move away, to get himself as far away from all of this because at long last after nearly a thousand years there was nothing stopping him, it was over, he was getting away from this, he was-  

Something in the Jotunn’s eyes stirred.  

Something defeating.  

Barely daring to, knowing full well what he would see, Heimdall explored those eyes, past the strands of self-loathing he felt for Odin’s reveal, past his self-doubt he felt about his place as Champion of the Giants, and up inside to his deepest recesses only to find...  

The fall of Asgard was not what he wanted, a sadness connecting the boy’s heart about destiny’s hand weaving all his pathways to that destination. It was a hard truth the boy locked away in himself, fear cold to the touch, stuck so closely to the boy’s soul that he could feel the pain it was causing the child before him. Bruising and aching. Heimdall tugged at that thread, with gentle strength he normally would not have given but there was nothing hidden behind it. On instinct, Heimdall tried to find the deceit, just one reason that Heimdall could use against the giant, but he found he was unable to see any.   

Heimdall felt as though he had stood staring at the young giant for an eternity, his chin set hard and his arm shaking at his side as he wallowed in the thickness of his gloom. He had not noticed how his tears collected in his wide eyes just that he tasted the saltiness of them as they caught in his mouth when he spoke, “What have you done?”  

“I haven’t done any-”  

“Do NOT lie to me!” magenta and violet light sparked from Heimdall’s fingertips, bathing his skin in a haunting glow that reflected the anger he felt welling inside.   

Atreus stood, the commotion surely alerting the others inside and the boy had half the mind to leave Heimdall for whatever destruction was happening inside himself or preventing the others from making it worse, “You know I’m not, Heimdall.”  

A deep, stabbing pain settled in Heimdall’s chest as he could not conjure a lie in the giant’s will, and he screamed, the sparks of Bifrost on his fingertips reaching out erratically. He felt himself break down and his legs lost the will to keep himself upright- he fell, and he did not care for the commotion it showed, his grief clawed his insides until he suffocated in pools of blood and viscera. He was so proud, the proudest of the Aesir in the entire Nine Realms- as radiant as the first beam of summer sunlight when morning broke. And yet, only after a month of being degraded in the care of traitors and gutted like a fish for his beliefs in the All-Father, he was believing the frost giant before him.   

He felt himself reaching to his head, the thought of clawing out the truth he saw a blinding need in his core. His fist tightened in his hair- the sting of pain was good, sweet, grounding- and soon he felt strands being freed from his scalp. If he could not ground himself soon, he was going to take these buried horrors inside himself and release them until they burnt the entire tree to ashes, just as he felt it had done to himself.  

But just as he resolved to burden them all with what he felt, a steady hand met the one on his head and eased the fingers loose.  

“This is the fall of Asgard,” Heimdall uttered as he felt Atreus unwind his fingers from the tangles of his hair. “The only thing to tear down the Aesir, are themselves.”  

---  

Heimdall had been searching for an escape for some time. Or, at the very least, he tried and failed to find something to dull his senses long enough that he could pretend for one blissful moment the Nine Realms were not filled with vile people. He felt guilty about that want, it was a crux like his brothers had and for so long he prided himself on resisting to give in to their escapism. In the tavern, when Heimdall felt so low that he needed something to distract his mind and the taste of honey-sweet mead was too strong to resist, he heard Baldur wooing common girls to his bed. At first, Heimdall thought his brother a pig, self-indulgent and a mindless animal in need of a quick fuck. But he had watched, one evening, and truly looked at his brother. There was that primal need, yes, that yearning for skin-to-skin contact that was intoxicating- a need that Heimdall had never experienced nor desired in truth. The whole act was repulsive in Heimdall’s mind, to be so open with another, to expose yourself in a way that left you vulnerable... it wasn’t a position that Heimdall craved to experience again. But then Heimdall caught something else in his brother’s eye, that desire for escape, the need to feel nothing more than the pure intent of sex. It... was intriguing.  

After that, Heimdall does the only thing he can think to do when he wants to get out of his own head- he returned to the wall and sat alone in his house and pretended that no one else in the Nine Realms existed. It doesn’t work- never does.  

He only drew himself away from his solitude when his father demanded his attention be taken to Midgard- for what reasons, the All-Father neglected to tell Heimdall, but he was to stay in a village and observe the people for a time. He was to play the part of a Midgardian and Heimdall could not help but think it to be a punishment for some unknown slight he had made towards his father. But he does not protest, he goes and with the glamour his father gives him, he looks no different to any other filthy Midgardian. It was repulsive and Heimdall avoided his reflection at all costs because of it.

The only good thing to come out of the ordeal was that no one thought ill of him here. Sure, the Midgardians of this little village looked to a stranger with distrust, but that was in passing and they... well they thought nothing more of him really. He stared, transfixed, as a woman in the local tavern flicked her long raven black hair over her shoulder, and her body moved with a such fluid grace that he almost thought for a moment she could pass for a goddess. It was only when she looked at him too, thoughts purely on him, intent to see him undressed and beneath her, that Heimdall felt his breath catch in his chest. It was not something Heimdall had ever had before, to be looked at and be desired. No, the Aesir and the people of Asgard only held disdain for him. But here... here he was not Heimdall the God of Foresight, he was simply a man.  

Heimdall had no understanding of courtship, but he knew what she intended to do, what she wanted from him and that was enough. She played on his thoughts the entire evening, lazing in his spot, something had sung out for her the second she walked past with her chin held high and a challenge sparkling in her eyes. He understood, then, what made lust so intoxicating. He felt himself become drunk with it, more so than any mead could, he looked into her eyes and drowned in that lustful intention. It made it sweeter the way her ample breasts had heaved underneath her cotton clothing, Heimdall could hear her pulse thundering in her veins.  

But when she slid on one of the barstools, her eyes glinting something fierce in the torch lighting... never had Heimdall thought someone else could look so much like silence- his mind dimmed further than it had before; she thought of nothing else, intended for nothing else. Never had Heimdall believed such a thing possible.  

Mine, mine, mine.  

They had left together, he never got her name nor cared for it really. She sat upon her bed, hair deliciously mussed, he watched as her brown eyes roamed his body and were pleasantly surprised when all she thought of was bedding him there and then, a wicked grin drew across her face. “Mm, I gather you have all the people fawning over you?”  

His low chuckle reverberated through the still of the house, his eyes glinted dangerously as he looked at her.  

He didn’t respond, watching in curiosity and odd satisfaction as the pink tinge on the woman’s cheeks grew, encouraged by her reaction to him, he leaned over her. He moved with her intentions and learnt every step of what to do to please her. In turn, she pleased him, her eyes feeding him this lustful escape that made him forget about himself. He rested a knee on the bed near her thigh and with one hand on the other side of her, so she was pressed close and caged between him. When she moved to close her eyes and lean her head back, his other hand came to her chin, rough and harsh, pulling it forward once more.  

“Look at me.”  

Her eyes widened imperceptibly as he looked down at her, his eyes may have lacked the tinge of the Bifrost now but they glowed with something else, her own pupils grew wide and dark with desire. She wanted it slow, so he took his time dragging his eyes up and down the length of her, his tongue darted out to wet his lips at the swell of her chest, her hands twisted desperately in the sheets, and he knew she wanted him. And he needed her for that escape he craved.  

“You are too clothed,” she placed one hand on his shoulder, Heimdall felt the urge to snarl with disdain, but he was too intoxicated by this feeling from her to do anything but let his body be shoved off the bed.  

She wanted a challenge from him, wanted him to be undressed but... “Take them off of me then.”  

And with no hesitation, she slipped out of her bed, her feet padding over to him. His own body reacted before he bid it too, the unrecognised heat of arousal throbbed ever more desperately in his bones as she wandered over to him. He drank in the sight of her like his brothers often did in the taverns with women passing by her dress had become unlaced at the top, exposing the cream of her collarbone that peaked through the opening, the material thin enough that her nipples were plain to see- hardened into peaks against as her bare breasts grazed against the material. It was all so superficial, all so... primal. A part of him was disinterested but he craved to further drown himself in her arousal, craved the way it felt against her skin. The dress was long enough to brush against the bottom of her thighs, long since had any undergarments been forsaken, and it enticingly teased above her knees. The softness of her legs exposed a life of hardship in the village, speckled with cuts and scars, but it did not hinder the urge he felt rush through him to drop to his knees before her and bury his face between them.  

She was at the disadvantage of knowing his wants, clueless as to how he depended on her to feel that blissful escape in her eyes as she stopped inches from his face. The house’s candlelight cast dark and wistful shadows that licked and teased across their faces, her fingers rested lightly at his side, gaze tracking down his body. He let it happen this time, his fill in her eyes satiated him long enough to let her burn a path down to his hip, watching the way her own tongue mimicked his, wetting her lips.  

She arched her neck, looking back up at Heimdall with a sly and devious little smile, whispering, “You wear too many layers.”  

Despite her words, she made short work of what remained of his clothing, and curiously more so layered and folded them neatly as though she could sense his ire had they been discarded without thought. When he was left with nothing more than his undershirt and breeches, the woman looked at him and a grin flittered across her rounded pink lips, “I’m quite sure you can manage the rest, I shall be in bed should you require further assistance though.”  

Not heeding a reply from him, she turned and laid herself across her bed, he itched to join her that moment, his hands moving to remove his breeches in a mindless drive, the muscles of his arms and back rippled as he drew his undershirt off and found his feet moved without order to the bed, mattress dipping as he slid alongside her.  

His mind swirled with her thoughts, rousing him more to the situation he found himself in. He was acutely aware of the heat of her body next to his, how it pressed against his. She obsessed with the feel of him, she wanted more. He saw her mouth move before he felt it, the desire and ache she had to taste him, his own mouth watered in response until slowly, she took one of his hands in hers and pressed an open and wet-mouthed kiss to his soft fingertips.  

She twisted in his arms, and he felt her heartbeat flutter, her eyes burning into his, but his grip was strong and unwavering, and he pinned her flushed to his chest. His hand moved from her mouth, trailing down her backside to the curve of her backside. His fingertips dug into the meat of her lower back, his mouth finding its place at the shell of her ear, breath hot and panted- her body shivered in response.  

There was a whimper that escaped her lips as he slipped a hand next through her hair, the urge to fist it overwhelming until he found his fingers curling softly and he tilted her head back. With her neck bared to him, his lips travelled along the rapid pulse of her neck, nipping a wet trail that shone in the low lighting. As his teeth pulled at the tender flesh there- his eyes finding hers once more as he drank in what was to come, what they both needed to happen- he bit down hard enough to have a gasp escape her lips and her body twisted. He tugged and took it; she needed it to burn with a little pain until she felt it would bruise and then she craved comfort, his silky, wet tongue quickly replaced his teeth. He licked at the spot in a comfort that had her yearning for more.  

“Oh, the Norns-” Her voice was heavy, dangerously low with the lust he saw in her as he moved a hand to slip under her dress. She whimpered and then suddenly his hand found her breast, palming it in a slow and firm repetition. With every wave of aching pleasure that gathered at her heated core, Heimdall felt it on his own. So lost was he at this moment, the vibration of pleasure solely for pleasure, nothing muddling that intention for nothing burned brighter in these moments. She moaned gently next to his ear; her hands grabbed at Heimdall’s shoulders before dragging her nails down his back.  

“Oh please...”  

His fingers rolled her nipple between his fingertips, pulling and tugging and as it overwhelmed her, it overwhelmed him, a fire burning brighter between the two at her pleas and becoming fragmented in his mind so dizzied with this rebounding pleasure. The Norns, Heimdall had never thought he could feel so utterly free and lost in blissful peace, never thought it would feel like he was combusting from the inside out and yet here he was. Indulging shamefully in it as though he was no different to his brothers.  

There was a desperation for any friction to ease the aching throb between them, so lost and drunk he could no longer tell whether that was her desires or his, his hands pulling her closer at her hips till she rested against his cock. His hips thrusted without him thinking it, a torturously slow pace against her thighs. But that wasn’t enough for her and therefore it was not enough for him, with a snarl the woman wrenched herself from his grasp, flipping them over till he laid on his back and her leg slung across his hips, and she straddled him. Her hands ripped at his own, if he were still Heimdall- still a god- perhaps he would have venomously thrown her from him for daring to touch him like that, but he was not Heimdall. He was a simple Midgardian man that allowed her to pin his wrists above his head and pressed him further into the bed. Her breathing was hard and his matched it, her heat pressed firmly against his throbbing length- there was this hint of relief in her that echoed to him.  

He had never experienced a willing vulnerability, Heimdall felt dizzy from it, and it doubled when his foresight could not sense any ill intent from her. The roll of her hips, the rutting friction she gave him and as he stared into her eyes, he saw how completely undone he was, and she thought it was a delicious sight. His breathing was hard, and the stubbled plane of his jaw was tense with his craving desire. He was pinned under her, if his eyes still showed the Bifrost hues, he was sure they would be burning brightly.  

When she moved at a fast and bruising pace, letting him slip inside her warmth and pushing so hard that Heimdall heard himself hiss from the sudden sensation. True to his one demand that evening, she held his stare, boring into his eyes as she trembled atop of him, and her voice challenged him when she leaned over him, “I want you to make me come.”  

He didn’t need her to say it, her eyes screamed it. Her body teetered so close to the edge of her pleasure as her thighs squeezed at his hips.  

But the verbalisation of the words did something to him, a wave of heat straight to his cock as he felt her rise and fall, so hot and sweet around him. His hips stuttered with pleasure as he met her thrusts, his hands curling above him. When she screwed her eyes shut in ecstasy, he did so too, she was close. The quiver of her thighs, she cried out, the need and ache for the sweet pressure inside, obsessed with holding him firm beneath her.  

She looked like a ravenous predator, he thought blaringly, like she wanted to consume every inch of his skin until he was inside her completely. He saw it then, behind her lustful eyes, the way she ate every part of him with feverish passion and he moaned by himself at the thought. For a mindless moment, he wanted her to do it.    

He craved this willing vulnerability, to feel nothing more than this single moment. To be worshipped and needed in this way, to have that be the only intent he saw from someone, was more delicious than any mead that touched his tongue.  

Please, please, please...  

“You look so pretty,” she hissed. “So pretty underneath me.” And then her hands were gone from his wrists and now wrapped around the back of his neck and yanked him roughly to her lips.  

It was bruising, painful, and imploding, he felt himself shatter underneath it. She rolled with ecstasy, he felt her body shake with the force of it and his face twisted when it seeped into him. She held him tightly to her chest as she came, pressing firmly down as he responded in unison. She mumbled sweet praises to his ear as he felt unchecked moans and gasps leave his lips through the waves of pleasure that wracked through him.  

Time moved and Heimdall had no concept of it being minutes or hours, mind blanking, the high was only slowly ebbing away from him, opening his eyes that he hadn’t realised he had closed in the first place. The woman had wrapped herself around him; a hand to his chest and the other lazily running along his thigh in long strokes. They both panted, chests heaving.  

Heimdall, thereafter, did not complain or question the reason for why Odin sent him to this village. He remained there until one of the ravens bid him to return, searching for what he didn’t know. He only sought the mindless companionship of both men and women here, whoever allowed him that intoxicating escape into the ravenous and peaceful quietness that lust provided in people. Rumours after his departure had run rampant through the small village, that the stranger that had graced their homes nightly had been the god Heimdall in disguise. It was... amusing to Heimdall when his ears had caught wind of such whispers upon his return to the wall, the name Father of Mankind had been a title earnt during that stay.

And he would indulge again, only when duty demanded his return to Midgard.  

---  

The wind, as if there was such a thing where the tree resided between the Nine Realms, whipped at Heimdall’s face as he stared at the sky above. He felt he had been on the ground for hours, and, now well-clear of the turmoil inside himself and the threat of combustion, the prince leaned into the quietness of his mind and allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts.  

Norns, his family. It had been such a long time since he had viewed them as anything other than a standard for the Aesir, the love that had once been there long since died and turned to cold embers. It had hurt Heimdall in ways far greater than he’d ever care to admit when he found out that those bounds were gone- You are no true brother of mine.  

He hadn’t meant it in the truest sense, had begged the Norns that it was said out of spite. Hel, Thor had once been kind and joyful, seeking out to comfort his brother the most out of his family. Out of everyone, only he understood how utterly horrifying it was to be in the eye of their father. Heimdall could not have meant that, he couldn’t! But he had, when he turned his feet from his brother at that moment, he had meant it, and when his brother no longer spoke to Heimdall except out of necessity for the All-Father's will, Heimdall knew it was true.  

Then had come the rage, the blinding, all-consuming rage that Heimdall felt at the loss of a family member, both he and Thor felt it and Heimdall absorbed it. He remembered how for years, he had screamed himself hoarse on top of the wall, throwing and breaking almost everything that was not tied down within his reach. His house upon the wall had been in a constant state of disrepair and he didn’t even care.  

What use was family? What good was being tied to them when all it caused was this confusing grief? When they proved themselves no better than the packs of wolves- prowling and stalking at their walls- that Heimdall swore to protect them from?  

And after Heimdall’s fire died down to something akin to the cold fires of Helheim, he remembered how he turned that grief into something sinister. For years more, he sought out every evil and lie his brothers had, mounting every reason for why they were not worthy of his grief. It had almost worked until Heimdall found himself here.  

I’m right here, brother. The catalyst for Asgard’s fall and the reason for your sorrows.   

The little giant had remained by his head, not wanting to move, Heimdall remembered the way those icy blue eyes- his own too fixed on the fall of Asgard to even notice the way they were gentle and pure. Heimdall remembered the sick thrill he had gotten, knowing that everyone else was wrong and he was right about the little Jotunn. His foresight spoke a truth that orbited around him in comfort.  

By the Norns, it had felt like he had needed a focal point for the destruction he saw Asgard moving towards. He was a child lost in a sea, the hard truth of Heimdall’s existence was that he swam in a vastness of potentials, of currents that would pull him one way and then change just as suddenly. He was cut from a cloth no one else was, cruel and terrible in its design if this was where it led him.  

Suddenly, a sharp twist in Heimdall’s perception stabbed at the edge of his mind, sending his head to the side to see Kratos standing not too far from them and wrenching Heimdall out of his thoughts, “It is time to discuss what is to come.”  

The old war god spoke the words heavily, if it had been anybody else to speak them, Heimdall was sure that they would not understand the gravity of them; but Kratos was not new to declarations of war, nor did he fancy taking them lightly. He was walking always on the path of vengeance, a war god with a path unchanged. Having spent most of his life on a course of vengeance, Kratos did not need Heimdall’s foresight to see what was to come, “Yes, I suppose it is.”  

As Heimdall spoke, the prince straightened himself from his fallen position on the ground, watching as the young giant did the same. It was obvious that they were well within the final days of peace before Ragnarök- the hum of calmness before the storm grew stronger, battered by the urging of those here as they coaxed the savage storm closer. The intents, though well intended, were a harsh and unforgiving reality that Heimdall had spent much of his life trying to avoid.  

Heimdall guessed that he had grown tired of avoiding the inevitable, so he followed the war god down his path with a willing vulnerability.  

Chapter 8: gifts without intent

Notes:

Just a forewarning- I am slightly (very drunk) as I am editing and posting this chapter but it had to be done! Because it is the one-month anniversary of this story and I had to celebrate with a chapter update! This story means a lot to me, it's the most I've ever written and the most inspired I've ever felt with a piece of my work. That is partly due to you guys being so supportive and loving of this story. I don't think I've ever really had that leave of support from a community where I've actively felt included, so that really means a lot.

Now that I've got that drunk lovey dovey stuff over with, I'll leave you all to read the next chapter.

Heimdall stood silently by Odin’s side as they waited outside the wooden door of the cabin. There was something strange this time around, Heimdall had not felt this level of trepidation in his father’s presence since he was a child and yet now, he was forcing himself to appear calm as he listened to the chattering of the birds of Vanaheim around him, the wind whispering through the branches of the trees. Odin had told him that he needed to better understand his ability for foresight. That seemed a little ridiculous as he already knew his ability intimately and the All-Father had never shown displeasure towards his talent before now, but he did not question his father on the matter- it never ended well if he did.  

In truth, Heimdall was not sure how he felt about this. On the one hand, his foresight was extremely important to the protection of Asgard and the All-Father, a part of his duty and purpose, and he would not deny any method of honing it further. The concept of failure was not one he could ever entertain again. On the other hand, he could not see anything further for it really, had he not already used it to every aspect it could offer? Now that Odin was favouring Baldur’s time more than Heimdall’s, this simply felt like an attempt to keep Heimdall occupied elsewhere really, much like he had started doing recently with pointless errands that his father neglected to give a reason for. Now he often saw Baldur at All-Father's ear.  

Baldur.  

The name felt like acid on his tongue. Now that Frigg was banished, Baldur had absolutely clung to Odin like a mewling whelp, neglecting even his own wife and son. It was pitiful, and his father was kind- or perhaps he pitied Baldur just as much as he- enough to indulge it. Before Frigg’s banishment, Baldur had no true interest in earning his place as Odin’s son, passing his time instead with endless drinking and hunting and neglecting his duties. Heimdall had despised that trait, it was no way to act as an Aesir. The only redeeming part was his devotion to his wife and child- yet Heimdall found it funny he could not extend that loyalty to the rest of his family. Yet now Baldur sought Heimdall’s place at Odin’s side and it was... infuriating. More so now that Odin actually started to call for Baldur more than he did Heimdall. Baldur had not earned that right! It was unjust and unacceptable. And yet, Heimdall would not question the All-Father, the duality of his existence was forever heeding the All-Father's word even when he doubted that judgement.  

Despite this though, Heimdall held his tongue on the topic in front of the All-Father, he would not burden him with his thoughts on Baldur any longer, his father had greater burdens to deal with. He had often thought it was his duty to point out such deceiving qualities, but Baldur would reveal himself soon enough, Heimdall simply had to wait it out. His father would see as he did, and Heimdall will be there to drive the blade further in when it happened.  

Heimdall had been mulling over many injustices as of late while he waited outside the cabin, his father had excused himself inside first and Heimdall had been respectful enough to not even try to eavesdrop, not that he could with the spelling preventing him. The spelling was Odin’s work, whoever resided inside Heimdall did not have a clue. Had never seen anyone who would even have a comprehension of his foresight in all the Nine Realms.  

“Heimdall,” Odin’s voice had cut through the deceitful stillness of the Vanaheim forest and Heimdall turned to attention. It was hard to shake his body’s response to Odin’s firm voice, the race of his heartbeat spiking before he willed it to calm once more. You’ve done nothing wrong, Heimdall firmly reminded himself. You are Odin’s sword and right hand, and you are his voice first and foremost, you have nothing to fear. “Come inside, would you?”  

“Of course, All-Father,” Heimdall replied, stepping towards the cabin and taking care to keep his voice level, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.  

“You’ll be very pleased,” Odin added further, his father ever had the ability to appear calm when Heimdall knew him to be unpredictable. “I’ve found someone capable and willing to teach you to hone your foresight.”  

Heimdall wasn’t sure if those words were supposed to fill him with excitement or trepidation- dread. He doesn’t think he would ever be able to figure it out, not when it came to his father. He loved his father, idolised him- but without his foresight to guide him through his father’s mood, it was a hurricane of inescapable uncertainty. Heimdall could not tell what words would please him the most, not knowing what he wanted done to remedy the situation. It was an uncomfortable reality for Heimdall.  

“Well, don’t be rude, Heimdall, say hello,” Odin chided him as they stepped past the cabin’s threshold.  

Inside stood a woman, her smile warm to him, bright and... peaceful. It washed over him, as though she reached out herself to calm the nerves he did not think he was showing. She was tall, taller than both of them, her hair a fiery blood-red that trailed past her hips into soft waves that curled at the ends. She wore a dress that had hues of red seeming to wisp out into whiteness, shimmering in the sunlight of the forest that poured in from the windows of the cabin. Heimdall could not describe her familiar nature, nor why when he stared at her he saw nothing but an unending calmness wash over him.  

“All-Father,” she said politely as though the two had not been conversing privately before Heimdall’s arrival, giving a low bow of her head. “And Prince Heimdall of Asgard, a pleasure to meet you,” her voice was as lulling as the waves of a beach, the bow of her head a trance to Heimdall. Heimdall frowned in confusion, there was no reason why he should feel as though he was in the presence of someone he knew his entire life. But she looked upon him with a familiarity that said otherwise. A part of him yearned for an embrace that even the All-Father would have never given.  

“The pleasure’s all mine-?” Heimdall raised his eyebrow in question, he had not even known her name.  

“Blóðughadda,” she supplied, her soft lips spreading into a reassuring smile.  

Odin threw a warning glance at her, some words remained unspoken yet known in that moment between the two, then he turned to Heimdall, “Listen, learn, that’s all I want from you.”  

Heimdall nodded and without further ceremony, the All-Father left the cabin, the fluttering of wings heard behind the wooden door on his departure.  

“So, Heimdall,” Blóðughadda laid a gentle hand on his shoulder as she spoke, guiding him further into her house. “You’ll be staying with me for some time, I’ll show you to your room and then I’ll show you a thing or two about foresight.”  

Heimdall had decided that he very much liked Blóðughadda after some time.  

He was reluctant at first to think that she would have any clue on how to understand and improve upon his ability, it made for a difficult first few months. But with her teachings, he was slowly finding more and more... aspects of foresight he had not considered before. It had been little more than a year and he felt as though his senses had sharpened considerably so.  

He hissed at a particularly loud assault on his ears, opening his eyes to see her sitting before him with a tiny smirk on her face having just snapped her fingers. “Your thoughts are elsewhere, Heimdall,” she scolded at him and Heimdall scrunched his face and scoffed. She was right, he would admit begrudgingly, he was meant to be focusing solely on the birds nesting on the other side of Vanaheim, instead, his mind wandered to everything else around them. To the wind, to the animals just hiding to their left, to her calmness and then abrupt snap.  

“Try again,” Blóðughadda said, and Heimdall rolled his eyes but closed them nonetheless. He felt as though at times she ordered him about as though he was a child. Though he was appreciative of what she was doing, he was nearly a thousand years old and well into his adulthood at this stage. But despite the frequent scolding and chiding, that was as far as she went with discipline. She treated him well; Odin would have never been this forgiving in his teachings especially when Heimdall showed failure repeatedly.  

There was one evening, a couple of months after Odin had left Heimdall to Blóðughadda for his training, that she had tenderly hugged him when he had correctly heard a wolf cub cry for the first time in a forest far away from them. Heimdall had never been particularly good at focusing his other senses, Odin had never really seen a benefit for it, and it was, therefore, very lacking. With foresight, it mattered little whether he could hear across the Nine Realms, Odin’s ravens played as eyes and ears. The hug was... foreign and strange, he remembered when his brothers used to hug him. They had been rough yet filled with love, this... well this was caring and gentle, often how he would imagine a parent’s hug would feel like.   

And that was what made Heimdall complacent in her teachings, how much she cared with gentle hands. It was always casual in nature, with a soft hand on the shoulder and a warm smile to follow, an encouraging squeeze on the arm. There was one time when she had been bold enough to ruffle his hair, which had displeased Heimdall a bit, but in the next instant, she was braiding it together once more. None of it was sexual, Heimdall knew well the difference, it was more parental in nature than anything else and Heimdall did not move to stop it. He felt happy around her, and he slowly got used to the notion that teaching and discipline did not encompass pain. It was good. It felt right.  

One night, Blóðughadda asked if he knew how to cook and he leaned over and laughed at the prospect, “Why yes, the All-Father took his time to teach me the finer arts of culinary excellence for that would surely benefit in the protection of Asgard!”  

She looked sadder at this than Heimdall was expecting, it was what made him stop short in his fit of giddiness.  

“I could teach you if you like?” She offered and Heimdall didn’t know why, but he accepted without much thought if only to remove the sadness from her.  

In Heimdall’s stay with Blóðughadda, it had been going too well. She had taught him to travel through different future paths with ease, she honed his prescient reflexes, so he wasn’t relying on thought to move, and his hearing and sight had gathered knowledge quicker than she was able to put down. It was only due that something would arise to halt it. Something to break the perfect reality Heimdall had crafted and grown comfortable in.  

One morning, her mood had been considerably reclusive. In his stay, he had learnt quickly that her mind was difficult to read, and parts remained hidden. He could see her future actions, yet he could not discern her feelings nor how her past crafted her to the woman before him. When he asked what troubled her, she smiled warmly and dismissed his worries.  

It was difficult for Heimdall to accept that he would not be able to tell whether she was lying or not, but it was fine, he repeated to himself. Over the next few days, he said the same thing, even when she did not improve. He felt a trickle of fear spike and it made him crave more in the time they shared together, her hands running through his hair as she redid his braids once more.  

Finally, she spoke.  

“The All-Father expects you back at Asgard,” Blóðughadda said and Heimdall frowned at her words before scowling at what they meant. “Our teaching is done.”  

“You have known for days.”  

“I have.”  

Heimdall stiffened, feeling as if this was surely a dream. Heimdall let her continue, trying to suppress this creeping dread inside of him when the thought of Odin lay heavy in his mind. He stared out the window, tracing the rays of sunlight, distracting himself with the occasional flutter of birds nestling in the trees and the sparks of life that scuttled all around them. There was no reason he should be feeling like this, he told himself firmly, he is your father, and your duty is by his side.  

They parted ways with little words when Odin’s ravens all but abruptly pulled him from the place.  Her fingers echoed softly in his hair, an ache remained in his heart every day that past until he felt it fill with a cold and distant resentment for what she represented. His allowance, his neglect. An indulgence that he could no longer afford himself. His father, strict as he was, loved him more than Blóðughadda did. Because Odin prepared him for what was to come. Heimdall was of no use when he craved that soft reality she had given him. 

He never saw Blóðughadda again and he tried to ignore the part of himself that mourned her.

---  

Prince Heimdall of Asgard, the shining god—the whitest of all the gods, and the Father of Humankind, was sure he had never looked worse than he did now. In appearance, he was rested, and clean and stood taller than he felt he could in his position. But in truth, when he entered the house and stared at the war table surrounded by Freya, Freyr, Sindri and Hildisvini, he felt blank and hopelessly unfocused. He was sure dark circles marred his undereye, the thin skin unable to hide the true tiredness in his bones, and he was barely able to stop twitching his fingertips in anxiety. He could no longer deny his role in the fall of Asgard, the doom of it an ever-approaching future in Heimdall’s sight. Heimdall had been forced to watch in horror and disbelief as the little giant’s eyes played through the fall of Asgard pushed further by Odin’s greed for knowledge. It was not an aspect Heimdall had seen before, no- no before he had just known that Atreus was the catalyst for Asgard’s fall and that had been enough for Heimdall to want him dead. He had not looked beyond that point. There had been no need to, Heimdall’s role was not to investigate reason but rather to strike the cause and be done with it before it became a problem.  

Unable to think or do anything else, Heimdall walked towards the war table, echoing the many times before he had done so- though this was the first time he had taken part in a rebellion. It seemed so- untrained and unfocused. A rebellion in the youth of perhaps hastily strung together threads of war intentions, but it did have well-seasoned leaders at the helm. Though it had been a few hundred years since Heimdall had sat in on a war council meeting, he knew the process well and prepared himself for the words he would have to speak against Asgard. It was a heavy burden for someone like him.  

Indeed, if it looked as though Heimdall had an invisible force continuously weighing him down into the wooden floor, it was because he did- a restless realisation. “How divine to see you all scrambling together to form a makeshift rebellion,” Heimdall greeted as he came into the room, the ire of distrust was certainly on Hildisvini’s mind, but Heimdall rebuffed it by not acknowledging it.  

Freya gave him a polite look and Heimdall could not have the courage to hold it. He truly did not have the energy or capability to deal with her comfort, but his foresight allowed little luxury in that regard. “Heimdall, I confess, I had not thought you wanted to be a part of the talking of Ragnarök,” Freya began cautiously. “While it is appreciated, I fear that you may not be prepared for what it means.” Freya shot a look over at Kratos, who remained strong in his place, and gave a cautious look as though to tell the man to remove Heimdall at a moment's notice should his mood turn beyond reasonable.  

Heimdall ignored the warning, it was not needed or appreciated really- he was not a child after all to be coddled and protected from harsh truths. “If I were not here, you fools would be walking in woefully unprepared to a war you are ten steps behind in,” Heimdall placed his Gjallarhorn on the table, looking at each with a levelled gaze. The truth was, they needed the knowledge Heimdall had, needed to understand the gravity of how woefully underprepared they were for the fight to come. “You have not even built yourselves an army and you already speak of calling upon Ragnarök.”  

“We have allies, we just need to ask-” The young giant began to argue, his position arguably a demonstration of how unseasoned to war he was. Heimdall felt a wave of discomfort at that, and surprisingly it was his own. That ache- or perhaps longing- to shield a child from the horrors of war and death that he had known too early in his own, wasn’t a worry that had ever concerned him before. It was one he did not know how to express or deal with.  

“And that is where the problem lies, Junior, you do not have allies for this war and before you move to deny that face, I have eyes and ears to all the realms- there is no realm that would aid you now should you call to them without cause,” Heimdall rebutted, his eyes scanning the room and found no one was able to deny him. In the time before his fall from grace, he kept a close eye on the movements of all the realms with the threat of Ragnarök inching ever closer. No realm had rallied nor had anyone here even bothered to try, and that certainly hadn’t changed in the month he stayed here. “You are arming yourselves after the war has been declared, Asgard has built their army so grand that those who would dare to pick a fight, will not.”   

It was easy to forget that Heimdall was a Prince of Asgard with the blood of Odin when he spoke so plainly against it. His face drew serious and his words an affront to anything he would have said before his steady descent into this cruel reality. The others breathed in quiet realisation at that and were almost believing that Heimdall was fully committed to their rebellion, the only doubt remained with those that had not seen Heimdall’s reality break around him under the harshness of the All-Father's hand.  

“We must work with what we have, there is no other option,” Freya argued instead, her body leaning heavily over the war table, before sighing with a heavy agreement to Heimdall’s words. Shaking her head, her fingers curled in frustration along the grooves of the table, and she resisted the urge to slam them in it. "Yes, we may have lost the element of surprise but if we unite the realms there is a chance”  

“The real Týr tried to unite the realms- everyone loved him... and even he failed,” Atreus seemed disheartened by the fact that a tinge of guilt still lingered in his mind, Heimdall could see about the circumstances from the night before. Of all the stupid things that boy has done, Heimdall was begrudged to say that his optimism was somewhat beneficial and not something he should so easily discredit himself. A boy of fourteen, barely of age, he handled himself with grace when thrust into the heart of war. Not many could make that claim.   

Heimdall stood as still as he could, his one hand lay rested behind his back as he watched everyone.  

“Then we better not fail or there will be no one left to try,” Freya said, another sigh of frustration but she was more affirmed with herself.  

But then Heimdall thought about the realms being thrust into the belly of war, covered in ash and blood and destroying Asgard in the assault. His only home, his pride, his duty... bile, acrid and burning rose up in his throat at the thought and his partial indifference left him as quickly as he had tried to mould it- the calm winds picking up with speed and swirling into a storm. "This is Ragnarök you all speak of.”  

“You would talk of asking the realms to muster but weigh into the thought of the consequences, they still burn from Odin’s wrath,” Heimdall spoke, there is a moment of unsteady silence where Heimdall’s eyes bore into each of them. They felt unsettled now, now that they knew the God of Foresight had returned to his former glory, he realised. “Before you do, inspire certainty in them, it will be the only path to victory. Odin has been here, listening to every little plan you all have spoken of, I would not rally to a cause that did not have a single advantage over the All-Father.”  

Silence filled the room, and Mimir took the opportunity to speak. He, in truth, had been thinking the same point for some time since Odin revealed himself. Thought over every little word they had said in that time that could reveal too much. Odin had never been better poised to avert Ragnarök with the knowledge he held for their plans, and it was a startling, cold truth that Mimir could not dismiss from his own mind. Odin had won before with far less knowledge.   

“Heimdall does have a point,” Mimir’s nose crinkled at the admittance, a truth very difficult to voice more for the reality of Odin’s scheming. “Odin’s heard every blasted plan we’ve talked about.”   

“Then what would he do, Heimdall,” Kratos spoke to Heimdall directly, eyes meeting without hesitation- where once Heimdall had seen nothing but rage and hate, there was respect and... counsel to be found in them. Heimdall, however, had been questioning how much he knew of the All-Father's intents. He only knew what he would do if he was still by his father’s side. “You are his son.”  

“Aye, lad, you’ve been the one acting on his behalf until recently,” Mimir agreed.  

At that, Heimdall slowly bowed his head to the table, staring at the map that spoke of war, his eyes focused and alight with war intentions that would have been his own. “If it were me, I would throw the Midgardians to slaughter. You fools would take the time to actually save them and give the All-Father enough chance to achieve what he must before Asgard falls.”  

Atreus frowned, thoughts swirling through his head- surely Odin would not actually do that? He had rescued them- and stuttered, “He seriously would use the Midgardians like that?”  

Heimdall felt almost apologetic that reality was to be burdened on the young godling so brutally- almost if Heimdall was not also annoyed at his naive disposition as well. “They were never there out of the kindness of the All-Father's heart, frosty. The issue of my brute of a brother, however-”  

Severely, Kratos said, “I will deal with Thor.” Heimdall paused, his eyes meeting Kratos. He did not, in truth, know his feelings about that. He knew well what Kratos meant by that, knew well that if Thor proved himself too difficult to deal with, that he would meet his end. Thor was brutal, and uncaring at times, but he was still his brother and a part of Heimdall held hope that the brother he knew as a child would return one day- despite his own actions to alienate Thor.  

“Odin also knows where we are to enter, once you sound the horn Heimdall, we will enter through Týr’s temple, if what you say is true, we will not only have the Einherjar to deal with but Midgardians as well,” Freya did not take her eyes off the table as she motioned their moves of attack. Heimdall had never really seen this side of his step-mother, of course, she had always been cunning and deceiving, but now she seemed battle ready, and war driven, much as how he heard her to be when she once was a Valkyrie. In his youth, he hadn’t given her much credence in that area, just seeing how she rejected the All-Father's gifts and slipped away to live at the All-Father's mercy.  

“Which means we will need armies of our own,” the Vanir goddess’ brother Freyr said, the issue returning once more.  

“As many as will answer the call. Numbers Odin won’t see coming,” his step-mother's optimism on that was astounding, something Heimdall did not hold himself. It was difficult for him to think of it as such, not when he had seen the might of Asgard’s army and the non-existent one these fools had was pressing on his mind. Heimdall’s foresight allowed him to see a future- an outcome- where they gathered enough strength to breach Asgard but just because he saw that possibility it did not mean certainty.  

“And that is just to reach the wall,” Mimir reminded them. “To breach the wall, we’ll need to find Surtr.”  

“If- and that is a big if- we are even able to convince the giant to become Ragnarök,” Heimdall said, Surtr would be the turning point, if they could manage to find him and get him to agree, that is. “I can easily provide a pathway to Surtr.” He may have been without the aid of the All-Father but his connection to the Bifrost was not through Odin. That was entirely his own and in truth, he missed travelling through the Bifrost. He had long relied on Odin’s ravens for travel and without there was a certain freedom he was graced. The Bifrost was a freedom long denied from him, his movements were only made with the All-Father's consent.  

“I know just where to look,” The little giant added, his grin was wide as though elated at the thought of the two working together. He flashed the grin towards Heimdall who rolled his eyes at the happiness on the giant’s face. “It’ll be just like when we teamed up in Helheim.”  

“I remember that ending rather miserably through a fault that was entirely your own,” Heimdall glared back.  

It was truly amazing how Kratos could vehemently ignore the two’s bickering, continuing to talk as though the two had said nothing, to begin with, “The four of us will go.”  

“Splendid,” Mimir exclaimed. “Allies then, who do we think we can get?”  

“I’ll venture to Helheim,” Hildisvini finally spoke, his eyes turned to Mimir as he thought for a moment. “Try to recruit the army of the dead, Mimir perhaps you should come too, they might be more amendable to speaking to the deceased.”   

“Oh, death is a skill now?” He sounded offended, though Heimdall knew better. Mimir spoke loudly, often too loudly for his own good, but he meant little beyond the true meaning of his words. Any show of offence was merely the goat’s own way of banter. Annoying banter, yes, but banter nonetheless.  

“Very well,” Kratos said plainly. There was a moment when Kratos seemed hesitant about the loss of his companion, but he would not argue on the matter. It was better to divide their resources fairly if they hoped to have a chance of rallying an army, that much Kratos knew.  

“And I’ll return to Alfheim to unite the elves,” Freyr added confidently.  

“Just like that? Unite the elves after centuries of war,” the head seemed unsure, not that Heimdall would disagree. The war between elves was a long and bloody, a resolution not easy to come about even with the prospect of Ragnarök looming over them.   

“Well, they really like me in Alfheim.”   

“And you to Vanaheim,” Kratos’ eyes turned to Freya.  

“Yes... to find Sigrun and muster the free Valkyries.”   

“And I’m sure you’ve noticed that Midgard lacks any potential to conjure an army to so much as intimidate a rabbit let alone leave a dent in the Wall of Asgard,” Heimdall pointed out, though they lacked the foresight to see that no army would be mustered on Midgard easily they were all quick to agree. The factions of people were too alienated from one another to come together, but that was not the only issue. Heimdall knew well the love Midgard held for the Aesir, to the All-Father still, even with Fimbulwinter ravaging the realm.  

“Aye, Niflheim nor Jotunheim have no armies to speak of either...” Mimir agreed solemnly, a hint of agitation laced his voice.  

“Guess that leaves Svartaflheim,” Sindri placed his hands on his hips, the first time either dwarf had spoken the entire time.  

The blue dwarf grunted in agreement from his forge, the hammer still rising and descending as he was intent on finishing whatever project had consumed his time for the past couple of hours, the metal singing with each strike. The dwarf barely waited for the metal to cool before leaving- his hands and skin were covered with dirt from the shards of steel mixed with heat and sweat. “Aye, we’lls have a talks to them,” Brok nodded firmly, the firmness in his voice was heavy with the promise, the vow he made. “But first, here.”  

Brok looked at his work, nodding in contentment before approaching the group, to Heimdall in particular. The steel in hand was presented to Heimdall and Heimdall almost battered it away when he did not know what the dwarf was doing, catching himself barely with fumbling grace as he stared at the object in question. It was a... arm cuff?  

Heimdall had no fucking clue what he was meant to do right now.   

“It is... a bracelet,” Heimdall cocked an eyebrow, staring down at the trinket in question as he hesitantly took it from the dwarf. There was something about the blue dwarf that made him difficult to read, he was muddied to Heimdall’s perception, perhaps a challenge that he would have to tackle. Blóðughadda would be of great help... It was why Heimdall did not perceive what the dwarf was doing, something was missing in the dwarf that fractured Heimdall’s sight, and confused him. “Now- rather fortunately I might add- blue dwarves are not my type-”  

Once the words left Heimdall’s mouth the dwarf- Brok, scoffed and threw his arm away, “Shut your yap, put it on your right arm and yous be able to keep your Bifrost arm permanently without bitchin’ about it too much.”   

The thrill on his brother Sindri’s face was noticeable, however, showing off their work and regaling its wonders and it never failed to make the dwarves excited, a giddiness that Heimdall felt travel to himself when he tapped into them. To be sure, if Heimdall had to guess they shared this excitement with every invention they crafted. But this was to Heimdall, and he was not sure how to respond to it himself. “It’s true!” Sindri continued for his brother, practically beaming at Heimdall with pride at their shared work. “It was a challenge to make but it will actually contain your Bifrost conjuration without you putting in the effort to maintain.”  

The mannerisms of the dwarves had played on Heimdall’s mind for some time since Sindri had first offered him fresh clothes and comfort. Prone and defenceless in bed, something had perplexed the Aesir god about the dwarf’s kindness the second he busied himself cleaning the room with genuine concern and then the challenge that sparkled in his eyes when talking to the Aesir. Heimdall had been many things for many people, he had been a beacon of light in Midgard, he had been untouchable in Asgard, a lover and a fighter for many. But to the dwarves, he had been an enforcer and tyrant in the All-Father's name, someone who acted with malicious force against them.  

But now they offered him handcrafted armour, which glinted something fierce in the shine of the great Yggdrasil tree, from their own talents. A gift that Heimdall thought would long be gone and undeserved for someone like him- his arm would be restored permanently. Never had Heimdall thought such compassion possible- beautiful and terrible in the gesture; they should spit at him and scorn his name like a vicious curse on their tongues. Never had Heimdall thought that compassion would be turned to him without cause- a gift proudly presented without a price asked in return. His foresight saw nothing they wanted for this; no ask hidden behind their eyes. No, neither dwarf was expecting anything in return for this gift, and without any hidden agenda, Heimdall had no retort to the gesture. It was peculiar indeed. Rare was a more accurate term.  

Heimdall twirled the cuff in his fingers, tracing the carvings carefully moulded into the gold with sharp eyes like a bird of prey eyeing their next meal. He noted with touching satisfaction that it matched the design of his armour; waves of oceans that curved with flowers in full bloom. But his brow furrowed in deep thought, it was too kind. Too much. It spoke of deceit despite his eyes telling him otherwise.  

“Why does he look constipated?” Atreus asked, finally pulling Heimdall from his thoughts, he was rather daring in his statements towards the Aesir now that he believed his ‘friendship’ was protection enough from Heimdall’s temper. The little giant had no concept of Heimdall’s temper when tested repeatedly, however, and Heimdall would not let simple acts of kindness be enough to protect the little giant from it. “You do know how to say thank you... right?”  

Heimdall turned his scowl slowly to Atreus, his eyes widened with ire at the statement. He was a Prince of Asgard, he may not lower himself to acknowledging the acts of those beneath him, but he understood the proper conduct of manners. “I know the protocols for gift-giving you absolute flea-ridden hound,” was Heimdall’s snarled response before lowering his tone in appreciation. “I was merely... forming my appreciation to the fullest extent. Thank you, Brok and Sindri, you have my deepest gratitude for both housing me and the gifts you have given, it is... profound in its nature.”  

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on,” Brok dismissed, the blue dwarf waved off the Aesir and with a slight rustle and a grumbled sigh, he returned to his forge and found something to preoccupy himself from the sickening friendliness occurring.  

“My, my, never heard such kind words leave your mouth and sound genuine, Heimdall,” Mimir had the tact to add to the moment.  

“You continue to talk, goat, and I’ll see your mouth permanently shut and have the gratitude of every person in the Nine Realms,” but even as Heimdall bit the words back to Mimir, his focus remained entirely on the arm cuff before him. With its golden plating, it shone just as brightly as the sun dared to. It was beautiful truly. Simple but beautiful in design and Heimdall supposed he should expect nothing less from the dwarves who finally crafted a weapon to counter his foresight. It was annoying how easily they had lulled his anger towards them so quickly that he had not even the chance to pay them back for that slight that left him without an arm and his dignity.  

He finally moved to place the cuff just above the stub that remained of his right arm. The phantom pain still ached in him, the urge to use it often filled him when he encountered such mediocre tasks as reaching for a cup on the table beside his bed. When he had been bedridden and cocooned in warm furs and pillows, he had often forgotten that it was gone until he tried to use it. Kratos had been there one of those many times and although Heimdall was sure the man held no guilt at his actions, he saw the way his mouth turned downward as Heimdall grunted in frustration when he tried the simple task of sitting up. He smiled dark and low at the frown, something primal in him fiercely resentful that the old god had the audacity to even seem displeased at his condition. It mattered not now at this moment, as Heimdall drew on his magic for his arm to be whole once more. His eyes raked down as the Bifrost magic weaved into reality and drank in the tender hues of it, the delicate patterns it created as though they were Nordic cords being crafted by skilled hands. Once formed, he shifted his right fingers, curling them to test his control and his face relaxed in contentment. A soft breath escaped him when he felt it hold without his will to keep it there. It hadn’t been much, to keep it when he battled Kratos. But he had been furious, and it was easier to hold that magic at the cost of his judgement and foresight becoming sloppy and unguided. If he was to be of any use in the upcoming battle, he couldn’t afford that distraction. Couldn’t afford to be a god un-whole and useless to everyone around him. But now he stared at his arm once more and felt restored for it. He was finally whole once more- of use.  

Again, Heimdall anxiously studied the two dwarves and yet again neither gave him thoughts of expecting something in return. Taking a deep breath, he decided to take the plunge and do what he had never done before- he simply asked, “You expect nothing in return? I have not much to give now that my position in Asgard has been forfeited.’  

Finally, Sindri looked confused at Heimdall and ran nervous hands over one another in front of him. If it weren’t for Brok interrupting, the dwarf probably would not have been able to coherently speak, “It ain’t no exchange, it’s a gift, now quite making a fuss about it.” The blue dwarf did not turn from his forge, but he halted in his work for a moment to emphasise the words enough for Heimdall to know their sincerity.    

It was rare, Heimdall thought, to readily accept such pleasantries from others without the burden of seeing something lining it with ill intent. But much had changed and Heimdall, for the first time in a while, simply chose to accept the gift without fear of it having a grander meaning. It was a nice state of existence, he thought to himself. Perhaps too nice, whispered another voice inside himself. One that spoke much like his father, one that Heimdall feared the most to be true.  

Chapter 9: fire and blood

Notes:

We are finally getting a little closer to Ragnarok in this chapter! But still a bit away honestly, ya'll know me by now, I write way too much backstory.

Speaking of... I do introduce a new aspect of Heimdall Norse Mythology that I hope ya'll will enjoy. Don't worry, they won't weigh too heavily on the story but more of just a little... taste of what exactly may have shaken Heimdall's loyalty before he sided against Odin.

The lands of Muspelheim had the constant ability to feel both dead and alive. The creatures that plagued these lands were in a state of being riled and waited impatiently for their next target, eagerly waiting for their next taste of battle and bloodshed- some even fighting amongst themselves to quell that bloodlust. Heimdall’s sight did not often fall on the happenings of this fire realm, nothing of interest truly was here until the dawn of Ragnarök approached. Odin himself had never explicitly asked for Heimdall to watch over the realm either, therefore Heimdall held the same disposition for the realm. It was also in part because Heimdall did not like the energy of the realm on his senses, too extreme much like Niflheim was- two opposite ends of the spectrum of the Nine Realms. The air had this taste of tension and savagery that disgusted Heimdall, rippling into his being and filling everything with a chaotic buzz for bloodshed. Heimdall disliked that chaos and disliked how the realm forced him to feel it so extremely, that his hand ached with an eagerness to see blood spilt, crimson on his hands.  

“Ahh, I have not missed this absolute, utter reject of a realm,” and yet despite that pressing and crushing feeling of the realm, Heimdall could not help feeling renewed now that he travelled once more.  

Be it for this new sense of purpose- of duty- that he could focus his mind on, or for the simple freedom that had been allowed to him. In truth, despite his transgressions against the All-Father, Heimdall did not believe himself to be given this level of freedom from these rebels. He would not comment on it, for so long he had sunken into himself in the confines of Sindri’s house, almost forgetting who he was. He was Heimdall, a prideful god who would never allow himself to be downtrodden by trivial matters like betrayal and deceit. His father would not have that from him as well, it was not his right. His father may deject him, and it may still burn like the hottest flames of Muspelheim inside the Aesir god whenever he allowed himself to think upon it for too long, but he would no longer let it be a constant thought on his mind. He could not let that be his identity any longer. Heimdall was- if nothing else- adaptable when required.

Upon taking a deep breath, Heimdall curled his nose in disgust when the smell of ember and sulfur in the air burnt his nose and throat. It truly was as he remember the realm to be, vile both mentally and physically, “Hope we don’t stay too long, this realm is positively terrible for my complexion.”  

There was an annoyed grunt at that from Kratos, “Then we should move rather than talk.”

Heimdall could practically feel the old war god’s eyes burning into the back of his skull, he would not even need his foresight to know that Kratos was already largely regretting Heimdall’s company for this trip. It didn’t even bother Heimdall- he, in fact, felt giddy about instilling that in the other god, there was almost nothing that could sour his mood right now.  

There had been some quick, yet stern words shared between Heimdall and Kratos before they departed on this journey- the most prominent of those being that Heimdall had to refrain from bullying and maiming Atreus. Not that Heimdall would even dare to in the presence of Kratos, the god had demonstrated quite significantly how far he’d go to defend his son. Though Heimdall had been gifted his right arm once more, he did not yet want to test the boundaries of his allowances with the Spartan god. But that would not hold Heimdall’s tongue on jests and jabs when possible and relish the fruits of his labours for it.  

“So good to know that my nickname for you rings true,” Heimdall’s smile only grew when he spun on his heels, kicking a particular offending rock out of his way when he turned to face Kratos and saw his glare deepen with annoyed fury. “You truly are a ray of sunshine, sunshine.”  

“Heimdall,” the young Jotunn spoke up, keenly aware of how close his father was to acting on his annoyance, yet his eyes gave way to the twinkle of amusement. “You did say you could get us to Surtr from here through the Bifrost.” Atreus paused for a moment, “I’ve actually never seen you use it for travelling though. Why use Odin’s ravens if you have your own way to travel?”  

“Well, little giant, why would I have a need for it? My duty was at the All-Father's whims, I was not to be anywhere where he did not want me,” it was the truth, though Heimdall had often found his own ways of bending that rule- ones Odin remained unaware of. Yet, Heimdall had not been prepared for the sadness that washed over the giant before him. There was nothing sad about the statement truly, so it confused Heimdall when he saw it on Atreus' face.

“So, you never had any freedom? Couldn’t, I don’t know, travel by yourself?”  

“I had no need; I saw much of the Nine Realms with my vision and connection through Yggdrasil. There was a time though when I was a child and Týr...” Heimdall paused, a strange feeling inside that made him unsure of his next words coming over him. “Týr travelled often and on occasion, he would take me for short trips so I could physically see the places that my vision had shown me from a distance. It stopped when Odin required more of my time to attend to the duties on the wall.”  

“I don’t know, that just-” Atreus paused. “- sounds sad.”  

“I had a duty,” Heimdall dismissed without hesitation, not liking the look on the young godling’s face. “But we are not here to dwell on the past, I can take us only closer to Surtr, not precisely to his location. Paths with the Bifrost are often tricky to traverse without aid from the All-Father from memory, even more so with company so I’d much prefer to move quickly so we don’t have to stay longer in this pit-stained realm,” and without any warning, Heimdall reached for two- extending his magic until he felt them within his range- as he pulled them through the pathways of the Bifrost, the magic an intoxicating thrill that Heimdall had not felt in a long time.  

It was true, Heimdall had not travelled through the ways of the Bifrost for such a long time, and he found himself uncoordinated now as his grip on the other two was a desperate clawing to keep them all together. Odin had told him there wasn’t any need for him to travel this way, that it was a privilege to use his ravens instead. But Heimdall had known the true reason why, even before when he would not dare challenge his father’s words or wisdom. It had been a way for Odin to constantly be aware of Heimdall’s movements. The way of the Bifrost was rough and Heimdall only wished he had more experience travelling this way just to simply avoid his own discomfort. That did not stop him, however, from landing rather gracefully when the pathway closest to Surtr finally pulled them out. His two companions, however, did not have the same grace as he did upon landing.  

Atreus was hunched over, his hands braced against his knees, the threat of bile creeping further and further up his throat, “A little warning next time.” The tinge of green flushed his cheeks as he took deep and steady breaths. His father looked to be faring only slightly better as he grunted in agreement with his son, but his eyes were impossibly wider with the shock of the travel. Heimdall grinned, it was definitely worth it solely to see their faces like this.

“I thought we wanted to do less talking, more action,” Heimdall mocked, pouting his face at them as he flexed his fingers. The thrill of magic was intoxicatingly languid in his body as it smouldered inside him, an impossible itch to satiate. “Something your brutish, small minds can comprehend.”  

The green was fading slowly but surely from the little giant’s face as he finally straightened up and his father resumed his pensive glaring at Heimdall. So, it was not as though either had much to complain about really, Heimdall thought.  

“I think the world’s still spinning, but is that Surtr’s forge in the distance?” The archer squinted; his eyes indeed weren’t deceiving him when Heimdall arched his head to follow where Atreus was looking. The forge was hard to mistake in a realm that lacked any sophisticated architecture. It was a marvel that anything even had a hint of structure and purpose in this realm, it certainly had nothing to even suggest it was possible.  

“That it is,” Heimdall nodded. In sharp contrast to the tension and chaos around him, Heimdall did note a pleasant peace in the realm that felt entirely out of place. There was no mistake to be made, Heimdall despised the way the realm made him feel. The conditions remained horrendous and oppressive on his senses, the air was thick like tar, burning his throat with each inhale. A long moment passed in silence, with the Aesir simply standing still to remark on what he felt, and he realised it was the silence that he felt. The lack of thoughts from others emptied his foresight. His Bifrost eyes softened.  

Asgard was beautiful in sight and feel- a shocking contrast to Muspelheim- but when Heimdall had to listen to the intents and minds of its people it took an unholy amount of time for Heimdall to find true peace. Not to mention the nightmare that was when he had to leave his post on the wall, even when it was quiet Heimdall could still hear the phantom thoughts below. Asgard was infinitely deceptive and the embodiment of what Heimdall hated about people, usually before that meant Heimdall felt his duty was ever more important in restoring Asgard. That Heimdall saw the truth in the All-Father's methods of protecting the realm. But now, Heimdall questioned it. Had he been so warped in his father’s perception that he had simply chosen to listen to the worst of it? The truth was difficult to rationalise in his head as of late. There was this tiredness in himself that continued to grow the longer he dwelled on it.  

As they travelled to Surtr, the two gods in front of him continued to make easy conversation with one another, Atreus often remarking and questioning various things around them with continued curiosity. Heimdall did not attempt to include himself, a strange sense of uncomfortableness in him, as though he did not know whether it was his place to do so. When the topic of Sinmara, Surtr’s wife, came up, Heimdall felt the little Jotunn’s eyes on him as though imploring him to speak on the matter. Having known the story well enough, Heimdall could regale the tragic love story in nauseating detail. But there was little point, what could come of them telling that story with what they were about to do? Did they even understand what they would be asking of Surtr; the sacrifice of his love to start a war? Kratos might understand that sort of gravity, but Atreus would not. At least, not in its truest sense.  

Though he itched to speed up this journey, Muspelheim was rather quiet despite its fiery brimstone appearance. There were random spurts of ambushes from all manners of beasts and monsters that crawled from the dark corners and shadows to lunge at them like ravenous creatures. Heimdall, for his part in those spurts of fighting, relied on his classical avoidance. Half the time he found he could simply stand on the sidelines and watch the other two fight hard and bloody.   

That didn’t stop the giant godling from throwing looks of annoyance at Heimdall’s way when he caught the older god leaning on a rock wall during intense fights. Even when they finally did reach Surtr and suffered the predictable rejection from him before they could actually plead their case, Heimdall did little to aid in their fight. The soul eaters were not going to be an issue for either of the two, they could manage just fine without his active aid. He would every now and then realm shift their opponent to provide them adequate time for their strikes, smiling at himself as he felt the familiar thrill of battle at his fingertips.  

“A little help would be nice!” Atreus had yelled, his arrows being pulled and fired with a speed that might have matched Heimdall’s. Might have.  

Heimdall stood to the side, dusting off the specks of ash that had fallen on his white armour with disdain. “Hmmm, let me think.” Heimdall glanced between the two with feigned interest. “I don’t really see the need to, you win the fight well enough without me and I’d rather not breath in the toxic fumes these creatures give off.”  

The reality though was that Heimdall had a level of uncertainty about engaging in combat after- well, after his fight with Kratos. Heimdall had gone all his life with the belief that he was untouchable to everyone, that only the All-Father could lay a hand on him and that was acceptable to Heimdall because the All-Father was greater than he was. It was the natural order to all things and Heimdall was amendable to that reality. All his life, Heimdall had made a point of ensuring that he was not weak. Where the All-Father punished him for his lack of conviction and duty to Asgard, Heimdall ensured all his thoughts remained on protecting Asgard and the wall. Where Odin spoke of his mother as disloyal, Heimdall would not make that a fault of his own. It was foolish for Heimdall to fall into the belief that he didn’t need to train for combat because nobody could touch him. Kratos had shown the arrogance of Heimdall.  

It was a flaw- perhaps a deadly one now- that too, needed to be corrected.  

When the soul eaters died and echoed screams of anguish that only Heimdall could hear, rupturing and splintering apart, he could feel the way their essence burnt and then ebbed away within that moment. Fire and pain.   Those were the most accurate words to describe it and suddenly he understood, in part, another reason he focused so much on the ill-intent of others, it made the pain they felt in their last moments much more tolerable.  

“You did not fight,” the war god seethed his axe behind his back, the feeling of frost still on his hand but it faded quickly with the heat of the realm. His heavy breaths evened out as the thrill of battle diminished within him, making Heimdall think back to when that rage had been directed at him and his hands had curled around his throat and stemmed his breathing. It was still a foggy memory from the haze of near-death overshadowing everything else at that moment, and Heimdall cringed at the memory that invaded his mind, frowning with disdain at it and tightening his fists. Norns, why did he have to continuously think about it? When had he ever felt this plagued by his failures? Though Kratos lacked tactful and insightful wording, it was an accurate observation on his part as Heimdall straightened himself to attention once the soul eaters were killed.  

“I did not need to,” he said coolly instead of regaling all his true thoughts on the matter.  

“Your form is weak, sloppy,” Heimdall’s cheek twitched as the Spartan continued. “You would do well to train.”  

“And you have wrinkles,” Heimdall remarked sarcastically, blowing a hot breath out in his annoyance. But Kratos was right and Heimdall was definitely not seething in his place behind the war god because of it. “You would do well to moisturise if you want to age gracefully.”  

His voice on the matter trailed off as they once more tried to face Surtr. He remembered how poorly he had fought when his magic was failing him with Kratos and unwaveringly with the shame of it. His magenta eyes were dark with that same shame, and he flexed his fingers in the empty air like he was fighting the urge to lash out because of it. Just the memory of it caused a rush of disgust in himself.  

His thoughts had been suddenly roused violently elsewhere, and he became acutely aware that he was now standing before Surtr, the weight of his conscious pressing into Heimdall’s. There was a disorientating obsession with the feel of it, Heimdall’s eyes slid over the giant before him, and an intense burning resonated inside Heimdall when he dared to reach out to the other. But just in turn, there was a swirl of something cold, a calming chill that burned in equal measure. An image of those two opposites became beautifully entwined with one another- a blaze that shone as brightly as two souls in harmony until there was nothing but them.  

His mind practically melted at the realisation- the two souls were very much that and very much alive within Surtr- alive and torn between two places. There was trickery in that, something Heimdall had not seen before and the Norns could not tell him how such a thing was possible. But Heimdall followed Kratos and Atreus up the steps to where Surtr remained ever studious to his task, forging sword after sword until the ground they walked on appeared to be more metal than rock.   

“I won’t help you,” Surtr’s voice was deep and final to their ears.  

The old giant did not turn to face them, instead bringing down his stone to one of the many swords he poured himself into. Heimdall had half the thought to turn around and leave the being to its work. There was a contentment to Surtr but a sadness there too and Heimdall felt they would be asking too much from him. The way Surtr’s but not Surtr’s heart fluttered like the wings of a trapped butterfly. The heart-but-not-his-heart oddly sensed his discomfort, if such a thing was believable, and it twisted in his chest as though it sought to provide comfort, its grip strong and unwavering. It beat so loudly, so strongly. Throbbing against the chest walls.   

“Who are you?” Kratos asked as though it was not plainly obvious, but perhaps more so out of respect for the simple act that it gave. Heimdall had learnt, through trial and fire, that Kratos often spoke plainly for the respect it gave others. He would make no assumption out of Surtr, it was rather refreshing Heimdall thought. Rather... contrary to how Heimdall thought the god to be before.  

“Who you seek,” the fire giant responded, no further acknowledgement was intended to be made from him.  

“Why won’t you help us?” Atreus asked, his young mind could not comprehend the complexity of what he asked of the older giant before him. It was impatience, Heimdall saw, in Atreus.  

“He doesn’t want to,” Heimdall’s eyes narrowed at Surtr, the thrum of the colder soul resonating louder in his chest with every moment passing. “Not for himself though, but for her.”  

“Elaborate,” so few words from Kratos and yet Heimdall felt it was asking a thousand questions all at once.  

“We’ll die.”  

“What’s the point in all of this?” Atreus argued, continuing in his frustration, swinging his hands wildly to something unseen if only to express his frustration further. “You’ll keep separate from Sinmara just so you can sit here and wait to die? At least if you joined, you’d be together again.”  

There was a heavy weight that settled in Heimdall when Surtr’s eyes met his own. There it was, two souls stared back at Heimdall through fire embers to his magenta Bifrost ones. The Aesir could feel the pleading gripping him and clenched his fists, breathing out slowly. Finally, Surtr- and her- spoke to him, “You see it.”  

“See what?” Atreus questioned, his eyes moving between the two as though he thought he could catch whatever he was missing from that moment.  

“Their souls are intertwined, her hearts with him as he is with her,” Heimdall glanced down to Atreus, watching as the realisation settled on the younger god’s face. “They live as one already.”  

Their death would mean the end. The heat of Muspelheim burnt at Heimdall’s skin, but when he looked into Surtr’s eyes there was a comforting chill that settled in Heimdall and soothed that pain away. She was like the first morning light that spilt in, so bright and sudden that Heimdal had to squint as his eyes adjusted. His head cocked to the side, the stench of coal and ash with the putrid heat of this place caused Heimdall’s stomach to twist. And then, there is a smell of ice-cold air that refreshed his nose and the rumble of something large and beating. Sinmara. Her frosted heart sang against his fire with hopeful promise and Heimdall gulped at her beauty.  

She was comforting. She was home for Surtr.  

And they would ask Surtr to kill this peace, to kill her. She’s cold, but he burns, like he had been cast straight into the fire, kept stoked and burning. With Surtr, he feels like he’s melting but with Sinmara there he felt the chill returning to him. It was a perfect balance. And they would dare ask to destroy it.  

Surtr nodded at Heimdall, he knew the Aesir understood then when his face drew down and became slack with that comfort. And perhaps when Heimdall was more bitter, proud of his loyalty to Odin, he would not have taken sympathy with the older giant’s plight. No, Heimdall knew he wouldn’t have, he would have laughed at him instead. Mocked it. But now, Heimdall understood the rarity of finding peace in places that seemed to drown in chaos. “We are together, that’s enough for the both of us.”  

“But you’re not even-” Atreus was young, both in body and mind. Heimdall sensed the young giant had the blossoming of young love in him with... someone far away. Saw it when his mind wandered to lands lush with life and rich in prosperity. But he didn’t understand the concept of what love actually was. Had not yet to test his own while it was still so new. Couldn’t understand why the older giant before him was content with not seeing Sinmara in physical form.   

“Have you ever been in love?” Surtr asked, Atreus’ body stilled. He wasn’t sure, Heimdal saw, he thought he might be but had no experience in what love was meant to feel like. The uncertainty was biting into the little trickster's mind. “It’s pretty good.”  

“Then Odin will succeed,” Kratos said, he was more practical than Atreus and was reasonable in his outlook on Surtr. Kratos had loved and lost many times to understand the sanctity of why it should be cherished and yet that did not stop him from having a dangerous tilt in his voice, his eyes boring into Surtr. “And all the realms save Asgard will fall.”  

“Yeah, he must die,” Surtr agreed and Heimdall could see the struggle inside him. The way the older giant jerked at the conflict, tugging on a part of himself that held a hatred strong enough against Odin. But that hatred couldn’t compare to the love he felt for Sinmara, unequal in all aspects. “That’s true, but I won’t sacrifice her any more than you would him. Sorry.”  

“Come,” there was almost resignation in Kratos’ voice as he strode away, pushing back whatever fight he thought he could muster to continue. And yet that was possibly the best move he had made because Heimdall saw a shift in Surtr. The shift ignited at the sight of Kratos’ blades and a renewed fire surged as the hope for Odin’s demise was in sight for him. Every fibre in the old giant’s being was burning with that need now, consuming him.  

“Wait, those blades...” Surtr stopped them, his eyes laid heavily on the blades as he spoke. There was a looming presence about him, even compared to Kratos, something that could only be possessed by a being so old and tested by time. Like the threat and danger of a tidal wave. “May I see them?”   

Striding forward, Kratos held out the blades with firm hands. His mind whispered caution but there was a trust in there also, as Surtr’s hands glossed over the blades as though searching for something none of them could see, fingertips daring to brush against the blood-seasoned metal. “Yeah, that’s primordial fire in those.”  

“They are not of these lands," Kratos said, holding Surtr’s stare, he could not help but feel a slight tinge of intrigue on what the being before him spoke of. The curiosity of what this being may know was palpable in the air from Kratos.   

For the mere fact that these blades should have no place in these lands, and yet they are here and recognised. And something stung with precision in Kratos’ mind because of that. They were something Kratos despised and should have remained something from the land he once called home- a relic of his past- and not be a part of this new one. But they are now.  

“Shouldn’t matter,” Surtr dismissed, his hands finally clasping the blades and pushing them together. The flames erupted from them as they would with Kratos’ will, they licked the air with a strange calmness. An odd thing from a weapon born of pure rage and hatred, Heimdall thought. But Surtr’s mind was scheming and Heimdall saw the threads forming and weaving together. “Yeah, that could work.”  

“You wish to use the blades to subvert the need for your union with Sinmara?” Heimdall asked though he knew he was already correct, the giant nodded. “Rather... clever I suppose.”  

“I’ll become your monster; she doesn’t need to get involved.”  

“But the prophecy says the two of you have to combine, you sure this will work?” Atreus argued, the boy still hung up on prophecies as though he had not spent the entire journey trying to cheat them with his father. He could not help it, Heimdall supposed, he spent most of his life depending on the prophecies of the giants. Although he tried to contend with fate, it was the only path the boy had known to follow. Yes, defying prophecies was what he yearned for, but habit bade him to follow them nonetheless.  

“What do I have to live for?”  

The silence landed heavily and there was a moment of stillness that followed.  

Kratos had no courtesy for such stillness, raising his blades as though to bring about the beast right now from Surtr.  

Surtr quickly cut off whatever thoughts Kratos had of summoning the beast now, as he raised his hands to stop him, “Not here.”  

Kratos looked stunned, or perplexed, yes that was the correct term. Surtr ignored them and walked away, leading the trio away. Something was on Heimdall’s skin, though as they journeyed on, he felt the fine hairs bristle, but he could not be quite sure why. Something was going to happen, not just with Surtr but the paths before them were too uncertain for Heimdall to predict correctly. Kratos turned a questioning look towards Heimdall, as though the war god could sense Heimdall’s apprehension, but the God of Foresight said nothing in turn. He could not.

---  

Heimdall had three children from his... adventures to Midgard. They were mortal, not an ounce of godhood in any of them. But they were his and as often as he could, he would gaze to Midgard to watch over them.  

He remembered when he told Odin about them- had hoped despite their lack of godhood, they’d be granted access to Asgard- yet Odin had scoffed at him.  

“Heimdall, they’re Midgardian,” Odin said seriously, almost rolling his eyes at his son’s request. “They serve their purpose on Midgard as being staples to signify social classes, they have no place in Asgard, son.”  

Heimdall frowned, “But are they not your grandchildren as much as Thor’s and Baldur’s are?”  

Odin scrunched up his nose, as he did so often whenever Heimdall even thought to challenge his position, before scanning his icy blue eye over Heimdall, “They don’t have a drop of power in them, I barely even think of them as family and the sooner you understand that the easier it’ll be, Heimdall.”  

“Of course,” Heimdall replied stoically, doing his best not to scream at his father, doing his best to hide the pain he felt boiling inside himself. The pull, the fight, to protect his own blood was weighed dangerously with his strain to obey his father. With the love for Odin. “I’m sorry to have brought it up, All-Father.”  

“Don’t pout, Heimdall,” his father scolded, shoving the papers he was sorting through on his desk into another pile that Heimdall could see no organisation for. There was an alarming feeling inside Heimdall, at the speed for which his father dismissed his sons. “Now, let’s actually talk about something more concerning-”  

But his father’s voice trailed off when Heimdall became lost in his thoughts, it had been foolish to even get his hopes up on the matter. To spare a moment's thought on the possibility of even having his sons be a part of his life at Asgard. Increasingly, Heimdall felt himself being pulled apart in Asgard and yet the only constant was his need to devote himself to Odin- his father. Had he hoped that Odin would show the same in return? Perhaps, but perhaps that was also too much to ask for.  

The young child inside himself that he had tried so hard to suppress for most of his life wept.  

“-oh and Heimdall,” his father pointedly added, as though he could sense that Heimdall was not paying any attention to the conversation. “You aren’t to go to Midgard and see them. You understand me?”  

Heimdall didn’t need to say it, he simply nodded and waited for Odin to dismiss him. Later that night, Heimdall stood at the wall, sleep had been something foreign and strange to him- more than it normally was as of late. His children slept soundly on Midgard though- Thrall snoring softly, his short legs tangled impossibly in the blankets on his cot. Karl, somewhere far away and unknowing of his brothers, twitched in his sleep, huffing out small puffs of breath, the same with Jarl. Heimdall wanted to speak to them, let them know who they were, convince them that everything would be fine, nothing could harm them and they could live as they should; as sons of Heimdall, it was what they were owed. But his fear, the same terror he felt when he was alone with Odin, extended now to what his father would do if Heimdall defied his orders. He worried for his children, and what Odin could possibly do to them.  It was strange he thought, how he could both love and fear his father. A realisation only showed now that he had children; that he feared what Odin may do.

Heimdall felt happy though, despite that fear, because they could grow up without this family and without whatever this was that Heimdall had for his father. It saddened him, yes, but despite that sadness, he watched them be bright and... free. He watched them live their lives without the weight of being his sons and that was beautiful in its own way. One lived in a quaint cottage, another a farmhouse where they toiled the land, and the last in a grander home; and Heimdall could not bear to think to take that from them. He never left them, truly, he whispered to the trees of Midgard to watch over them when he could through Yggdrasil’s branches. This was what kept him from being terrified, and dulled the plaguing thoughts that something would happen to them the moment his attention was elsewhere. What if something happened to them and he could do nothing? But Heimdall knew the fates of Midgardians, knew his sons di d not have the blessings of the Aesir and would succumb to a time before his eyes and he would have to endure.  

There was that emptiness, nonetheless, that Heimdall felt in his heart, and he was sure that his children felt that too. But the idea of defying the All-Father was enough to not see it selfishly filled; for his own wellbeing and that of his children. Somehow, he knew the All-Father was aware of how much time Heimdall had spent watching his children, which led to Odin often sending Heimdall away on tasks that demeaned his position. Heimdall could not question his father though, in truth, he had been neglecting his position too much to indulge in this selfish need of his. A desire he could never have.  

Heimdall had grown to hate that his thoughts always led back to Odin’s approval. Because then he couldn’t forget how he placed his father above his own children. Had it been the right thing to do? Certainly, the All-Father could make his children’s lives difficult and he knew full well that he would never wish that on his children. But it had also been out of fear for himself. And he had given his children no choice in the matter. He had made that decision for them and now- much like how he had been without a mother- he now deprived them of a parent as well.  

His sons- youthful and naive- did not seem to mind or even think too long on the matter, and Heimdall supposed if you had a father figure in your life- even one that was not your sire- that perhaps you wouldn’t be. Indeed, the only real issues they had seemed to be the issues faced by all Midgardian children, hunger for the ones that lived with a little less, and childish ambition. Heimdall supposed that was probably a good thing, not knowing that loss.  

Heimdall tore his gaze from them and focused on another realm entirely, what was the point of dwelling on this grief when nothing would come of it?  

Chapter 10: brothers at odds

Notes:

Chapter ten is finally here!

I suspect my writing will start to slow down to a reasonable pace as university gets closer but I'm endeavouring to have most of this story written before I start for the year so most of you don't have to wait for long periods between chapters.

Also big shout-out to MackWack for their lovely artwork for this story! It is the first time anyone has ever felt inspired by my work to do so, and it seriously had me floored for days afterwards. Please go visit their profile and share the love <3

It would be hard to describe what Heimdall found beautiful in this world. He would be confident in saying that he had seen most of the Nine Realms in his position of Watchman of Asgard and even more confident to say that most places could not even begin to impress him. But he could narrow it down to a few, the Yggdrasil tree was one such place. Not many could claim to have that ethereal beauty that resonated from the World Tree itself, not just from its appearance but from the fundamental nature of the tree. Another such place was the beaches along Asgard’s shores, the waves lulled and lapped at the shoreline, and it truly felt as though no other being was in existence in those few moments he had there. However, Heimdall would concede to the notion that the Spark of the World, as the older giant called it, was one such place of beauty. Heimdall had, of course, heard of it, but his vision had never found a reason to seek it out. It was rather unfortunate now that he laid his eyes on it, tracing the hues of blues and violets in the sky that spiralled into deep tones of orange and red ebbing into clouds that bloomed like spring flowers. The closest correlation he could describe it be the night sky but even then, that did not do it justice. The ground crumbled away from them, each rock seemingly broken off and drifting into space as though the sky pulled at it and consumed the world around them. It was breathtaking. No other place had made that claim with Heimdall.  

The moment they had stepped into the space, Surtr had excused himself and promised to meet them at the other side of the rocky ledge. Heimdall could imagine that even the Norns could not describe whatever Surtr was feeling at that moment. Yesterday he had been dutifully at his makeshift forge, preparing swords that held no wielder or purpose other than to litter the ground beneath him, together yet not with his lover and ready to continue that way forever. Today, he stood ready to end that and would live in his current sense of being for little less than a moment more, and had been thrown into the role of Ragnarök, now it was moments before the Nine Realms would be changed forever. Simultaneously, Heimdall was reeling from Surtr’s own impending change and the insanity of his own that had him frozen in disbelief. He stared incredulously across the sky at felt swallowed in it. He wasn’t sure if that was from Surtr or himself.   

“This feels too easy,” it was, Heimdall would agree with Kratos. It was hard to make sense of the situation, even as Heimdall tried to focus his foresight. Asgard was difficult to pinpoint now, he imagined Odin was in part the reason. Yet that did not stop the burning behind his eyes when he could sense something more, something that encroached from Asgard yet remained veiled even to him. “Heimdall, what does your foresight see?”  

“Forgive me, but do you actually think you can wind me up like a spring to predict your fortunes?” Heimdall stopped, his hand raised in disbelief as he scoffed the words out towards the other god, had they not been enemies once upon a time? And yet now the other god sought out his abilities as though they were companions. It all seemed rather absurd.   

“But you sorta can though, can’t you?” Atreus had the nerve to intervene, the little brat had that mischievous smirk on his face. One that Heimdall found continuously annoying, even more so now that he did have the ability to wipe it off him.   

“You could not possibly understand the concept of what I can do,” Heimdall hissed, his eyes narrowed, and he thought for a moment how easy it would be to push the little runt off the cliff. Would have if not for the way Kratos would surely finish what he started in Vanaheim. “I can see a thousand paths before me and narrow down the one with the most certain to happen. You notch an arrow and trip your way through life on pure luck alone. It is hardly comparable.”  

“Heimdall,” Kratos punched out like a father trying to quell the infighting of his children. “Foresight.”  

“In truth, I cannot say for certain,” at a slight chuckle from Atreus, Heimdall threw a scornful gaze but did not allow the little giant to distract him further. “I sense something is coming but not what, only that it wills for a fight. It is highly likely that my father would send someone to intercede us before we take our next step with Surtr though. I don’t need the foresight to know that.”  

It did not take long for the war god to absorb the answer, though he did raise an eyebrow at Heimdall’s uncertainty, “Who would he send?”  

“I’d hazard to say one of his stronger forces, Valkyries, but... that doesn’t feel right,” Heimdall looked around, something about the air was shifting. His foresight was not so simple. For insight, he needed to look at his target. It was accurate and more plainly written that way, but he could also sense the shifts of fate around him. Right now, the air is electric with change but still clouded by too many pathways. Asgard had dimmed his foresight to its intentions it would seem. “I can’t say.”  

“Then we proceed with caution,” Kratos warned, though it really did not need to be said.  

Surtr had his head bent in reverence and contentment before the span of the grand abyss that was the Spark of the World, but Heimdall could not help but be absorbed in the thought of where the end was. There was a never-ending feel to it and he had to resist the urge to step out over the ledge to wonder in its depths. Norns, he was truly losing his mind with these people if these were now his everyday thoughts and wonders- not to mention that he was now tolerating the young giant more than he should be as though he was not a fly that spent its time constantly hovering around his ears and ducking from his swings. God of Foresight and the child of Odin, the All-Father himself, and Heimdall were reduced to this.   

Oblivious to Heimdall’s contemplation, Surtr continued to stare out to the abyss, tracing the way the lights danced across the sky like specks of fireflies, tiny and bright, multiplying with each passing moment, and filling every darkened crack of the space until it looked like a starry night that swirled with colours of sunsets and rises. “This is it,” Surtr finally said.   

“What about Sinmara?” Heimdall didn’t miss the uncertain look that Atreus flicked to the back of Surtr, his look screaming a confounded lack of understanding. “Shouldn’t we at least tell her?”   

“No,” Surtr said plainly, there was a heaviness in there that sounded like resignation. “It’d hurt her too much.”  

Something deep, a fit of churning anger perhaps, simmered within Atreus’s chest as Surtr spoke, Heimdall catching the way his nostrils flared ever slightly. It was rooted in his own youthful understanding of love, what was growing with his own special someone and caused him to ask in frustration, “More than not knowing what happened to you?”  

“Sometimes...” Surtr started, taking a deep breath and for a brief moment there was a true stillness in the air. “Loving someone is about... choosing the lesser pain.”  

“That doesn’t make any sense.” and it didn’t yet, at least not for Atreus. He could not imagine a world where love would end so miserably in his eyes, where it did not command a force as strong as an army to conquer any obstacle before them. He imagined it to be the embodiment of everything fierce in the world, a protection against the troubles that would come. He did not know that great love sometimes required even greater sacrifice, but it did to Kratos. Kratos understood with a levity that even Heimdall did not.  

“Promise me, you’ll stay away from her,” Surtr asked simply instead, ignoring Atreus’ confusion and directing it instead to Kratos.  

“You have our word,” Kratos promised solemnly, his hands curling into fists at his side. Heimdall had seen how Kratos held himself now, now that he had a clearer perspective to see through. The oaths he held were not temperamental whims to be discarded when inconvenient but held with iron force. He would hold that oath to Surtr.  

But Atreus was still ever curious, it was as though the boy would seek to question every action in the universe to understand a long string of purpose that never had a beginning. “Surtr, is stabbing you with those blades gonna be enough to create the new you?” Atreus asked.   

It was strong in concept for Heimdall, to constantly need to question every happening. Heimdall already held a degree of understanding for everything around him. And unfortunately, that left him with a little wonder about the world around him. He never wondered why the birds flew north with the change of season, they sang the cause to him already. He never wondered why the bloodiest of warriors craved battle because he knew of the sinful, exhilarating, and thought-consuming taste for violence that filled them. There was little room for a surprise now in Heimdall’s life and it left him feeling lacking.  

“It will,” Heimdall said with certainty, sometimes moments did not need more explanation than that. Sometimes it was better to simply trust in the process, “It will, little giant.”   

And Atreus took that with a simple nod and said, “Okay.”  

“C’mere,” Surtr beckoned Kratos forward as they reached the edge of the rock. Heimdall saw two things happen at that moment, or what two things were going to happen. One, that Surtr would no longer be Surtr. Two...  

“Oh great,” Heimdall rolled his eyes, Atreus threw a questioning look up at the Aesir before the tremble and static of the lightning resonated in the space, shaking the earth below them. Bringing with it, a being crashing to the rock. Thor.   

Odin had sent Thor.  

Because of course, he would.  

“Father!”  

“Ah ah, stay focused Sunshine, you too Junior, I’ll deal with my brother,” Heimdall looked to Kratos, who nodded. Atreus on the other hand...  

“You can’t face him alone, I can help-”  

“You need to make sure Surtr becomes what he needs to,” Heimdall pushed the young boy back, ignoring the way the younger giant looked at him with those eyes that spoke of wanting to protect him. It was not Atreus’ place to protect Heimdall, nor should it ever be. “And I need to deal with this myself.”  

Heimdall walked down to Thor, his brother looked... well he had looked better the last time Heimdall had seen him and that truly was saying something. It was strange how he now pitied the brute. Much like how they pitied you. It was distasteful that Heimdall would even draw a comparison like that. If it was possible for Thor to look more sunken in a drunken stupor... but this wasn’t mead. No, Heimdall had the sense to see that Thor was not drunk right now. Not that the All-Father would risk another asset by sending his one remaining son to fight them, but there was something else depressing tinged on his older brother’s mind.  

“You look worse than the last time I saw you, brother, and that is truly saying something,” Heimdall met Thor, still a distance away as the two circled each other. Thor’s hand held his hammer with less conviction than it should and Heimdall’s on the hilt of his sword, waiting for the shift in Thor to resonate into action. This was familiar, Heimdall thought, almost mimicked how they sparred as children.  

They squared off, the small little arena making for the perfect space for the two brothers to test each other’s might while under the supervision of Týr. The two younger brothers had taken to sparring often in their youth and Týr craved a reason to spend time with them- anything to spend less time with Odin when he returned from his travels.   

“Little brother,” Thor’s voice, even in youth, boomed through all corners of Asgard. “Don’t even think it’ll take more than a sneeze to knock to off your feet.”  

Heimdall smirked, his feet spaced evenly as he looked back at his brother, “Forgetting, Thor? I can see your next moves easily.”   

“Of all the people...” Thor paced before Heimdall; the hammer he held twirled in his hands as though he had no certainty of how to use it. “I never thought it’d be you Heimdall, to betray the All-Father.”  

It was a sick sort of funny.  

That Heimdall would ever find himself in this position, his brother acting in their father’s command and Heimdall opposing it.   

Thor’s swings were mighty, and Heimdall’s foresight made him dance around each strike with a giggle in the air, Thor laughing in turn. Týr leaned on the rafters in amusement, watching his younger brothers spar with a sense of pride.  

“It was he who betrayed me!” Heimdall spat the words like they were fire on his tongue, his eyes matching that fury. “So, father would poison me for weeks on end, not lift a single finger to my aid. I kept my oaths, my vows, and yet he has seen fit to send you to squash me as if it were I that threw the first insult!” A cruel smirk crept on Heimdall’s face then. “What are you going to do, Thor? Rein me to his heel? Or bring my corpse back to win his favour once more?”  

A short, barking laugh came from Thor’s lips, and in the back of his mind, Heimdall saw the images of himself crushed under his brother’s hammer- it was sad how it had not been the first time he had seen such vivid images from his brother, “I didn’t come here to play mediator for whatever shit you two have going on. I came here to do the job you were supposed to do, protect Asgard. Looks like that means going through you too.”  

“And yet he could have sent anyone, but he sent you? Have you not craved this moment?”  

Thor chuckled slightly at that, “You know, Heimdall, I’ve always known something about you the All-Father never did.”  

“Feet, Heimdall,” Týr admonished his youngest brother, watching as Heimdall fumbled in his steps at a particular brute swing from Thor.    

Heimdall, on his part, was allowing his cockiness to get the best of him, taking too much time to show off to Týr rather than focusing on Thor. But that had always been the way between the brothers.  

Heimdall was breathing hard now; there was a fire inside him; a wrathful kind. He had barely noticed when Thor, still pacing before him on the rock, softened his eyes and held his hammer so loosely that it was a surprise it did not simply drop from his hand. “And what did the ever-insightful Thor know? That I have always been the unwavering, loyal son in the family?”  

“Nah,” Thor shook his head almost in sadness. “That you’re a cunt, and... and it’s my fault.”  

“Your fault?” Heimdall bristled as he took in his brother with thinly veiled resentment. “You would even feel entitled to my own existence? Why don’t you just get on with this, Thor, you never were content with just words.”  

“What’s the matter, Thor?” Heimdall smiled, though his breaths were coming out harsher and more punched, watching as Thor started to get frustrated. “Lost for words?”  

“You think I’m stupid, Heimdall, but I see a lot more than you think,” his eyes slid mournfully, almost somberly over his younger brother. “I wasn’t blind when we were children. I saw what he was doing to you, and you knew damn well he did that to me too, so don’t act like it was just you.” There was now a spark of anger surging in Thor, “You have no idea what I did to try and make sure it didn’t happen to you. But when you changed, I knew I failed again.”  

“Don’t you dare make claim to who I am!” Heimdall was on the edge of tearing his own hair out- Norns, had his brother always been this self-righteous? - but as he took in Thor, the way his hand now clenched at his hammer and his jaw set in a hardline, he realised just how stubborn he was going to be, just like him and it dawned on him how it would end if they continued. “You may be my brother, but you have no entitlement to who I am now, let’s end this farce, brother. Take your best shot, I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been craving since we were children.”  

It was completely Heimdall’s fault when he stumbled on a loose stone, his ankle rolling when he was too focused on dodging another swing from Thor’s fist, landing harshly on the ground with a grunt of pain.  

Heimdall stared at his brother, his hand falling from the hilt of his sword. If they were to both leave this place, he would have to allow his brother his deepest desire. With a low exhale and his arms open in passive submission, he offered his brother a tight smile, “I will not move.”  

Thor’s hand twitched, his hammer turning in his hand as he faced Heimdall now. Just inches from each other. He was wondering whether Heimdall was lying. He wagered not and it was a correct guess at that. Everyone always said that Heimdall was untouchable, but everyone loathed him for it. Thor did the most. And Heimdall would not begrudge Thor from the temptation that this distraction was. No, Heimdall did not move as Thor’s fist swung to his face. It connected with flesh and Heimdall felt the swell of blood as his golden teeth cut soft flesh in his cheek. He heard the little giant shout in protest and felt how the Spartan god refrained himself from entering the fight. He would respect Heimdall’s wish. He would not interfere with this family matter.  

Thor gazed at his assaulting fist and watched the way fresh blood ran down the knuckles, there was a low chuckle that rumbled from his belly up his throat, “Always a man of your word.”  

“That the best ya got, sparky?”  

“ Heimdall!” Thor shouted in both shock and distress, rushing over to his little brother who lay prone on the ground.  

Thor’s face twitched and Heimdall held his breath. Thor shifted his weight and his hammer responded, flashing forward with the white and hues of blue at Heimdall. The impact hurt, truly hurt. Heimdall felt his body vibrate as the electric current invaded him, his chest the centre point, and he flew backwards, landing roughly on the ground. He made to get up until Thor’s hammer slammed him back down, the weight remaining uncomfortably so on his chest until Heimdall thought Thor meant to crush him. Heimdall’s instincts were screaming at him, flying glimpses of possible futures that had him wanting to move. Yet he could not now so much as take a deep breath in, let alone escape his brother. Thor’s hammer had him pinned down and any thoughts to block the blows were futile. How could he be so sure Thor would not kill him? The thought had entered his brother’s mind many times before. It flashed threateningly now... but Heimdall had faith that it would not be the path his brother would choose. It was the only thing keeping the fear from overtaking him right now.  

“Hundreds of years you’ve been at the All-Father's side, and not once, Heimdall, did you ever think about who you had to trample to get there?” Thor stood over Heimdall, his fist clenched at his side and Heimdall saw the fist land before he felt it connect to his face. In truth, Heimdall had no clue what his brother intended, not with his mind racing so many thoughts at once. The closest he could feel was this pure need for justice inside. There was a great possibility that, while Heimdall had known before that Thor would not kill him, that his brother’s rapidly unstable mind would change at any moment. “Never cared.”  

But then Thor’s fist descended once more and Heimdall barely could see as blood clouded his vision, and his anxiety continued to grow.   

“I cared!” The tang of cooper felt bitter in his mouth. “You oaf, I felt everything! I-” he swallowed the ball of blood he felt building up in the back of his throat. “You have no comprehension of what I feel, I- I had to make it stop.”  

“So, you’re a coward.”  

“ Forgive me, brother,” Thor hurriedly said, he was never one for gentleness or consoling but he tried his best when it came to his brothers.  

Heimdall could feel how good it felt to Thor, how in Heimdall’s face he saw Odin, the man who raised fists to his own sons, and berated them for crying in protest. It felt so damn good to do something about it, in Thor’s head.  

The pleasure was short-lived.  

“I- I am,” Thor’s fist had been raised for another strike, yet this time, Heimdall sensed the first drop of uncertainty in his brother. “You were stronger, brother. I never saw it when we were children. I simply couldn’t. I didn’t want to think of what you were doing for me; I was jealous. You were everything I could never be. His favourite, strong. I- I thought I wanted it.”  

Thor’s hand lowered, his fist easing in tension, his eyes no longer hardened with anger and instead widened with realisation.  

Heimdall though, took the opportunity to strike out his foot, aiming with pinpoint precision at Thor’s knee and causing his brother to fall to the ground just as he had.  

“But it was too heavy, I cannot fathom how you could smile when we were children when you were made to bear it.”  

Three realisations hit Heimdall the moment he felt Thor’s hammers lift from his chest and was raised above his head. First, the blinding rage that had compelled Thor to seek this fight was twisting into something cold and Heimdall could feel rationality settle in him. Second, this was about to end, very soon and Heimdall could not discern whether Thor wanted to crush his skull into the rock or not. Third, and most importantly, Heimdall dimmed his foresight as he closed his eyes, not wanting to see what came next.  

The ground shook, Heimdall felt himself clench his eyes further and he couldn’t tell for a moment whether death had finally come for him. But a moment passed. And then another. And once more and Heimdall finally dared to open his eyes, Thor was gone from atop of him. His hammer sat snuggly next to Heimdall’s right ear, a heavy reminder of how far Heimdall had let his brother go.  

The two brothers laughed in a jovial fashion. The heat of the spar ended in a fit of laughter from all three brothers.   

“Go.”  

Heimdall shivered with the feeling of shock washing over him, looking up at his brother with unfocused eyes. His brother was never merciful, this he knew quite well. The coldness of his features was sharp and cruel, cut deeper than Heimdall’s sword. Yet, they were softer than Heimdall had remembered them being, almost reminiscent from when they were children if he did not look so tired. He was hardened, steel put under pressure. Thor opened his hand and Mljoinr found its home in there.  

“Go, before I change my mind,” his brother spoke once more.  

Heimdall had not sensed the two’s presence before Kratos and Atreus found themselves beside him on the rock turned battlefield. If Heimdall was not so lost in his own thoughts, perhaps his pride would have burnt like a scorching bath when Kratos pulled him from the ground, a frightfully familiar occurrence between them now.   

He now looked remorsefully at his brother, Ragnarök had been created and Heimdall knew what failure meant in the Odinson family. Heimdall felt it almost cruel to leave his own brother to that fate. If it wasn’t for Atreus hesitantly interrupting the moment, he was sure he would have implored his brother to come with them. “You’re just- you're just gonna let us leave?” Atreus asked.  

Thor’s face darkened but not at Atreus’ words, he clenched his hammer and looked down at it for a moment, “I’m just gonna let you leave,” Thor mirrored back.   

Once it was certain Thor would not make a move to stop their retreat, Kratos wasted no time ushering the two away from the place. Heimdall felt a pull to go back, this aching sense that he was abandoning his family which had not been a feeling he was familiar with for a long time. He pushed that feeling away, and then the presence of Thor disappeared just as quickly as it had arrived. Heimdall didn’t need to look behind to know of his brother’s departure.  

And Heimdall still felt wrong for leaving.   

Chapter 11: the dawning of war

Notes:

I have realised through the process of writing this story that I really love writing for Thor's character- character turmoil is *chefs kiss* so beautiful.

Finally getting to the end of the game- well almost at least. Still gotta a couple of chapters but once that's done and dusted... I have free reign to take this story elsewhere.

Again thank you all for the amazing support for this story, warms my heart every time I see a new comment and kudos for this story.

In some recent years, Thor had become very tired- a weariness so heavy in his bones that it was a constant companion.  

Thor had become resigned to that feeling of tiredness. There was never really a point in fighting against it, truly; something he had to learn when he constantly sought new means of feeling alive again, no matter how empty he felt about it at times. Even when his sons died, he felt shame for how lost in that tiredness he was, so resigned to it. He thought by fighting the Spartan god and by urging that anger somewhere, he may have felt an ounce of the Thunder God he once was. But still, he was simply tired.   

However, something else stirred in him now. Now that he was returning from the Spark of the World empty-handed and he felt... bitterness. He did not know the reason behind why the All-Father sent him there now; originally it was to stop the little shit and his father from getting to Surtr. But Thor knew his damn father well enough to know that there was something else to it, especially when he neglected to mention that Heimdall would be there. It was an important detail if you asked for Thor’s opinion but nobody really did these days.  In truth, Thor had been very indifferent towards his brother as of late. Ever since the little shit pranced around and gloated his position at the All-Father's heel- it had been annoying... and saddening all at the same time.  

Thor grunted when Sif raised a questioning eyebrow to him as he passed her to head to Odin’s chambers, trying not to worry her but knowing he failed all the same- if the way her eyebrows furrowed together were any indication. She still doesn’t follow him, an understanding well between them when it came to matters involving the All-Father. Thor felt guilty at that, for all it must have taken to quell her fighting spirit and he asked it of her time and time again and she gave it to him without question. What had he given her but heartache?  

He remembered her in their youth, the way she challenged and provoked him at every turn. It’s what made him know that she was the one he wanted at his side for the rest of their lives. But then... then life got tough. And tougher still. They drank more than cared for their children and got angry at them more than they should have. For a time, it was just to show Odin that Thor was doing at least one thing right. That he wouldn’t add failed parenting to the list of endless disappointments his father held towards him. But it didn’t matter, did it? Odin still thought Magni and Modi were disappointments by the end and they hated their parents just like Thor hated Odin.  

Thor wasn’t bright, but he wasn’t stupid enough to ignore the common denominated in all the reasons his life was shit right now. So, of course, Odin had known that Heimdall would be there. Had expected Thor to kill his own brother. Because why not add kinslayer to the list of titles he held with shame? At first, Thor hadn’t realised it; too busy getting angry at his brother- the prick made it so easy to want to smash his head into the rocks. But then Heimdall started talking about sacrifice as though Thor knew nothing about the cost of sacrifice. Thor hated Heimdall for it. He hated the feeling of guilt that crept into his heart every time he looked at Heimdall, but what he hated the most was the way his brother let Thor beat him senselessly. Just another allowance his brother thought to grace him with rather than a victory for Thor.   

Thor didn’t appreciate cope outs; he didn’t appreciate pity. At first, he had relished the opportunity to release his anger at his brother. To actually feel Heimdall’s flesh break under his fist, and that was something sickly sweet that had blossomed inside. He didn’t know what was more goddamn shameful, that he allowed himself that pleasure or that Heimdall had fallen so far from grace. Despite it all, though, Thor felt an ember burning with happiness inside for his brother’s newfound freedom. It was something all of them had failed to achieve against their father.  

But after that happiness- after that brief moment of brotherly love returned- Thor felt a bitterness settle in its place. It was still there now.   

Thor wasn’t certain how he would respond to Odin, and hadn’t even tried to settle his mind as he came upon the large wooden doors, arching and menacing in their stillness; but then again, Thor was always told he was made for action rather than talk.  

Despite that- Thor thought about how he failed in stopping Surtr, failed with stopping Loki and Kratos; and he was sure that he failed in stopping Heimdall, as per his father’s unspoken wishes. No, his father would not be happy at all with this, and Thor wasn’t happy either.  

There was still so much that Thor didn’t know, some things he would rather not, but as he pushed the doors open to Odin’s chamber, there were a few things he needed to know at this moment. He doesn’t know exactly why, or how, he has mustered this newfound bitterness. After all this time, the most he had felt was tired or angry, but for some reason, this made Thor bitter, and he craved that new feeling relentlessly.  

Odin was busied over his desk, a murmured bickering between himself and one of those annoying ravens; Thor had never the care to remember which one was which. They were more of a nuisance than anything else, tricky little shits that waited and lurked to whisper in the All-Father's ears about every happening in the Nine Realms. Odin hadn’t even the decency to acknowledge and look up at Thor when he entered, and Thor started wondering some centuries ago if Odin ever found anything more interesting than those scribbles he kept on his desk.   

“Ahh, Thor, you’ve returned,” his father greeted absently, shooing the bird away for a moment but his eyes were yet to leave his desk. “I trust you have good news-”  

Thor had once thought it odd, how someone with nothing but skin and bones had the power to look intimidating. On anyone else, on anyone with just a fraction of the All-Father's power, it would do nothing more than make them look wiry, like a stick Thor could break between his pinky and thumb. But Odin had that ability to make Thor feel as though he was the one with nothing but skin and bones.  

And now that the All-Father does look up at Thor, his one icy blue eye meeting Thor’s, he can sense something was off. There’s a power to that, something that caused Thor to grimace slightly under his father’s scrutiny, like when a wolf makes eye contact with its prey and the world seems to fade out of focus, the two becoming sharper in the heavy breathing of danger. It had been the first thing Thor realised when he was young, that indicated danger with his father. The spurns of Odin’s displeasure, the anger, the disappointment, the hatred, all those centuries ago and Thor still remembered these moments with pure clarity no matter how much he drank to forget. Thor still remembered his father’s look, the way it gleamed from the torchlight of this room, the way it watched Thor with careful consideration before impending pain would fly down on him. Always, always watching him.  

“What happened? Odin asked- it's not a question though, Thor was smart enough to know that it wasn’t- as he rounded his desk to face Thor directly. “You don’t look like someone with good news, in fact, you look like with bad news, don’t tell me you have bad news, son.”  

Thor spared a thought to wonder why his father acted as though he didn’t know what was happening half the time, Heimdall would be a better judge for it, but he dismissed it immediately afterwards. What his father did and did not do was not for the business of himself to know, Thor is sure it’s not something he actually wants to know either.   

“They got to Surtr.”  

If the All-Father had the power to feel like he filled every corner of the room to suffocate him, Thor was sure he was using it now. Thor could feel the displeasure rolling off Odin in waves, his one eye locked on Thor. “Well...” Odin started; his voice measured but it was easy to hear how thin it was. “Not the news I was hoping for, Thor.” Odin ran a hand over his chin as he contemplated for a moment longer. “But at least tell me, you didn’t allow them to escape.”  

Thor glanced at Odin, he stayed quiet for a moment- too long perhaps- when he really shouldn’t have, and pointedly does not let go of that bitterness he still held inside himself.  

“Heimdall was there,” Thor’s voice lingered for some time in the silence of the room, like a ghost’s whisper.  

“And?”   

If a word could be as powerful as a slap, Thor had felt it sting just as much, reaching for whatever semblance of control he still had, “You knew.”  

“Of course, I knew it was a possibility, Thor!” Odin threw his hands in the air in frustration, pacing away from Thor a moment as though to gather himself. “Heimdall is working against us now, Thor. Now I know he’s your brother, you may feel a little hesitant to strike against him, but he is bringing Ragnarök here! Think of our family, think of Sif... think of Thrud.”  

Thor kept his gaze low; the words churned his head like a brewing storm. Stood across from him was his father, someone Thor had so many conflicting thoughts on and yet he couldn’t deny the truth in his words. Heimdall was working against his family. Was bringing about Ragnarök. On the battlefield at the Spark of the World, had stood across from him- a betrayal he had never seen until now, so silent that Thor hadn’t even realised it.   

“Ahh, I can’t blame you. I thought I could spare you the pain of telling you about Heimdall, I truly did not know he would be there actively working against us, I had hoped-” Odin sighed as though a burden laid heavy in his chest. “Well, we all regret a few things, I suppose. You regret not listening to me and I regret trying to spare you this pain, Thor.”  

There’s a moment that passed, for a fleeting moment, that Thor had no concept of where to go from this point, that bitterness dimming with every second ticking away.   

“Do you need anything else from me?” Thor said plainly instead, forcing his eyes back up to the All-Father's face. There’s a twitch near his one good eye that flashed so quickly Thor was not sure it was not there, to begin with. Odin’s hands slowly moved to his front, clasping each other, and Thor briefly wondered if Odin meant to strike him at that moment.  

He was very sure he would, he remembered these moments playing out all in the same fashion.  

“No, you may go.”  

And Thor doesn’t waste a second leaving.  

“Thor!” It was Sif who stopped him before he could make it to the tavern in time. Her face was drawn and serious and she took her hand to his shoulder to stop him. Thor resisted the urge to pull away, he was torn between facing her and finding every reason not to. “What happened?”  

“Heimdall betrayed us.”  

He can feel Sif squinting at him, he huffed out a short breath and he doesn’t know whether it was tiredness or anger that caused it.   

But Sif bristled, nonetheless.  

As much as Thor played the fool to everyone, he wasn’t stupid. He’s not as slow on the uptake as they all thought. Oh, it was easier to let people believe that he was, especially when he didn’t want to be seen as anything else. And the way Sif bristled was not because of Heimdall’s betrayal, Thor knew, it was because of the reason for it.  

“Don’t start, Sif,” Thor closed his eyes in resignation, finally turning to her for some echo of comfort. “You know what has to be done.”  

Sif raised one eyebrow, her frown turning into a hard line with determination. “Do I?” she asked, in a voice that told Thor she did. “First our sons, now Heimdall, when will it be Thrud?”  

“Which is why I have to,” Thor growled, his fist curling as he stood before her. “Heimdall is bringing Ragnarök here-”  

“Have you stopped to think why?” Sif implored, there was something searching in her gaze- an oldness, a tiredness similar to his own, that Thor had seen in his reflection every day. “That Heimdall, of all people, would change sides? Your brother, the arrogant prick that he is, has only ever been loyal to Odin, don’t you stop to question why he would change?”  

It’s a funny little thing, now that Thor stopped to think about it; he would constantly think of himself better than Heimdall because he didn’t have that blind faith in the All-Father. Thor was willing to follow orders, yes, but not to the reverence that Heimdall once held. Briefly, Thor wondered if that worship his brother held towards Odin was truly broken, but then he thinks how different Heimdall had seemed on that forsaken rock. He held himself differently, walked differently and talked differently.  

“I’m tired, Sif,” was all Thor said instead.   

---  

That night, Heimdall dreamed of oceans.  

Heimdall could swear screams were coming from the waves. There was a tinge of sea salt in the air, called in by the winter winds that whipped harshly at him. Oceans spilt from a white hand and fell into a dark abyss below. Maybe Heimdall saw the ocean leak in that darkness, and he went looking for a way to stem the loss. He walked across miles of the shoreline that he had never seen before but knew every grain of sand as though he had been there forever, crying without knowing why. He reached down to pick up a seashell, and then froze because the raven- he knew a raven was there, right behind him- he would see if he moved. He wanted to dream of calmer waters, but he knew the ocean would remain in turmoil.  

Heimdall saw the sky drop, in round heavy balls and slow, taking root in the sea where they splashed against the waves and took away a part of the water bit by bit. He inhaled, and savoured the smell; it smelt of comfort, of home, a pit of safety he had never remembered having, only in dreams. He knew, then, as one knows in dreams, that the ocean, and the sorrow that poured from the waves and lapped at his feet, had something to do with a piece of himself long since lost.  

The waves of the oceans became stilled, and then it was solid, the freedom it once had held tightly, under a sky that turned to lowering cloud, and then to a dismal dry mist. Heimdall took a step on the ocean, along the vastness of the former sea, until he came, with a heart empty to a wall so high he did not see the top.  

The wall cracked; the ravens shrieked behind him. Heimdall did know their master. The All-Father was ever watchful, and though for only a moment, Heimdall had forgotten him when the ocean was free. The failure laid heavy inside him. Heimdall watched another chunk of the wall tumble and fall and wondered whether his eyes had deceived him again, whether he should be stopping this. But then the raven’s scent drew near- he was right behind Heimdall, had been there for so long Heimdall had not noticed. And, striking though they smelled, the stench of death was heavy in the frozen ocean below.  

The ocean floor cracked and splintered beneath Heimdall’s feet. He went to grab the raven’s feathers, to fly away from his fall but the ocean swallowed him whole. And Heimdall drowned in the darkness.  

Heimdall woke up in the bedroll, his makeshift tent becoming yet another foreign place he called home, his hair strewn across the pillow. He sat up and watched as mist blew out with each breath he took, tried to focus on the slow rise and fall of his chest.  

He felt neither comforted nor fearful; to have pushed himself into the throes of that dream in his grief and need would have been expected of him, and in any case, Heimdall could not make sense of it anyway. But it was his fight with Thor that had spurned such strange thoughts in his head, that rattled around his head, that he willed into his memory.  

It was not getting easier, Heimdall thought. And he feared it never would. Heimdall had many regrets surfacing in his mind as of late; had rationalised that if he were to think of them with grief, he would be consumed by them at every waking and sleeping moment. His pride was aching more than he cared to admit.   

So, it was no surprise, really that Heimdall clung to whatever perceived power he still had. That after his long stay with these people, that he would not cow with shame, instead he would walk with that familiar grace of who he was, the familiar gleam of pride that only Heimdall, the Watchman of Asgard could hold. He might gain humbling, as he did with these people, and might stir with regret but he would not face them with shame for what he had done before.  

The sun was still far away, and Heimdall had little need for sleep, but it did help to quieten his mind from the dreams of everyone who slept. Even if now, he was being plagued by his own. Most were still sleeping as Heimdall walked along the bridge of Týr’s Temple, a few were awake on watch. They were still awaiting on Freyr to return negotiations were delicate and difficult to balance it seemed.  

And so Heimdall watched the quietness of Midgard, as the day dawned, breathing in the frosting chill that was reminiscent of his dream and tracing the mountain lines, trying to let his dreams slip away. He let himself forget- willed himself to forget- the feel of comfort the ocean gave, the waves blanketing his toes, as cold and refreshing as a spring breeze. To forget what the dream seemed to forbode, the ravens trailing his every step, and the wall of Asgard crumpling at Heimdall’s arrival. To forget the freedom, he found in the ocean below, and how by the end, he would rather be lost in those currents.  

“You wake early.”  

There was a time when the Spartan would have sent a spike of fear in him, where Heimdall would reach for the hilt of his sword in defence. Now though, Heimdall choose to ignore the past that was ever present in the old war god’s eyes, focusing on instead who the old Spartan wished to be- it was easier that way for the both of them.  

“Well, despite my first month in your company, I do not need sleep as much as you,” Heimdal said, it was good, he thought, to finally feel some semblance of himself return, even if it was simply the lesser need for sleep. “Rather defeats the purpose of being an All-Seeing god if I were asleep half the time. Might miss something important.”  

“All-Seeing?”  

“Yes, right now, I can see Freyr at a table, the argument is heated, swords are drawn but-” Heimdall’s gaze went far off for a second, his eyes strangely focused yet unfocused before he tsked, “- his nauseating optimism is actually working.”  

“Could you see into Asgard?” Kratos asked, lifting his head to meet Heimdall’s eyes properly as though he thought to see through them himself.  

Heimdall shook his head, a resigned nature settling in him. He should have been angry about it, at the All-Father, at himself, it should have ignited quickly and suddenly, reaching up from his chest and clogging his throat, but he found no direction for it and it faded. “All-Father has veiled the realm from my sight, I have tried,” Heimdall instead said, he had tried reaching with more than just his sight but there were no whispers to be had from anything on Asgard. He was truly blind to the realm.   

“Hmph,” Heimdall heard the war god grunt, surprisingly the tone of it suggesting he knew as much himself. Or at least predicted it to be so.   

“You say one sound and I hear the unending questions you have bottled up inside that head of yours,” Heimdall saw that little smirk, the goddamn Spartan war god had the audacity to smirk at him. “Speak them, I won’t be doing all the work of holding this conversation for you.”  

“You do not speak much of your childhood,” Kratos said, Heimdall would think it was so full of pity that it made him feel sick. “Why would you allow Thor to beat you when you had the ability not to?”  

There’s a fierce bitterness, a shade of anger, in the pointed question from Kratos that surged in Heimdall, but Kratos does not allow it to bother him. Instead, he continued to stare at Heimdall expectantly, tilting his head slightly down to meet Heimdall’s eyes- Heimdall had not even realised that his gaze had fallen from his.  

“We all have reasons for who we are Ghost of Sparta,” it was a jab that held little venom. “I could blame Odin for who I am, he pitted me against my brothers and used that jealousy as a tool to manipulate me. You could blame Freya for her inaction, or Mimir, or Thor. Perhaps, we shall even bring in my mother who never deemed me worthy enough to raise me herself. You could blame every single person that crossed paths with us, Kratos, yet we both know that we are to blame for who we are.”  

“Do you blame them?”   

What , said Heimdall’s mind at that, a whirlwind building in his head, so abrupt and resounding that it makes everything come to a standstill. “What?” Heimdall’s mouth finally relayed, if it could sound as weak as a single thread of string it certainly would at that moment.  

“Let me tell you, in words, of my past,” Kratos began, he didn’t need to, Heimdall thought to retort. Heimdall was well aware of everything in Kratos’ past, yet he had not heard it in words. “I was born from a god who cared little for his children, my brother died due to the games they played.”  

“And you think that makes us similar in any way?”  

“I think you know that Odin sent Thor to kill you,” Kratos levelled, and it was a truth that Heimdall would never deny any longer. He did not know whether his father intended death for him or something more sinister, death would have been an easy option when Heimdall was weak and unknowing at the mercy of the All-Father before. “My father viewed his children as nothing more than pawns, Odin is the same.”  

“What does that make me then?” Heimdall instead asked.  

Kratos frowned at the comment, confusion clearly evident but he made no move to comment.  

“I have- had three children of my own,” it was the first time he told anyone save the All-Father of them. Not even Thor, though their relationship had long since been beyond repair when he found out about his children some eighty years ago now. “They were born mortals, Odin- well he forbade me from ever visiting them and I listened. So, tell me Kratos what kind of father does that make me where I would leave them?”  

“Would they have faired better?” Kratos asked, no accusation laid on his voice. “What would have become of them if they had been a part of your life?”  

“No,” Heimdall answered firmly because that was the truth. He had long since debated with himself this very conversation and knew full well that- despite his own desire to be their father- that they would not have been better off with them knowing. “They lived happily enough, I watched over them when I could but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I was wrong to leave them.”  

“Often the most a parent can do is the most painful for themselves; I knew little of my own mother,” Kratos admitted gently, his face becoming slack, his fingers sliding over one another, such a simple gesture that speaks volumes when coming from the old war god. “Her death was caused by the gods. I resented her for some time, but I now understand her actions. You do not speak of yours well.”  

“I never knew her,” Heimdall admitted as well, in the tone of open honesty Heimdall would share the same with Kratos. “Odin has spoken of her, though never kindly. I don’t know her name, or what she looks like. I grew to hate her but now I- I worry for what became of her.”  

There was a demand in Heimdall, something likened to a growl in his chest. His mind was stuck on a blurry face that he remembered from when he was young, a night he could not place in any particular order. On the quiet and righteous anger that grew when he reflected on her absence in his life, on how Odin hissed words about her; on the shock that Heimdall felt for them when he was young, on that shared vitriol that Heimdall grew in his adulthood.   

“You fear what Odin has done,” Kratos finished for him and Heimdall’s own eyes are burning, now, throat tight, fury burning hot in the pit of his soul, and he wants very badly to strike out at anyone, everyone around him just so he didn’t have to suffer it alone.  

“If Freya is any indication of the value Odin holds for the mothers of his children, I hold little hope that she still lives,” Heimdall said, he sighed at the sadness that filled him because of it. “I do not wish to speak on this matter further.”  

“Then I will not press,” Kratos nodded, his tone softer than Heimdall remembered it ever being considering he was the old Spartan god of war- considering who and what he was supposed to embody- and yet he does not seem bothered by it. “I will be here when you are ready to discuss it further.”  

Heimdall squinted at him in confusion, “Why?”  

“Atreus has grown fond of you,” Kratos said lightly, that was in part the truth. Heimdall saw much more hidden than the Spartan was not saying aloud. “Despite your actions towards him, he views you close to a brother in spirit. As such, I have responsibility for your well-being.”  

Right. Okay. Like Heimdall could not foresee that outcome, like it did not make it more real when it came from Kratos. He’s a thousand years old and he felt as though he was being adopted by the Spartan War god and the little trickster god because his life had not spiralled further-  

“Well,” Heimdall said, only a little detached from the conversation now, “Do not tell the little runt, but it is... slightly appreciated and returned.”  

Kratos blinked at him, if Heimdall did not have the gift of foresight, he was sure that he would not know that it was a surprise hidden under his gaze and perhaps a little mirth too, “I will not.”  

The seriousness in the other’s voice is so thick that Heimdall could not help the mildly hysterical laugh that finds its way out of his chest, the war god does not seem fazed by it.   

The fragile and hysterical mirth in Heimdall’s expression melted away though, and just as unsettling as it had been there, to begin with, the sudden shift was doubly so, “It appears Freyr is returning from Alfheim,” he murmured. His gaze dropped to his own hands where they rested tightly together in front of him. “He’s been successful in his talks,” a moment longer passed, “And you have agreed to be general.”  

“Yes,” Kratos nodded, a heaviness in the action because it felt like a final declaration more than anything else.   

“Then we will have victory,” Heimdall responded, unable to stop the way his eyes misted over at the confirmation, “Asgard will fall tonight.”  

The sun was rising over the mountain peaks of Midgard while Heimdall faced that startling reality. It should have felt peaceful to watch and yet it simply felt like the dusk of Ragnarök was here and a part of Heimdall feared that revelation in his being.  

Chapter 12: the follies of justice

Notes:

I have very exciting news for you all...

I have finished writing for this story in its entirety! It still needs a lot of editing (flashing back to me mindlessly writing seven thousand words yesterday and predicting it to be incoherent dribble) but the main story is done and dusted.

Plans for one-shots and a much shorter sequel are being considered but at this point, they will be more here and there when I feel the urge to write again for this universe rather than me grinding to get it out.

I don't think I'd ever have managed to complete this story (especially with how much grander it became than I ever thought it would be) without the community and support this received. It was truly something else and something I'm forever grateful for! I love the universe of GOW and I love the AU I have created for it; my precious child was born from simping for a character like Heimdall.

Again kudos and comments are very much appreciated, now that the story is complete, I aim to update weekly now on this day- give or take a day if editing doesn't pan out the way I want it to.

The Temple echoed with memories Heimdall did not often dwell on, so distant that he could not pinpoint the last time he had actually been inside. It had been a wonder- still is even with time’s decay- when he was little, to explore the room with Týr. Heimdall had never seen such beauty as a child, and it was even more wonderous when it was something from his older brother and Heimdall’s Bifrost magic sung within its walls.  

‘ This is a symbol of our unity, Heimdall, and you are their protector as much as you are Asgards.’  

There had been little allowances for an escape from Asgard- but here, here Heimdall had found such an escape when he could. When he was a child and before his position on the Wall was granted to him, Odin did not have so much of a watchful eye on Heimdall’s actions- and Týr... well Týr had been a good older brother to them all. When Odin was too focused on the rising war with Vanaheim to focus on supervising Heimdall and Thor had been more useful on the battlefield for their father, it was when Heimdall could escape. So, Heimdall would run quickly when his father’s eyes were distracted, his feet pattering behind Týr’s and his lungs burning with excitement.  

“You remember this place?” Atreus asked when he caught Heimdall’s wistful gaze, the way those magenta eyes traced every beautiful groove and marking on the wall. Heimdall had remembered when Týr would boost pridefully on those designs.   

“But of course,” Heimdall said absently, his eyes not meeting Atreus’ in conversation. Not that the little giant minded too much, not when he himself was often awed by this temple as well. “Týr would take me here when I was a child.”  

“What was he like?” He was ever curious and Heimdall used to find that to be ill-intended. A way for the little giant to sink his claws into Asgard’s secrets and pry them open to destroy them from within. Now, Heimdall just thought back to how curious he was as a child himself. Found the innocence there rather than the cunning deceit.   

“If you asked me not a month ago,” Heimdall’s eyes finally met Atreus’. “I would have called him a treacherous, vile snake unworthy of the air I breathe.”  

“Now?” Atreus asked, his tone lifting with curiosity. It was a little too easy to forget Atreus was still so remarkably young- compared to Heimdall’s centuries of living. It was a point Heimdall had to constantly remind himself of whenever he felt slightly annoyed at the little giant- that to a god, Atreus was an infant in the grandness of centuries of life they held. “You don’t sound like you hate him.”  

The Aesir’s eyebrow twitched, as though the question he heard was one he had not a single clue how to answer- and he didn’t. Because what did he feel for his brother now? Hate? No, that seemed too strong a word and it was truly not what he would describe how he felt towards his brother now, maybe when he was still following Odin’s will when Odin filled his head with lies. Maybe regret. Regret for how he had come to think of his older brother, how he treated him despite Týr being nothing but a comfort in his youth. Did he mourn that transgression? Hate himself for allowing it to happen?  

 “Now I mourn him,” he finally stated, and he could see the wince the young giant had in response. It was not needed, nor deserved. Heimdall had done it to himself, had done that to his brother and that was an unforgivable act.   

That was a thought that lingered with the prince of Asgard as he moved swiftly behind Kratos, golden hair braided in a meticulous fashion, as the group of them flowed with an air of anticipation for the looming path ahead of them. Heimdall’s feet traced the smooth stone beneath them, remembering with vivid memory how they used to weave and dance around the place, his little body dipped and dived as he ran from Týr in an effort to fool his brother. His brother would only speak words of encouragement on his lips, and Heimdall’s golden teeth would shine brightly in the illumination of the Bifrost magic. Those were the memories he had forced himself to forget, memories that once held happiness now filled with regret and sadness.   

“I came to these lands to escape my life,” it was only when the Spartan god spoke that Heimdall was pulled from the memory, his eyes shooting up as Kratos stood like a beacon before them.   

His eyes widened, just a fraction, and Heimdall felt anxiety seep into him when the gravity of the situation was becoming all the more real with each passing second.  

“To start a new life. I can hide no longer,” Heimdall had known Kratos to say more in silence than he did with words. He spoke plainly and he spoke true. It was something Heimdall liked about the god before him. Perhaps, if they had met under better circumstances, Heimdall would consider the man a... well, Heimdall did not have the word for what he would call a man that he respected and found peace in, he had little point of reference to compare to.   

“I do not want this war, we have suffered enough,” each of them acknowledged the words as truth, and each of them poured Heimdall’s heads with thoughts of their suffering, each grand and painful next to each other. Heimdall blinked when he realised that some of those pains had been caused under his hands directly, shame filling him as he stood beside them as though he had not done so.  

“Prophecy did not lead us here,” Kratos's eyes met Heimdall’s. The echoes of prophecy in his mind, the turning point of defiance signalled with Heimdall. “Nor will it win this battle.”  

“Wars are won by those willing to sacrifice everything,” Kratos continued, his deference to their pain felt genuine and heartfelt. Heimdall wanted to run from that acknowledgement, instead, he straightened his spine and remembered why he was there. For the survival of Asgard, for the people in the realm. “If that is the cost of vengeance... so be it. “  

He spoke as strongly as any seasoned general would, his words as effective as hope to his people. It strengthened them, resolved their spirits, that much Heimdall felt from them, even if he doubted his own.  

“Odin has taken so much from us already...” Freya’s heart thrummed with the anger she felt daily but she crafted that into a blade most useful for this moment now. The taste of vengeance was on her tongue, Heimdall could taste it as well. Though, he wasn’t sure whether it was hers or his own. “The realms have suffered enough. No matter the cost, this ends today. “  

“If going out in a blaze of glory means Odin burns too, then that’s where I’ll be,” Freyr’s voice was blanketed by his jovial nature, though the intent was just as sharp as his sister’s. “With a big fat smile on my face.”   

Heimdall knew they now looked at him; he felt their eyes fall on him before they even had the thought to do so. It was heavy. It was... it was too much. Gjallarhorn once hung on Heimdall’s belt like a beacon of his pride, of his station, of his father’s favour. But now it weighed him down like a burden he could not forfeit. He knew it must be done for Asgard’s people if they were to survive past this point. Yet, his gut churned with the hisses of betrayal. His being recoiled from the accusation. But Heimdall would do as duty demanded, as he had always done. He reached for it, and held Gjallarhorn in his right arm, his Bifrost magic reaching out for it with tender care as though it recognised it as a part of Heimdall. Heimdall had seen this day, long ago, it had been different in that sight. Heimdall had been different. He had not realised his hand shaking with the horn, trembled even, as though it was too heavy for him to hold. It was only when a gentle hand met his shoulder that the trembling stopped. From that touch radiated a comfort he had not ever thought he would feel again. So long had he likened touch to pain, to discipline, to be a symbol of his failure that he often cowed at the thought of ever seeing it as anything but. But Freya... Freya’s touch came without those meanings.  

“I am proud of you, Heimdall.”  

It was... it was not what he deserved. Not in the sense of what he was doing. Those words should not be for his actions now and yet they were. He felt it purely for her mind as he heard for her words. The horn hummed and glowed with the specks of Bifrost magic as he raised it to his lips, and it sang. The weave of Bifrost magic resonated from Gjallarhorn, he felt the air shift in the Temple as each gate boomed to its call. The doors to each realm opened and Gjallarhorn was no more, its purpose served as it faded from Heimdall’s hand. Heimdall thought he would feel a sense of loss for it, a piece of himself that he held onto for so long now no longer his but... it was a strange feeling. One he could not quite describe but it was as though Gjallarhorn had simply been set free from its chains and a part of Heimdall sang in praise for it.  

And then he felt it.  

The call of Asgard behind him.  

Its air turned sour as he felt the hum of war at its walls.  

“Ready yourselves,” Kratos said.  

Heimdall did not think he could ever ready himself for the actions he would be forced to take.   

Asgard, he had seen it in his dreams, but he could scarcely prepare himself for the reality of what Ragnarök would do. The wall, his home, his station was breaking with every strike. Pieces of it crumbled and crashed to the ground and he had the urge to leave and defend it. His body willed him to do it but his mind stayed with those thoughts. Around him, each person had a mixture of feelings at the sight. Freya felt lost in the remanences of the place she once called home, burdened by hatred. Freyr was giddy, war addled in mind at the fight finally arriving. It was goaded by the sight of the Elves, both dark and light alike flying together for one purpose. It was a sight Heimdall did not think he would ever see happen, it did not surprise him that Freyr felt happy at the sight of it.  

But the fight was still fresh, they had not won yet, and the sound of Asgard’s war machines boomed in the distance. Heimdall’s eyes caught them, watching as the beam blasted Muspelheim’s gate, it crumbled in unison with the wall.   

He ignored the feeling of dread that settled in Atreus at the loss.   

“Odin’s focus is on the gates; he means to halt the assault before it breeches the wall,” Heimdall snapped, feeling his foresight burn as he watched each gate crumble and fall. It had been expected, even with his foresight darkened in Asgard he knew of the All-Father's strategies. But the sight of it in motion awakened a fury so strong within him that he could barely control himself. The thought of the All-Father running away behind the wall as Asgard burned in his abandonment of it. “If we do not act, each gate will fall before we even take a step inside the city.”  

But as he spoke, a crackle of electricity in the air drew their attention to the Wall, watching as a bolt of lightning pierced the sky and left a rain of bodies cascading to the ground, a dark elf’s at Freyr’s feet at the Vanir looked upon it with horror. His brother had finally entered the fray.  

“Not off to a great start.”  

Heimdall would have laughed loudly at the obvious statement. But Freyr’s anger was distracting, his hand hovered over the elf’s body, tasting the radiating power of Thor’s lightning still coiling in its body. Whatever jovial lust for war was quietened with the feeling of vengeance at that moment.  

Freyr reared to his feet, Freya let out words of protest, reading his intentions just as well as Heimdall did when he made to call for his long-withheld sword. It flew to his hand as though it had never left, and Freyr wielded it as though he had not gone a moment without it. The elves despite their unity lacked proper leadership for an assault of this size, it was... smart of Freyr to recognise that, Heimdall thought begrudgingly.  

 “Well, we’ve got work to do,” Freyr made to lead the Alfheim assault as though he had never left his post there.  

“You three follow,” Kratos turned to the Valkyries, the beat of their wings strong as they followed Freyr in the sky.  

Kratos turned to Heimdall, “Heimdall, secure the Midgardians out of our path and to safety.”  

“Atreus.” The boy stood to attention, the push of purpose pulling the boy forward to his father’s command, trampling whatever fear he felt. I am a warrior , Heimdall heard the boy think, I am the champion of my people. I am not afraid . “Freya with me. Watch our flank.” He nodded to Atreus and h  

“To the war machines.”  

---  

The tinge of war loomed in the sky above Asgard, and with it rolled the striking and foreboding hues of smoke that warned of destruction, blossoming into unfurled petals that reeked of death. It was a sight that Forseti had never thought he would see; even when Ragnarök had become an unavoidable fate for Asgard. His eyes glazed over with Asgard’s destruction, his heart had started to ache at the echoed and unending cries of the Aesir- those who had become victims of a war that they had not wanted; those who feared for their lives and had trusted in the All-Father to save them. That was what pained Forseti the most; his will for justice wept because he knew. Knew the truth of it all, knowing that the All-Father was not intending to save his people and he never had. There was a time when Forseti had disillusioned himself enough to not see it, not wanting to believe that the All-Father would sacrifice the entire Aesir race for his own means... but many sleepless nights had led Forseti to a horrifying truth that was undeniable. The All-Father did not care for his people anymore; maybe he had once, but that was no longer the truth.  

It had been a series of incidences that caused that dreadful suspicion to creep its way into Forseti’s mind; like a cockroach that fleeted death- the truth remained in Forseti no matter how much he tried to silence it for his own sanity.  

The first rise of suspicion had happened when the All-Father had gone to Midgard and offered a select few Midgardians sanctuary at the Wall- for protection the All-Father had assured those who had asked. It wasn’t that strange, Forseti knew well how Fimbulwinter had ravaged Midgard like a plague with no cure; the people who had gathered at his Hall on Midgard had beseeched him for action that he could not offer, to protect them from the worst of it. Yet... though kind at the surface, the All-Father's actions had seemed strange. It made no sense to only gather a small group of them to Asgard. Especially when Midgard was not so uninhabitable and surely if the All-Father meant the act to be of the purest of nature- to simply offer protection from the harshness of Fimbulwinter- then why not gather more Midgardians to Asgard? Most of the realm of Asgard had remained uninhabited, the Aesir mainly residing inside the city itself, so it would make more sense to move more Midgardians to Asgard before Fimbulwinter ravaged the land into the next ice age. And yet, the All-Father had not. It caused a flicker of doubt to enter Forseti’s mind; the first of many to come.  

The second moment that Forseti could recall as a clear point of suspicion was the moment Loki was allowed in Asgard freely; the urge for justice for Modi had all but screamed at Forseti’s core when he first laid eyes on the Jotun. When concerns were raised- mainly by Heimdall and Sif- the All-Father had dismissed them and claimed the blood debt had been paid by Thor, but that had been solely for Magni. The God Killer from Sparta had not been the one to end Modi’s life; that much Forseti had discovered when he had investigated his cousin’s death.  

It had pained him when Sif had come to him- displeased, enraged... grieving still- all renewed when Loki had been able to walk so freely through Asgard, had cried at the injustice of it and begged Forseti to do something, anything. But what was he to do? When the All-Father gave a command, it was a law yet to be written but the law still in all the ways that mattered and Forseti- though God of Justice- could not work against such a decree. So, Loki had been allowed into their home without punishment... had slept in his dead cousin’s room, ate and drank their food as though he was now one of them, and they could not say a word against him. It was the way it had always been, they would bury their grief once more, pretend that Modi and Magni had never existed and move on- it was the way of the Aesir in these matters. Yet, the sleepless nights increased for Forseti and not even his mother could soothe his mind to blissful nothingness, though she tried relentlessly as she bade the servants to routinely brew him sleepy tea concoctions to ease him every night.  

The third moment that had made Forseti’s suspicions undeniable now, had been the ‘death’ of Heimdall. When the All-Father had carried that news to Asgard, his ravens carrying the ill tidings from Vanaheim after the spurns of rebellion had heightened; there had been a terrified stillness in the air so thick that it threatened to suffocate them. Heimdall was not someone well-liked in Asgard; his uncle often played the role of judge, jury and executioner and made his displeasure of others very well known- but he was still his uncle. He was still Aesir and he had been a prince to these people and that, they mourned in silence. Forseti could hardly believe the news at first; no one had touched Heimdall- no one could- so to hear such tidings that he had not only been beaten in battle but had also died... it was something Forseti had to confirm for himself.  

So, Forseti had ventured to Vanaheim on his own accord to investigate the matter without the All-Father's biding to do so. Where he had expected his uncle’s body to rest, there was none. No trace of death lay in the dirt that had sung of the fight taking place here, certainly, a fight had taken place. Heimdall’s prized mount lay dead and long since cooled and not too far from it were the rather gruesome scattered gore that remained of what Forseti presumed to him Heimdall’s arm. The bloody spray decorated the rocky wall and ground, a stray finger being the only indication it had indeed been the arm. Surely then, Heimdall’s body should be not far from it- thought powerful as his uncle was; Forseti did not like to think of how he would have reacted to such an injury. But when he searched, he was startled to discover two sets of footprints leaving the scene instead of one, it was then that Forseti’s mind confirmed one thing; that Heimdall had walked from this fight- dragged may have been a more accurate term- but he had been alive enough to do so. So, the Prince of Asgard had become a prisoner in the most likely of cases.  

So why had the All-Father proclaimed his son’s death? Shame? No. No, Forseti knew that was not the reason- Heimdall had been an invaluable asset to the All-Father and to leave him in the hands of their enemies... it was too great of a risk to take. So, there was something else, something was hidden that Forseti was not seeing.  

And then... then Heimdall had reappeared. But not to return to Asgard and instead as an ally to their enemies, and that was not news Asgard had ever thought they would hear. Certainly not when the All-Father had returned spitting Heimdall’s name with vile disgust and disowning him as a son. None of it had made any sense at the time. Heimdall betraying the All-Father was an absurd concept to even think about; truly something had had never crossed the minds of any Aesir. The loyalty of Heimdall was well known- well feared. In Heimdall’s service to the All-Father as son and Watchman, he would have followed the All-Father to any end. Many had whispered that loyalty would be Heimdall’s downfall; hushed and behind closed doors but they dared not speak it so loudly in fear Heimdall would hear of it.  

But slowly the pieces formed in Forseti’s mind, pieces that he had not wanted to see. Because the truth of it all was that the All-Father had been lying for some time now. And those lies had cost Forseti his father, his cousins, and his uncle it seemed. Now even his mother was an echo of herself and Forseti had failed in his role to restore any justice for their family. Ragnarök was at their door and Forseti would not lose more to the All-Father's injustice- he would not lose his mother to this, no matter how far gone she already was.  

“Mother, we must hurry-”  

“Forseti,” his mother’s hand tugged back when he urged her away. If they left now, they had a chance to leave before the siege raided the city and yet his mother protested their leaving. Her eyes were filled with this profound sadness, one that Forseti had seen growing inside them ever since father had died and now it was blooming like a poisonous flower in the call of spring’s greeting. “We cannot leave, our people-”  

“Are destined to die with the All-Father's blessing if they do not do what we must now,” Forseti implored, his eyes stung with unushered tears. “I have failed, mother, and I am so sorry for it. I cannot change the past, but I will not have you suffer too for my mistakes.”  

When they broke free from the Great Lodge and Forseti felt himself all but carrying his mother through the streets of Asgard- avoiding the crumbling debris that once housed their friends and family, inhaling the ash that now laced the air like a thick blanket. There was no justice in war Forseti had realised, not when it was the innocent that suffered in the disputes of the generals. And Forseti had kept silent about that evil for the selfish desire to ease his own burdens, he buried it so deep within himself that it had haunted his dreams and sleep had evaded him as punishment. Was he just as responsible as the All-Father in this? Justice would deem it so. Forseti knew the consequences of silence and inaction; knew that in that he had allowed this injustice to go unpunished and birthed suffering for those innocents from it.  

Nanna’s eyes wept, wept with a grief that had only been known when his father had died, and she felt it like a sword to her heart renewed. Truly, Nanna had collapsed to the ground the moment Baldur had passed from these realms, her wails had been heard across the Nine Realms and Forseti had shared in it. It had taken a year for her to even be a shadow of her former self, Forseti having to care for her in a way he never thought he would have to. Now he saw that same grief encroaching her eyes and he did not know whether he had the strength to do it all once more. He did not know whether she had the strength to come back from it a second time.  

Yet he must. And she must. It pained him to drag her away from their home, pained him to listen to her pleading to save their people. To be there to defend something that had already been lost long before Loki had ever stepped foot here. They would recover he told himself and would be better and happier for it. But that was hard to make himself believe, especially as he walked past the screams of Aesir who were not trained to fight this battle... the women and children caught in the crossfire of war. Victims to gods who thought them pawns. And Forseti had known, on some level that this was where it had all been leading to. He had allowed injustice after injustice to fester within Asgard’s walls, fussed over trivial matters to numb his mind enough so he did not have to think about it. He had done this... he had... he had caused this.  

And now he ran from it.   

Norns forgive him for that.  

Notes:

Also, I'm a part of various GOW Discord servers- including this one: https://discord.gg/ADkhmtfq

Mainly Heimdall simps but we are a server for any and all GOW fans and I do talk a lot about this fic in there so if you have any questions to share with me, I be more than happy to answer over there as well as here!

Chapter 13: his wrath did grow

Notes:

And we are steadily moving through Ragnarök!

Get some more characters popping up here, and definitely couldn't resist Heimdall the Babysitter TM to make a reappearance either!

Also, I'm currently active on this GOW Discord here: https://discord.gg/uY7M5DbH

It's not a Heimdall specific server but tbh it is basically filled with Heimdall simps at this point.

I will warn you all though... I will gush about various characters and will talk non-stop about this fic if ever prompted so... you have all been warned :)

Heimdall seemingly found himself burdened with this strange punishment; one which entailed him accumulating strays so regularly that he found himself in the company of those lesser than him. It wasn’t as though he wanted to; in fact, he’d rather much prefer isolation over this. This was pure punishment dealt by the Norns. 

“- I am ready to fight!”  

This boy who dared to follow Heimdall like a dog on a leash that nipped the heels of its master was so close to having Heimdall throw him over the ledge of this rock, and he didn’t even realise. At first, Heimdall had simply tried to ignore the Midgardian child. Focused solely on gathering the Midgardians up like the sheep they were, he didn't even remember at what point he had acquired the boy, was it before or after he all but snatched the Midgardians away from their positions at the wall and forced them through Midgard’s gate before they could complain? Or was it after? Did the boy simply have a death wish or was he as stupid as most of his kind? Heimdall wasn’t entirely sure, all options were equally likely in his mind. He knew, distantly, that he could well do the same with this one and force him through Midgard’s gate- the child was nothing more than a distraction at this point. The little stain, however, had the annoying ability to slip from Heimdall’s grasp every time he drew too dangerously into the Aesir’s radar and Heimdall did not want to give the Midgardian child the satisfaction of taking too much of the Aesir’s energy in a chase. It was an annoying predicament at worse; at best, the child would get himself killed and be out of Heimdall's hair. 

“You absolute childish moron, you do realise you have no clue how to even hold a blade, right? Not even to cut your own food properly! What makes you think that you could ever stand a chance against your betters in battle?” Heimdall bit back at the boy rather viciously in the hopes that like all Midgardians, the boy lacked a spine to protest and would scurry away to his people. At some point, the boy had told Heimdall his name, but Heimdall had not the care to even try to remember it to address the child. The Midgardian did not deserve that kind of respect, not when he so bluntly thought himself equal to the Aesir. “These are the battles of gods, you are a fleshy, meat sack of a boy.”  

Begrudgingly though Heimdall would admit that the boy had been somewhat helpful on Heimdall’s mission. Heimdall’s foresight was significantly dimmed in Asgard right now, all courtesy of the All-Father he was sure, and the battle to gather up the Midgardians proved difficult when they acted like mindless sheep to the All-Father's commands. The most he could do was lie to them and tell them that the All-Father sent him to gather them to safety, but most of them believed him dead at this point so they remained skeptical and only somewhat listened. It was only when the boy had encouraged them to leave, did they listen. 

Norns, Heimdall thought as he walked to where he believed Atreus should be at this point, how far he had fallen to now act as a shepherd to save the Midgardians and rely on one for aid. It was a rather sickening thought. 

“But I helped you!” The boy snapped rather suddenly- shocking even Heimdall as the Aesir stilled in his steps and spun on his heels, the ire of his Bifrost eyes threatened menacingly at that moment. “I-I mean- I-”  

“Heimdall, you are frightening the child,” a voice said, not so far off that Heimdall couldn’t pinpoint the direction... or who it belonged to. Heimdall had known that their paths would cross eventually, the outcome though had remained murky at best in Asgard and Heimdall did not know whether he would find a friend or a foe.  

“Lady Sif!” The boy all but barreled towards the Aesir goddess with sickening familiarity when she rounded the corner to face them on their path. Sif, ever looking the idol of regal and grace, stood strong where Heimdall knew she faltered- it would be questionable if she didn’t as Asgard all but crumbled around them. “I did as you asked, my Lady, gathered as many of my people and then I came across Heimdall! I thought you all said he was dead but he’s helping-”  

Sif hushed the boy from his ramblings and Heimdall was silently grateful for it, “I can see that, Skjoldr. Well done.”  

Sif’s face twitched as she looked upon Heimdall, as though a question remained in her mind that she did not want to ask, “Thor said you side with the enemy,” she started, her voice dangerously still and measured. Heimdall would think less of her if she didn’t hold this suspicion; it was in her nature to protect those close and Heimdall knew well he hadn’t been counted as such with her for some time. “Said you brought Ragnarök to our doorstep.”  

“Then he must say the same about you,” for when Heimdall looked at Sif’s eyes, he saw her intent was not with Odin’s. Instead, when she held his gaze in a fashion to dare him to look further, implored him to even- all Heimdall saw was her intent to leave. To abandon Asgard and the All-Father with her family. “Helping Midgardians is rather beneath you.”  

She laughed, a genuine one at that, “I think that more applies to you, Heimdall.” It was oddly familiar, the easiness between the two, as though they had not spent centuries at odds with one another. As though years of nurtured resentment had not turned them into strangers instead of family, “I am only here for my family, Heimdall, this is what’s best for them.”  

“Then we are in agreement on something,” Heimdall said back, it is easy to see her reasons, Thrud being her foremost concern and Sif no longer believed that Odin held their family as something to protect anymore it would seem. The doubt had started to nestle long ago, Heimdall had spotted it first after the deaths of her sons and it was something he had whispered in the All-Father's ears to little result. “That Odin does not care for anything other than himself.”  

The words, once spoken aloud, felt just as foreign as Sif thought them to be. Heimdall knew it the moment he read through Sif’s mind. Heimdall had always viewed her with less respect; for she was the goddess of the earth and family, yet he found her so distant from what those words symbolised. Not when she neglected her duties and family with disinterest. However, now, as he looked upon her- he saw a goddess born of that power, the veiled fury within her that would move mountains if her family demanded it. Heimdall had not seen it in her for some time now. Her chest heaved as Heimdall stood before her, hot breath escaping her from the fire she had inside. Her eyes shone with a mother’s fury and the anger of the Norns.  

“We mustn’t tarry here for long, Sif,” Heimdall looked around, the Midgardians were gone. Safe. They would not holt Kratos and the others as they made for the gates of Asgard but that did not mean Odin had worked other means to delay the assault. “You seek Thrud?”  

There was a weeping sadness inside Sif when she thought of her daughter- thought of her daughter’s blind love in the All-Father, in who he was supposed to be it still seemed. Thrud held an aspect that the rest of the family did not have; the belief in family and all the love that was supposed to entail. They had all been like that once, Heimdall supposed, faithful to the meaning. But Thrud had not yet been scorned by the All-Father to realise that family mattered little to him. Not be scorned and manipulated to the All-Father's whims.  

Heimdall spied on the way Sif’s eyes darkened when she thought of it, her face strong with determination. Heimdall respected that now, as he followed her steps, the Midgardian boy in tow where he huddled now at Sif’s heels.  

Ever the image of the powerful goddess, strong and tall against the doom of Asgard. Yet her heart was still beating with the fear for her daughter when the rumbles of war would not cease in their ears.    

“Why did you betray the All-Father, Heimdall?” She asked, jolting Heimdall from his thoughts. “You know why I have.”  

Heimdall looked to Sif, half with the expectation of her questioning ears and maybe also out of old habit- the fear of seeing a hidden intention beneath her eyes. And yet, she did not turn and he was left helpless in the trust he was scared to give out; the fear of his words being twisted and used against by the All-Father. It was a ridiculous fear, yet a fear nonetheless. “Was it not he that betrayed Asgard first? Despite the past, my duty remains to Asgard and its people- I will not break those vows... even for the All-Father.”  

That was enough, she thought. Enough for her to understand, enough for her to believe him.  

---  

Arriving where Atreus was, was not a difficult track as Heimdall expected, it was the sight that was more so surprising. No, he had not expected to see his niece there also and not with her levelling a sword to Atreus’ chest, the threat of plunging it forward remained itching on her fingertips at any given moment. It was something positively furious in her. A sharp change to how the two had practically been joined at the hip before; now she looked like a true Valkryie in her rage. The spirit of her father in his youth was laced with her mother’s temper as well. She was truly the embodiment of the two, it was only a shame that she held this fury in defence of the All-Father.  

So underserving was the All-Father to have such devotion from someone like Thrud.  

“And how am I supposed to believe you?” Thrud said venomously, Heimdall saw the way the sword dug slightly deeper into Atreus’ chest, the wince the boy made all but confirming it dug in painfully to skin.  

It was only when the sound of footsteps crunching the dirt beneath their feet and catching Thrud’s ears did she relieve the pressure slightly- slightly . Thrud shared a glance at them, she seemed torn between relenting her position and holding her ground when she caught sight of her mother and Skjoldr. The confusion only grew when her eyes finally landed on Heimdall, a moment where she thought her eyes were deceiving her- a moment where she questioned what Odin had told her.  

“Because he’s right,” it was when Sif finally spoke that Thrud’s confusion faltered her enough that she felt torn between listening to her mother or listening to Odin when her gaze turned away from Atreus long enough for her will to be broken. “It’s who Odin is, who he has always been.”  

“Mom?” Finally, Thrud verbalised her confusion. “Why are you here? How is Heimdall-”  

“He’ll sacrifice anyone at a problem in front of him,” Sif continued, taking cautious steps towards her daughter. The look on Thrud’s face though remained blatant with suspicion, but it was easy for Heimdall to now see the doubt that mingled there too. “The Midgardians, your friend- our family, any of us.”  

“Take my word for it, little thunderbolt, you won’t ever truly earn the All-Father's favour and find love in it,” Heimdall said, the words hung darkly in the air, he did not even try to fight back the fierce scowl that came with them. His Bifrost eyes darkened to a dull hue, and they held a fire within them as he thought about the All-Father. “It always means nothing.”  

His niece stared at him with narrowed eyes, her sword threatened to dig further into Atreus. She would not harm him; she lacked the conviction about her to do it herself. The All-Father's corruption had not consumed her so completely yet.  

“What- what are you both saying?” she finally said when she felt her thoughts settle enough; when she could finally look at her mother and see for herself the truth behind them.  

“Thrud, I never doubted you would make the finest Valkyrie these realms have ever seen... but not for him,” for a moment, Thrud’s grip on her blade becomes slack, and the pressure eased from Atreus once more. She wondered with doubt whether her mother’s words were true. Heimdall could not blame the girl for it, Sif and Thor had been poor parents for most of Thrud’s life, further worsened under Odin’s care and nurtured by him. “Do you understand?”  

“But our family-”  

“Without Odin, we can be one again,” Sif’s voice is warm, coming deep from inside herself, and Heimdall could feel how it melted Thrud in an instant. “A real one.”  

And then Thrud’s blade dropped from Atreus’ chest, the boy relaxed with relief. Thrud stepped towards her mother, her arms making for a tight embrace as though they had not seen each other in years. And maybe, in truth, they hadn’t. Heimdall had seen how distant the family had become. How Thor had been at the tavern more than his own home. How Sif had busied herself with diplomatic matters and spent hours locked away in her room. How Magni and Modi, before their deaths, had been on Baldur’s heel; eager to impress their uncle who had shown more adoration to them than their own father. How Thrud, so lost and alone in that, had done the only thing she could think would make her parents proud and train to be a Valkyrie- only her them to doubt and disillusion her from it. Had they not been mere strangers then? Had Odin seen and nurtured that distance in their family as he had done his own sons?  

“Heimdall, the Midgardians, are they-” the young giant had been stunned for a few moments after Thrud’s blade had left his chest, hand resting where it once had as though to confirm it was no longer there. He felt shocked- a mixture of betrayal in there as well but he did not seem to hold that against Thrud. It took a few moments for the words in his throat to work their way out; his mind was still too focused on the echoed feeling of the blade stabbing painfully into his chest.  

“Safe, yes,” Heimdall drawled, making a show of a frown. He was still unused to the idea of prioritising insignificant lives over the importance of stopping Odin, and yet Heimdall knew these people would be too distracted with the loss of Midgardian life to be successful at the task at hand. Either way, the task was done and Heimdall could finally be rid of their presence for a moment. “I don’t want to hear your complaining though when your Midgardian friend gets himself killed- he refused to listen to my wisdom and leave with the rest of the sheep. I guess now I can see why you two bonded so quickly- stupidity and recklessness.”  

The boy in question, Skjoldr, moved towards Atreus. It was hard not to notice when Atreus spied his friend’s more battered appearance, though Heimdall knew it would have been worse if he had not gotten there in time. The Elves and the dead held little regard for Midgardian life- more so when they seemed to side with the All-Father. Heimdall could imagine, without his aid, the loss of Midgardian life would have been great. It made Atreus uneasy when his eyes lingered too long on his friend’s battered face, and Heimdal saw that he wished he could have been there to help him. Despite the Midgardian’s dishevelled appearance, he still tried to remain tough- even in the presence of gods and that was, Heimdall thought, at least somewhat admirable.  

“He said if we held our ground, we’d be safe, that we owed him,” something in Skjoldr made him pause. “If Heimdall hadn’t shown up when he did, I don’t think we’d have lasted more than five minutes.”  

“You don’t owe him your death,” Atreus responded so strongly that it surprised Heimdall. Atreus, in relative terms, was a mere infant more than a child to gods. The boy had not even fifteen years and he spoke with more wisdom than most others would.  

“No shit,” the Midgardian laughed, bitter and twisted as it was. There was some admiration to be had when a mere Midgardian scorned the All-Father in such a treasonous manner- it was no small feat to turn away from a god, least of all the All-Father and yet the boy did so without hesitation.  

“Dad won’t let them get to Grandfather,” Thrud said worryingly, she finally had taken a step back from her mother and returned to look at the others.   

“Then go with them,” Sif nodded, Heimdall did not miss the look she gave him, a plead to protect Thrud and a warning all at the same time. Heimdall scoffed; it was only Sif who could both manage to ask and demand at the same time. “He’ll listen to you.”  

“Well, this has been delightfully heart-warming, but people are dying as we speak, should we move along?” Heimdall urged. He twisted a little look at the group, flashing a tight grin, the itch to move crept on him with each passing moment as they all delayed with exchanges of kind words. This restless feeling was only known to him when his foresight pressed on him so heavily; a sure sign that a had to move.  

Atreus looked like he was to argue the point, but halted, instead nodding. Heimdall tried not to look annoyed at the little giant’s lack of challenge to him anymore. A true sign of how they had changed if you asked Heimdall and he despised it. Despised it because it only meant that they were upon agreement now an agreement meant that Heimdall and the little brat were on the same wavelength... a truly dismal thought, Heimdall grumbled to himself.  

“Go, I’ll take the boy back to his people,” Sif ushered the Midgardian closer, there was another moment where Sif and Thrud exchanged warm words of love for each other but they did not delay much longer and Sif and Skjoldr made their departure from the group.  

“Now, this does seem rather familiar,” Heimdall leaned back on his heels, trying for a moment to think of their next few options. His eyes trailed up the wall, he could easily use Bifrost to travel with the two in tow, however, such a method would also not allow their other forces through Asgard’s wall. No, they would have to try and find another way through. “Expect this time, let's not do anything stupid and release a hound that will tear the realms apart, okay?”  

“Uncle, so great to have you back, oh how I mourned your death,” Thrud’s words dripped with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes at him. Thrud was her father and mother’s daughter; bolstered by Aesir’s unwillingness to show an ounce of care. But there was some part of her that was happy to see him there, alive and well, she did care for her family more than they deserved after all.  

“He’s actually kinda nice to be around,” Atreus couldn’t help but grin at them. “If you ignore him when he talks.”  

“So, if you ignore him completely then?”  

“Mind your tongues, whelps,” Heimdall said, with all the enthusiasm of a flat tire.  

“Oh! Perfect timing!” Another voice sounded quickly followed by Sindri running towards the group. “I almost thought I’d miss you.”  

Ah, what perfect timing indeed, a voice in Heimdall’s head echoed. “I often wonder whether you dwarves are simply waiting about for the perfect time to make yourselves know,” Heimdall said, his tone laid out smoothly as though he wasn’t somewhat glad of Sindri’s timely appearance.  

“Sindri!” Atreus greeted the dwarf warmly. “The dwarves, are they?”  

“They won’t help,” there was a brief flash of guilt on the dwarf’s face, a glance at Heimdall and Heimdall almost grimaced for he knew the reason why. The memories of rebellion were not ones easily forgotten, even now. “It’s- it’s complicated but Brok and I are here, and we can get you through the wall.”  

“They don’t want to fight? I don’t understand, they should want to fight the most.”  

Heimdall caught the way Sindri nervously looked at him again, as though he did not want to tell the giant why in his presence. Heimdall remembered the way he had squashed the dwarven rebellion with swift glee and he knew Atreus knew of it too. “The dwarves still remember what happens when you cross the All-Father, little giant. It is not their fault they don’t want to tempt that retribution once more.”  

Thrud’s eyes squinted at Heimdall, “Who are you and how come you look so much like my uncle.”  

Heimdall sighed, rolling his eyes before turning to the dwarf, “I believe you have a method of breaking through that wall?”  

“Oh yes! Just one moment-” The dwarf shuffled around his bag, pulling forth a prong and hammer in a rather grand gesture. Heimdall’s gaze cut sharply as he watched the dwarf bring down the hammer to the prongs, the sound painfully sharp on his own ears as it resonated.  

“A little warning, dwarf,” Heimdall groaned lowly, his ears splitting and ringing as his too-sensitive hearing was unprepared for the pitch emitted from the prongs.  

“Oh, terribly sorry,” Sindri stuttered but his eyes remained on the wall as he swung the prong at it, watching a crack splinter when it met its mark. “Atreus, if you wouldn’t mind...”  

The little giant drew his bow out, notching the arrow before pulling the string back in one fluid movement. When he released and the arrow met its mark, the stone cracked further. Encouraged, Atreus continued in his assault on the wall, letting his arrows fly one after the other, the stone rumbled as it gave way. The wall finally caved where the two had assaulted it, crashing to the ground, Heimdall closed his eyes as the dust kicked up from the devastation.  

When the dust finally settled and the view inside of the city became clearer, Kratos finally arrived and at his son’s side in an instant, with words of praise. Heimdall watched as his dreams etched further and further into reality, he had a thought for a moment, that the floor would give way and swallow him in the next moment. The war around them raged loudly, filled to the brim with heat and death. Heimdall tried to tune it out as he had learnt all those years ago by Blóðughadda, to section himself off and find some semblance of peace.  

But there was no such thing here, not during Ragnarök.  

---  

It took mere moments for Thor to come down on them with a fury. Heimdall’s shout of warning fell on deaf ears when a bolt of lightning aimed at him caused him to roll out of the way first, Thor coming crashing down into Kratos and sending them both towards the Great Lodge.  

Atreus was frantic as his father was barreled away, Thrud cursing her words out at her father and only to be met with nothing in return. But when Heimdall gathered himself from the ground, about to dust off the dirt, a hand landed on his shoulder; squeezing almost threateningly.  

“We have a lot to talk about, son,” his father’s voice was sharp like a knife cutting through his ears, it caused him to still for a split second. Old habits still urged his body to follow his father’s words but he quickly quelled them.  

Heimdall spun on his feet, his hand without hesitation drew his sword, resting it dangerously close to his father’s neck, as Atreus drew his bow at Odin. Thrud, poor Thrud, looked so lost in what to do but Odin raised his hands placidly, a mock surrender if Heimdall had ever seen one.  

“Now, now, Heimdall, I’m not here to cause you or-” Odin’s eyes turned to Atreus, “any of you, any harm. I come in peace.”  

“You speak of peace,” Heimdall challenged, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword tighter as though to strengthen his own thoughts as well with it, “but I don’t believe you know the concept.”  

“I forgot how difficult it can be to talk to you when you’re being stubborn,” Odin sighed and it was so casual. Like many times before when Odin would reprimand Heimdall’s actions, Odin acted now as though Heimdall was being a stubborn child. “Here’s something I know you’ll understand, I can offer you something I know you’ve wanted since you were a child, all you have to do is come with me and we can talk like father and son.”  

“Heimdall, he’s lying-” Atreus started before Odin raised a hand to silence him; the slight glare was a hidden warning.  

“I think Heimdall can tell whether I’m lying or not,” Odin turned to look at Heimdall once more, his one eye meeting Bifrost hues. “I’ll tell you where to find your mother, Heimdall, let you even go after her once I have what I want. They can go too, all your little friends may leave, unharmed I might add.”  

There was truth there but too mixed with hidden desires that Heimdall could not- will not – allow himself to. Because if Heimdall dared even listen to that small ember of truth that Odin was giving him... Heimdall pushed his sword further, the resolve to ignore what his sight told him pushing him further. “You’re lying,” he hissed.  

“No,” Odin said firmly and his eye widen as though to coax Heimdall to listen. “You want to believe I’m lying because they have filled your head with lies about me. I’ll admit Heimdall, that I was not the best father to you, told half-truths at times, yes. But you know, what I’m saying now is true. You know I know where your mother is. All you have to do is come with me first.”  

There is only a slight falter at first, battling with the urge to hold his blade in place. Atreus sees it too, the way Heimdall’s grip on his sword weakened at the silent battle instead of the Aesir’s head. There was a moment where Heimdall wanted to be resolved; wanted to prove at the very least to himself that he wouldn’t fall for Odin’s lies once more. But...  

But Odin did know where his mother was and would tell Heimdall.  

“Sorry, little Jotunn,” was all he whispered as an apology.  

The last thing Heimdall heard was the shout of protest from Atreus before his vision was clouded in black raven feathers.   

The minute the ravens cleared Heimdall was faced with the darkness of the underground cave below Odin’s chamber. There were four seconds where Heimdall allowed himself to think over his next actions, mulling over the darkness and waiting for Odin to dare break it or for something else to- whichever came first. At first, he had worried he had made a mistake in believing Odin- perhaps even Heimdall’s own foresight was deceiving him now. But he’d brushed the thoughts away as quickly as they came. His father may have been capable of many things but in reality, he could not lie to Heimdall’s foresight, least of all that he would follow through with his promise of telling him about his mother. That Heimdall simply had to follow him here and he would know, and that was one truth in Odin’s eyes that Heimdall was sure of, no matter the bitter taste it left in Heimdall to believe it. No matter the guilt he felt for leaving Thrud and Atreus behind because of it.  

“Where is she?” He asked, he had not yet turned to face his father yet and carefully watched the tear in the darkness, the crux of his father’s obsession, glow brightly back at him. “I am here, as you wished, now follow through with your promise and tell me where she is.”  

“Ah, ah,” Odin instead said, and Heimdall’s hand twitched with the urge to conjure his magic and unleash it on the man in frustration. “I promised that true, but after we talked. Father to son, we can do that can’t we? Talk civilly like father and son should?”  

“We have talked,” Heimdall growled. “Now fulfil your oath!”  

“I will deem when we are done talking, Heimdall,” his voice did not need to boom to feel as though it echoed into every corner of this cavern. Odin had never needed to raise his voice to feel all-encompassing in a room. “I have one simple ask of you Heimdall, just one. Help me get the mask, and then you can have what you want. We both walk away from this alive and happy, doesn’t that sound good? Does that satisfy you?”  

Heimdall barked out a mirthless laugh, finally turning to his father. And there it was, when his father minced his words and made promises too good, his one eye gleaming with want and the second Heimdall saw it, he knew. He knew before he even turned to face his Norn-forsaken father- even before Odin’s eye now whispered his truest intent and looked at Heimdall with urgency- that somehow that first promise had come with hidden strings, and he had his son once more foolishly craving a childish love once more. Heimdall fell deadly silent as he waited for the next word to leave his father’s lips- a shade of white amid night black, a beacon dimming with each moment passing.  

“Satisfy me?” Heimdall’s eyes felt damp, his cheeks flushed an ugly red in his anger. “When have you ever done anything for my benefit? I, your son, who has always upheld this family, your word as though it were law across the Nine Realms!” He sucked in a breath, feeling his heartbeat faster than it had ever before; across from him, Odin’s fingers curled into tight, razor talons. “You make promises to me only to then flout your own desires as payment! Where is your sacrifice-”  

“Be very careful how you talk, Heimdall,” Odin warned, breaking Heimdall off and looking at him with a thin and dangerous frown.   

Yet Heimdall was not, he continued his tirade without relent, too lost in himself to see beyond his own anger and indignation, “When have you ever made sacrifice? You throw your sons to the vipers instead, anyone else to bear the brunt of your follies, all squashed underneath your feet in your pursuit for knowledge again and again!”  

“Heimdall-”  

“You would promise me, my mother, as though it is a privilege and not my right. You would use her...” the prince’s next words stuck in his throat and his eyes further glimmered with tears not yet shed. His shoulders heaved in an attempt to hold in the sobs that rattled his body in his distress. “You dare to even think I would work against them for a fool’s promise you offer-”  

And then there is something sharp that struck in Heimdall’s side, as though he had been punched in the stomach if not for the strange pressure that built in his gut. In the next few moments, there was nothing else beyond that. He met his father’s gaze once more to only be offered a tight grimace, cold and sharp like the scraping of talons on stone. There was a shake in him, then, that grew. Starting from his hands and creeping around his body, his legs started to feel weak. They give way then, and if it weren’t for the way he grappled against Odin, he would have fallen ungracefully to the floor.   

Clearly, Heimdall had not foreseen the spear that pierced his side, lost in his own anger and grief and blinded by it. He’d thought Odin’s own promise ensured his safety; a delusional pipe dream he realised now and far too late. A twisted, rose-coloured illusion of a boy just looking for his mother and to be free of his father... but in just a few moments, reality struck him with sharp precision. Odin just gritted his teeth as though he was merely frustrated, Heimdall felt the vehemence tremble in the hollow of his father’s eye like the winds on the top of the wall of Asgard that blew with ferocity.  

“I had hoped we could work something out here, Heimdall,” it was said as though he regretted his actions just now, as though he had not just taken a spear to his son. Yet now, Heimdall realised, that no such thing was possible from his father. “Don’t worry though, son, I still need you if things go sideways with the mask.”  

The spear disappeared in the next moment, glittering in specks of wonderous gold, and Odin held his son with such a gentleness that Heimdall could barely hold onto the storm of emotions that riddled him, his eyes finally dropping to his stomach. The red was startling in contrast with the white, blood soaking in the cloth and leaving Heimdall just merely staring down at the affronting wound with wet eyes and trembling hands. He knew, rationally, that the wound would not kill him, the All-Father was careful in his assault. But the panic did not recognise that rationale. Even when Odin sat him down beside his worktable, the tear that had become the All-Father's obsession just in the corner of his vision glowing mockingly at him, his father meticulously folded a cloth onto Heimdall’s wound, reaching to Heimdall’s left hand to firmly hold it in place.  

“Keep pressure on that, okay?” Odin said with solemn casualness as he stood up once more. “Don’t want you to bleed out before I come back.”  

Notes:

Thank you all again for all the comments, kudos and support! It has always been amazing to wake up and see it!

Chapter 14: until it bore an apple bright

Notes:

After the last chapter's ending, I figured you guys needed one like this.

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Kratos felt the adrenaline from the fight still sitting low in his stomach as he hovered just above the thunder god, a thick blanket of smoke and ash clouded the sky. Below him, Thor lay stunned at his feet. Indeed, the fight had been intense, spurts of fury and heat had encompassed the majority of their battle, weathered by exhaustion. Kratos had not known what Asgard had looked like before Ragnarök, but most of it now was darkened and fallen, the buildings and homes crumbled and decayed into the dirt. Kratos had known many cities to fall, been the catalyst himself for some. At one point, it may have excited him to see such destruction at his will, now though, it was a solemn sight to behold.  

The fall of Olympus was one such memory, upon Gaia’s death where she broke into pieces and crumbled, a large hail of destruction, and when Kratos had gazed upon it, he remembered that cold indifference. Remembered his purposed had been served and willed himself to embrace death. The city of the gods was ablaze and alongside it every aspect of his former life, a blackened and charred remain. He travelled far, and walked until his legs grew weak and he could not stand, his skin still tinged black with soot from the smouldering fire of Olympus, he still felt the heat from the fires that were still burning. He fell and he walked again. A cycle of just knowing he had to move forward and away until finally his feet met foreign dirt and he saw the first soul he had in years it felt. Faye. That indifference had started to dim- fading away until he suddenly lacked the longing for death’s embrace once more.  

With Asgard, Kratos hadn’t felt the same as he had with Olympus; didn’t possess all that gave him his title of War God. Here... as he had torn through Asgard, he had watched the destruction and felt no thrill for it, it felt bloated in its decomposition, and Kratos had no love for it. The Ghost of Sparta would have gorged on the fresh destruction, picking the pieces of the gods here until there were little more than flesh and bones, before burrowing into the destruction some more. Kratos could only look upon it now with resignation and grief, another endurance that had to be trialled. Another sign that his fate had long been destined for this path of destruction.  

Below him, Thor grumbled a low and angry sound that rolled in the air. Kratos grunted when he looked upon the other god- the feeling of resignation and defeat intoxicating. “What the fuck are you waiting for?” Thor finally managed to ask in expectation. He waited for defeat so readily- willed it to happen as a tired man yearned for a soft pillow to lay their head on. It reminded Kratos too much of himself and knew then that he saw something in the thunder god; something redeemable.  

“Your daughter... my son calls her friend.”   

But that defeated resignation faded quickly and Thor was moving upright, planting his hands underneath himself. Kratos moved cautiously, a spike of danger warning in his senses as he didn’t know what Thor was about to do. “If you try to hurt her...” the thunder god growled, his teeth bearing warningly as though he was a predator exposing his teeth in a display of dominance and only then did Kratos understand where the other god’s fury came from. They were not so unalike in the hues of parenthood, perhaps different paths but their motivations remained the same. Respect settled in Kratos’ veins, the wildfire of a parent’s protection in his soul.  

“I did not kill Heimdall when he threatened my son,” around them, the ash was falling heavy, an explosion of a realm in a sudden vision of red and orange, the heat so potent and searing he thought wildly that if he was not the god he was, his flesh would melt off. But even in the chaos, he reached a hand down, gripping the hilt of his knife that had pierced Thor’s hand to the ground and pulling it free. The flesh tugged and renewed the wound in an aggravating fashion, causing blood to well and spill, a worrying sign for a god such as Thor. “I would not harm her either.”  

The thunder god had a renewed, primal part of himself that roared to life with strength, leaving the ground as his body rose with it. Vaguely, through the wind that whipped around them and the screaming that echoed, the two gods heard the settling of the fight around them. Asgard was falling. Within moments there would be nothing but ash and rubble but the fight that renewed in Thor was not to prevent it. Instead, he searched hungrily for something else, cutting through the aches and pains that riddled his body and seeking out something flesh and malleable to beat under his fist. There were mumbled curses under Thor’s breath as he straightened to face the Spartan. “Don’t you know... what I’ve done!”  

“Yes,” the Spartan god raised his right hand and called his axe to return, it was a precaution, or so perceived as Thor eyed the other. “Your brother said something similar, asked for death. Now he seeks to correct the mistakes of his past, will you not do the same?”  

“We DON’T change, Heimdall is lying to himself,” the Asgardian prince cried out, and briefly he thought that this must have been a desperate plea for it to be the truth more than a statement; a cry for it to be so, for things that have always been to make sense. Thor wanted it to be so, had to have it that way, even when the call for his hammer was sluggish and telling, he raised it nonetheless. “We are... destroyers.”  

“Enough,” Kratos yelled, from an outside perspective, it may look like the two would come to blows once more, as Kratos moved his axe and Thor raised his hammer. And yet the Spartan moved his weapon to his back, seething it in its clasp, the frost that covered his fingertips melted away and the heat in Thor’s eyes diminished, the blood that once boiled merely simmering now. “No more. For the sake of our children, we must do better.”  

And then it was done, the two gods forfeited their fight in the wreck of cinders and rubble. The fight that once roared in them was now nothing but cold pieces of coal long since extinguished. Distantly, it felt like a calm had settled in the heat of a battle, a rumbling roll of stillness that vibrated through the air like thunder. But that did not remain, the flutter of wings beat, the screeching of birds started, and Kratos remembered Odin still remained.   

In a second the older god appeared, behind Thor like a looming shadow that arched and plunged forward. A whirlwind of black and haunting eyes dissipated, the charred coals revealing the old god, in his annoyance as he flew at Thor.  

“Why isn’t he dead yet? Are you talking? Who told you to do that? You don’t talk,” the words stung through the air as the All-Father spoke them; bloodlust and vengeance. If they were swords, Kratos was sure that they would be lifeless bodies, blood spurting like a fountain from the slashes the All-Father dealt. “You don’t think, I think, you kill! It’s a simple fucking concept! Can none of my children fucking understand that simple fucking concept!”  

“Sif was right about you,” suddenly, something shifted in Thor, something much faster than the words the All-Father threw. Clarity. The force of it sent Thor spinning, the grasp on his hammer loosening but not yet releasing. “Heimdall was right about you.”  

“What is this? Are you broken?” If the All-Father had the compacity to snarl, he would be baring his teeth like a feral animal at that moment. “I am your father! Take the hammer and kill who I tell you to kill. You don’t want to end up like your brother.”  

“The fuck you say?”  

Thor saw red, bloodlust and rage filling his vision as he turned on the All-Father, his hand gripping his hammer until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. There was a great and savage acute anger that sharpened and heightened Thor’s senses. Lifting further into clarity at the mention of his brother, Kratos watched through focused eyes. Thor did not know what he wanted to come out of this confrontation with his father, wanted maybe to see regret or better yet fear for his life when he met Thor’s eyes; he wanted all the bones in his body to break under his son’s crushing grip. It was only for that reason, with Thor’s careful focus on the All-Father, that he was able to see Odin’s move to pull forth his spear for a deadly strike, his hand catching the weapon before it met its mark. Thor’s eyes fell to the tip of the spearhead, hues of red tarnished the golden design. Blood.  

“Where’s Heimdall?” Thor asked, unable to dispel images of wailing and gurgling screams as his eyes were stuck to the blood, his brother falling down to the earth in a flail of limbs and gushing blood. Dropping at Odin’s feet in a broken mess. It was an unusual feeling; to fear for his brother’s life and yet he did.  

“He’s safe, well, relatively so if he actually does what he’s told so he doesn’t bleed out,” the All-Father said as though he was speaking of the passing weather. A terrifying plainness to his words as though he did not talk of injuring one of his sons. “He still has a use, you... not so much.”  

“Dad!” Thrud was running towards them when Thor had felt the tingle of lightning gather at his fingertips, violently wanting to unleash it at his father. The second her eyes met the three, she hurriedly halted, something so similar to Thor’s fury enters her gaze when she sees the spear still aimed at her father.   

Whether Odin thought he could twist Thrud’s mind to believe her own eyes deceived her, was unsaid, but he tried anyway with an opportunistic nature of a cat happening on a mouse. “Thrud! “Thrud, they’ve manipulated our family-” yet his words did not quell her, in fact, Thrud looked at the sight of a Valkyrie in motion, her wild fiery red hair whipped as she ran forward, covered in a thick layer of ash and drenched in sweat, the splatter of blood still clinging to her skin from battles fought. It was when Odin’s eye zeroed in that he knew he would not quell his granddaughter’s anger, with one hand Odin sent her flying through the air, her body landing roughly in the dirt, a sharp rock digging into her side causing the blossom of her own blood to paint her skin.  

It would be a mistake Odin would not long since forget, not when Thor bellowed loudly for all of Asgard to hear in his rage at the sight of his daughter on the ground bleeding, lightening heeding its master as it surged from his hammer, plunging at the All-Father. “You do NOT touch my daughter!”  

But Thrud was ever the daughter of Sif and Thor, she shoved herself up in but a second, looking ready to lunge forward at the All-Father once more who lay semi-motionless on the ground. She only stopped in her vengeance when her father pulled her into a tight embrace, and she became drunk on his comfort and warmth of him. Her fingers squeezed at his back, they felt thick and strained in his cloak, her head buried wildly in his chest and every nerve in her entire body was screaming to bury herself further. And Thor, Thor felt his senses were unbelievably heightened, the air was too thick, the sounds of the wind whipping past his ear and the distant breathing of the war god and his son when he called to his father become all he could hear. Overstimulated and overwhelmed, his life had forever been upturned on him, the betrayal of Odin, his move against Thrud. It was a blaze that burned through his veins and settled deep in his pounding chest.  

“Atreus!” Kratos said, the relief in his voice was madly urgent, a frenzy of fatherly fear caused him to check over his son. It was only when that fear settled did the war god finally rest a hand on his shoulder. “Odin made mention of Heimdall.”  

Atreus gave his father a look that spoke a thousand words, flittering between worry, and regret until he hurriedly said, “He came after Thor grabbed you, said something about Heimdall’s mother, promised he’d take him to her if they talked alone.” And then Thrud and Thor released each other, hushed words exchanged as Thrud came striding over to Atreus.  

“Find my idiot brother, Loki,” Thor turned, his eyes resting on them for a moment, “We’ll handle my father.”  

Atreus turned to his father a silent ask and a silent permission were given, and then Thrud and Atreus made for the Great Lodge. Their breaths puffed in short spurts as they made for the only place where Odin was sure to take Heimdall. Kratos and Thor readied themselves, axe and hammer siding as one this time as they faced Odin and the loom of battle once more settled in the air.  

---  

Heimdall likened being stabbed to being at the bottom of a very deep and very dark well. It was a strange sensation; he had lived through most of his life without grave injuries besides the beatings from Odin and the near-death experience he had with Kratos. But this, this was as though his life was ebbing away and he was surrounded by nothing etching further and further in. Getting stabbed by Gungnir was surely the only reason why his magic did not yield to his call, every attempt made to heal was not answered and begrudgingly he stopped trying by the end. But he was stubborn, Heimdall would not sit in the darkness, being pinned by the weight of Odin’s return and waiting for either death or whatever his father planned for him. That was no longer how it worked. Casting aside all thoughts that would seek to devour him alive until he sank into oblivion, he laid one trembling hand on the desk behind, the other desperately holding the bloodied cloth to his stomach and leveraged himself up.  

But this was what he got for even thinking for a second that Odin would be telling the full truth of it all. He did this to himself. It was his choice. Choice, he thought, and he chuckled as his body shook with the strain of standing up.   

Then, after what could have been many centuries or just one, a pang of agony came through his body as he found himself walking towards the steps. He could only describe it as a juddering of white-hot agony, with every step he took, the wound tugged and pulled in ways he did not think possible and there was a terror in Heimdall he would seldom acknowledge, it shot through with a raw intensity. His foot misjudged a step, and he tumbled downwards, landing roughly on the steps with only half the distance made.  

“ Fuck!” a slew of curses flew past his lips, the wound roaring at him with unbridled pain. He thinks, in a half-deranged moment, he had been spending too much time with Brok for such vulgarity to leave his lips and laughs. He knew then that he wouldn’t be able to make the journey because he knows his body would give out before he dragged himself across the steps.   

In those moments, where he dipped between haunting reality and blissful darkness, he thought he heard something, maybe. A frantic call of his name. He vainly lifted his head in the direction and hoped that his mind was not conjuring falsehoods.  

“Heimdall!”   

The voice clawed at him, lashed at him with a torrent of urgency that Heimdall could not muster to return. But it was relieving because he knew that voice- annoying it had been once, like something close to an insect that buzzed around your ears and forever elusive. It jarred his senses just enough that he could focus on the shadows that came into his view from atop the stairs.   

“Oh, he does not look good,” he recognised that voice too, his brother’s little guppy had somehow followed. It only furthered his doubt, however, that his mind was fooling him as a last jest before death welcomed him.  

There’s light, maybe. So, maybe he was no longer in the cavern. He dragged his eyelids open, a concentration that required too much effort. The lights burned his vision, sharp like daggers in his eyes until he squeezed them shut once more. He felt hands dance over him, fluttering like uncertain butterflies as though they did not know where to land on the flower petals.  

Don’t you know to keep your hands to yourself, you little giant runt? It was a venomous hiss in Heimdall’s mind, but he noticed his mouth did not cooperate with the words.   

“Shouldn’t he be healing?” the giant said, Heimdall’s skull felt like it was nothing more than a whisper rattling inside.  

“I- I was stabbed with Gungnir, you moron,” Heimdall slurred, at least his mouth listened to him this time. “Healing the fast way... isn’t exactly on the table.”   

“Hey, stay awake!”  

“How can I sleep with your voice rattling my head?” Heimdall’s glazed eyes finally managed to tolerate the brutal lights. “You're as loud as your brute of a father.”  

The mask, a voice snarled in Heimdall’s head.  

It’s right there, while Atreus fretted over Heimdall, the boy focusing not on the issue at hand. Heimdall leveraged himself up, he had no clue when the duo had managed to bring him to the top of the stairs. His memory was spotted and faded between now and moments ago, but it’s enough to be aware now.  

“The mask- you need to destroy it-”  

Before he could even consider finishing his sentence, the sound of a thundering crash like a grand earthquake rattled the room, the disrepair of Odin’s room turned to further destruction as books and pieces of paper fell in response, littering the floor. They somehow already chaotic room filled with his father’s madness had descended further into insanity in appearance. The sound of rushed talking was shared between Thrud and Atreus, Heimdall tried his best to follow, yet his ears rang with something fierce and abruptly his senses are magnified as the scene before him changed, no longer was it Atreus next to Thrud but before him stood the tall, boulder shape of his brother, the linger of battle still seeped from him. Light, soft blue eyes stared benignly at him with a face that truly showed his age and was unaided by the wrinkles that now lined his face. One hand moved gently at his side to Thrud's shoulder and the other to Heimdall’s and it was the first touch he had from his brother that didn’t feel as though it would end in pain. It was startling when the two lifted him, he found himself too weak to respond to their movements but couldn’t protest it either. The fight behind them faded and Heimdall found himself confused. Had they not been trying to stop Odin?  

“Brother?” Heimdall asked in a slightly faraway voice that was surprisingly firm for someone who felt his life ebbing away with every second.  

“Stop talking, little brother,” Thor mumbled out, though it held no true bite in tone, and Heimdall felt no radiating anger from his brother as they travelled through Asgard. Instead, Heimdall listened to the realm around him, he felt it fading out in his perception, every piece cracking away and disappearing from his mind. He would weep if he felt the energy for it if he could will himself to mourn his home that had become his prison. “We’re almost out of here.”  

Heimdall thought to ask where they were going, but his eyes demanded oblivion, and he could not deny the comfort of it any longer.  

 ---  

Atreus hadn’t wanted to leave Heimdall, he tore himself between hearing the crash, and the thunder of the fight below and being here to try and stop Heimdall from bleeding out. Heimdall looked incoherent, and mumbled a few words that Atreus couldn’t discern what they meant or why he said them, Thrud looked just as concerned. At first, he worried that Heimdall might die- perhaps any effort on his part wouldn’t matter even as he bandaged the wound properly and stemmed the flow of blood better than whatever attempt Odin had tried. But he brushed those worries away, the wound was not grave, and would heal well enough with rest, it was mainly the blood loss that was dulling Heimdall’s mind right now. But then Heimdall said something about the mask, it looked serious, and Atreus knew he couldn’t stay here much longer. The mask. Atreus had to end this.  

“Go,” Thrud nodded, as though she had read his thoughts at that moment. “I’ve got him, we’ve got to get to Midgard, I’ll figure it out. Just... just stop my grandfather.” And Atreus was racing down the stairs, the thought of stopping Odin the only thing on his mind. Nothing was more pressing; a series of events all leading up to this suddenly forced him to act.  

The cavern was completely blanketed in dust, Atreus had to squint to try and discern where he was, the only thing clear enough was the glimmer coming from the tear that beckoned him forward. Atreus felt the mask hum in response, as though it sensed another half of itself, Atreus reached down to bring it up, the glow just as illuminating. It hummed and it sang in its own voice; lulled and urged him with each cautious step forward.  

“You did it, Loki!” Odin’s voice echoed through the quiet of the devastation, a juxtaposition to what the mask gave him, and he felt himself become defensive in response. “No, no, no, no more fighting. No, none of that matters now,” He placed done his spear, a faux pass for surrender or peace, as Odin would like it to seem, Atreus watched in careful eyes as the other man stepped forward. “This is your moment, Loki! Groa tried to hide you from me, but this is your destiny- Champion of the Jotnar. Only he can put on the mask, only he can gaze into the truth of creation, and unfold the secrets of life and death. No more doubt. No more confusion. You were born for this... Put on the mask Loki. Ask it... ask it the question.”  

But then his father’s voice echoed just as loudly as Odin’s had, reminding Atreus that others were in the room with them, that he was not infinitely alone with Odin and the mask at this moment. “This is your choice, son,” Kratos simply said, “I trust you.”  

Perhaps, before all of this, his father’s voice would have sounded more demanding, summoning him to his side with a tight look of authority, eyes crinkled in determination. But no, now it sounded as though placed all his faith in him. And the second Atreus heard that he knew. He knew that that respect he had craved for so long from his father had been earned- even before Atreus snapped the mask he held in his hand and threw it towards the tear without a second thought, watching as Odin scrambled for the pieces as though he thought he could save it.  

The room was deadly quiet after that, such build up, such a long time of waiting and working for a piece of knowledge was now forever out of Odin’s grasp, gone within an instant and the look on Odin’s face- a shade of ice old blue in the sea of nothingness now, a typhoon brewing in the middle of a sea.  

“Why did you do that?” It was the first time, Atreus thought, that Odin had experienced genuine despair and desperation, the carefully crafted mask of his, moulded for different reasons, and different people, was now cracked and faded, revealing the ugly truth underneath. “What was it all for? You choose to be nothing!”  

There was a moment, a silence once more filled the cavern as Odin stared at them and his eyes felt wild to look into as they darted to where the table once would have been, where he had poured over for years on the texts on the mask, on the tear. There was a twitch then, a slight crinkle of his nose as though he thought something was amiss.  

“Fine,” Odin finally said- too calm and too levelled to match the chaos that had been there before. “You wanna do this the hard way, we can.”  

His father edged protectively towards him, his axe raised and ready, Freya too had emerged from the shadows, her fury burning brightly.  

“I was being reasonable you know?” Odin chuckled, in the way a desperate man would. “I was trying to save everyone from the heartache. Remember, this has all been on you.”  

They all moved, perhaps the itch of the fight, the anticipation of what should have happened next was ingrained so heavily in them that they thought Odin would attack. He should have. What else did he have to do? There was nothing left for him anymore. But when the swirl of black ravens encompassed his being, Freya yelled something furious. Charging before either could stop her, meeting nothing but empty air and dirt as she landed on her knees, the sword plunging into nothing but stone, and she heaved.  

Atreus held his breath for a moment, underneath the silence, he waited. For a few moments, the trio waited in that silence, expecting something more to happen; for Odin to reveal himself once more and for the final battle to begin. Instead, the darkness engulfed them in a preternatural, suffocating silence. Most of the lanterns and torches had been smothered in the fall in of the cavern, and there was no more light beside the speckled fires that survived the cave-in, no more colour, no more life. There was only the still of the grave silence, the shivering and cold silence laced with fury.  

“It doesn’t make sense,” Freya mumbled to herself more than to them, her hands still clenched at the hilt of her sword, ghosting white. “Why would he leave?”  

“He knew he would not win,” his father supplied, it was the most rational reason but not one that suited Odin. No, Odin would not run, nor would he hide when he had nothing left to fight for.  

“No, no, Odin is arrogant, he would not leave a fight unless-” Freya’s eyes widened, and that fury subsided for a moment, “He said he was being reasonable, what could he have meant?”  

None could answer, nor did they want to when Asgard was furthering closer to destruction and time was running out for all that remained. It was then that Freyr ran into the room- the stains of war coated him heavily as he cast his eyes over the devastation, “Either you guys absolutely crushed Odin’s ass or-”  

“He escaped,” Freya spat bitterly, climbing up from her knees as she paced. “The coward ran from the fight.”  

Freyr cocked his eyebrow at his sister, the surprise evident but filed away quickly, “Well about time we do the same, Asgard isn’t gonna be around much longer, we need to go now.”  

“I suppose you’ll need an exit then,” a small voice chimed, and Atreus felt an unconscious grin on his face, the sight of her and Fenrir making him smile as they ran over to the group from the shadows. “Don’t ask, it’s giant stuff.”  

The ground shook beneath them, the approach of Ragnarök creeping ever closer. When the beast growled, they all felt the ground shake in response, they struggled to steady their legs and stand. Asgard was falling. Falling further and further with every plunge of Ragnarok’s sword. They needed to leave, needed to escape before they fell with it. Atreus watched- felt- Asgard start to breathe its last, the realm was breaking further and further and soon he felt as though they would be swallowed into nothing with it. Atreus caught his father’s eyes, and watched as his expression was mostly hidden by the cover of dust around them. He could see through the shine of his eyes, the urgency or perhaps fear in them that was not for himself.  

“Alright, follow me- quickly,” Angrboða urged, her arm reaching out and ushering them all through the realm tear. “We should go before he gets too close.”   

Atreus stopped thinking at that moment, stopped struggling with the thoughts of shock and horror he felt through the realm’s destruction, going through his thoughts- get them all to safety... I need to make sure they all make it- He did not think as he ran forward to Freyr and Freya, pulling them both with his hands forward and through the portal without thought. He did not think again when the next earthquake shook through the cavern when he then pushed his father through it too. The dwarves... they were long gone by now. He saw them here one moment and then... gone the next as they so often did. Yes. He got everyone through, and a feeling of relief washed over him before he realised his mistake, when Ragnarök's sword plunged into the cavern, piercing the earth and breaking away the stone. His feet lost footing, stumbling backwards until he felt the harsh earth scrape his skin. The heat. That was what he remembered, burning and invasive. That was wrong. He scrambled backwards until he felt just the empty nothingness that was released around him-  

And then there was a biting cold, a rush of freezing that was almost just as painful as the heat on his skin. This time, however, it was accompanied by soothing familiarity. Atreus grimaced and jerked at the shift, unable to curl up like he wanted to. He tried to identify where he was now, confusion and shock warring for dominance within him. His thoughts returned to the fall of Asgard, and his eyes widened.   

There was a hand on his shoulder, a voice that spoke gently. “Atreus... Son, please answer me-” he felt a shadowy figure lean over him, it was then that Atreus realised he was on the ground, and the figure above him was watching him with wide golden eyes, filled with worry, “Son, speak to me.” The figure above him now had Atreus’ full attention, his mind slowly piecing together what he should already know. “Please, son- just let me know you are alright, speak to me...”  

Atreus studied the figure, trying to see what he was supposed to see, but the shadows in his mind cloaked any logical thoughts from forming. Yet still, the figure persisted until the words started making sense. Thinking of Asgard, seeing the sword plunge into the earth, and feeling the rupture of heat implode from it. Thinking of what happened next and should he know what is happening? Yes. That made sense. The blinding white light, the cold that sang against his skin. So familiar, so calming. He was- this was Midgard.  

The figure’s golden eyes seemed to grow brighter as Atreus focused on them. First, it was the eyes, then the face and then the body. And soon, before him, he recognised his father, the feeling of being cradled in his arms just as comforting as the cold breeze of Midgard.  

“Father?”  

His father drew him in closer, allowing Atreus to swallow and bathe in that comfort and warmth- they had made it. There was a hysterical feeling inside. The thought of Ragnarök finally being over. He relished that feeling for just this moment.   

“Father...”  

Notes:

Finally! The conclusion of Ragnarok has happened and the second half of this story can commence! I was originally torn in either having this as a two-part series and conclude this story here and then post the sequel but... eh, all in one go for me seems to flow a bit better.

Anyway, comments and kudos are appreciated so much! Makes my day reading all your reactions!

Chapter 15: swallow back your fear

Notes:

Eek! Chapter 15 is here and the second half of this story may commence in uncharted territory now!

 

Want to go on GOW rambles with me? Head over to this GOW Discord to listen to my conspiracy theories on in-game lore.

Heimdall knew before any of them the moment Asgard was no more, even from Midgard where he was nursed by Sif’s strangely tender hands in the makeshift crib at Hoddmimis Holt just left of where Týr’s Temple stood, the final plunge of Ragnarok’s sword vibrated in his being.  

The awareness of Asgard's fall came from the fading of it from his perception completely; like a torch being extinguished in an instant, Asgard's light was gone. Heimdall's disbelief urged him to focus his gaze, ignoring the ache it caused him. The realm, even when Odin had distorted his perception of it, had always been a constant presence in the back of his mind. Now, there was an emptiness in its place.   

When he first felt that absence of Asgard- it stripped him completely as Asgard was ripped from the Nine Realms. Flayed at his soul as though he made to pull himself through a pit of broken glass and tore at him with immense grief inside him as though he was nothing more than a soft flower- a being butchered for parts. When his body jolted and stilled, Sif had noticed, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. Heimdall had been nothing but still and quiet in the crib until now.   

It seemed she had no clue why but when Thor's gaze had shifted with his younger's brother's disturbance, it seemed he did.   

“Asgard’s fallen?” was the only question Thor had for him, though he knew the answer before he spoke.   

Heimdall simply nodded, he couldn’t cling to the grief of that loss, not if he didn’t want to lose himself in the maze of it. He gripped the fur beneath him tightly, gathering all the components of himself that he could muster in his weakened state- conviction, stubbornness, pride, everything that made him who he was, everything that he made himself be and let the rest go.   

“Asgard is gone,” he finally said, not missing the way Thrud sighed at the loss where she sat by her father and huddled subconsciously closer to him at the news. It was the first time Heimdall had seen the family gathered together in complete unity. Not at the behest of Odin for a faux display of family strength, not out of annoyance for each other. No, this was a memory he had long since thought would remain as such.    

“Well, can’t say I’m too upset about that,” Thor grumbled, though when Heimdall’s eyes landed on the impossibly distant ones of his brother, he sensed the sadness he felt upon losing their home. For several long moments he couldn’t do much more than stare at that sadness, sharing in that connection with his brother, lungs seizing around the cold winter air. “Stop doing that, Heimdall, fucking annoying.”   

“Forgive me for being unable to simply turn off my gift,” Heimdall huffed with an air of annoyance, though it held no malice, there was a moment in that shared connection where Heimdall felt a flash of appreciation from Thor. And that was enough- enough for Heimdall to settle in on himself. “Well, I believe this is the longest we have ever been able to be in each other’s presence.”   

“You can’t exactly move, Uncle,” Thrud pointed out, a small smile on her face as she stared pointedly at Heimdall’s position on the cot.   

“Details, guppy, details,” Heimdall dismissed and then winced when the smallest of movement spiked a sharp pain from his gut. It was strange how the little movements he made hurt, like sandpaper on his stomach, but nonetheless Heimdall straightened up in his crib, spurred by a rush in the air. He turned his head to see the shift in the air realised, the realm tearing itself open as people tumbled out, the mangy hound that Heimdall remembered, being the cause of the disturbance that shook the world around them.  

The first person he saw was a young girl, followed by Freyr and Freya, Kratos was next and for a time, there was that dreaded stillness when one did not come through after that. Heimdall did not know whether the panic he felt inside himself was truly his own or the one he felt in Kratos, in the others that stared expectantly. Kratos moved as though to go back through the tear before a body stumbled out, skidding along the dirt.   

Atreus stared wide-eyed back at the realm tear, the wolf closing it before the destruction of Asgard could follow them through. There was nothing done in those next few moments beside Kratos immediately falling to Atreus’ side, cradling the child as he pleaded for anything to confirm that he was alright. Then there was a whisper- Kratos paused in relief- and then another...   

“Father...”   

The echo of dread that had been digging and clawing at Heimdall in the hollow spaces of his chest lessened, and father and son clung to each other in relief. The little girl beside than radiated happiness and Freyr too for that matter, the feeling he should now have was a sense of finality. But it was Freya that stopped that feeling from washing through him, she still sang with violence and rage, the urge to set forth and kill his father- did they not just do that?   

The wound on his side burned with the realisation, throbbed in warning, and he knew when she stared back at him. The surge of disappointment- lightning-quick, a white-hot flicker- in her mind at herself stroked Heimdall’s mind in sympathy. Odin was still alive.    

“Odin lives,” Heimdall announced at that realisation, the newcomers and his family beside him looked at him then.   

It was like a dam bursting at an unbridled pace, destroying everything in its path. Thor twisted in his seat to stare at Heimdall for a moment before turning to the group, face suddenly drawn to a dangerous glare. It was Kratos’ silent nod that caused his brother to go cold all over in anger- his only thoughts remained with what their father did to Thrud. A blood debt yet unpaid in Thor’s mind.     

And there- beyond Kratos, is Atreus, who looked saddened. His face drawn down as though the weight of failure was heavy in him, taut with pain at it, his eyes were wide and pleading as though he sought everyone’s forgiveness for that realisation.  

“How? You had one fucking job to do,” Thor was always quick to anger, it busted out the seams without much provocation more and more and Heimdall was all the more glad that for once he was not the target of such anger.  

“He fled before we could even make a move, Thor,” Freya rebutted solemnly, and Heimdall knew for a fact that no one more than her would have tried to end Odin at that moment. “It seemed he had a backup plan all along, should he have failed here.”   

It was then that Heimdall’s eyes widened, for Odin had said as such to him- about him- by the All-Father down below in the cavern. He had not thought much of it besides his father being elusive with his wording once again. He had not thought of the gravity of it, his mind more muddled with the thoughts of the lie and his mother at the time. By the spear to his gut.  

However, Kratos’ eyes did narrow at him when he caught Heimdall’s change in demeanour, “You know of this plan?”   

“No,” Heimdall shot back rather quickly but diffused. “He may have made mention of something when we were alone in the cavern though.”   

“Well, what exactly did he say, laddie?” Mimir asked, his golden eyes squinted where Kratos had placed him on a wooden table after the calm of knowing Atreus was safe had settled.  

“All he said was that I was needed for something else,” Heimdall admitted, he had managed to sit upright on the bed at this, Bifrost eyes stared unblinkingly at the people across from him. If anyone were to press Heimdall further on the issue, perhaps he would admit that he hadn’t been paying the All-Father that many minds in the moments as blood poured freely from him, they might think him weak for it. Only that hadn’t been the only subject to adle his mind, the thought of his mother was more important than whatever quest Odin had been pursuing at that moment. “He made no mention of why or how.”   

Only the more perceptive people in the group took notice of the tension in the young Aesir’s body and the unnatural stillness that made him seem more like a statue than anything composed of flesh. Anyone else in Heimdall’s position would be pacing the space though, twitching and wringing their hands at the prospect of what Odin now meant, but Heimdall had often learnt that openly expressing more than he should only lead to people reading too much into him. Instead of moving, he hid his nerves with a nonchalant expression, a mask of unmoving and rigid facial expression that it seemed only Kratos was reading through.       

“Well, that can’t be a good thing in the slightest,” Mimir ‘The smartest man alive’, had the wisdom to add in. If it were any other day, Heimdall would have tossed the bleating goat over the side of the cliff. The very thought of doing so was comforting and made Heimdall think of how easy it would be to attain a moment of peace from the head and he resisted the urge to fight against the tugging of pain in his side to walk over and do so. It was a fleeting distraction to his building fear of his father. He had not been afraid, not like this when he had been alone with Odin in the carven, an irrational fear of the wound he had inflicted too overpowering in that moment. Still, now there was this foreboding fear on the mystery of what his father intended to do, something close to panic was seizing Heimdall’s mind.   

When would the All-Father strike? What if there was nothing they could do? What was he planning on doing with him? Was everything he had done, all this change, for nothing?    

Old memories of his father’s anger when he had been but a child centuries upon centuries ago mocked the Bifrost-eyed Aesir and his right Bifrost conjured hand gripped the fur below him, fingers sunk into the fabric like talons on a raven with its prey.    

He shouldn’t be so worried, it wasn’t as though the people around him had no vested interest in making sure Odin did not succeed in whatever plan he was working on, yet it had not been so long ago that Heimdall considered them all enemies. The conflict was pulling Heimdall back and forth with nauseating momentum.     

It was as though Freya felt the turmoil in Heimdall then, as he reached down and pressed a hand against his forehead as though he meant to force the memories of his childhood and the fears out. They remained stubborn though, trapped inside his mind forever haunting his every thought, no attempt to pretend he was no longer that scared little boy would suppress that. Perhaps that was what Freya saw, that knowledge that his mind weighed so heavily on him that it hurt, unable to urge them away. “Dwelling on the past and what-ifs are not going to help. Even though Odin is not dead, we have dealt a great blow to him still, we should take solace in that.”    

It should have been enough, but it didn’t feel like it. Even as Heimdall stared at every person here he could tell they all thought the same. It would have been better if Odin was actually dead, but it was rarely ever that simple.    

“Aye, that we should,” Mimir agreed, unspoken was the insistence on no rest, that they should gather and strike while Odin was still weak. But so were they, and Mimir knew rest for them was what they needed more than anything.    

… If only rest would be that simple if only rest did not mean Odin had more time to become a larger threat hanging over my head. Heimdall frowned slightly, blinking before his lips thinned. Once more I am blaming all my problems on my father... The frown deepened. The point is that I cannot change whatever the All-Father has planned for me. I am not All-Knowing and yet I still feel like I should know something. I am simply as I always have been, in the shadow of whatever anger and whim my father has. I cannot change it seems, cannot remove myself from the role of his son. I had been lucky enough to even have that illusion for a brief time so far, but all fantasy must come to an end.     

The busying of everyone around him was not startling, but Heimdall’s already tense body went just slightly stiffer at the movement. His Bifrost eyes flickered up to them, Kratos, his son and... ah, that was her name Angrboða, were huddled together speaking in soft tones. Thor and his family were tending to each other, the revelation must have caused quite an uncertainty for them in their prospect of peace. It was then startling to see Freya and Freyr before him, the twos’ gaze met his, twitching slightly as they all put invited themselves into his space.   

“Hey, Sif!” Freyr greeted her warmly, the twin had not been too acquainted with the thought of speaking to Heimdall- memories still soured his mind and though he hid behind a faux smile, Heimdall saw it, nonetheless. “I have a little proposition for you regarding the remaining Aesir, if you have a second?”   

“Of course,” Sif nodded, leaving Freya and Heimdall alone.   

“You are in the habit of finding yourself injured as of late, Heimdall,” she commented casually. “A rather concerning habit for someone who can read intent.”   

The golden-haired Aesir’s mood dropped considerably at the comment. He knew Freya did not mean ill with her words... it was only that Heimdall found himself unable to excuse the comment as anything but a falter in his abilities. Before anyone would have held his position that he was untouchable in battle, but now no such feat was his to hold proudly. And though he tried not to think of such a morbid reality for himself, the Aesir could not help but wonder if people now thought less of him for such failures in his talents.    

“If you came to make jabs, Freya, I am not in the mood,” Heimdall said belatedly, his mind remaining elsewhere.   

Freya’s eyebrow rose, expression screaming indignation at the presumption. “It was concern, not a jab.” She reminded him.   

“Of course,” Heimdall mumbled.   

“Atreus spoke of what Odin promised you,” Freya continued after a pause, concern so evident the Aesir internally winced. “I am sorry about your mother, it is not an easy burden to not know how a loved one fairs, or even if they are alive.”    

Heimdall blinked rapidly, in truth he had not thought anyone else would know of what had happened on Asgard. “I was stupid to believe he had any intention of simply telling me where she was,” he muttered, almost to himself.    

“You weren’t,” Freya informed him, her voice firm. “While in Asgard, I’ll admit, I spent some time searching for Forseti... I just wanted to see my grandson once more, though I don’t know whether he would look upon me with hatred now... as Baldur did.”   

“He would not,” Heimdall stated, and his voice had grown considerably softer at the admittance. “I was not around him often, but I knew he held sympathy for you.”    

He rubbed at his eyes as if doing so would help him regain control over himself. Emotionless, anger, spite, all of it was better than feeling whatever this was, he thought, half-irritated and half-ashamed. But he had not felt this way for some time, especially in the presence of Freya, and he could not control the way he yearned to share some of his grief with another.    

Freya hovered beside him for a moment, taking a seat as she thought over how to respond, then a small smile appeared on her face, and she sighed. “It is enough to know that at least,” she said contently. “I hope he made it out of Asgard in time... I never saw a body.”   

“We could search,” the offer left Heimdall’s lips before he had the thought to consider them, there was a surprise on Freya’s face, a genuine smile at him.   

Freya’s voice remained light, “That would be nice, we could also search for your mother. If you would not mind the company?”   

The Aesir’s expression shifted to something similar to confusion though that did not encompass the range of emotions he felt at that, “I would... be amendable to that agreement.”    

“Then it is settled,” Freya stated.   

Heimdall gave her a brief look, “You are wildly forgetting that Odin still remains very much alive and very much with the intent to do whatever he plans to do with me to attain whatever knowledge he sought with the mask.”    

There was a moment of anger, though not at Heimdall, at the mention of Odin, dark eyes bore into the ground as though she imagined it to be Odin himself there, “Have we not allowed Odin to control our every thought and action long enough? I have lived under his veiled threat long enough, I will do so no longer, and neither should you, Heimdall.”   

Heimdall sighed, dropping his gaze. “Easier said than done, you have not been at his side as long as I have,” Heimdall said in a low and quiet voice.   

“Then I will be there for you, just as you are going to be for me,” he heard Freya draw in a sharp breath, then release it. “It will not be easy, but we are no longer alone to fight him anymore.”   

“Yes,” Heimdall admitted. “I am... trying to focus more on that fact rather than the impending feeling that he will manage to get his way as usual, currently I am failing rather miserably.”   

“That is why you do not have to deal with it alone,” Freya insisted. “I will be here, and the others too, for whatever worries you hold.”    

The genuine concern in Freya’s voice struck the Aesir hard, he glanced at the goddess with lightening quick eyes before his gaze dropped once more. Here was someone who Heimdall had driven out of Asgard out of spite now willingly helping him, to relieve Heimdall of some of the weight of the burden he carried. She did not pry into Heimdall’s innermost fears, not needing to, for personal gain anymore, or to find a way to use them against him. Her only desire now rested with simply being there, and giving advice freely as needed. It did not make sense to Heimdall, it shouldn’t be her intent to be there for him to simply be there for him. Why would she want to share Heimdall’s problem? Why did she not seek to see him go through the same pain she had? It was not the Freya Heimdall had known before her banishment, or more correctly, the Freya he had seen her be. No, now she sat here to simply help, to not use his weakness as a means to harm him. Simply put, she would not. And neither would any of the others here for the matter.    

Even after all these centuries, in his time at Odin’s heel, had started to haunt him now more than ever his actions. The glee I felt at inflicting that pain, I deserve none of this. Heimdall thought, sighing softly. Odin may have failed in shaping who he wanted me to be, but he succeeded in breaking me so utterly that I cannot trust in the care of others... But Freya was right, Heimdall did not need to hide behind harsh words and veiled bitterness to hide his deepest fears and feelings while with this group.    

Heimdall looked up, bright magenta eyes meeting calm brown, and he spoke the only truth that he could understand, “Freya, I do not deserve to be able to burden you, or anyone for that matter, with my troubles.”    

Saying the words out loud sent a mixture of shame and fear through him. Shame because he finally found himself admitting to the guilt of his actions, he had a sick past, filled with violence that he inflicted because it felt good to be the aggressor for once, that semblance of power had been his. Fear because he would have to remind them of that, to think about how easily they could reject him because it would be well deserved, and he did not know what to do if they did. Should he expect a level of mercy he never showed? Was he to expect anything from Thor? Or would Thor remember Heimdall’s own bitter rejection of him when they were children and do the same to him now? What would happen if he told them all the little details of his actions, how he got pleasure from doing them to others? How would they react? Would they even be able to look at him? Odin’s Heimdall and the Heimdall he was now were not two different people, he could not hide forever under that illusion.    

The older goddess slowly processed the words the young Aesir had just revealed to her. Other than the slight widening of her eyes, Freya did not reveal too much in her reaction and that made Heimdall uncertain about what she would say to him, there was no intention of rejecting him, that much Heimdall saw. But that did not mean she would not deal harsh truths to him.    

“I understand,” were the first words out of Freya’s mouth, Heimdall rather surprised at them. She looked at Heimdall with deep sympathy and compassion in her eyes. “I have done things I am not proud of either, Heimdall, I cannot say that they were to the gravity of your own, but many here could. No person, when they recognise their faults and seek to right them, is beyond redemption.”    

And suddenly, sharing that burden with Freya seemed like one of the few good decisions Heimdall had made in his long life. His body relaxed, his passive mask melted away and Heimdall looked at his step-mother with returned compassion, “I never... apologised to you Freya, for my part in your banishment, and my actions against Baldur.”   

“I accept it,” the woman said with a nod. “I cannot say that I have it in my heart to forgive them, but I will accept it.” Her arms wrapped around him then and Heimdall did not move to escape the embrace, instead he allowed himself further into it, savouring the comfort he had remembered once in his childhood from her.   

They stayed like that for a few moments more, before they parted. “I will not speak on this again,” Heimdall said dryly. His expression was jovial though and Freya found herself unable to resist her own smile. “I would ask the same of you, the little runt will think it’s okay to think of that the norm with me now.” The Aesir sighed, “It is not forgiveness I seek, step-mother, I just don’t know my place moving forward I-”   

“You don’t need to know your place, Heimdall,” Freya interrupted abruptly. “You are your own person now, you are free to seek your own desires.”    

The God of Foresight looked at her, “If only it was that simple, I have spent all my life following his orders, I can’t just-”   

“Listen, Heimdall, actually listen,” Freya insisted, and Heimdall went quiet. “I was just as lost as you are now, after my banishment, it took me years to find something I thought of as my own. I still often thought of my son, of Odin even. It was not easy to find myself after all my years in marriage, but I was by myself in that, barred from my home. You are not.”    

The Aesir looked at her for a moment, he could not say it was easy to find solace in that though.   

Freya shook her head, continuing, “Heimdall, if I have ever known someone to simply live to spite another, it would be you. If you will not live and grow for yourself, do it to spite Odin. He has taken enough from you already, do not allow him to have your future as well.”   

“Remember this, Heimdall,” Freya added with conviction when Heimdall made no move to comment. “You do not need to change who you are for the benefit of others or pretend to be someone you are not. You are your own person, take back what he has stolen from you.”    

Heimdall mused over her words for a long and silent moment. He had not long pondered on who he was before Odin, he had been so young, just a child, was he truly anyone else before that? He could not remember if he had been. He was sure he wasn’t. He simply just remembered fear and pain. He remembered who he had to become to feel something other than that, to feel as though he was someone and not nothing. What was he? He did not truly know. He then looked up and smiled at her. “... Thank you, I will try to find that person.” His smile grew more mischievous, closer to something that resembled a mock evil smirk than anything happy. “Though do not expect me to be any kinder in my words, I will only ever speak the truth, no matter your feelings on the matter.”    

Freya simply rolled her eyes, her expression growing weary, “I was never that hopeful, Heimdall.”   

There was a demanding cough that sought their attention, and the two turned to see Freyr standing in front of them. His expression was a mixture of surprise and uncertainty, as though he did not mean to impeach the two's moment.    

“Everyone’s meeting to discuss the whole ‘Odin’ situation,” Freya’s twin said. “Just iron out what we should be keeping an eye on and such.”    

---   

Freya stood next to her brother when they entered the secluded room in Hoddmimis Holt, peering around at the others that had gathered. Heimdall also stood by her side, though he stood less straight, his exhaustion with every movement he made was evident, but he was still stubborn on not needing her aid and she allowed him to attend unaided, even if he looked to be nearly tilting sideways every so often. But she understood his need for some independence rather than lean on her or Freyr, for that matter, for help. It was his own pride and dignity and if he managed it himself, she would grant him that small victory without comment. She was not too above herself to not admit she had once been similar in her own youth, the low hum of youthful need to prove oneself was a rather treacherous folly to have if left unchecked. He was not entirely to blame though, she knew, Odin had instilled a lot of that constant need to prove oneself infallible. It would not be easy for him to unlearn it, if he ever did, but Freya would keep a mindful eye on him, nevertheless.    

Kratos, Atreus, Mimir, the dwarven brothers, Hlidsvini and surprisingly Thor and Sif, were the ones in attendance. Father and son perched themselves more centre to the talk. Freya’s gaze went to the two for the most part, concerned that the pair had not fully rested before organising this meeting but understanding the need to at least talk about some strategy. When Freyr had told her of this meeting to discuss Odin, she could not quell her desire to rally the Valkyries and seek him out immediately, the urge to act was one she understood intimately.  

But the goddess restrained herself, though it was tempting, and she was concerned about Odin remaining unchecked in the remaining realms, with loyal Valkyries at his command no less. It was true that the matter was pressing, especially if he required Heimdall for whatever he intended, but they could not simply run blindly into the realms in search of Odin, the man was unpredictable when cornered it seemed. All Freya could hope for was that Odin had not truly counted on resorting to this plan when he had the mask so clearly in sight. The last thing she- or anyone here- wanted was for Odin to still have an echo of the power he once had, especially with Heimdall’s life in danger of whatever Odin was planning. At that moment, Kratos stepped forward, his son followed the lead, and everyone else turned to attention at the movement.    

“Ragnarök may be over and Asgard fallen,” Kratos said, his eyes sliding over everyone here before he continued. “Odin still remains a threat and still with a plan to get what he desired all along.”    

Freya could not claim to read Kratos well enough to tell whether he believed that Odin truly had a plan or whether his concern primarily lay with eliminating the remaining threat to them. He was using his general voice, as she had likened it to now, which may or most definitely may not have been a good sign. Or perhaps Freya was just looking too deeply into what Kratos could possibly be thinking, she could always ask Heimdall later what the man was intending truly. But that felt like too much of an invasion on her part.    

“Aye the slimy cock-stain taint licker, weaselled his way out of Ragnarök,” Brok grumbled, crossing his arms in anger at it.   

Kratos’ golden eyes swept over to Brok before they flicked over to Freya. The goddess nodded, silently urging the other god to continue, his eyes briefly met Heimdall's, and Freya was sure that Kratos gave something close to an encouraging nod. Heimdall’s face made no indication that he had noticed the gesture, but at least he did not sneer back. Still, it was anyone’s guess as to what the Aesir god was thinking at this point.   

The old war god clenched his fists slightly at his sides, expression solemn as he continued, “We are battle weary, but I ask you to remain vigilant even now. We cannot know what Odin plans to do, only know who he will be after...”   

He trailed off, glancing at the Bifrost-eye Aesir beside her. Freya did as well and noticed that Heimdall’s hands were clenched into fists, left knuckles turning white while his Bifrost hand seemed to pulse.      

“So, what? Keep him locked away?” Thor questioned, following Kratos’ gaze. “Wouldn’t mind that actually...”   

“Know even in confinement that I will find a way to pester you relentlessly, Thor,” Heimdall warned, he knew though that was not what was being proposed. It didn’t stop the proposition, though, from racing his heart. How did one quell the idea of imprisonment when it was so clearly an option to prevent Odin’s victory?    

“That is not a suggestion we are entertaining,” Freya added pointedly.    

All the heads turned sharply in agreement, staring at Freya. The brown-haired goddess stood straighter, her golden-plated and leather-bound armour shone brightly with the torch lighting, as she stepped forward. Without prompting, she spoke, “Odin is weak, but he still has loyal Valkyries at his side with Gna as the queen.”     

“Though Asgard is no longer, Odin represents a rallying point for all those who still will follow,” Kratos continued, voice firm as his eyes trailed across the room. “We have the advantage, but we should not underestimate Odin’s position. We must remain vigilant, Freya, have Sigrun rally the Valkyries for patrol of the realms.”   

“Of course,” Freya nodded her head, she crossed her arms, her words matching the ferocity she felt.    

“Will the dwarves aid us?” Kratos asked next.   

“It is possible,” Sindri pondered but the nervous wringing of his hands said much more on the still lingering doubt he felt. “Now that Asgard’s gone, they may be more willing...”   

“If they ain’t, we goddamn kick their asses into gear,” Brok nodded, his tone strong as if he imagined he would boot every dwarf’s backside into action himself if he had to. Freya did not doubt that he would try to do so, should it come to that. His golden honeyed eyes were wide and fierce, making his words even truer to their meaning. Sindri silently shifted beside his brother, his nervous doubt was still evident, but he would not say it. “Us dwarves’ll make sure Odin don’t take one step in Svartalfheim without his ass being handed right back at ‘em.”    

“...Brok-”   

Sindri’s tone was cautious as if he did believe the dwarves would yet rally to make sure Odin was gone once and for all. His brown eyes widened with his own concern, making him seem almost frightened at the potential rejection once more from their home realm.    

Brok’s hand waved off his brother dismissively, “Don’t Brok me, theys need to start pullin’ some weight, we damn near out here pullin’ all the weight ourselves! Lazy fuckers, the lot of ‘em.”   

Sindri knew his brother was right. Freya saw the way his face eased without the fight to argue. His eyes were... well, they actually had some of his brother’s fierce conviction in them. When Sindri was not hiding behind his own unique pet peeves, his eyes shone with that same anger his brother was more prone to show when in heated conversations. Brok may have been the louder and more abrasive brother, but parts of Sindri burnt with that same fire his brother had, strong and loud. The eldest brother did not protest further.   

“And I’ll have talks with Alfheim,” Freyr nodded, hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he spoke. “They may not agree on a lot, but they’ll send patrols across the realm.”    

“Now that Vanaheim is graciously housing the remaining Aesir refugees,” Sif started, though Freya was sure she remained hesitant in her position, that did not stop the golden-haired goddess from speaking. “We can aid in any searches needed, though we will need time to settle in and... find our footing in the realm.”    

“No need to rush,” Freya added gently. “Vanaheim can manage well enough with organising search parties while you focus on yourselves.”   

The last remaining issue was Heimdall, it was easy to organise search parties but the likelihood that Odin would reveal himself so soon before he was prepared to act was unlikely. It left the thought lingering in Freya’s mind, she would not wish to confine Heimdall to any one place, however, Odin would take every opportunity to take Heimdall if he had the chance. She promised him freedom, it was what he was owed now so long after being trapped under Odin’s heel. Had she not just embraced him and told him Odin would not rule his life any longer? Heimdall looked concerned by all the discussion, it was the closest Freya had ever seen it on his face, something other than his mask of snarky indifference.    

Finally, Heimdall spoke, wiping whatever concern he had away from his face, “I cannot remain in hiding for fear of what Odin will do.”   

“Our home is still yours, should you find the need for it,” Sindri offered eagerly, the hesitant smile soon widened when he gathered the courage to continue. “Odin won’t get back in there, you have my word.”   

“Maybe one of us should be with Heimdall,” Atreus interceded thoughtfully. “Just so, you know we can make sure Odin-”   

“I don’t need a babysitter, spiffy,” the golden-haired Prince looked to the young giant, a frown darkening his features. “Least of all from you.”   

“It would not be babysitting, Heimdall,” the dark-eyed goddess said. “Just a companion, did we not just agree to do so? We can still search for your mother and my grandson, nothing has changed.”   

“You are searching for your mother?” Sif asked, a genuine look of interest brushing over her features. “Have you a clue on where to start?”   

She did not see Heimdall tense. But Freya did.    

“No, we do not, but surely there will be something, somewhere,” Freya said in his place, hurried but with an air of calm.    

Thor gave his brother a narrow-eyed look, “I don’t remember when he went off with someone long enough to have you squeezed out, just brought you home one day.”   

“That’s rather impossible, Thor,” Heimdall insisted, the air of condescending tone was unmistakable. “Though you may not understand the concepts of courting and child birthing since you're never interested in the acts beyond your satisfaction-”    

“What does he mean by-,” Atreus asked and was quickly silenced by his father’s firm ‘Nothing’.    

“Odin could not simply have me conceived within a day nor by himself,” Heimdall finished firmly. “The All-Father is many things, but a father who wished to raise a child for no other reason than to simply be a father was not one.”    

“Maybe that has to do with why he needs you,” Atreus added to the conversation. “Think about it, he must have known for some time that you could somehow get him whatever was beyond that tear. The mask was the easier option, but he’s kept you at his side for all this time, maybe he had you for this reason.”   

“Speculations will get us nowhere,” Kratos said, voice taut with impatience. “For now, we know what we must do.” He paused, eyes firm with certainty, ablaze with golden flames. “Freya and Heimdall will journey together when they must, the rest of you work on rebuilding and forming search parties where we can to find Odin.”   

The silence that followed spoke nothing but confirmed agreement, abrupt that one may think Kratos shouted for it. All eyes turned to the old war god, who met their gazes evenly. He looked... not angry, but more exhausted and wearier for it. Freya could not blame them, this war seemed never-ending really.    

“Now that that is over with,” Freyr said lightly, his ability to create an air of destress and ease impeccable as ever. “Lady Sif and Hildisvíni, and ahh- Thor, if you want to head over to Vanaheim, I can get you all settled in at my camp, it can serve as the ‘New Asgard’ if you would.”    

It wasn’t hidden in the roll of Thor’s eyes, though he had the respect and gratitude, Freya would guess, to not remark on the gesture vocally. It was Sif who answered instead, “We will go now, the Aesir are restless and... some form of security would do our people well now.”    

Thor grumbled, having to rely on another race must have been a huge blow to the eldest son of Odin, Freya did not long forget the prejudices the Aesir held towards other realms, Odin’s cruelty expressed through him to the Jotunns more than any other. If Heimdall was any example to lead by, Freya supposed there was hope for Thor to follow a long and harrowing journey of redemption. But though he grumbled, he followed her brother, Hildisvíni and his wife out of the room with no further protest.    

Now only stood herself, Heimdall, Kratos, Atreus and by proxy Mimir in this room. “Well, I suppose that settles that then,” Mimir spoke finally, in the longest time Freya had not known the man to ever be that quiet during conversation, it had been rather blissful. “Now I don’t know about you lot, but let’s actually take some time to rest now, I would... well I would rather like some time with Sigrun if you don’t mind dropping me off on the way Kratos.”   

“Very well,” Kratos grunted as he made to leave.  

“Ahhh, father, I was actually thinking about heading out with Angrboða,” there was that uncomfortable silence again. It did amuse Freya and somewhat warmed her heart to see the blushing fragility of young love. It reminded her of when Baldur had first developed a crush, the nervous stuttering and fumbling about, it had been so innocent and pure. “I know with Odin still around that it isn’t safe, but I- I want to find the rest of my people, they deserve to be found. I want to be here, helping everyone but I’m sorry I-”   

“Son-”   

“I can’t just abandon them, not when I could do something to help them- I'm not comfortable with just pretending that they aren’t out there-”   

“Son!” Kratos said once more, loudly and firmly and Atreus finally paused in his ramblings, mouth snapping shut in an instant. “You need not ask my permission to walk your own path.”   

Atreus’ mouth moved wordlessly for some time, shock overcoming his youthful features, and Freya felt a pang of sympathy for the young boy’s belief that his father would deny him this... maybe before, when Atreus had not shown his father his own strength and independence when Kratos feared blindly that his son could not walk a path by himself.    

Finally, Atreus found his voice once more, “I’ll make sure to check in all the time! You won’t have to worry about me, at all.”   

Kratos let a small and rare smile grace his face, and that was enough to reassure Atreus, “That is all I ask, son.” Then Kratos straightened, his eyes cast over to the opening of the room, “Watch over him and make sure he behaves himself, Angrboða.”   

There was a shocked ‘oh’, Freya turned to the spot that Kratos had been looking at and bemused, Freya saw a little face poke around the corner.    

“Oh, of course!” Angrboða’s face broke into a wide smile, and her long braided dreadlocks swung wildly as she ran into the room, no longer playing the little spy any longer. “He can’t be trusted by himself, probably trip and fall down a hole because he’s so clumsy.”   

“That he would,” Kratos agreed, voice light and eyes glittering with amusement.    

“Hey!” Atreus shouted in indignity, staring between the two in horror. “I am right here!”    

“We know that silly!” Angrboða teased. “You’re just too easy to rile up!”   

“Ugh,” Atreus groaned, “I’m leaving.”   

He grumbled as he stalked away, Angrboða giddy in her steps as she trailed after him, “Don’t worry! I’ll make sure he keeps in touch!”    

When the two disappeared through what Angrboða would call ‘giant stuff’, there was a single moment of silence before Kratos turned to Heimdall with a seriousness only a father could muster. “What are her intentions with my son?”   

The look on Heimdall’s face, aghast at the ask he got from the Spartan combined with the pure seriousness of his tone was what caused Freya to release a verbal and uncontrolled laugh, “Kratos, you cannot ask of the young girls’ intentions with your son-”   

“I’m his father, I would have the confirmation she will keep her word.”   

“You are seriously using me to know the intentions she has with your son?” Heimdall cocked one eyebrow at Kratos. When all Kratos did was stare at Heimdall, the Aesir sighed loudly with exaggeration as though it pained him to be reduced to the tattle tale of a son to their father. “The girl means nothing but well, she has the most purest of intentions of anyone in all the realms, where she steps flowers positively blossom at her feet-”   

“Enough,” Kratos groaned.   

“I was only doing as you bid,” Heimdall smirked, his expression grew unreadable though as he looked at Kratos. “In truth, though, Atreus will be in good company with her. Her intent is his.”   

“Well, see,” Mimir said. “The lad will be just fine, brother, no need to fret over nothing.”   

All Kratos did was grunt in response, but Freya knew, deep down, that he was grateful for the comfort of knowing at the least. That was all any parent could hope for, the uncertainty of how Baldur was doing had been pure agony in her exile.    

“We should head back to the dwarves’ house,” Freya said, earning a confused look from Heimdall.   

“I thought you would return to Vanaheim for some time,” Heimdall said stiffly. “Your thoughts remain there still, you wish to do so, do you not?”   

“I will return, yes, soon I imagine,” Freya nodded, her voice held soft. “But my focus is on you right now and someone needs to tend to your wound still, I know Sif did her best but- well, there was a reason she never excelled in the arts of healing.” Freya felt her eyes start to reflect her inner sadness then, her hand reached up to the Aesir’s shoulder. “I will stick by you until we find your mother, my grandson, and until Odin is no longer here to threaten us and our peace.” The raw honesty in her voice was something she knew Heimdall would believe, and she would tell him ten times over until he felt it to be true in himself.   

The Aesir nodded, perhaps with others around he felt more restricted in how to express himself, but Freya could see the relief that washed over his face. He looked up, his gaze lingering on her for a time.   

Nothing more needed to be said.    

---   

He knew darkness.   

He knew cold.   

He knew... loneliness.   

He felt the emptiness around him, the murmuring and fading of nothing more than the wind-like echoes that bounced off his cavern’s walls. He had tried to fill it, in the moments after his escape, to eliminate the source of the emptiness, but the realm was too encompassing in it, and he was limited in what he could do now. He could not even tell the time that had passed, or if any had at all. But surely, it must have. It must have, in order for Odin to feel the need to renew his spelling to prevent the frosts of Helheim from creeping into his core. A part of him insisted on leaving, that his desire for sunlight and warmth was greater than his plan.    

… Would he remember the warmth? Remember the feel of sunlight?   

His hazy thoughts rose from the depths of his mind, blurred and distorted like he was viewing through glass frosted by snow. He was Odin, he was the All-Father, and he had endured worst than this for littler prizes.    

But that didn’t mean he liked freezing in the painful winds of Helheim.   

“All-Father,” a voice pierced through the haze of the frost- and he cried out in relief for what it meant.   

“Oh, you have no idea, how relieved I am to see you Gna,” even if it felt like knives stabbing into him with every step he took, ripping and tearing through his weakened body. “Your loyalty to me will be greatly rewarded when I have what I need to return to who I was. Tell me, what did you see?”    

“They gathered in Hoddmimis Holt,” Gna informed. “Regrouping and tending to the injured there.”   

Odin needed Gna, she was loyal and trustworthy, unlike the rest of the traitors in Asgard. But he floundered to drive more information for her than just the plain truth of what she saw, it was one of her most annoying flaws, but Odin had little he could rely on right now. “And? What of Heimdall?”   

“At Hoddmimis Holt, injured but alive and walking,” Gna said dutifully, if her voice wasn’t strong and firm, Odin was sure it would become lost in the perpetual storm of Helheim.    

A part of him- a more vindictive side- had hoped the little shit would be incapacitated for longer, but in reality, Odin needed Heimdall alive and somewhat well if they were to move forward with his plan. If Heimdall thought any of the trials and tests he had put him through before was painful, he would not be prepared for what Odin had in store for his disobedient and disloyal son. All he had ever done was prepare the boy, make sure he was the best of the best and he had the nerve to-   

“Would you like me to retrieve him, All-Father?” Gna interrupted his thoughts, something deep inside him wanted to slap her for daring to impose on his thoughts, it was irrational, yes, but it would make him feel a little better. But every other part shouted not to push his luck, he listened to those parts for now.    

“No, no,” Odin waved her off. “Not yet, it’s too early, I need... time, yes time to prepare for what’s next.”   

He hated that. He cursed it and the fact that he had to wait longer for something that should already be in his grasp, the mere thought of it irritating him to no end. Who were they to prevent him from what was rightfully his? Did they not see the benefits of the knowledge he was trying to gain? Why would they rather stay in the dark and cold for the rest of their existence, when they could have that confirmation of what was after? Knowledge was power and security, unlike the fearful state of being in the dark of it all. Odin craved that soothing and soft, that comforting crux of knowledge. Yes, they were wrong in denying him that. Odin would show them and then they would see and realise the error of their ways.    

Who wanted to live in the dark?   

Odin certainly did not.   

“Keep an eye on Heimdall, but don’t engage with them,” Odin commanded her firmly. “I want to know where he is, what he is doing at all times, you understand?” He paused as though to give her time to respond but before she could, he continued. “Good, are the remaining loyal Valkyries searching for what I asked for?”   

“As you commanded, All-Father.”   

“Good, good,” he may have thanked her, or been appreciative, but had not the care to be. She was doing as she should, Odin would not lower himself to be grateful that people were doing their jobs. Just because something had... shifted in his position in all the remaining realms, it did not mean he should act and be treated as anyone lesser than who he is. “Make sure to come right back if anything, and I mean anything Gna, happens that I should know about. If that’s all, you can go.”   

“As you command, All-Father,” was all she said before she parted and left him in his hidden sanctuary in Helheim.    

He may not have the resources he once did. He may lack the sight he once held to monitor the realms with ease, and identify all forms of threats to his plans from those who wished to stop him, but he still had ways to work undetected and unchecked. He was a raven down, but Huginn still remained his watchful eyes as well, even with one raven down, Odin could rely on that still. He lifted an arm watching as the black ink misted and drew from his arm, forming feathers and a solid mass. Huginn cawed at him, and ruffled its feathers as it sat on his arm, ever awaiting for its next command.    

Odin turned his head to Huginn, his one eye meeting Huginn’s own beady ones, focusing intently on the All-Father, “Watch Heimdall as well.” Odin’s voice was both dark and charismatically smooth. “Every movement he makes, everything that boy does is told directly to me, I want to know. With Frigg around, I don’t trust Gna to not give in to her bloodlust and lose focus on the task at hand.”    

Huginn stared at Odin silently, only a blink was made as confirmation that the raven heard what he said. Without hesitation, Huginn took flight, leaving Odin alone in his isolation once more.    

The All-Father blinked at it. It was a startling feeling, to know true isolation in this sense. His family had betrayed those that fled Asgard traitors too as they grovelled to the other realms for safety. With this thought, other thoughts began to enter his consciousness, thoughts of vengeance that muddled his mind away from the plan he should be focusing on. Slowly he pieced together all those that would suffer when he was back to where he should be, it started to make him feel warmer, the cold of Helheim lessening against his skin. He would indulge in this. Yes, he would indulge. But he wouldn’t for too long. Not when what he had planned would be the just desserts they all deserved.   

Something echoed in the far-off distance of Helheim, and he craned his neck to the side, frowning when it sounded of wailing and despair. He strained his hearing further at what was apparently the crying of Sinmara. He could feel the echo of her pain, it vibrated into his core. It was... curious and interesting. Yes, interesting indeed. But not something he would concern himself with right now. Staring determinedly now at his sprawl of notes.    

He did not know how long he stared; it could have been hours to days to weeks. He did not move or acknowledge the realm around him, merely renewing his spell work to fend off the deathly cold Helheim pressed down upon him relentlessly. And then, after an unknown period of time, he saw it.   

The final piece.   

He knew where to find it.    

Knew what he had to do next.   

He wouldn’t have to wait much longer now.    

Notes:

Again, thank you thank you thank you thank you, for all the support for this story! It always amazes me to read through what y'all have to say!

Chapter 16: the end of dreaming and prophecies

Notes:

We getting that story progression and some much-needed character-building! Also, don't mind me while I use mythology for my haphazard lore-building.

The moment Heimdall’s surroundings came into focus, the Aesir knew he was dreaming. This place was terrible yet comfortingly familiar in the same strokes that a sour apple had hidden notes of sweetness in it. He had not dreamed of this place for some time- not thought of his time with her, tried to shut it out when it became too painful to think on. His time with Blóðughadda had been peaceful and kind and a stark reminder back when he still served Odin faithfully of temptations that sought to distract him from his post. This dream was of that time. And the dream- the memory- was always a reminder of another time he could not return to. Beneath the shining sun of Vanaheim, they stood together in her garden.  

“You are familiar with these plants, with the trees even,” Blóðughadda- the only person who had truly shown nothing but love to him- said. Her wavy red hair was pulled back into a loose bun, her soft blue eyes flashing like waves of the ocean, her dress matching them- only dirtied with the mud of the garden as she knelt down to labour over it. “I am surprised.”  

Heimdall could not stop the smile that came from his memories of his childhood in Frigg’s garden but was also unable to prevent the sourness that filled his mouth when he thought of that woman, “My father’s wife, Frigg, taught me when I was younger.”  

“It is more than that,” her eyes- ever watchful and ever seeing further than Heimdall could understand- narrowed at him. “You speak to them.”  

It had shocked him back then, and still does now when his dream self inflicts a careful gaze back to her, “I never told you I could.”  

“Things in nature often speak to one another, the air speaks to the grass, the trees to the birds... the waves to the sand.”  

Heimdall pondered her words for a moment, it made sense in a way, Heimdall supposed. His understanding of the concept was limited but he knew that Yggdrasil was everything- connected to everything and he was as much a part of it and stronger even for it. “I have never mentioned it to the All-Father.”  

“Then he need not know of it,” it was a promise, that much Heimdall knew and the trees around him whispered of the trust he could hold for it. “I am glad you had someone like Frigg,” the red-haired woman whispered, a small smile dared to tug at the corner of her lips. “Are you two close?”   

Heimdall, or his dream self, he was not truly sure- looked at the ground where he sat, fists urged to clench but unwilling to destroy the herbs in his hands, “Once.”  

“And what has changed?”  

“Her intentions did, or perhaps I no longer disillusioned myself with the belief that she was purely there for my family-”  

“It is unreasonable to believe that people only have one intention, Heimdall-”  

“Which is why I remain ever disappointed with everyone around me.”  

And for the first time in his stay with Blóðughadda had Heimdall seen a glimpse of anger, her eyes swirled like a cyclone, “Have you not thought for a moment that your expectations of people are too high? Perhaps your beliefs are not as true as you believe them to be.”  

Heimdall felt himself avoid that accusing gaze she gave him; she was the only person that Heimdall found that he could not conjure true spiteful anger at. His own voice grew soft and submissive, yet yielded the same fire, “It is what I was born to do, why I am training here. The All-Father cannot have me hoping that our enemies have ‘other intentions’. I have had my proof that oftentimes good intentions do not conquer evil ones.”  

She was quiet for the longest time, Heimdall having long forgotten the herbs in his hands, his Bifrost eyes never leaving her face. What was this sense of... wanting her approval? Why did his eyes not want to see her own filled with sorrow at his mistakes? It felt like pure naivety that should have been long since vanished from him, but another part yearned for that part to stay. Finally, Blóðughadda spoke.   

“That is a sad way to live.”   

Those words echoed in Heimdall’s mind, and the herbs in his hand had long since fallen to the ground before the dreadful meaning behind her words had fully registered. Heimdall stared at her till the memory- a dream?- of her faded into golden specks of dust, speechless.  

And then he walked through the forest.  

Every single step, in the moments after, Heimdall spent trying to find her in this... dreaming space. He wished he had not said whatever he said to make her that sad. He wished he had not closed himself off to her afterwards, almost right back to the day they had first met. If he had not, perhaps he could have found a way to see her again, and then maybe he would not have felt this emptiness inside himself ever since.  

As it was, Heimdall knew he could not change the events in his dream any more than he could change the events of the past now. He had lost her in those moments, and he could not fathom why he was still grateful for the happiness that he felt during his months with her. At the same time, he wished he despised her. Every time he thought back, Heimdall was able to remember with perfect clarity how at home he felt and he wished he had been strong-willed enough to stay there. And every time Heimdall found himself trying to search for them again in the Vanaheim forests, he noticed another detail of her presence there, thinking about how beautiful the place actually was, and tried to forget what he thought of the realm when he was under Odin’s command.  

Until his dream self found himself at a beach that was not Vanaheim’s.  

Heimdall saw the faces in the waves.   

His dream self stumbled backwards, not paying attention to the world around him when he saw the sadness in the waves. He did not know how- how he was dreaming of this or why. It made no sense, he had never been here before, never seen this before. They were not Aesir as Heimdall had thought they should be. Not Vanir as Heimdall mused. They were not familiar at all, their faces too blurred in the foaming waves.  

But they knew his name.   

An icy chill trickled down Heimdall’s spine as he watched their faces vanish in the waves, blending with the water. They were gone and yet Heimdall had wanted them to stay just like Blóðughadda, a confusing feeling that he couldn’t understand why he held it. A twig snapped behind him and he twisted, stiffening as he spotted Blóðughadda. Blóðughadda? What was she doing here? The woman looked up at him with innocent blue eyes, so different yet similar to his Bifrost eyes, and he couldn’t understand any of it.  

But Heimdall watched as those blue eyes hardened, the light within them fading. Suddenly she looked dangerous like she turned into a deadly predator ready to strike at him with any movement he made. Heimdall felt an ice-cold chill just by looking at her, the feeling of danger making his heart pound in his chest. There was a glint of metal caught in her eyes before he fell in and he looked down, face paling with horror as he saw the bloody knife in his stomach, her hand clasping the hilt.  

“Will you find us?” a voice asked from behind him.  

When Heimdall whipped his head back up, it was no longer Blóðughadda that twisted the knife in Heimdall’s side, but instead Odin, expressionless and cold blue eye.  

“Don’t disappoint me, son,” Odin said in a cold and accusing tone, a hand came up to Heimdall’s shoulder and gripped it painfully. A gesture he was well accustomed to but had not yet conquered enough to stop the fear that built because of it. 

It took all of Heimdall’s strength to push himself off the blade, stumbling backwards and yanking his shoulder from his father’s tight grip, his stomach coated in blood but he did not care. He had to turn around.  

“He turned you into a monster...” the voices whispered coldly in his ears. “...just like him.”  

Heimdall snapped awake, his eyes opening to the sight of knotted wood that had become a familiar sight above him. He did not breathe harshly, and he was not covered in sweat like he remembered when feverish dreams and nightmares would take him. Instead, he was silent, and absolutely still, staring blankly at the ceiling and following the grooves to calm himself.  

He stretched his legs over the side of the bed, his injury already just a faint ache on his side under Freya’s delicate care. He stood up, exiting the room on soft steps as though he feared others hearing him. It did little to prevent the loudness of the dwarf Brok, voice booming when Heimdall exited his room.  

“Good-fucking-morning, fancy pants,” Brok greeted, Heimdall stood for a moment staring at the dwarf through slitted eyes. “Well, I know I’m a damn fine thing to look at, but ya startin’ to make me nervous.”  

“Just wondering about the many ways to make your death look like an accident,” Heimdall said coolly, finding a place on the mini-table next to the fire where Freya and Kratos had found themselves, picking at the offering for breakfast made by Brok, as well. He could not deny many things, his mind still trying to process the- dream. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was, it had started as such but then it felt off, oddly enough unlike a dream if such a thing could be described. One that started as a painful memory, then it turned into something else, a warning- a cry for help but he did not understand it. Yet dreams, as others experienced them, were not something Heimdall was familiar with. He did not dream as others did, remembered and pulled from others sleeping thoughts but never conjured ones of his own. 

So now what?  

The Aesir knew that he could easily ignore it, had done before when he chose to sleep on the rare occasion when his mind felt it was running on nothing but pure instinct. Freya took notice of his unusual silence, however, and the idea of ignoring it was becoming a rapidly distant concept. 

“You’re quiet this morning,” was Freya’s casual way of asking what was wrong.   

Firstly, Heimdall cocked an eyebrow staring between her and Kratos. The man never said more than a grunt at any given time, and she called him quiet but that was not the issue. Secondly, she was not wrong. In other words, Heimdall knew he could not deny the truth of the matter.  

“It is just... a memory on my mind,” Heimdall dismissed, yet when he did not make for the food before him, it was clear that he did not believe in his own words. “I have not dreamt about it in some time.”  

“Dreams often hold greater meaning than we think,” Kratos supplied, Heimdall focused on the man for a moment, the shimmer of his Bifrost eyes the only indication that he was using his foresight to delve deeper. The god before him dreamt often of his late wife, but they were not simple dreams. The woman was a Jotunn and their connection with prophecy was unlike any other; Heimdall could clearly see the lingering of her magic delicately coiled through the Spartan's mind- woven with careful hands. 

“I’m sure you would have such valuable insight into my dreams,” Heimdall’s voice dragged with sarcasm before huffing out a sigh and relenting. “It was of a woman; I spent some time with her when Odin wanted me to train with my foresight.”  

“Oh...” Freya raised her eyebrows.  

“No, not ‘oh’, she was just simply... very kind to me,” Heimdall corrected. “I have been having odd dreams as of late and I cannot discern why.”  

“Speak of them,” Kratos said.  

“It was just a memory, nothing more,” Heimdall emphasised, “The only part that I am- unsure of is the beach... I saw faces in the oceans, the voices- they sounded as though they were speaking to me, not just in the dream but to me, it didn’t make sense.”   

But Heimdall knew it wasn’t just a memory. He could lie out loud but not to himself, and even then he could see he was failing to convince the two of the lie as well. So, what could he do?  

Freya shifted in her spot, “We have spoken much of your mother as of late, perhaps your mind is trying to tell you something.”  

“Or- and this may be astounding to the both of you- it was simply a dream and you all read too much into such nonsense,” but he did not sound confident of that fact. Not when he felt the echo of the voices still behind him- the twitch of his mind wanting to call back in return. “Shall we focus on Forseti?”  

Freya and Kratos eyed him for a moment longer, as though they had forgotten that he had the ability to read their intentions- of which they certainly were not intending to leave this matter alone but relented for now. Heimdall would much prefer to put his mind towards a tangible purpose and chasing the meaning of dreams was not something he could deal with at this stage.  

“Forseti spent much of his time amongst the Midgardians-” Heimdall made to continue.

“Forseti has been to Midgard?” Freya asked, a face filled with confusing devastation as though she hoped he would have visited her.  

Heimdall gently brushed over that, frowning slightly at the pain he felt for her. Heimdall was unused to that, caring for others empathetically, to keep himself guarded. “We were all forbidden from interacting with you Freya- Odin commanded it and Forseti knew well the consequences.” Heimdall knew it was little comfort to her and for the longest time, he allowed her to sit with it. Slowly, Heimdall continued. “After Baldur’s death, he spent most of his time at Glitnir on Midgard, it is possible that he was there during the beginning of Ragnarök and avoided the catastrophe altogether.”  

“Can ya not use your sight to see there, Heimdall?” Mimir queried. “Might save us the trip.”  

“I am constantly amazed that you all continue to think me omnipresent throughout all the realms,” Heimdall rolled his eyes with a slight scoff at the head. “I could look to Glitnir now and see no one there, but that does not mean Forseti has not ventured there.”  

Yes, Heimdall had vision and hearing that those around him could never possibly understand. But he could not see into a place and know its past and future, it mattered little if he looked there now and did not see Forseti because that meant nothing unless they ventured there to investigate.   

“What of Nanna?” Freya asked suddenly. “I did not see her at Asgard when it fell either.”  

“Who is Nanna?” Kratos asked with a curious tone, though hidden well- Heimdall saw the delicate nature the old war god took when navigating the issue of Freya's son and family.  

“She was Baldur’s wife,” Mimir supplied, “Forseti’s mother, goddess of Joy and the like, though she did not fair too well on the joyful part after the protection spell you placed on Baldur, Freya.”  

“She was worse upon his death,” Heimdall added, all eyes now returned to him. “She thought often of death to be with him once more but she never voiced those thoughts, mainly to protect Forseti from her grief.”  

“Then, for both of their sakes, I hope they both were not in Asgard,” Freya said.

For both their sakes and that of Freya's was the final thought Heimdall had on the matter.  

---  

Glitnir. The Hall of Forseti. A place of dealings between men and gods in matters of justice, stood tall yet eerily still on the centre of the island of Fositesland, where the four of them had ventured to in their search. The building was a beacon to all those seeking justice, from the Midgardians who reside here to Vanir, Aesir, and other gods alike who needed its halls. For a hundred years, Glintnir emitted its aura of retribution into the surrounding villages, inspiring a land of diplomatic and orderly people, busied with the work of governing and providing order that much of Midgard had not held. Heimdall had only ever ventured to the surrounding villages of the hall, never deeming his time in the hall necessary by any account. Forseti’s constant presence on Midgard made him far more favourable in the Midgardian’s minds than most of the other Aesir who rarely ventured to the realm. Few outside Fositesland could dare say they had ever seen a god in the flesh, and even fewer could say the gods deemed them worthy enough to speak with them. And yet, here in Fositesland, the Midgardians could often say yes to both.  

Heimdall sat at the back of the boat, rather preferring to overlook the waves of the ocean than to engage with whatever chattering the other three were engaging with, one hand casually overhanging the side of the boat to let his fingers glide along the water’s surface. He did offer to allow them to travel the way via the Bifrost but it appeared Kratos was rather displeased with his first experience and much preferred the mundane way of travel so now Heimdall was stuck listening to Mimir brattle on with rather embellished tales.  

“- and then there’s the tale of how Heimdall was fooled by a giant in disguise after the Vanir and Aesir war-”  

“I was not fooled!” Heimdall swung around in his seated position, turning to face Mimir- though he faced away from him where he was placed next to Freya. “And if I remember correctly, it was YOU who agreed to that imbecile’s barter to fix the wall which happened to involve taking Freya to wife as though she was a prize to be bartered with.”  

“Yes, Mimir-” Freya’s face soured at the memory. “Why did you ever think that was okay?”  

“Now milady I knew that oaf could never rebuild that wall in time,” Mimir scrambled to his own defence. “And I was right.”  

“Oh don’t leave out the details, you old goat,” Heimdall said pointedly. “It was only with Freya’s idea that the builder did not win the bet.”  

“Did the builder eventually complete the wall then?” Kratos asked curiously.  

“No, though he came close,” Mimir continued the story. “Much like Heimdall graciously added, Freya, came up with the rather ingenious idea to distract the giant’s working horse with another. With the lack of help, the giant became enraged knowing he had been cheated. He then dropped his disguise and Thor did what Thor does best and bashed his skull in for the supposed slight.”  

“And how was Heimdall fooled?” Kratos further asked, and Heimdall squinted his eyes- knowing he saw bemusement in the other god’s face.  

“Again, I was NOT fooled,” Heimdall emphasised. “However, I did allow the giant into Asgard with the assumption his intent to rebuild the wall to be true, which it WAS.”  

“While also failing to see that the man was a giant,” Mimir quipped.  

“I will throw you into these waters, you insufferable waste of air,” Heimdall warned. “The giant’s intentions were true and he meant nothing more than to honour the agreement, I did not foresee his intent to barter for Freya and his other ridiculous demands.”   

“But the moral of the story is all things are fallible,” Mimir continued. “Even foresight.”  

“And that those that call themselves the ‘smartest man alive’ are often stupider than they make themselves out to be,” Freya added on, a giddy laugh echoing across her lips when Mimir stuttered and mumbled protests much to the amusement of the others.  

It was... good, Heimdall thought, to live like this. Normally, Heimdall would find himself unable to stand being around other people for as long as he had been with these people- especially with these people. However, Heimdall had found it comforting and relaxing even, to not to worry about the constant ire of Odin and his duty. While Odin may still be out there, a looming threat ever casting a shadow over him, Heimdall did not feel the weight of dread from him any longer. Without that tether to the All-Father, Heimdall found himself free to express himself without repercussions. He was still Heimdall of course, arrogant and prickly to others, but he found himself letting go of slights that would have enraged him before and engaging with others without prompting.   

Freya had been in large, the reason for it. She included Heimdall more often in their talks and encouraged him more often to speak his mind. Not that Heimdall would not speak his opinion if they needed to hear it, which they often did with how absurdly they talked, but even on trivial matters Freya asked for Heimdall’s thoughts. It was through that process that Heimdall found Kratos and Mimir more amendable to him in casual conversation and Heimdall yearned for that form of acceptance. Acceptance- such a thing that Heimdall had always wanted his entire life- was what he thought he had from Odin, yet now he was constantly being reminded through the kindness of these people that it had never been what Odin had given. Perhaps tolerance was the better word for what Odin did, tolerant of Heimdall for the benefit he gave the All-Father. And so, Heimdall had thought that was the norm with fierce viciousness and contempt. Only now did he mourn for the realisation that it wasn’t.  

As a result, expecting tolerance to be people’s only reaction to him had become second nature to Heimdall. It had no longer bothered him after a couple of centuries, or so he had thought and was a rather helpful position to have when he was often Odin’s right hand on matters in Asgard- people tend not to like those in the position of judgement of them. And yet, as Heimdall had seen in Fositesland that the people held love for Forseti. Heimdall did hold some contempt towards his nephew for that, though he knew it was not his fault that he was so loved by those he stood in judgement over.  

“What do we know of the people of Fositesland?” Kratos asked next, the man a strange mixture of brooding silence and constant questions Heimdall had soon realised the longer he travelled with the man. It was a startling realisation, Heimdall had assumed the Spartan man to be uninterested in the world and things around him unless it benefited him directly. And yet, when he looked to the war god now, he saw endless curiosity for the workings of the realms around him.

“Well, when Forseti-”  

“Yet another expositional monologue,” Heimdall grumbled under his breath.  

“What was that laddie?” Mimir asked though he was well aware of what Heimdall had said.  

“I merely said how wonderful it will be to hear yet another story from your lips.”  

“Why thank you,” Mimir said contently, “Now, as I was saying, when Forseti demonstrated a keen talent for mediation, Odin built the Hall of Glitnir in order to encourage diplomatic discussion rather than violence to resolve disputes for god and men alike. The people on the island follow such teachings religiously, a rather peaceful lot if you ask me and should be easy to talk to for information.”  

It was true, the people of Fositesland were diplomatic and rather easy to deal with in nature, Heimdall would not begrudge them that. However, Heimdall remembered them to be rather... loyal to Forseti. Occasionally to the point of mistrusting outsiders. “If they believe us to have good intentions,” Heimdall added carefully.   

“You think they would think we mean him harm?” Freya asked curiously.  

“We are the ones responsible for the fall of Asgard and the almost complete genocide of the Aesir,” Heimdall pointed out, along with the expected hostility, Heimdall would also gather that most of the rest of Midgard that had not been subjected to the truth of Odin would feel much the same way. “You all forget, Midgard still worships the All-Father for the most part.”  

To most of Midgard, the All-Father was still a god to be revered and worshipped, it did not matter what reality was in truth. It would not matter that he thought them all expendable to reach his goals, they were gods after all and gods were made to be greater. Heimdall had learnt the extent of reverence from Midgardians for the gods, it was intoxicating and frightfully blind at times. When Heimdall had walked amongst them, he had bathed in that devotion, cherished something he lacked in Asgard.  

It would be deadly of them to presume that Midgard would be grateful for the fall of Asgard, and it could easily make their journey a difficult one.   

“Then we will be cautious,” Kratos concluded.  

The only thought that Heimdall had was that they would need to be more than cautious.  

The Aesir could not help but think of what Odin was doing now, he still had much sway in realms like Midgard. Heimdall had no doubt even some parts would remain completely loyal to Odin, and that many had already branded them enemies. The deception was Odin’s best tool, and Heimdall was intimately familiar with how he often used it. Especially now when he would have to depend on that loyalty now more than ever.  

Their boat neared the shores of Fositesland, the peak of the island home to the Hall of Forseti- standing proud at the top as though a beacon to the village that resided below. Unlike most Aesir treasures and halls, a path weaved from the village up to Forseti’s Hall- an open invitation. Despite the rather small scale of the island, the village below seemed to sprawl with life larger than most towns on the mainland, an assaulting feeling to Heimdall’s sense, the flinch barely held back as they had drawn closer. The attentive care given by Forseti empowering the people was a potent and dangerous mix if they believed them to be enemies. If they were not careful, their movements on the island would be difficult and result in unnecessary bloodshed which seemed to bother this lot when it came to innocent life.    

When Kratos docked the boat on the shoreline, the four of them climbed out, the sea breeze carried the smell of the nearby woodland, like a sharply contrasted horizon with colours of dark and light blues. The air felt like an insect crawling on his skin, Heimdall with his gift of perception and foresight was ever aware of the tension on the island, whiplashing his previous incursions on the island. He did not know why, but he knew it was there. And so, Heimdall looked around as though to seek the source of this tension. The longer he stared the more it grew, and the more Heimdall felt his hand daring to touch the hilt of his sword for defence.  

There had not been many instances where Heimdall’s sight foretold something that wasn’t there, those instances more mixed with his anxiety overruling his foresight. Heimdall had a vague impression- memory- of the first time he came into his abilities, he had barely been able to control his emotions until Týr had drawn Heimdall through calm and deep breaths in the Great Lodge. There, the eldest brother had held the godling as he sobbed in his confused and overwhelmed state. To this day, if Heimdall did not control and regulate himself, the grief of that overwhelming power in his foresight would threaten to consume him.   

“Heimdall, lad, you have this look about your face,” Mimir queried from his position at Kratos’ waist, the Spartan seemed to grunt in agreement.   

“The tension here is suffocating,” Heimdall curled his nose as though it smelt disgusting to his senses.

For Midgardians, it was easier to discern emotions. Heimdall could easily tell what they thought, what they wanted without unthreading their minds like a tangled mess of ropes. They were uncomplicated- unresistant to his stare- yet other races proved more difficult to varying degrees. He was familiar with Aesir and Vanir alike, Elves and Dwarves were simpler to comprehend, but the Jotunns were troubling. The few that Heimdall had met, their minds swirled with too many threads- too many intents. It was almost impossible to get a read from them at first glance, a mistake Heimdall had realised with Atreus almost too late. Heimdall’s ire at this was great yet there was little he could do about it, begrudged to say that he could not resolve the issue purely by himself.  

The four continued on the path to the village, the trees loomed over with a longing to touch the ground beneath them. Heimdall realised at that moment that this was the first time he had ventured with his own sense of freedom. It was never his desire before to stray from Odin’s commands, but there was a wish to have that simple autonomy to do as he pleased. He had not ever been completely without freedom, of course. As a prince, he could do far more than most. Yet, travel without Odin’s watchful eyes was never a luxury he was ever afforded, a cage that Heimdall had never realised was built around him. It had been a beautiful, gilded cage, but a cage, nonetheless.  

The trees swayed with the same apprehension in the air, Heimdall had learned that through the Bifrost, he was connected to almost every aspect of the realms, including nature. Heimdall had spent most of his time in isolation, as such, he had discovered a connection with the trees of Asgard- learned their language along with the language of its kin across the realms. Through the Asgardian trees, he could vaguely communicate with the trees across realms, even reaching as far as Midgard if he concentrated. At first the Aesir- at the time so young and still in fear of Odin’s wrath- kept it a hidden secret, he did not know why the trees spoke to and understood him, accepting his presence as if he was one of them, but he suspected it came from his connection to Yggdrasil being the strongest out of any other being in all the realms.   

Heimdall had asked one day, one of the trees that stood the tallest against the Wall of Asgard and received an honest and comforting answer. To the trees, Heimdall shone in the same way Yggdrasil did- to them, he was one of them. It pleasantly comforted them, that familiar presence. The trees recognised kinship in him and they felt warm when he touched them, invigorated by the echo he had from Yggdrasil.  

The centre of the realms- the core of life itself.  

Odin never knew of this and Heimdall had never known why he had not told his father of this secret. The touch of the trees brought Heimdall the one thing he was often denied; the freedom to see the realms at his own leisure where the All-Father had confined him. It was why in his youth, he spent so much time in Freya’s garden yet he was too young to know that the comfort he felt was not just from Freya, but from the trees also.  

Heimdall, in truth though, had not spoken to the trees in some time and the ones on Midgard were not familiar with his presence- at least not directly. And yet, he could at least try to communicate with them. It would perhaps be quicker than relying on haphazard searches of the island.  

“What are you doing?” Freya had asked when his feet led him to one of the trees, diverging his path from where Kratos led them, a winding path from the shoreline filled with fishing nets and assorts- obviously a frequent path done by the villagers.  

“I believe-” Heimdall started, his hand daring to ghost over the bark of the centuries-old tree, the wind whispering faint words from its leaves but not yet spoken to him. “- that the people in the village will not be as helpful as the trees.”  

“The trees?” Mimir asked with an air of uncertainty about him. “I think the lad’s lost one too many marbles, perhaps brother you may have hit him too hard-”  

“Trees do not speak,” Kratos said rather plainly, as though he thought Heimdall indeed had ‘lost his marbles’ and needed that explained to him.  

“Well, they certainly wouldn’t to you,” Heimdall sneered over his shoulder but his focus remained solely on the tree before him. “I can hear them, faintly though I have not done so in some years.”  

“You have a connection with them?” Freya asked curiously, coming up beside Heimdall as though she made to listen to a silent conversation. “How?”  

“I think from my connection to Yggdrasil,” Heimdall explained. In all his years of learning and training at Odin’s behest, his father had never explained or taught Heimdall much of his connection to Yggdrasil and Heimdall had never questioned it. Heimdall was never made to question the All-Father. “I never spoke of it to Odin and dared not find out more, it was... pleasant having something of my own.”  

“Actually, that does rather make some sense,” Mimir said, his voice drifting off as though running away with his thoughts.  

“It does?” Kratos questioned, his tone insinuating that it did not in all honesty.  

“Why yes, when you come to think about it,” Mimir said. “Heimdall, you are the closest to Yggdrasil- even more than Odin himself! The tree is connected to all the realms- those still intact at the very least. Perhaps, you have tapped into that connection unknowingly through the trees, found pathways and roots that no one else has!”  

Kratos grunted, his eyes trailing up to meet Heimdall’s, “You could see what they can?”  

“No, but I can ask.”  

Heimdall half-heard, half-sensed what the rest of them spoke of behind him but his mind reached out to the conscious of the tree, his posture relaxing and calm. The tree halted, its leaves stilling even with the breeze around them. It recognised Heimdall- or at least the echoes of him, stories told from their kin now gone in the realm of Asgard. He felt them mourn, cry out and cradle each other in their grief. Mentally, the Aesir touched them softly, sharing his own grief with them- opening himself up to his own pain that he could not do with anyone else. The whispered kind words, in turn, held him close.  

… he mourns as we do... cries as we do...  

Yes, Heimdall thought back. I share your pain.  

… yes, yes you do... so far from home... so far...  

I need your help, I am looking for someone- family, an Aesir like myself, Heimdall asked. You would know him well, Forseti.  

Yes!   

It said giddily.  

Yes we know, he travelled here...  

Heimdall’s eyebrows furrowed, Recently?  

  Justice walked with joy...  

Heimdall felt his hand curl in the bark of the tree.  

… neither looked like that though – another tree whispered – filled with injustice and despair...  

Heimdall pressed further, was he here recently?  

There was silence for a moment, they murmured amongst themselves as though they thought to not tell him- yes... was here... still here...  

“ Thank you,” Heimdall whispered out loud, his expression considerably more relaxed. He forgot how gentle they could be.  

“Ya just spoke to it?” Mimir asked.  

“Forseti is here,” Heimdall’s eyes scrunched together as he thought a moment longer. “I believe Nanna may be too, but the trees often speak unclearly.”   

But that was enough, and now it was time to see what side his nephew and sister-in-law were on.   

Notes:

Thank you all so so much for reading this story and giving it the life it has now, it wouldn't be where it is without all of ya'll.

Chapter 17: joyless

Notes:

Here for this angsty family feels all around right now this chapter. Some for Freya, some for Forseti, some for Heimdall and some for Kratos as well! Everyone gets their turn :)

The Hall of Forseti was as sombre and empty as a tomb would be, a stark contrast, Kratos was sure, to how it once would have been. No chatter sounded between its walls, even the village they passed had been silent, the people preferring to shelter themselves inside rather than face them on the streets but that did not stop their cautious eyes from following the strangers through the windows of their homes. Kratos regarded them with stoic silence, expression blank- it was as Heimdall said, they thought them dangerous. Kratos had seen it in Greece, the heavy grief that hung in the air when Olympus fell, like the aftermath of a terrible storm that had ravaged the lands. The tension, despair, and grief were ever-present shadows that clung to the living. Kratos could not begrudge them that feeling in that reflection. Heimdall provided little information on the whereabouts of Freya’s grandson, a steadily vaguer response every time one of them asked as the All-Seeing God looked to corners that held nothing to Kratos’ sight. Kratos did not understand what Heimdall’s powers entailed, nor did he seek to beyond what he already knew to defeat the Aesir before. Kratos could not fully describe his feelings towards Heimdall, his attitude and disposition often angered Kratos and yet his actions are what Kratos regarded highly. More than that, Kratos felt a pull to protect the god- seeing something he wished had been there for himself when he had gone through something similar in his past. And so Kratos tolerated Heimdall, more than that, Kratos listened to the other god with patience.  

“Forseti,” the Aesir said suddenly, his voice echoing off the walls. Kratos turned to the god, eyebrow cocked as he watched the other twirl on his feet. “You were never good at hide and seek, come out.”  

There was silence still, and perhaps if Kratos didn’t know Heimdall to have the gift of foresight he would simply dismiss his sudden outspokenness as wishful thinking- chance. Because Kratos knew of not many that could see as Heimdall did; even in Greece. The Spartan god did not know how such a vision would differ from his own; much like with his son’s outlook on the world, it was a difficult concept to understand but Kratos would not begrudge it or dismiss its importance.  

The arrow was unexpected; at least to Kratos. Heimdall, however, did expect it. His sword knocked the arrow from its destination to his face with ease, the sharp tinging in the air of metal slicing through wood. Kratos would presume the Aesir to be enraged but instead, he looked bemused at the unknown assailant.  

“You always played dirty, Forseti.”  

“Learnt to cheat from the best,” a voice echoed from a shadowy corner before stepping forward and the light illuminated him, his arm cocked back as it held another arrow firmly poised for its target. “Grandmother.”  

Freya stopped and indeed took a breath, her mouth slightly agape at the sight of her grandson before her. He looked like Baldur Kratos observed, a younger one, his hair fuller and braided neatly unlike his father however he looked more dishevelled in his appearance.  Kratos had never asked her when she had seen him last; she would seek him out if she wished to speak on the matter and yet Kratos was sure that it had not been since he was a mere child if her shock was any indication. So, that would be the biggest heartbreak for her. Not knowing was the heaviest burden a parent could bear- not knowing with Atreus was becoming a constant weight in his core, despite Heimdall’s assurances that he was in good company.  

There was no smile on Forseti’s face when he looked at Freya, but no hatred either. Instead, his blue eyes were blank, like the eyes of some stranger as they passed them. It numbed Freya, in a way that someone had to numb themselves to avoid the pain that continuously found them, in a way that Kratos had allowed himself to be in fear of following the same route to heartache every day. If he had not allowed himself to overcome that fear, if he stopped believing that there was a future for him that did not end in agony and fear, then he would have never found peace and acceptance with his son, with Mimir and all those he considered his found family.  

“Forseti...” Freya started, taking a longing step forward to only be met with the arrow aimed at her. Her face crumpled at that.   

“Tell me,” Forseti said, his eyes landed on Kratos now and a knowing and mistrustful stare was levelled that Kratos was all too familiar with receiving. “Have you come to finish what you’ve started?”  

“No,” Kratos replied slowly, emphasising the word. “But I will not hesitate to defend if you make action against us.”  

“Kratos,” Freya’s eyes widened, a hint of her own warning, an echo of an old hurt reemerged and Kratos felt himself feel a sense of guilt for falling into old patterns. “Forseti, I- we did not come to harm you. I just- I wanted to make sure you were alright.”  

Forseti did not go to move for a moment, keeping his distance as his eyes stayed steady on his grandmother. Kratos would not presume to know what the young god was thinking as he stared at all three of them, only that Heimdall lowered his sword at that moment and did not make to move against his nephew.  

Slowly, very slowly, the younger and cautious god lowered his bow and unnotched the arrow he had previously trained for his grandmother.  

He nodded to her, a gesture of acceptance and a response to her question, “And how are you, grandmother?”  

There it was. The single sentence that Kratos knew would break down whatever walls Freya had held to keep her composure till now. It took but a moment for the goddess to surge forward and embrace Forseti in the tightest of embraces, a hundred years of lost time compounded into one single moment. That was all that needed to be said for her, although in reality, it did not need to speak. Kratos always knew the power of family, how it could wage wars and stop them just the same. And when Forseti returned the embrace, his hands clutching the back of Freya as though he had the same grief in her absence as she did his.  

Perhaps, he did.  

The boy had lost his father, his grandmother and now his home, and to have one of those returned was a blessing, enough to quell the grief each of those losses had caused.  

“Forgive me, grandmother,” Forseti whispered, to what he sought forgiveness for, Kratos could not say. It felt more weighted than for this simple interaction, more profound. “I had to be sure.”  

She pulled her head back to stare at the young boy, her eyes filled with happiness mixed with understanding, “Never be sorry, I’m sorry I was not there for you.” Her lips met his forehead with a tender kiss, it did not seem enough for her to express all the love she held for him and missed giving in those years stolen from them. “Heimdall said you were not sleeping well.”  

Forseti stole a glance at his uncle, who simply shrugged his shoulders, and yet Kratos could see how Heimdall looked at the two with longing and something else that confused the war god. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately,” he answered her truthfully as they separated. “Many of them left me troubled.”  

So much, Kratos thought, could not change and yet so much had changed. Everyone- his son, himself, Freya, Mimir and even Heimdall- had suffered greatly, each failure weighing on them in equal measure, and only adding to the heavier weights on their hearts and souls. Where they had hoped Ragnarök would signal renewal and an end to it, it continued. Odin remained and so did that burden to end that suffering- nothing made that more obvious than seeing everyone in this room. 

“If you have come to ask about the whereabouts of the All-Father-” Forseti continued. “We have not heard or seen him.”  

“You know he lives?” Heimdall finally spoke, his eyes swirling to gather the answer before Forseti could reply.  

“Yes,” Forseti answered truthfully, “After the destruction of Asgard, I investigated the fallout. Knew of his escape but not of his location, just that Gna has been aiding him.”  

The name left Freya with a darkened expression, “Of course she has.”  

When Freya talked about her past, was often with a cold and stiffness that held back a torrent of brewing anger. She had made mention of Gna in passing before; spoke on their friendship and the ultimate downfall of it when Freya was cast out of Asgard. When Freya spoke, it was harsh, Kratos thought grimly as he regarded her- thinking it more like a cool anger of the dread of battle.  

Kratos knew everyone dealt with their anger differently, he himself flew into an unbridled rage, more prone to resolving his issues with the punch of flesh. Freya was similar, in a way that was more cold yet still unyielding. Mimir was quicker to use his words to deal with his anger; snapping at people when he found fault. And Atreus was almost too similar to himself the Spartan feared; but he was more understanding, more easy to quell from his rage.  

It was only Heimdall that Kratos did not know about yet, the god tried well to hide his anger- small outbursts here and there when the heat of battle called for it or he could not keep whatever it was bottled inside himself anymore but it was often like he reserved and held back. Corrected himself when he had the composure to do so and pretended everything was normal. He was still arrogant, entitled to remind others of their positions being lesser than himself. But Kratos expected more, screaming, vitriol spewed at anyone that dared to go near him. But instead, the other god barely acknowledged the drastic change in his life. It concerned Kratos.  

“Gna,” Mimir said bitterly. “Unsurprising that she’s still desperate for Odin’s approval.” Heimdall grunted at that but did not comment on it. Kratos regarded the Aesir for a moment, curiosity once more striking him. “Forseti, have ya happened to stumble upon whatever plot they’re brewing up perhaps?”  

“No, and I have no plan of trying to find out,” Forseti’s voice was heavy with the losses that the family had endured, it was no wonder the remaining family seemed fractured and distrustful. Odin had spun a web so intricately that it seemed impossible for any of them to free themselves, and they had all realised too late. “Mother has-”  

“Nanna is here as well?” Freya asked, the sudden realisation that her daughter-in-law had not shown herself evident.

And if Kratos could presume to know- it looked as though Forseti had a pain in his chest, his spirit, that crumbled his face when Freya asked.   

“She’s- her spirit-” the boy looked lost for words, fumbling over them and he almost looked pleadingly to Heimdall to finish it. Heimdall seemed to crumble a little too when he met his nephew’s eyes.  

“Her spirit is dimming,” Heimdall finished for his nephew, a slight frown on his lips. “Her grief is consuming her with each passing day.”  

And it was the truth- there was a pain in the young goddess of joy’s chest that had not faded since the fall of Asgard. Forseti had watched as his mother further fell into the belief that it would be easier to let go, to allow her grieving soul to pass on into death and be with her beloved once more. Nanna clung flimsily to life day by day, clutching only to save her son that same grief. But she was weakening each day. If something did not change, if Forseti could not return her joy, then he feared his mother would give in. Only the futile sense of duty to her son remained and kept her grounded in this world, but he saw how hard it was becoming for her to smile, so, so much harder.  

“Oh, dear...” Mimir’s concerned voice drew the exhausted-looking Forseti out of his own musings. “Laddie, I’m so sorry.”  

Forseti’s eyes focused to find his grandmother standing in front of him, her hand laid gently upon his shoulder, a reassuring squeeze in an attempt for comfort. There was guilt in those tender eyes of hers that struck him to his core, making his heart clench in a way that had nothing to do with his own grief towards his mother.  

“It has been-” Forseti tried to find his words, something to reassure his grandmother. To not see the same grief in her eyes as he did his mother’s. “-she has not been well since father passed, losing Asgard, our home, much of her own family- it was just another reason for her grief to grow.”  

“Forseti,” Freya whispered, voice soft and strained. “This is not your burden to bear alone, please allow us to help.”  

Forseti looked at her, and the tiredness in his eyes grew. “Then what can I do, grandmother?” he asked. “She does not move, barely eats or drinks. The townsfolk tried to help but even they feel echoes of her grief, I cannot have them near her.” There was the crux of it, the point of his own sorrow and hopelessness. Maybe years ago, Forseti would not have felt the words to be a death sentence, that his mother would come back from this. Now, his voice was defeated, filled with an emptiness that was threatening to consume him also in his mother’s despair.  

Freya stared wordlessly at her grandson and spoke with an empathy that only someone who felt that grief could emulate, “You aren’t alone in this anymore.” Her hand tightened more on his shoulder to emphasise the promise of her words.  

What many did not know about Nanna was the simple fact that when the goddess of joy had never-ending grief, all those around shared in it. At first, it would simply be just a weight on their chest, hope still there for brighter days ahead. But now that hope faded fast. When Nanna’s grip on life faded, so did everyone's around her, and with that Forseti had been burdened to share in his mother’s grief and his own. Forseti knew it would only get worse as time passed. Knew that he was putting himself at risk the longer he stayed. The townsfolk knew it. But Forseti felt powerless to stop it.  

If Freya hadn’t come, if Forseti was still alone in this battle... he dared not think too long about the possibility of himself fading with his mother’s grief, leaving this town powerless. Without the will of Forseti to reside over them, he knew the town would scramble to find themselves proper guidance. Forseti had remained stubborn though, sleepless nights spent worried about her, unwilling to compromise on the single fact that the further Asgard descended into chaos at the All-Father's will. He tried. He tried his best to restore justice where he could, but the worst came to pass and even Forseti could not argue for justice in the realm of Asgard any longer. The Aesir had already developed a reputation for not allowing the mechanisms of justice to play out, and that had not improved in recent years. His mother longed for the time when peace and happiness were the symbols of Asgard and yet now, it had been doomed to the cold unhappiness that resounded with the perpetual injustice it created.  

And so, the god of justice and his grandmother moved to the care of Nanna. Begging for her life and pleading that she had not become too lost in his grief that they could not find her once more. The group would travel to Vanaheim, hoping that peace would return to her in the company of family and kin, Forseti begrudging his duties to his people for a small time to care for his mother.  

In the end, they remained dependent on hope and nothing more.   

---  

“Your form remains sloppy.”  

“There is no need to say it aloud!” Heimdall bit out between harsh puffs of breath as he regained his composure. “I already hear you thinking it!”  

The woodlands of Vanaheim forest were quiet save for the grunts and curses from the two fighting. Not fighting- sparring was the more accurate term and the curses flew solely from Heimdall’s mouth in truth. The suggestion to train came from Kratos when the six- with the addition of Forseti and Nanna- returned to the camp now regarded as a safe haven for the refugees of Asgard gathered. Heimdall had scoffed at the other god, believing it to be a jest at first but when the Spartan looked at him with impatience Heimdall knew there was no joke to be had. Instead, Kratos took them both to a secluded part of the forest and proceeded to throw his axe at Heimdall like a bloody brute.  

“Focus on defending your position rather than dodging,” Kratos reprimanded when Heimdall yet again chose to sidestep a particularly precise throw to his head. “We have come here to train, not waste our time.”  

Heimdall rolled his eyes, “No, I in fact, did not agree to this-” he stepped out of the way when Kratos recalled his axe, “- you all but dragged me here and demanded it of me-” Kratos did not even pause for a moment before he threw the axe once more, “- so you will suffer the consequences!”  

Heimdall finally grew angry, and when he became angry- he had realised- he became unfocused, and his foresight was not used as effectively as it should be. Heimdall was never apt at combat, not after so long of never really needing to train for it and he could not properly gauge his opponent- their intentions- when he became angry. An undercurrent of that unfocused energy was realised when the axe met its mark; Heimdall only just being able to deflect it with a clumsy swipe of his sword at the last moment.  

“Enough!” Heimdall shouted finally, his blood thrumming in his ears like the loud beats of war drums. “What is the point of this?”  

“The point is for you to learn.”  

“What does that even mean, you overly large oaf?!” Heimdall almost screamed back in frustration.   

“It means I do not want you to fall on the battlefield if I can do something to prevent it!” The blood in Heimdall’s ears began to slow down into steady beats as he stared back at the Spartan god, something had been unveiled in the moments from them starting to spar and now. “You are my charge; I will not have that failure on me.”  

It was a sharp contrast to whatever Heimdall had seen before in the man; he stood quietly beneath the sky of Vanaheim with only the harsh breaths from both of them punching that silence. Heimdall knew his eyes were impossibly wide as he stared at the other, who looked just as stunned at that moment. The silence continued on for a long time, with the Aesir standing absolutely still and the Spartan waiting patiently. Heimdall felt the area around him, the lightness in the air that was laced with a foreboding storm. His heart was heavy, and his thoughts were racing, surrounded by the confusing ones of Kratos that lingered just in front of him. He finally spoke.  

“I am not your son,” Heimdall challenged, his eyes remaining on Kratos. “My failures are not your own.”  

Kratos was quiet, none of his thoughts showed on his face. Still silent, he reached out and gripped Heimdall’s shoulder, squeezing his arm with a foreign gentleness. “It is not a comment on yourself, but a task I take with honour.”  

There was that heaviness again that settled in Heimdall’s gut. The compression of all his life into one point. Odin had never viewed Heimdall the way Kratos did, and Kratos had far more reasons to despise him than his own father did. The upcoming crescendo of Kratos’ outlook on Heimdall; he should despise Heimdall, hate him and yet he did not. The Aesir could feel none of it and that caused panic to grip him. Because there was no room for that sort of affection, acceptance was not something Heimdall had ever thought could be his.  

He breathed in. Exhaled. And breathed in once more. With each breath Heimdall took, he tried to find the words he wanted to say- wanted them not to be the ones he was urged to use; to mock Kratos and scoff at the god for even thinking such things. He wanted to let that part of himself go and not give in to instinct. Resolute magenta eyes locked with collected fiery ones and Heimdall spoke again, “You should despise me, why can’t you despise me?”  

“Because you have not given me a reason to,” Kratos said. “Your actions have spoken more than your words.”  

Heimdall watched the other for another moment, before turning the hilt of his blade in his hand. He could not help but run his Bifrost fingers along the smooth metal as he thought for a moment longer, “Well...” Heimdall spoke. “Teach me then, and don’t you dare just throw that axe at me! Actually, teach.”  

And then the forest of Vanaheim took a deep breath and held it as Heimdall and Kratos squared off; the discard of Heimdall’s instinct itched at the back of his mind, a harsh truth settling in him- the sum total of that failure he realised after Kratos defeated him on these same lands not so long ago. For it had not been so long ago, Heimdall realised, so much had happened in such a short period of time for gods like them. Centuries would pass and they would be nothing but a blink of an eye to gods like them. The years of arrogance and pettiness, drawn out because they could afford that luxury of stubbornness- Heimdall had not realised that drastic difference until the lives of his mortal sons drew closer to death and he had been still thinking upon what to say to them when he could see them in person. They had withered while he stewed in his own despair and self-doubt. Had they not deserved more from him?   

As both sides drew their weapons, Heimdall truly understood the folly of gods.  

At this bitterly close range, Heimdall had to resist the urge that his foresight told him to dodge at every intent Kratos had to swing the weapon at him; with every mighty throw, Kratos made there was this stinging in Heimdall’s arm- though his Bifrost arm lacked the ability to feel such aches- his still flesh and blood one burned with every parry he made against Kratos’ strikes. Even areas that Heimdall did not know could become tired in a fight were starting to scream; even his legs protested the weight that Heimdall had to put on them when he parried Kratos away. Kratos seemed restrained though, even when a particularly brutal punch landed on Heimdall’s face; his face twisted at the familiar echo of pain, but he made no protest or move to end the sparring; blood filled his mouth from teeth-ripped flesh as he corrected his stance and countered the next blow with one of his own. But the two tiring gods are slowing to a steady pace now; Kratos more careful with his next attacks when he thought Heimdall was growing tired; the war god electing to not take opportunities to strike when he clearly could have; annoying Heimdall a little in the process because he did not ask for such charity. The focused fire of his Bifrost ripped into Kratos’ hand; his battered arm letting goes of the axe and causing it to fly back. At the annoyed grunt from Kratos, Heimdall simply smirked and cocked an eyebrow to let the other know exactly why. Kratos did not hesitate after that, instead made to penetrate Heimdall’s more weaker sides- a blow to his head to slacken his speed, and Heimdall could tell he was slowly lurching back and unable to counter the next strike as Kratos continued his counterassault.  

The sparring did what it needed to do; it tested Heimdall’s weakness. A demonstration of his lack of combat skills.   

And against all odds, Heimdall still straightened up and readied himself for the next round.   

Blow by blow, the spar descended into a steady rhythm. Heimdall’s arms were growing weaker and pained within seconds of the second round; but every time he thought his hand would spasm and drop his sword without his will to do so; he fisted it in his hand stronger and more determined. The weapon now changed, and Kratos drew his blades; trailing the weapons so Heimdall had to move quickly and change tactics to long range. There was an unspoken agreement that the spear would not make an appearance, a mercy Heimdall was silently grateful for. Three or four moments later, the chain of one of the blades managed to catch Heimdall’s right leg- the noticeable lack of burning was appreciated, but the shock and roughness of the pull were still startling. The rough feel of the ground on his back as Kratos pulled the chain quickly, but even then Kratos made no further moves to strike the Aesir god. Instead, he recalled his blades and seethed them, and Heimdall had not the effort to argue to continue.  

His foresight was not the aspect lacking in this fight; no, it had been his body’s untrained manner that disallowed him to counter each strike and his stubbornness to perhaps impress Kratos that prevented him from dodging the assault.   

“That is enough for today,” Kratos said as he walked towards Heimdall, a hand outstretched and offering, Heimdall reached up himself and clasped it firmly. “We will continue tomorrow.”  

Heimdall had not the energy to scoff or make a remark on that, instead, he nodded. Tomorrow then.  

Chapter 18: nightmares and daydreams

Notes:

A day late with the update but the new season of Shadow and Bones dropped and y'all will have to forgive me because I binged it all in one sitting and wasted away after that.

But I hope everyone is looking forward to some brotherly bonding because this chapter is serving that right in the feels for me!

The dreaming world was becoming much more difficult to discern from reality; especially when they echoed memories and reality so keenly.  

Heimdall resisted the urge to sigh, keeping absolutely still as he felt the blood trickle through the rag the All-Father had so graciously given him when he left him alone in this cavernous pit underneath the lodge. The thunder of destruction from above was muffled by its walls, Heimdall had not the effort to care or realise how close Ragnarök was creeping towards him. Instead, he waited for the energy to be instilled in him to move.  

This was so... predictable- Heimdall had thought... or did think while he dreamt of this memory- as he stared listlessly into the abyss and the creeping darkness that encroached on his vision. He had faced little choice in his life, the All-Father had taken much of that from him. Did he have a choice then, when the All-Father offered him family? If not from his hands, from somewhere else. His mother, his sons, and his brothers had all been pawns in the All-Father's games. Was the All-Father's hold over these pawns so unbreakable that Heimdall’s rebellion was just pure folly? Heimdall knew that many had tried and failed similarly in the past. Had he been arrogant enough to think of himself differently?  

Or perhaps it was the way the universe bid the realms to function. The All-Father was a focal point of power and had given the Nine Realms much of its might with his presence alone. But now he was fumbling with that power and the realms quaked with the destruction it wrought, and Heimdall felt some sense of clarity- as he bled out on the grounds of Asgard. No matter what, Heimdall felt himself powerless to break free from the invisible chains the All-Father had long since bound him with.   

Heimdall had pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind, once more focusing on the will to gather himself up and move; the press of the realness of this dream spiked panic in him just as real as when he had been bleeding out in reality. Like a stubborn mule that continued its task, the Aesir had tried to push himself from the ground. A grunt, a collapse, and three attempts later and he was on the floor again heaving with heavy breaths. This was not how it had gone; this was not how the memory was supposed to play out.  

Pure panic. Heimdall’s mind flared with it. Pure panic and pain struck him like when the waves crashed violently on the shores of a beach.  

The Aesir scrambled in his futile position, taking a breath of stale air and looking around frantically. The air was getting damp and cool- much colder than he had ever remembered it to be. In the corner, the tear glowed with a menacing demand. Coaxing and waning as though it called him near, sensing the Aesir’s despair even when it had not before. Heimdall resisted the urge to reach over and respond to it; even now in this dream, there was something amiss with that sense of power- a blinding danger. Even dreaming, Heimdall could tell he was not out of danger. That was the strangeness he sensed more and more in his dreams. Though perhaps it would not physically harm him, the air promised entrapment if he was not careful. So, Heimdall focused on waking from this horrid place, the air around him seeking instead to tether him to this place, however- the shadows holding him down. The young Aesir could feel terror grip him as his sense of freedom- whatever he could call what he had now- was ripped from him by some unknown force. As soon as he felt he even had a fraction of freedom, he would rip himself from this place and vow to never give sleep a fraction of his time again.  

Would he die in this dream, Heimdall wondered, he was not quite sure. Would he move over into the realm of the dead, or wherever it was that gods went when they died? It was the question that remained ever-present in his father’s mind. There were so many questions to explore in that regard, so many questions that his father would never know the answers to now... unintentionally, Heimdall felt his mind succumb to the oppressive force of this dream. It was only when the touch of a hand on his shoulder caused him to stiffen and focus once more.  

“Focus, dear child,” a woman said sternly. “Focus your mind.”  

Heimdall opened his bleary eyes and turned his head upright to meet that voice, scanning through the encompassing darkness until light illuminated. It was a woman, familiar in form as his eyes strained to focus further, intently staring as he searched...  

And then it cleared, and it was amazing how the oppression in the air lessened when he realised.   

“Blóðughadda...”  

She smiled at him, her hand trailing comfortingly along his arm. She sat in front of him, eyes soft and pleading as though she wanted to say something but could not. She looked at him as though she was not a mere dream conjuration in this confusing place, aiming her gaze solely into Heimdall’s soul. Before Heimdall could even muster to speak further, asking her why or perhaps how, she shushed him with a gentle voice.  

“Hush, child,” she hummed, running her other hand to his forehead and brushing aside his dishevelled and stray strands of hair. “Listen only.”  

Heimdall felt his mentor, the woman who had shown him a brief time of peace and kindness, shake and jerk as though something pained her so. Her body strained and she settled once more, the weight of her gaze falling heavily upon him once more.   

“He searches in the roots of Yggdrasil for it,” her words were hurried, another grimace on her face as though she were in pain as she spoke urgently. “The lost runes to conjure the all-seeing eye; stop him before he-”  

And then Heimdall spotted it. His eyes widen impossibly, searching in hers for what had been veiled from him for so long and in a second there is was. He jerked as that realisation struck him, plummeting from his perch of not knowing and into that dawning truth. The kindness was growing, the attention she gave him, shifting where he lay prone against the desk as he carefully studied her eyes to confirm the truth. Before, when he had stayed with her, it had been veiled by whatever magic she used to cover his vision, and now it took out like the crimson blood that contrasted the whiteness of his armour. Heimdall’s breathing quickened as he stared at her eyes, happiness and sadness a deadly mixture in his heart.  

“Mother...”  

The woman looked at him with pain-filled blue eyes, a tight smile forming on her lips, “We have always been with you, my son.” Her voice was impossibly strained, but Heimdall crumbled when she spoke the truth.   

Despite knowing before she spoke, when his ears heard it for himself, Heimdall felt something lift in his chest, and this hurrying urge now lay with him to stay here forever. If he stayed here- but he couldn’t- then he could listen to her voice forever- one could not live in a dream forever- and he could be happy- that was impossible. Heimdall wanted to ignore reason, emotion driving his mind as he grabbed at her hand still on his cheek; long forgetting to hold to a useless piece of cloth to his wound. Her face was steadily becoming more withdrawn, as though she could not bear to remain in this moment.  

“Heimdall...”  

“Where are you?”  

“Focus, please, my child...”  

“Tell me, please.”  

“Oh, sweet boy...”  

“Please?”   

Finally, a sigh slid from her lips, the will to stay strong giving way to her child’s pleading, “Foolish, boy.” Heimdall held her hand more tightly at his cheek, fearing she would pull away and disappear once again and he’d be lost in his search to find her once more. “The young giant will help you find us scattered across the realms, our souls trapped beneath plains of dry earth- suffocate us.”  

“Us?” the Aesir asked, his eyebrows furrowed when he finally caught up with her words.   

“Born from the sea you were Heimdall,” she breathed in short, shallow gasps, as though she truly was suffocated from something unseen. “When nine waves crashed upon the shores, you were born, a child of the sea and the nine sisters of waves.”   

“But listen-” the woman- one of his mothers- continued to be gasped, gripping Heimdall’s hand tightly. “You must... listen- please.”  

Heimdall wanted to refuse because if he did then it would mean their time was not drawing to an end so soon. She would bid him away, tell him vagueness and trust that he could figure it out on his own without her guidance. Heimdall did not want her to do so, but he could never deny his mother. Her blue eyes were starting to cloud as though she was fading away from here but the grip she held on to him did not falter in the slightest.  

She closed her eyes, and Heimdall felt the unseen pull that tugged on her being to take her back to wherever she was in the waking world. He could feel the tears that started to brim in his eyes, held back by only his pure will to stay strong at that moment. Too quickly that force pulled her further and further away from him, Heimdall’s face drawing more and more into despair in turn. Then she surged, a moment of pure will on her part telling her she could not leave- not just yet. She had more to tell him, more to say before she faded away once again. So she slipped away whatever mental walls she held between herself and him and implored him to listen to her words unspoken.  

Remain strong, my son. We have always been with you. Know that and remember that we will always be with you. Continue the path you forge, the one of your own making. I see futures of greatness in you, my child, you are meant for great things...  

Yet... even with her will, she found herself unable to fight the pull for much longer. Her mind despairing as was Heimdall’s, when they sensed their time together was coming to an end. She could not say all she wished to, no matter how much she wanted and yearned to. But she had the strength for one final thing she had to say, one thing that she needed her son to hear with his own ears before they departed once more...  

Heimdall saw her lips move, though her voice was now distant and muffled despite how close together they were. “I’m- so... proud of you,” she breathed out, barely loud enough for Heimdall to hear it. The words were finally spoken before her visage faded from Heimdall’s vision and the dream plummeted into darkness.  

---  

Heimdall felt himself sob when he violently woke up, weeping at the fantom caresses of his mother’s hands. For a long moment, he lay in his cot, an unrecognised pain in his heart and soul, and he allowed himself to be overcome by such emotions. Tears streamed down his cheeks in uneven rivers of salt water, it stung and he realised he must have been crying in his sleep too; the way his chest ached as though he had heaved and sobbed through the night. He cried in silence, the stillness of the Aesir camp the only reason he did not verbalise his grief, his mind begging to return to that dream if only to be in her arms once more. The proud and stubborn god that Heimdall had been made to be was gone in this moment, replaced instead by a weeping child that felt like they had lost their mother.  

Then he heard a not-so-faint rustle not too far from him. Heimdall ceased his sobs, gathered his composure from his personal training throughout his life and brutally cut himself off from the echoes of his mother’s hands. He would not linger in his grief here, especially not when this camp provided little privacy for such matters. He would think and allow himself to wallow in whatever grief later.  

Heimdall sat himself up rather stiffly, the Aesir collected himself before he looked to the centre of the camp and found Thor still awake, his face impassive despite the still-wet tears on his face when he looked upon his older brother.   

“Come, sit,” Thor said gruffly, not turning to his face his brother. “I always hated when you just stared.”   

So Heimdall did. While before Heimdall would have never even considered sitting with his brother on any level that would suggest companionship, he now realised how much he craved such a simple thing from his older brother. Like they had when they were still children, Heimdall sat closely next to his brother; not hesitating to accept the flask of presumed mead when it was offered to him.  

“-the hel?” Heimdall scrunched his face pulling the flask from his lips and staring at it with confusion. “This is-”  

“Water,” Thor chuckled, amusement on his face when Heimdall handed the flask back roughly and clear disappointment was written over his brother’s face. “Trying to be better.”  

“You don’t have to be that much better,” Heimdall grumbled, more for his own disappointment for the lack of sweet numbing blissfulness rather than to discourage his brother’s sobriety. “One sip would surely not hurt.”   

“Maybe,” Thor said thoughtfully, but the way his mind whirled dangerously with thoughts of mead and losing himself in that drunken respite- it indeed may. “But I’d rather not risk it.”  

The silence fell faster than Heimdall could push the thoughts in his mind away, falling back to the dream; though now he doubted it was simply just a dream. No, it was his mother- one of his mothers he now knew. There was a coldness that crept in him that not even the campfire could combat, almost apathetically he thought that he did not care to feel it either way.   

“You wanna talk about it?” Thor finally asked, he lacked Heimdall’s gifts to know what his younger brother was thinking but Heimdall could see he saw enough to piece it together—Heimdall sobbing in his sleep, waking up fitfully. It painted enough of the picture for anyone to guess that it was a dream that plagued him. “You were making a lot of noise.”  

“Disturbed your hydration session, did I?” Heimdall’s sharp eyes met Thor’s but he could tell they lacked any true power when he knew they were still puffy and red from the tears that still stained his cheeks. Quick as a blink of the eye, Heimdall had resolved himself to speak plainly for his brother, the will to contend with the petty debate was not something he could muster this late. “Sleep has left me more restless than it has left me peaceful as of late.”  

“Didn’t know you did sleep,” it was an abrupt and rather odd comment to make, but not an outlandish statement in context.   

“Lately, I’ve felt pulled to do so,” Heimdall said, instantly the trees around him rustled. Sensing his discomfort perhaps, more so now he felt them respond to him openly now that he renewed that connection with them.  

Little ram... They called out to him, their leaves fluttering, and the boughs of their branches vibrated with acknowledgement. You wake so soon... you seem troubled. Whatever calmness the trees held soon turned to sour anger as they saw how tired and grief-stricken the Aesir was. What has done this to our little ram?  It was demanded, their voices echoing as each one repeated the question throughout the forest.   

Heimdall did his best to ease their worries, his mind hushing them if only to stop their incessant questions for a moment of peace and they did, just in an attempt to provide the Aesir with some comfort.   

“And the sobbing?” Thor asked pointedly, a single moment where Heimdall had found genuine concern in his brother’s voice. Something that had not truly been there since childhood; nor had it been so openly displayed. Now that whatever the All-Father had placed between them was gone, Heimdall could feel that odd familiarity around his heart that sang of the affection he remembered sharing between them. It was constricting in its strength and warm,th all the same, sending heat through his veins and making him feel safe and at home. He wanted to reach out to Thor but could not bring himself to test that boundary so soon. He could not lose it.  

“I-” Heimdall started before closing his mouth once more, churning the words in his mouth and trying to find a way to make them sound normal and not with the insanity that he felt they held. “Lately, I have been having more vivid dreams; most of the past but lately they have felt more real.”  

Thor shared a look with his brother, one that Heimdall saw held speckled confusion but a willingness to listen regardless. His brother, for all his flaws, was something that Heimdall could never be. Understanding the basic degree of it.  

So, Heimdall continued, trying to push aside his own discomfort and finally voice his truest thoughts as best he could, “I think I just met my mother- well, met is not the right word since I have seen her before, but this is the first time I have known that it was her.”   

There was something melancholic that came over Thor then, Heimdall realising that Thor had thoughts of his own mother that caused echoes of despair to then push down on Heimdall as well. “So, I’m guessing our good-for-nothing father has done something to her?”  

Despite himself, Heimdall smirked, unable to hold back on relishing their shared resentment for the man, “Actually, if my dream is real, then I have nine mothers.” Then there was a rumbling laughter from Thor that he had not heard in such a long time- he almost feared that it would wake the others in camp if his brother did not quite down. It was rather contagious and Heimdall felt himself begin to laugh before he could stop himself, “Why is that so funny, brother?”  

His brother laid a firm hand on his shoulder, the roughness only done with affection rather than malice, “Of course! You would have nine mothers, I always suspected you’d be a mommy’s boy.”  

“Don’t be absurd, brother,” Heimdall said, batting Thor’s hand from his shoulder in annoyance but it was like opening a present and finding nothing inside, there was no true hatred in Heimdall’s actions. “But yes, it would appear that he has had a hand in their entrapment. Blóðughadda said they were trapped across the realms- a rather unhelpful starting point.”  

The thought of his mothers being held somewhere sent a sharp spear of pain through his chest, devasting and just as potent as any blade would be. It was then that Heimdall truly knew that the dream was not just a dream. But she had reached out to him. This pain was the wound of her departure and the crushing reality that they had not abandoned him when he was younger. A hole in his soul, a piece of himself that the All-Father had ripped from him when he was just a child. It was then that he also understood his other brother's grief; for they had all not grown up without mothers in truth. This pain was too much.  

Memories of moments that never were streamed through his mind so clearly that he thought they had actually happened. The Aesir could see moments stolen from him and his mothers by Odin. He could feel their embraces as if they had actually held him as a child, crying when nightmares had plagued his sleep. He could hear all their voices, soft and comforting, encouraging him when he tried and failed to focus his magic.  

Thor must have sensed Heimdall curling into himself, the renewal of tears threatening to break free. He clutched now at the log he sat on, fingers scraping over the bark, as a newfound grief crushed into him; pressing and pressing. “Brother...” Thor’s voice was strangely softer than he had ever known it to be.   

“He took them from me,” Heimdall could not hear anything over the grief that was quickly turning to anger. “Like he has taken everything from us. He took my mothers, my childhood, my brothers, and my sons.”  

Heimdall felt himself become lost in the sea of emotions- pain, grief, anger- they waged war inside him. He had never experienced something like this before; even when the All-Father first betrayed him, this was more potent than anything he could ever imagine it being. Heimdall found that he could not breathe because of it, feeling dizzied by the torrent of emotions and above all, there was that tiredness again that was coaxing him further and further under.  

“He didn’t take me from you, Heimdall,” there was a pause and a grunt from Thor, Heimdall could see the way his brother gritted his teeth and pushed back a horde of emotions that stung so deeply into his being. “I’m here, I’m still here.”  

Heimdall forced himself to calm down and uncurl his fingers from where they dug into the bark. That flurry of emotions- that weakness- was overtaken by what his brother had just said, forcing himself to actually listen to the meaning behind the words. How could he allow Odin to take this as well? How could he allow his father another victory? His brother was right here, and to allow himself to think otherwise would make all that Heimdall had gone through mean nothing.  

Pushing back whatever remained of his pride that still struggled to preserve the Heimdall that his father had wanted him to be. He dared to not allow Odin still have that much power over him. Even with Odin alive still, danger lurking with his father’s threats to return. If he thought his brother lost to him, now, then he might as well turn himself over to the All-Father now anyway. Sinking into this self-pitied grief just meant a sooner death.  

Heimdall would mourn his past- he had to but he could not do so at the expense of his future. If he allowed himself to experience all that pain and trauma, then he would fear himself unable to find the will to continue on. He knew he would not be able to. He could not allow himself to fail his mothers like he had his own sons. He had to do right by them, and had to make sure that Odin could not take that as well. He would find justice for them; his second chance demanded that much from him.  

“Do you often think back and wonder,” Heimdall started slowly, every part of him ached with pain that had not come from his daily sparring with Kratos. “How things might have been different? At what point did things get so beyond reason for all of us that we saw none of his lies?”  

Every few moments, Heimdall would glance up at his brother and every time he looked away as though he was scared for what he might see in his mind. Around him, the trees lulled and soothed his anxiety in the best way they could. It was still dark out, the moon casting a haunting glow, but it was noticeably not so consuming this darkness as he once knew it to be. As he sat and waited for his brother to speak, he had no idea what he would say- resolving to dim his foresight for that fear of rejection. All he knew was that he had to hear it, one way or the other.  

“You weren’t born yet,” Thor started, his eyes haunting the flames of the campfire. “But there was a time when Odin wasn’t so cruel. When he actually knew the meaning of fucking family.”  

The message was short but spoke louder than anything Heimdall could have hoped from his brother.   

He had never known a time when the All-Father had been kind in his parenting and perhaps that was for the better. For he could never know the pain of that kind of loss as a child. Never see someone who once loved who be the one to strike out and curse you and be confused for it. Heimdall had sought the affection of someone who had never given it; developed a perception of what love should be from that. But Thor had known love from a kind parent and had seen it taken away. Heimdall was almost content, almost grateful to have not had that.   

Despite many claims that Thor had been as he was now all his life, in truth he had not been. He had just simply become lost, afraid- and through the workings of the All-Father- alone. Odin had all but squeezed whatever joy Thor had had. Sif and their children had helped him regain bits and pieces of himself, and had helped Thor remember that there was purity in love in the realms. But a cycle of love tainted by ill intent was so difficult to break. It was those echoes of childhood trauma that lingered so painfully even without the All-Father's direct hand on them. Simple things now, that Thor was trying so hard to correct in himself.  

“I can hardly imagine that,” Heimdall scoffed, the All-Father by the nature that Heimdall knew him to have, was never loving or caring for the sake of it. At least those that were purely evil or horrible did not try and pretend to be anything else. They had no reason to pretend. But the All-Father was far worse, he painted himself a different colour and played everyone the fool for it when they thought him different. “Suppose I fared better than you then, at least I never knew a kinder side to him. At least he was always an asshole to me.”  

For many hours, the two brothers were content to let the silence fill the air as they sipped on Thor’s simple flask of water. Where once they would be content to pretend they other were not related and act against each other; now they shared in each other’s pain and grief and wished their father dead. The All-Father was both their enemy now. That changed everything.  

They would protect each other, and both of them thought it with a passion only held to each other when they were children. No longer would they allow the All-Father to use them as weapons against each other.  

If the All-Father came for either one of them, then he came for both of them.  

Chapter 19: lost souls

Notes:

We finally get to see what our boy and girl are doing in this chapter!

We've got roughly five more chapters in this story including the epilogue.

I know a few people have been asking about Tyr in this story and whether he'll re-emerge... he will, just not in this story. I have plans for him in another installment which will focus around Heimdall and Thor more because I can't get over the brotherly feels.

The All-Father was angry. No, no, that was far too delicate of a term to describe how infuriated, filled with rage, and upset he was right now. The next revenant that dared to disturb his peace would suffer endlessly. Gna stood by the entrance of the pitiful cave that Odin now called his refuge, staring at him as she waited for the All-Father's next words. After successfully navigating the roots of the Yggdrasil tree and getting oh so much closer to his prize, the All-Father had returned to Nilfheim to find Gna with news that he’d rather not hear right now.  

Freya and that little group of traitors had recruited Forseti.  

Not that Odin was ever going to have a use for the kid or his grief-stricken mother, but it was the principle of the matter really. Hundreds of years trying to better his family and this was how they all decided to repay him? With disloyalty?  

And that was not even the worst of it. No, Huginn had brought him even more troubling news about Heimdall. About his troubled sleep. It should still be impossible. Then again, Odin’s touch of magic was not as strong as it had once been, it was no wonder the boy was drawing further and further into sleep. Odin did not have the same amount of control over his son as he once did, that much he knew. It was a regrettable consequence of his position now. Odin had carefully crafted the boy since birth, every aspect under close control of Odin’s desires. But that control meant little now, and Odin would not be able to predict how his son would act and behave.  

Able to see intent, to see across all remaining realms, and who knew what else the boy would be able to discover about himself in the meantime... Heimdall could prove to be more difficult than Odin at first though. Difficult may not even begin to describe it. Heimdall was a right pain when he was loyal to Odin; now that he was actively working against him... Even now he had all the other traitors at his side, working him for their own gains.  

It was a surprise at first, Odin believed the group that had taken in Heimdall would ultimately reject him when his son did not prove useful anymore. It was the way it should have gone; they’d reject him, and he’d prove his inability to change. That was what Odin had hoped for. By himself, Heimdall was nothing. Allied with that group- he'd prove to be more trouble than he was worth- almost.  

But that would only be if Heimdall did not drive off the group he was with. While powerful and certainly a threat, Heimdall was also riddled with self-doubt and incompetence. He had lost his entire life- his purpose- just after trying to claim any stupid dream of freedom. It would be unlikely that Heimdall would have the confidence to challenge Odin all by himself. So what did that leave for Odin to do? Let his son fumble up this only chance of freedom all by himself, it was what his son was best at after all. Most likely Heimdall would do what he did best- push everyone away until there was nothing for him.  

The thing about Heimdall, that Odin had learnt through teaching the boy, was his explicit need to be guided. Heimdall was not a leader and Odin knew that he’d yearn to be put under heel once more. It was his nature. One such as Heimdall could not walk away from who they are, after all.   

Odin’s thoughts were again pulled away when Gna cleared her throat, the queen Valkeryie stood proudly behind him, her armour impeccably untarnished and a haunting contrast to the pale pallet of Nilfiheim. Odin’s own annoyance stemmed from his drive to find out what Gna had to report, refrained from showing his displeasure at the situation he found himself in.  

Odin schooled his features, staring at the Valkryie with thoughtful eyes, “Anything to report, Gna?”  

“All-Father, the group remains on Vanaheim with the other refugees,” the Valkyrie Queen said stiffly, though when Odin looked upon her with a more careful eye, he could the way she held her tongue.   

It annoyed Odin to no end when they didn’t speak their mind, even more so now when he had little control over the happenings of the realms, “And?”  

There was a moment, a brief pause before Gna felt herself able to speak once more, “I am concerned about the nature of Vanaheim forest, there has been a shift.”  

Odin simply cocked an eyebrow, finally pausing in his work to turn to face her, “Meaning?”  

“All-Father, the trees have started to make it difficult to remain unnoticed,” Gna said.   

“The fuck is that supposed to mean, Gna?” The All-Father strode over until he was face-to-face with her, he could see the minuscule tension that overrode the Valkyrie's body caught only by the All-Father's hawk-like eyes- observant enough to mimic a bird of prey stalking the unfortunate mouse. It was only that form of submission that made Odin still feel that sense of power- he wanted fear, wanted to know that some still feared what he could still do. “What do trees have to do with anything, Gna? They’re fucking trees!”  

The Valkryie Queen kept her silence for a moment longer, knowing that any ill-thought-out response would not be taken well by Odin, “They move as though sentient, All-Father. They seem to protect the group.”  

That was... rather unexpected and not the news Odin had thought he’d be hearing. Of course, he knew all things in the realms had some level of life and consciousness. Aesir, Vanir, Midgardians, Elves, and Dwarves existed on one, but the trees had a different wavelength that they just weren’t attuned to. Odin had tried, but that wasn’t something even wisdom could grant him. Odin’s mind swirled with the thought of what had changed, the trees had never before responded to the workings of the beings that walked the earth and yet now they acted as though compelled to. It was certainly something Odin would have to look into.  

So much in the realms had changed in response to Ragnarök. Not only did the realms resume their natural weather cycles before the onset of Fimblewinter, but now the natural order of nature seemed to bind to wills they never had before- the trees only confirming a shift in the natural order. Odin thought for a moment how he would have lost himself in discovering the reason why such things were happening before his current goal was all that invaded his mind and guided every thought and action. The thrill of discovery had always been extremely satisfying to Odin but now that allure had been dulled by his quest for the knowledge that had been beyond that tear.  

Odin paused mid-thought, his face slacking with the sudden plan forming in his head. He turned back to Gna once more, studying her as she still stood tall and proud, noting that despite that Gna still watched him as though she waited for him to strike out. Odin stood somehow taller against Gna despite the height difference, like a looming tower that threatened to crush the town below, his one eye pinned her in place. Finally, he spoke, leaning forward enough so they were face-to-face.  

“Gna, I think your expertise would do well elsewhere,” Odin said, a wicked tone in his voice “I have eyes on them, ones that the trees would not act against. Instead, I have a mission for you.”  

Without hesitations, Gna nodded firmly, “Of course, All-Father.”   

If Odin had to work against those traitors and now nature its very self, then he would seize an advantage ripe for the taking, “Good then.”  

Perhaps his best-laid assets were those that had been long forgotten.  

-----  

Atreus and Angrboða had been working at a steady yet constant pace as they scoured the realms for the lost souls of their kind, searching clue after clue without really taking the time to breathe. Right now they camped near the hot springs of Svartalfheim, though the humidity had dulled considerably, the air still felt heavy with a damp heat that clung to your skin. Beside him sat Angrboða, quietly working away at another painting- the two of them both bonding of the sketches they made of the worlds around them, each so different and yet spoke wonders of their perspective of the world. Sometimes, Angrboða would point out a detail that was incorrect in his drawings, smiling at him when he furiously scribbled to fix it.  

Unlike his travels with his father, Atreus did not feel a pressing need to constantly be on his toes- a forced and unspoken show to his father. Angrboða was more carefree in that sense, weary of the dangers around her still and yet able to look positively still while his father held a weariness that spoke of years of constantly being on the defence. Angrboða was by no means less of a formidable warrior than either himself of his father; she held herself well in combat but remained a voice of steady reason when others would lose themselves in the heat of battle. Though she was his age, Atreus always thought of her as older- positioned by the wisdom she seemed to hold inside herself.  

It was a nice change of pace, Atreus thought absently. He’d never say it to his father though, it wasn’t as though he didn’t enjoy his travels with him, it was simply... Atreus enjoyed being able to not fight every two seconds and enjoy the world around him. Since Atreus would never ask his father to pause in their travels, this was something he enjoyed immensely with Angrboða. Travelling simply to enjoy it, rather than the looming weight of danger behind their every step.   

“Atreus?”  

Angrboða soft yet questioning voice pulled Atreus from his musing, realising he hadn’t moved his pencil in some time to complete the half-finished sketch in his journal. The young giant looked up at her, he was only slightly startled by the intensive stare she was casting him. It did not hold judgement but more so one that was curious.  

“What?” Atreus asked uncertainly, hiding the way he felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny.  

The other giant’s eyebrow twitched up only slightly at him, but other than that she did not give too much away about what she was truly thinking, “Are you... happy? You seem far off sometimes like you’re here but not really here. You know what I mean?”   

Atreus sighed, one hand running through short red hair, “Yeah- I mean of course I am-” Atreus paused for a brief moment, his mind trying to figure out how to word it. “- I guess, I dunno, I sort of miss all of them you know?”  

Angrboða’s face broke out into a kind and understanding smile before she spoke once more, “Of course you do. They’re your family, silly. We can always go visit them if you’d like. Not like our people are going anywhere anytime soon.”  

Atreus blinked his icy blue eyes as though he hadn’t expected that answer, “Really?”  

“Really,” Angrboða nodded encouragingly.   

“I mean... we’ll finish what we have to here first and then maybe go back. Just for a quick visit,” Atreus said hurriedly, as though he thought she would think he was giving up on their quest.  

It seemed in Angrboða infinite ability to read Atreus- either through whatever precognition she had or for her strange ability to tell what Atreus was feeling even before he knew himself. Atreus wore his emotions more than he tried to hide them, when he was curious his face slacked with fascination and when he was troubled his face contorted in a funny way that made Angrboða giggle when she knew it wasn’t anything serious. While Atreus tried to maintain that all too tough exterior, Atreus’ front faded rather quickly when he thought people weren’t looking- when the need to appear strong was no longer needed. Angrboða wanted to tell him it wasn’t needed, not around her at least, that it wasn’t a weakness to feel things and show it.   

“C’mon,” Angrboða nodded her head in the direction of a nearby mineshaft, the trail that they had been following from the hidden tablets on Jotunheim had led them across the majority of the realms thus fair- this particular one to a mineshaft in the dwarven realm. “We’ll finish up here and then head back to Vanaheim.”  

Atreus looked all too ready to agree, his head jerking up and down excitedly, taking in Angrboða hands as she lifted him off the ground from where they had been sitting together, “Sure!”  

The giantess looked at Atreus with an excited expression, her favourite part of travelling the realms were being able to take the time and actually see it! Angrboða thought back to her life before, trying to remember a time when she had ever truly felt this free- gone outside the confines of destiny and prophecy. It had never truly happened until Atreus had told her it was possible to be more than what was written down by others. She loved her people, but sometimes she felt they were wrong for believing the only path was the one that was written. Her eyes often widened with wonder when she saw things she had only dreamt of, smiling as the ever-familiar feeling of the thrill of discovery coursed through her body. How had she ever lived before? She could never return to her life before, not after this.  

Despite this though, a small part of Angrboða missed her old life with her animals, and the smell of the fresh flowers blooming. She had been there so long, so had no reason to even think that she was without this sense of freedom she had now. She wouldn’t know what her family would think of her now, upset maybe for neglecting her duties in their realm. Yet, the more she thought about the matter, the more she realised she was happier than she was.  

The two trailed through jagged rocks and flimsy decaying wooden structures that lined the tunnels, “I will say one thing-” Angrboða started, her eyes gazed above to the enclosing tunnels, ever creeping smaller and smaller until it felt as though they would suffocate the two of them. “-I do not like mines shaft.”  

It didn’t seem to bother Atreus though, he almost looked... happy as he explored through the tight spaces with wonder. “I don’t know... isn’t it exciting exploring areas that haven’t been touched in years?”  

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re more dwarf than giant,” Angrboða teased but followed after Atreus nonetheless.   

When an hour passed, and they had rummaged through most of the rooms with little success, they continued to make their way through the extensive tunnel systems- though with less enthusiasm than they had at the start. The two Jotunns did not pay much attention to which rooms were which at this stage, too absorbed in the increasing feeling of resignation that grew the longer the supposed ‘marble’ was not found.   

Even though they had written instructions from the Jotunns for where some of the souls were, it was a struggle to make sense of it at times and at worst the environment had changed with age. Buildings collapsed, and pathways eroded away. Angrboða helped, she understood Jotunn culture a lot more than Atreus did, but that could only guide them so far. They both felt this grief inside at the loss of a culture they never got to truly know from their people, only adding to the burden they felt to find each other's soul.  

There were times when Atreus asked himself whether he was failing them. Whether he was strong enough to bring back their people or whether they had been wrong to believe him their Champion.  

Those thoughts often crept inside his mind when they explored as silently as they did now when the moment failure felt real enough that he could not find one simple soul. Atreus let his hand gloss over long-abandoned cups that sat covered in dust on a workbench. He breathed in the stale air, looked around at the mess... and felt hopeless. The grief inside him did not lessen. In fact, it increased with every failure they met, to the point where he thought they were wasting their time following trails that never led to anything.  

What was the point? Atreus thought, when they had only saved a few souls and the rest were probably lost forever.    

How was he meant to feel like a Champion anyway? Odin was still alive- Ragnarok meant nothing- and his people were still lost because he couldn’t follow a stupid map! Atreus glanced sidelong at Angrboða, who was looking at a small carved wooden dwarven statuette. She was the only reason he kept going, kept trying because he couldn’t let her down.  

She always looked hopeful, smiled and said it was okay when they didn’t find one.   

Atreus barely was aware of the echo of noise from a room, but he did notice the way the cup slipped out of Angrboða’s fingers- still gentle enough to not make a noise as she rested it back on the table but her eyes widened to Atreus. Then there was another thud and Atreus could feel the impact rubble through the stone, shaking off dust long settled from the ceiling. It seemed muffled yet frantic as the thudding continued, as though someone was throwing things frantically around. It was a startling contrast to the sombre quiet that the two had become accustomed to in the mines. Soon that quiet was a distant memory- the thundering constant in the mines.  

“Thought this place was abandoned?” Angrboða whispered, the two of them now crouching as they tried to pinpoint the source of the noise.   

“That’s what Sindri and Brok said!”  

A small part of him wondered whether the two dwarves had simply made a mistake, but for the most part, this mineshaft had appeared abandoned- both in appearance and smell. Plus the dwarves would know better than either of them about their own realm, whoever was here had not been here for long. And they were looking for something by the sounds of it... surely it was a coincidence.  

Then there was that sudden foreboding feeling that washed over Atreus- because nothing involving him had never been a pure coincidence- and that feeling suddenly made him hyperaware, fingers itching for his bow and Angrboða’s laid heavy on her satchel of concoctions.   

“Alright,” Atreus nodded to Angrboða, both understanding each other without so many words. “We’ll have a look but then we should leave.”   

Atreus and Angrboða haunted the tunnels of the mineshaft, creeping in silence as the thundering crashes became louder and louder, concoctions held, and an arrow notched into a bow as they anticipated the unknown. They staggered to a halt, finally reaching the door that held behind it the now deafening thudding. Their stance was hesitant as Atreus dared to pull the door ajar enough to peek inside, but the adrenaline that pumped through the two kept them firm in their actions. And it seemed they had a good reason for it, because behind the door stood a very tall and very imposing figure clad in fine armour and wings that spanned almost the entire space of the tiny room- it made Atreus wonder how such a being managed to get into these tunnels, to begin with.  

“You know her?” Angrboða whispered in something that was barely audible.  

“That’s Gna, Odin’s Valkyrie Queen, I don’t know what she’s-”  

Atreus' train of thought was interrupted when the Valkyrie finally stopped her frantic search of the room, her grunts and growls of annoyance bore into the room until suddenly she paused. Both sides paused in that silence, the tension growing in it. Atreus almost gasped when he finally caught sight of what paused Gna in her search and realised that they were both lucky and unlucky at the same time.  Because there, held in the palm of Gna’s hand rested a familiar-looking marble, one that would have had the two gasping if not for the pressing need to be silent right now. Their legs shook and arms felt weak, barely able to keep a hold of the bow that Atreus still held upright. The two tried to figure out why, why was Gna here and why did she now hold the soul the two had been searching for in her hand now. Gna’s fingers closed dangerously over the marble, as though she meant to crush it in her hand and yet she didn’t. They could not let her leave with that soul. They had to fight her, they realised with dawning fear. And that was a fight neither of them would be able to win.  

Atreus could see the way Gna held the soul as though it was nothing, the threat of crushing it still loomed dangerously in the air like a temptation that coaxed the Valkyrie to cave in. Even from their position by the door, Atreus could see Gna’s shake with that want. But whatever force stayed her hand won out and she placed the marble in a small satchel, hanging it to a hook on her waist. Almost forgetting his own limitations, Atreus made to storm into the room, stopping what he thought would be Gna leaving with the soul of their people until Angrboða’s hand held his shoulder firmly back. Atreus’ eyes flicked down, and he understood.  

They couldn’t fight Gna, but they could still get the soul. And they would.   

With a tiny smirk, Angrboða disappeared into the haunting shadows of the mines, manipulating the shadows to cloak herself as she made her way inside. Atreus still could not understand Jotun’s abilities the way Angrboða could, but he never really questioned it when the forces of nature seemed to bend to her wishes. But even if she bent the shadows to her whims and concealed herself, it still made approaching Gna dangerous if she focused too much on Angrboða. So, when Angrboða reached for the small satchel, carefully extracting the marble and exchanging it for a random stone so as not to draw attention to the change- there was a moment where Atreus thought they could slip in and out without a confrontation.  

It almost worked.  

Almost.  

Until Gna’s expression twisted into a snarl, and she slashed her arm backwards at Angrboða, causing her to fly back with a thud onto a nearby bench. It was only a moment of startled shock that held back Atreus but in the next, he let loose arrow after arrow at the Valkyrie, only able to due to the shock she was in. They couldn’t stay for long, couldn’t risk facing Gna in full battle, so Atreus took the chance to run towards Angrboða, hand outstretched and pulling her up roughly so they could make their escape.  

Once the shock had left Gna and the realisation dawned on her that the soul-filled marble was no longer where it should be. Her head snapped to the two escaping giants, shrieking in fury as they scrambled out of the room and out of sight- wings twitching in that anger as she made after them.   

Invigorated by the thrill of the chase, the two giants weaved through places that the Valkyrie Queen could not follow, though that did little to prevent her from merely smashing through walls- causing the mineshaft to shake with threatening instability. Soon, the mineshaft was less of a complex tunnel system and more like a large open cavern, and soon the two giants were running out of space to duck and weave from the furious swings of the Valkyrie’s blade. Atreus face turned grim as the dawning realisation that they were getting closer and closer to not escaping this.  

“Come out and return what you have stolen,” Gna said, the Valkyrie Queen’s eyes scanned the now open space for a long moment and continued, voice becoming dangerously low as her fury grew. “And receive a quick death for your transgressions.”   

The two giants stared at each other, eyes flicking to escape exits that seemed tempting if not for them being directly in the path of Gna. Then, Gna began to get even more angry the longer the silence drew out. Her fury was the terrible kind, unpredictable and vicious, raising the hairs on their arms almost like a haunting fright. After a full minute of stewing in that vicious silent fury, Gna let out another mighty swing at a support beam- the ceiling groaning in protest. It seemed that was an error on her part, the ceiling groaned once more until something gave way- the ceiling collapsing on the Valkyrie Queen until it pinned her to the floor immobile.   

She sneered viciously as she tried to leverage herself out, yet the weight of rubble and steel remained heavy on her and the two giants dared to emerge from their hiding spot.  

“Giant rats,” Gna sneered. “Vermin should have been killed years ago.” Gna stared at the two, leering openly at them as she struggled to remove the weight atop of her. “The All-Father's wrath will be unimaginable when he returns.” Her eyes continued to burn into their skulls when she spoke.   

“How did Odin know where this was?” Atreus asked, his face only slightly paling when he thought about what they could mean for all the other souls still lost to them.  

“The All-Father knows a great many of things,” Gna smiled, revealing snarled teeth. “What you have done is only a mere setback for him, he will return, and you will quack at his feet and beg for his mercy.”  

“Come on, Loki,” Angrboða urged, her hand reaching out to his as she tried to pull him away. Her face looked between the two, a mixture of fear and concern riddled her soft features. “Let’s get outta here.”  

Gna began to speak in a low, deliberate tone, “You think Ragnarök stopped him? Think I am the only one still loyal at his side? The All-Father has eyes on every corner of these realms, if you even think that you can escape retribution-”   

“Loki, we’ve heard enough, we need to go. Now,” Angrboða pressed, eyes imploring the other giant.   

Gna smirked up at them, eyes glinting with a cruel and all too knowing malice, “Yes, run little runt while you still can, you won’t be able to for much longer.” Finally, Atreus listened to Angrboða and they turned away, Gna’s voice fading in the distance. “The All-Father knows what you are trying to do and knows that you will fail, giant scum! You people will remain a forgotten memory, a mark in history so insignificant that none will remember your names-”  

Her voice was now so faint that even the echoes in the mineshaft could not carry it to the two giants' ears.  

When the two finally stood in direct sunlight and breath in the fresh air, it did not dispel the echoed snarled words of Gna that acted as a phantom reminder to the two, yet it did help them breathe a sigh of relief. They stared mutely at the hot springs around- thankful that the mine had not collapsed fully in Gna’s fury. With a sigh of relief, Atreus looked to Angrboða and dared to also give a small smile. “Least we found it.”  

Angrboða returned the smile but remained silent, her posture only relaxing a fraction and her eyes still remained wide as she tried to comprehend the rush of events that had just unfolded. Her hand cradled the marble gently, a warm reminder of their small victory today despite everything. She wanted to relish in it- to share in that joy with Atreus now- but she knew that they had to leave and find safety soon. The feeling of Gna’s threat was all too pressing on the back of her mind and she did not want to wait and see if Odin had others around to aid the Valkyrie.  

In the distance, the hot springs ruptured and burst, spraying hot water into the air and covering the sounds of the two’s thundering heartbeats. Atreus looked outward to it, watching as the clear sky rolled with white clouds, and blinked as the crescendo of adrenaline died down. Soon enough, their feet found their way away from the entrance of the mineshaft and to the nearest Yggdrasil gate, the spray of the hot springs caused the ground to grow muddy and wet as the drops made their way in specks.  

When they finally made it through and gazed upon Sindri’s house, there was that true sense of relief that caused whatever tension remained in the two to dissipate in a second. The two laughed- in hysterics or due to the overwhelming relief, they could not say- as they reeled from their confrontation with Gna.  

“I can’t believe we made it out,” Atreus whispered half due to breathlessness and half due to disbelief. “We actually got one too!” His shoulders shook with excitement, and he gazed up to the sky, basking in the hues of the Yggdrasil tree. “I mean, Gna was a slight setback, didn’t expect to see her there. But we got it, Angy! We actually got one-” Atreus felt himself rambling only after the words had all but tumbled out of his mouth, yet he couldn’t stem the giddiness he felt because of it.  

They had found one!  

They had found one!  

They had found one! They had saved one of their people, they had actually done it!  

“Oh! It’s you two!” the door to Sindri’s house was now open, revealing said dwarf who hovered awkwardly between inside and outside as though he didn’t know whether to go out and greet them or not. His eyes were torn between the nervousness that was his constant state of being and the joy he felt at seeing his friend again so soon. It was up to Atreus and Angrboða to make the decision and walk towards the house, staring at Sindri with wide grins as they entered his home. The dwarf’s house had become a home away from home... away from home sort of deal. Jotunheim was where they stayed mainly between searches, but it was also good to stop in and see the dwarves on occasion- especially when they had the threat of Odin at their heels. “So, do tell, did the ahh, mine have the little marble thingy?”  

“It did,” Atreus nodded, the two words coming out more hesitant than happy which did not go unnoticed by Sindri. It was the voice Atreus used when he was hiding something, a voice Sindri had heard all too often when they would sneak around behind Kratos’ back. High pitched and too forceful. It caused Sindri to cross his arms across his chest and cock an eyebrow at Atreus in doubt. The boy caved almost instantly, sighing, “Fine... we may have run into Gna.”  

Sindri’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he heard the name, looking between the two as though he thought he may have misheard. Yet there was no mischief in either of them, all Sindri could see was the seriousness behind them, “Gna... as in Odin’s Valkyrie Queen Gna. As in she’s still out there and oh my- are you hurt?!” It was almost a frantic screech, Sindri’s hands suddenly fretting over the two in worry, Angrboða giggling at the display of concern in the dwarf.   

“No,” Atreus chuckled, pushing away Sindri’s hand gently. “No, but it wasn’t random. She was looking for the soul marble.”   

And that was far from good, they had realised that in the mineshaft and Sindri understood now instantly as well. Because now this was no longer a simple leisurely search for these souls, now it was a race against whatever clock Odin had sent. The same feeling Atreus had felt leading up to Ragnarok, and he would not be so bothered by it... if it didn’t involve the souls of the last Jotunns. The last few people that remained, now there was a battle looming to fight for their lives from whatever Odin had planned.  

Because Gna hadn’t simply destroyed that soul. Atreus didn’t know what was worse than, Gna simply crushing the soul into nothing... or bringing it back to Odin for some unknown purpose. That left an icy coldness inside his chest, slowly it crept into his soul so suddenly that Atreus felt himself stiffen on the spot. How many had they already gotten? How had they known where this one was?  

He should just focus on the soul they had saved now, they had done good, he tried to remember. Angrboða would tell on to focus on the positive and the positive was they now held one of their people... Dúfa.  

Chapter 20: beginnings and decay

Notes:

Getting closer and closer to the end folks and I'm starting to get a little sad that this story is coming to a close!

It's been a long journey with this one, but I'm so happy with how it's been going!

Anyway! Along with the show!

Heimdall was unsure whether he was glad to be back in however this classified to be a ‘family’ or not. Although much of him- at least the old part of him- did not wish to, he felt he was expected to conform to this... family lifestyle now. Thor, Thrud, Sif, and the others would want to see Heimdall be a part of it, make sure he was alright after Thor told them of that night, and Freya had all but been pushing him to get in contact with Atreus now that she believed the giant to be the key to his mothers locations. But Heimdall found himself wishing he could avoid it all and just find the highest peak in all the realms and simply listen to the quietness of it all.   

Would it be that bad? To disappear suddenly? He couldn’t do that to his mothers- he had to make sure they were alright but... after, could he not just escape to a place where no one knew him and forget? It was a desperate idea, one born of tiredness that had been creeping into his bones for so long. I don’t need to be here afterwards; I don’t owe anyone here anything. So why do I feel guilty at the thought of running away from them?   

As Kratos and Heimdall returned through the gates of the camp after another training session, Heimdall spotted Freya walking quickly towards them, a look of both happiness and concern was a strange mixture on her face. It was even more startling when the goddess came up to him and gave him a firm squeeze on his shoulder, her mind swirling with thoughts of the little giant and his mothers in a confusing mess. Heimdall almost gave a small yelp of strength if he could not stifle it before it came out.  

“Good, you’ve returned,” Freya said, her voice barely concealing her emotions as they wavered slightly. “Atreus has returned with some... troubling news.”  

“Odin,” it was his foresight that supplied as much and Freya’s nod confirmed it, he tried to discern whether he was more surprised or resigned to the news. They always knew that Odin would return eventually; it was never a question of if, but when. 

“Unfortunately,” Freya grimaced, pulling away from the Aesir. “Come, we have much to discuss.”   

There was that part in Heimdall that once more that whispered to leave, call him a coward if you liked but Heimdall had good reason to believe his father capable of a great many things.  

“- well laddie, quite the adventure you’ve been on,” the distant voice of Mimir drew closer as the three gathered around the meeting area at the centre of camp.  

The negotiations between the Vanir and the remaining Aesir had been a strenuous and... slow process, pickering between Hildisvíni and Mimir was becoming a constant in the makeshift village- it took less than a heartbeat for Sif to slam her fist in the table half the time to get them to pause for but a moment and even then that did not quell the two's need to outdo one another. 

“Father!” was the first thing out of the young giant's mouth before he came barreling into the man, grasping at Kratos as though he feared he would lose him if he let go. And Kratos did not hesitate to return the embrace, holding his son as though they had been apart for too long and perhaps they had.  

It was a surprise to Heimdall that it was Angrboða who approached him first, a careful yet knowing smile on her face. Her eyes roamed his and lingered and yet- it was the strangest of things that Heimdall could not actually see into them. It... well, it reminded him of his mother when he had stayed with her... and that was the most peculiar thing about it.  

“Need something, giant?” Heimdall pressed, sounding annoyed when his sight was aiding him little to tell him why she approached him. “Do you not... have other people who would actually enjoy your presence to annoy?”  

“It’ll be okay, you know,” Angrboða said instead. Her smile did not dim, as if to emphasise her point and it was even stranger when her words provided him with comfort of all things. “Whatever happens, it will be for the best.”  

Heimdall cocked an eyebrow at her but said nothing more before sighing, “Shall we talk about whatever scheme our dead-beat father has come up with or are we to continue to pass pleasantries and pretend all is well?”  

“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed again, Heimdall?” Mimir asked from his spot on the table.   

“If I did,” Heimdall started. “You would be at the bottom of one of these rivers by now.”  

Hildisvíni gave a hearty chuckle, a playful pat on Mimir’s head which had the goat scowling, “Perhaps I should get on Heimdall’s better side, might solve a few of my problems.” The scowl deepened on the golden-eyed goat’s face. “Ahh, do not fret my good friend, Mimir, I wouldn’t be so obvious in my actions to be rid of you.”  

“You mentioned Odin, Atreus,” Freya prompted eyes wandering to Atreus, who had now released his father from that death grip of a hug. The grudge between Hildisvíni and Mimir would not be let go anytime soon- though it had lessened considerably so to more of a playful banter. It was more necessary to steer the conversation elsewhere lest they go round in circles on whatever benign petty faud the two were hung up on.  

“Odin’s searching for the Jotun souls, we saw Gna trying to take one,” Atreus informed them, his eyes falling to the small marble in his hand.   

Freya frowned, eyes darkening, “Gna should have taken the opportunity to free herself from Odin while she still could, instead she chooses to remain by his side.”   

“What could he want from Jotun souls though?” Mimir queried, his brows furrowed with his curiosity. “We knew he’d surface sooner or later to use Heimdall for whatever plan he had but this doesn’t make a lick of sense.”  

“Mark my words, whatever plans Odin will fail before he can so much as blink,” Freya said darkly. “We can only hope that he is nowhere closer to his end goal before we can move to strike, we must no longer dally, we end this now.”  

The group all seemed to nod in agreement, Heimdall- however- remained staring now at the small marble in Atreus’ hand. Surely... it must simply be a coincidence. Yet his mother’s words echoed in his mind like phantoms that whispered to the living in desperate pleas. Because she had told him it would be Atreus to lead him to them and now his father sought out these souls...  

But every fibre in Heimdall’s protested that reality because he was Aesir. He wasn’t... couldn’t be Jotun. It did not make sense and yet his father had spun nothing but lies to him his entire life. Every part of him had been fabricated- had he never known any truth about himself? And then Angrboða was smiling at him- though not a smile that was filled with joy but when that spoke of comfort and understanding- and that was enough. That was enough to tell him more than his foresight ever could.  

“All well and good milady, but we haven’t the faintest idea what the bastard actually has planned,” Mimir grimaced. “It seems as though Odin’s plans are far more complex than we first realised, I’d dare say Heimdall may not have been his first target like we thought he’d be.”   

“Or maybe it still is,” Heimdall said grimly, his eyes only just lifting from the marble cradled in Atreus’ hand. Perhaps the souls were not as random as they all presumed them to be...  

Atreus finally looked at Heimdall with a curious gaze, “What would Jotun souls have to do with you?”  

Heimdall wetted his lips a nervousness about him so foreign in the place of company, “My mother said that you would lead me to them... if Odin is going after these souls-” Heimdall paused for a moment. “- it stands to reason they could possibly be-”  

“Wait,” Atreus said, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’d make you part Giant then! I wonder if we could be related?”  

The golden-haired Aesir narrowed his eyes, an annoyed huff escaping his lips, “You’d have more chance of being related to my oaf of a brother than me, junior.”   

“But there’s a chance,” the grin alone was enough for Heimdall to wish it was not true.  

“Focus you two,” was the only warning Kratos gave the two and it seemed enough to quell the bickering- an amused grin finding its way on Freya’s face, but she made no motion to comment thankfully.   

“Alright, well if this is one of Heimdall’s mothers-” Mimir started.  

“Wait, one?” Atreus looked around confused.  

“- why don’t we check the name, you got the names of them, right Heimdall?”  

Annoyance was commonplace on the god of foresight’s face these days, a short huff escaping his lips, “I only know one- Blóðughadda- forgive me if I did not interrogate her for the eight others.”  

Atreus stared at Heimdall in disbelief, “You have nine mothers? Wow, um- well that’s not the name on this one though... this one-” Atreus held up the marble. “Dúfa?”  

“Ahh, well that makes sense now,” Mimir said.  

“You going to speak, Mimir? Or shall we boost your ego and make wrong guesses until you gloat with the right answer?” Hildisvíni groaned, eyeing Mimir who scoffed at the accusation.  

“Well in the interest of saving time,” Mimir said, his tone too higher than thou if only to annoy Hildisvíni. “I shall just tell you, I knew the name Blóðughadda sounded familiar, couldn’t quite put my tongue on it though. But the name Dúfa jogged the old memory- Heimdall, your mothers would appear to be the Nine Daughters of Ægir and Rán- all daughters of the sea each a personification of the waves, might explain why your dreams are always so focused on the ocean.”  

There was a time when Heimdall might have looked upon Mimir with disdain, though he still scoffed at the man, he could not find the will is disliked him anymore- not when he told him more of his mothers than anyone else ever had. “Did you ever meet them?”  

“Not personally, no, lad,” the young Aesir thought about this, torn between clenching his fists and being saddened. Did he want to meet them? Did he want to pretend they were never there, to begin with? Did he really need to have them so close and lose them again?  

It was the first time he realised that he was scared of having them so close only for them to be ripped away once more by Odin. The pain that would come with that... perhaps it would simply be better for them to remain in the past now that he thought about it, a memory that was never his, to begin with. But he knew he could not do that. Could not will this to a forgotten corner in his past that remained buried. Not now.  

“You ready, Heimdall?” Atreus asked delicately- all jovialness lost and in its place a softness that Heimdall had known the boy to hold when he cared. “I’ll need an empty host, but we could do it now if you want?”   

“No point in delaying,” Heimdall murmured. “We need to know if this is what Odin is truly doing. I need to know.”   

Freya gave Heimdall a grim, heavy look. “And when we do, Heimdall,” with an effort to keep her expression as calm as possible- stemming the storm Heimdall saw behind her eyes. “We will make sure he pays for it.”   

“Easier said than down,” the young Aesir said under his breath, thinking of how long they had all been saying that- how long they had made promises of making Odin pay only for the man to continue to ruin every part of their lives until there was nothing but ash and desolation left in his wake.  

It was Angrboða who handed Heimdall the marble, his mother’s name- for he knew without needing to see her, that it was his mother- hummed with a bright glow, “Perhaps to the river? She might find comfort in the waters.”  

“Yes,” Heimdall whispered, the thought of what his other mother said ghosted in his mind once more like a sharp pain. He could not imagine what it must be like- being parted from something so close to your being... “I imagine she would appreciate the gesture.”  

The younger giantess nodded, her hand finding Heimdall’s and taking him towards one of the docks with Atreus, the group had hushed- the feeling of the moment sombre as they studied the three. Heimdall took a moment longer to hold his mother before passing her over to Atreus.  

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Atreus asked. “I- I can understand if you need a moment-”  

Heimdall sighed, and for once he did not want to rebuff the younger giant- instead giving him a reassuring smile, “I will be alright, do what you must.”  

He knew he would, Heimdall tried to reassure himself, but looking at the marble- knowing that in the next few moments perhaps he may see a part of himself that had long since been lost to him- he could not make himself believe that he would ever be ready for it.  

It was not moments- no it was mere seconds that felt like decades drawn out in slow motion. The magic was oddly beautiful, Atreus’ hand drawing out the wispy soul from the now dimmed marble in a coaxing fashion, dragging it down to the lifeless fish that had met its untimely end- its last gasps of air faded and its eyes whited when life left it. The Aesir stared, mesmerised, not trusting his sight as he watched white eyes return with colour. With a flick of the tail, gills spasm for air. With a struggle, the fish- his mother?- finally freed itself from Atreus’ hand, wriggling its way into the cool waters. For a moment, nothing happened and there was a stillness in Heimdall that dropped into a sinking feeling of despair like a stone sinking further and further into the depths of an ocean and he could not find a way to gasp for air once more.  

And then a hand reached up from the water to his own, soft and delicate- a ghost that hovered coolly over his skin. Heimdall was unsure of what to do for a moment, his heart raced impossibly fast in his chest and he was... scared. It was foolish to be scared and yet he could not quell that fear of rejection from his mother. Because how could she not reject him? He who had despised the Jotunn race for so long, spat their names with venom so toxic he thought it burnt his tongue when he spoke on them.   

The water rippled, the surface broke and for a moment he thought it was Blóðughadda, the same fiery red hair spilt with the water like red foam atop a wave. Her eyes are similarly the same shade of piercing blue and if not for the difference in her facial structure, Heimdall would not know her to be Dúfa instead. Then her hand tightened, in a reassuring way- in a mother’s tender touch and that was enough. Enough for Heimdall to let go of that final strand of resistance that he had built inside. Walls crumbled- ones he had not even remembered building, to begin with- and piece by piece they shattered further, Dúfa’s hand trailing further up his arm until it cradled his face- their eyes meeting and they shared a life that never happened.  

“My little ram,” her voice was honey-sweet, resounding in his eyes and bursting into flames within him. “How we have longed to gaze upon you- to see how you have grown.” Her eyes dimmed and swam with sadness, “We only regret not being able to.”   

Heimdall hesitated, surprised by her words, and he could only fumble simple words to soothe whatever guilt he was seeing behind her blue eyes, “There is nothing to forgive. Never.”  

The water rippled as she pulled herself from its depths, towering over Heimdall and the other giants as she stood tall- taller than even Thor. A pitching wave crashed down on the shore and then she was crashing him in the tightest of embraces and he melted into it, his arms circling her into that same crushing embrace until he thought of drowning himself in it. He relaxed himself and felt the faintest of smiles warm his face.  

It felt enough, at this moment, enough for him to just want to stay in it and never know anything else. But that was too wishful, a self-indulgence Heimdall would never be afforded so long as Odin lived and threatened to destroy him and everything else in this world to get what he wanted.  

“That is true...” she murmured in his ear, running a soothing hand up and down his spine and offering a comfort never afforded to him even as a child. “But this is not the end, simply a beginning, my son.”   

The Aesir god still, shocked by the words for reasons he did not know, he pulled away from her, eyes narrowed, “How could you know that?”  

“I just know,” Dúfa admitted. “But the time draws nearer to the end of these moments, and I fear my sisters will not have moments after if we do not act now.”   

---  

“I think he’s a mummy’s boy,” said Mimir.

Thor snorted.  

“I always figured he’d be.”  

“I’ve never seen the boy smile and it seem genuine, even when he was Odin’s lapdog.”  

“That’s cause lapdog didn’t require happiness,” Thor muttered. “Can’t see father ever wanting us to be fucking happy.”  

“Aye, that’d be true,” Mimir agreed. “Can’t say that was a requirement for anyone around Odin.”  

“He’s gonna be insufferable with nine of them, reckon he’ll be smiling for centuries.”  

“Don’t reckon it’ll be all too bad of a thing. ‘Bout time something good came to you children, Odin put ya all through something terrible.”  

“Hmm,” was the grunted response Mimir got from Thor to that.  

He was right. It was about damn time his brother started smiling like that again. Thor had just wished it had never disappeared in the first place, how long had it been? Must have been over half a thousand years at this point- probably more with how much the mead had addled Thor’s memory. Closer to eight hundred? Possible. But it felt longer. It felt so, so much longer, it felt as if in the meantime, civilisations had been built and crumbled to decay with that time, it was the way with gods but even this felt like billions of lifetimes had been lived, death coming and going and leaving them behind to be trapped in this limbo and wishing for it. They all must have been trapped in it for so long that the dust in the sky must have turned to stars- the stars even fading and exploding into nothing. But what was time to a god-like himself? He was the God of Thunder, no god of reason or regret. He hardly should be dwelling on the passage of time.  

But anyway, he wasn’t much of a god of anything as of late, was he?  

No, he wasn’t much of anything really as he sat here in this pitiful camp, a shadow of the god he should be, watching as others fussed and worked with purpose, leaning together to talk strategies and moving their hands as though to emphasise meaningful points to one another. All of them acted and what was he doing? Sitting on his ass waiting for someone to order him around- it was all he ever knew. He wasn’t a leader, wasn’t a man of action unless directed to. No, he was a follower without guidance, and he felt pitiful for it. It made him proud of his daughter- she had not fallen ill to Thor’s follies. She sported a desire for leadership much like Sif had when they were young. Even now she spoke with confidence with Sigrun- even challenged the old Valkyrie Queen and that made Thor smile as he watched his daughter train with them. And Sif... Sif was finding purpose once more, sharp with her mind as she discussed politics and guided their people to safety that Thor could never hope to give them. Thor found that hard to think about- it should have been him leading their people to safety and yet he could not and he did not hold that against Sif, he loved her even more for possessing a strength that he could not have in himself.  

Still, he watched on as everyone around him argued and argued about their next steps, it was only peaceful near Heimdall who fussed over his mother in a rather surreal fashion. Never had Thor ever thought to see such attentiveness in Heimdall- even as a child before Odin’s corruption. It was rather humorous, he supposed, the way Dúfa towered over Heimdall and yet his brother thought to fuss over her. So drunk on this euphoric feeling Heimdall had at that moment, so content that Heimdall had sat and talked with a freedom that he never had before while Thor sat here and felt miserable in his existence. He didn’t begrudge his brother for it, Thor felt happy for him but that did not quell that feeling he felt inside himself.  

He wanted to be angry again. Fuming with righteous fury at Odin, every fibre of his being screamed to ignite the god he used to be, for his thoughts to be empty again and be comforted by the familiar caress of rage. But even when he searched for it now, to find that fury and anger to fuel his purpose, to make his muscles taunt and his eyes ablaze and directed at Odin, he knew it now was an empty well that only fizzled with embers long since extinguished. His fight with Kratos had left him a shell of the god he was, and Odin’s actions to his own blood had deepened that hollowness inside. He had spent hundreds of years relying on that rage to fuel him, a fury unmatched in all the realms, and yet when that was taken from him it only allowed him to feel empty. He was so, so empty. Too empty to find something to drive him.  

So he had nothing to give them as he waited for orders and waited... and waited for a purpose to be given to him once more. Nothing to keep his thoughts from falling deep into that emptiness that was left inside.  

Chapter 21: a fragile promise kept

Notes:

It was quite fun exploring Odin a little more in this chapter, so I hope you peeps enjoy it!

Hope everyone is having a safe and happy long weekend- however you are choosing to have it!

Heimdall thought he would be used to this constant battle with his father; whether it was mentally or physically, he had never known a moment in his life where he had not done a dangerous dance around the man out of fear or worship. Yet now- now that one of his mothers sat across from him and regaled stories of his other mothers, this battle felt all the direr. For it was not just himself that was at risk anymore, now his mothers’ lives were something he had to consider. That he could go back to who he once was, there was a simplicity in that blind obedience he had for the All-Father and his mind had only been driven by a will to serve and obey. Yet now his loyalties were too many and that caused a fear he never thought he would have to swell inside. He had never had that fear with Odin, that worry that something would happen to him. The All-Father was too great for that back then, and yet now he worried for his mothers, brother, his niece and nephew, to his found family with Kratos, Freya and Atreus. Even Mimir- though he would never give the goat of a man that much satisfaction in knowing. There were too many people to care for now and it caused unending anxiety inside himself; he was becoming unfocused in that fear. He’d look up from his spot and wonder who to prioritise now- and if he did and one of the others suffered for it... that would lie on him for not being better. He had never had that happen before. Never had so many people around that he truly cared for.  

It is too much, he thought, glaring into the flames of the fire that sat centre of camp. To wait and not know what to do next. He relied on Atreus to follow the next lead, to find another of his mothers that could already be in the hands of Odin and suffering and yet his All-Seeing ability could not even find them- so what good was he? What good was Heimdall, the All-Seeing God of Foresight if he could not see and protect those whose lives were most precious to him? Ever since his mind and body had drifted from Odin’s grasp, he found himself more unable to hone his abilities to do as he wished, he searched and yet his mind could not grasp. The trees around him tried to hush his turmoil and yet he felt none more at ease. He could not get used to this... inability to master his abilities as he once did, and the threat of Odin was unmerciful in providing him the time to do it. On impulse he stretched his magic out, his conjured arm hummed with magic that felt so foreign and yet it was the only type he had ever known. Had he lost himself so completely now that even his magic rejected him so? Was he no longer the god he once was? Apparently not. He wanted to scream himself hoarse and yet instead he stared into the flames looking for answers that were not there, to begin with.  

“Damn fool,” he muttered, uncertain whether he spoke of himself or another.   

He looked up again to find the first signs of dusk breaking the sky. The wolves peeled the sky apart in their chase- the morning of his hunt of them seemed like such a distant memory now; an impossible feat for a god who lived hundreds of lifetimes. The birds chirped in unison to announce the change in the sky. Heimdall ignored them, just watched the wolves make chase. Their legs moved faster than Heimdall remembered they did; he felt their displeasure for him being here- a bitter resentment for their capture that Heimdall had no energy to argue. Had he not felt the same bitter resentment in his own capture? Had he not hated Kratos and the others for the position they had reduced him to? Heimdall just stared at the sky as day peeled over darkness. One quick transition, so quick that Heimdall thought he could have simply imagined it and found himself willing time to move faster and faster until he could forget his troubles and become lost in it.  

So, Heimdall thought to other things, to Dúfa- who slept soundly in a tent not far from his own, apparently, his sleeplessness had not stemmed genetically and after hours of talking, she had found herself weary. The trauma of the evening had riddled her body and he foresaw her body giving way to it before even she did. She had gushed about that, a pride twinkled in her eye when he caught that before she did. But that pride had been muddied by something sad and that had dulled whatever giddiness Heimdall had felt of finally receiving praise he had long desired from his parents. He could imagine a great number of things that would bring her sadness, her separation from her people, her containment, and being away from her sisters and child. Yet, none of that was a reason his foresight supplied. Instead, it remained with the colour of his eyes and that did not make sense to Heimdall. His eyes had always been this way, a vibrant sign of the Bifrost coursing through his being. Dúfa had sighed instead, plucking a stray hair from Heimdall’s face and tucking it behind his ear, but Heimdall had wanted to press on- to ask why she was saddened by such a core part of his being that caused him to question whether she was disappointed in who he had become. She lulled him though, assured him it was nothing and drifted to sleep without further word.  

Now, Heimdall sat with nothing more than thoughts and worries for a future that seemed too uncertain for him to map out. A fear that he would spend the rest of his life in this uncertainty.  

Heimdall rubbed both hands down his face, maybe because he wanted to tear out that fear that refused to leave him be even for one peaceful moment or maybe because he hoped that when he opened his eyes once more, he’d be able to see a certain future that promised happiness to those he loved. But when he removed his hands, his field of foresight spoke nothing clearer than it had before, still muddled by pathways he could not navigate. He thought to ask his mother for guidance, but to rely so completely on another was as foreign as the thought of happiness to Heimdall.  

Then the trees stilled a shift in the air that cut through his senses like a knife. He straightened in his spot, eyes narrowing as he scanned the forest around him for what caused this sudden sharp tension to fill the air. His senses tuned to the trees, listening to their whispers that spoke of a stranger beneath their boughs. Heimdall stood and just as suddenly his senses focused, the raven that sat in front of him seen before it landed. Huginn. A blitheful sight to hold for Heimdall, the raven cawed at him, its beady eye staring at Heimdall until its wiry voice whispered in his mind.  

The All-Father demands your presence...  

…he asks for you to come without intent to harm and in return, he will trade that for what you desire most...

What he wanted to do was to growl at the blasted raven for daring to speak of negotiations when Odin had proven unfaithful to promised words, but he said nothing, just stared. The raven snapped its beak at Heimdall, the air of displeasure radiating from the thing.   

...your cooperation for the soul of Blóðughadda. A fair trade indeed.   

“ What?” the word came out harshly before Heimdall could control himself and remember the others still lost in sleep.   

A brief silence followed, until the slicing of an arrow cut through the air and narrowly missed the raven’s head as it fluttered its wings to dodge the impending hit, “I won’t miss next time.”  

The threat loomed heavily in the air, so much so that the raven gave one last look at Heimdall before it flew away- its message delivered. Atreus still held his bow, arrow notched, well after the raven was no longer in sight and it had disappeared amongst the foliage of the trees. It didn’t matter though, the damage had been done so to speak. It had taken all but a few words and now that fear that had been brewing inside Heimdall had increased tenfold and he only saw one path that even promised Blóðughadda’s safety. It would cost him much- as was the price when dealing with Odin- but he was ready to pay whatever that price was.  

Heimdall’s gaze met Atreus’, an understanding now settled between them as they knew the time for waiting had passed, spoiled by Huginn’s message. Atreus dropped his bow to his side and Heimdall had the urge to leave now before the others woke. Atreus saw that thought too and all he could do was plead with Heimdall to stay; to think for a moment. And he would. He would not prove to folly twice when Odin made promises he would never keep. But that did not mean he did not consider how much easier it would be for everyone to disappear now and save them from the decision he knew they must all make.  

---  

It had started as a furious and heated debate, Heimdall felt his mind swirl with all their thoughts running through his head in one singular moment and crushing his will to speak.   

“How can we trust that he even speaks the truth?” Freya’s eyes gleamed with that same vengeance that he had seen just before the hours of Ragnarök had dawned. It drew dangerously to all-consuming and Heimdall had almost drowned in it the first time he dared to focus on it for too long- to give him the will to act against Asgard.   

Her twin seemed to frown at the comment though, Freyr had always favoured a peaceful approach to matters and even though he had more reasons than most to scorn the Aesir- he held back with a will that continued to amaze Heimdall, “Sis, we already know he was searching for Heimy’s-” Heimdall hated how Freyr had grown confident enough to use nicknames now- “ mothers, be pretty stupid of him to make this move without backing it up.”  

“Not unless he means to draw Heimdall out alone and without aid,” Kratos argued.   

Heimdall had grown used to the feeling of being in a room and being talked about, it had become annoyingly commonplace, his only distraction came from watching the sparks of Bifrost dance on his fingertips as he absently conjured and danced the sparks between each finger, trying and failing to calm his racing mind. Perhaps Freya was right and it simply was a bluff to make Heimdall act irrationally- yet that did not feel like the case and in the matter of Heimdall, those feelings often weighted to the truth. And Odin knew that. Heimdall was careful to search out the true meaning behind the All-Father's actions now, mindful of hidden intentions that were veiled with sweet half-truths, refusing to allow himself to be the fool who blindly believe his father’s word. Heimdall had gone to great lengths to try and change himself, save for his arrogance.  

Heimdall allowed his gaze to fix upon his mother, Dúfa, watching the way her fear spiked inside when she thought upon her captured sister, the shadow of memories of more joyous times between them pooled in her mind, the ache in her heart when hope seemed to dim inside as if the happiness, she had shown him last night was but a fleeting fancy that faded like a dying sun.  

Unable to live with that, he closed his palm until it formed a fist- the sparks of Bifrost extinguishing in an instant. It would occur to him, at that moment, that the Odin would not hesitate to act on his promise- had he not seven more mothers to use against Heimdall? And what of everyone else that Heimdall cared about now? Should they continue to live in fear of Odin’s wrath? No, Heimdall decided, he could not live with that nor would he allow that be the lot those he cared for suffer for as long as Odin lived. Heimdall raised his head and looked around, everyone was bickering and arguing with each other- their words grew in white noise to Heimdall’s consciousness. Kratos, Atreus, Freya, Freyr, Mimir, Thor, Sif... all arguing with one another for... for him. For the longest time, Heimdall had fooled himself into believing that it had been to spite and kill the All-Father once and for all... but now, now that he looked and saw with startling clearness, he realised the truth. It was now for him as well. And that, Heimdall realised, was why he had to do what he was about to do.  

“I should go,” Heimdall spoke softly, though with how quickly a silence descended on the group one would think he shouted it. Freya paused, that fury in her eyes dimming slightly as her chest heaved from arguing.  

“Heimdall...”  

He shook his head, stopping any protests before he could argue his case for once. He was infinitely reminded how most of his life had been in the hands of others. He focused his gaze onto the unforgiving path before him, the only one that had become clear in the weeks he had been at this camp and watched as he saw that become the only hope for any of them and he knew then, that whatever happened to him, that at least they would be okay and alive by the end of this. That the choice Heimdall was to make would be the right one now. In the hues of his Bifrost eyes, he saw Freya smiling as she looked at her brother- a smile that held a brightness only known before her marriage to Odin- so bright that the light of the sun seemed so feeble to even dare compare it. Thrud had grown into a warrior revered and renowned, Thor glowing with pride that he had yearned for so long and happiness instilled in his being when Sif pressed into him as they watched their daughter together. The echoes of promised future were so warm, so soft, so intoxicating that Heimdall could not resist the urge to reach out with his mind to touch them and even hope to have a brief moment of happiness from them. He searched for it for so long, to know that they would be okay after this. Had spent the months since Ragnarök fearing that no path would ever lead them to that end. But now... now his foresight had shown him something truly treasured and he knew. Knew that whatever sacrifice he was to make- it would be the right one to make. But his mind soon pulled away from that path and found the cold and harsh reality of the steps to get there. A path that would not end well for him, one that would mean the end of his own happiness.  

“I should have a say on what my next steps are to be,” Heimdall continued, his voice strong where his will quivered with what he must do. “This is not... a desperate move on my part to believe in Odin’s false promises. But I will not have those around me suffer to protect me from Odin nor is that the path I see before us.”  

Heimdall stood up, dropping his hands to his side as the warmth from the fire refused to lull his soul, just turned to phantoms on his skin echoing an impression of what warmth was supposed to be until all he wanted to do was extinguish the flames for being pale reminders of how he was feeling, to rip it to shreds.   

“Whatever Odin plans for he intends to do now-” Heimdall found the words foreign on his tongue, working their way out before he could comprehend them. “-and I will not allow him to use my mothers as leverage over me forever. This ends now.”  

It would hurt less this way, hurt less for all of them once he cut this thread and allowed fate to weave whatever web it was intending for him. This was the only way.   

At least, that is what Heimdall told himself every second they moved forward closer and closer towards that murky end.   

---  

When the clouds rolled the skies of Helheim in white frosted blooms, Odin allowed himself to finally acknowledge a hint of hidden beauty in this frost-forsaken realm, resigned to the sacrifices he has had to make to get to this point- just a few more moments of misery before he finally held what he had craved for centuries.  

They could have already been there, all his family and Loki at his side, now. Sharing in that wealth of knowledge, knowing simply that things would be as they should be while Odin continued at his place in Asgard. Yet, they had fought him. Perhaps they feared that unknown that Odin craved, if only they had waited... had faith in him, then they would see. See that what he was doing now, that everything that had happened, had been for the betterment of all the realms. They would understand, understand once they saw what Odin could do.  

He sighed and reminded himself that wishful thinking was not the best use of his mind. Even though a part of Odin- a deep and long since buried part of himself- yearned for his family to see it as he did. He would forgive them all; after, he would forgive them and give them the chance to make amends. And they would, they would beg for his forgiveness when they finally saw what he was doing.   

Norns, why did they have to make it all so difficult? Why did he have to resort to such barbaric means to obtain this wealth of knowledge, had they just understood that it was a necessary evil to get there, that they would be grateful for their sacrifices afterwards? All he had done, all those steps to ensure his children could make those sacrifices- Týr had never understood and giving him a choice to had been Odin’s mistake. He thought perhaps a firmer hand with Thor would have been the correct path, omitting details and fashioning him into a weapon so strong that those who stood in his path would not even dare to intercede. But even then, Thor had faulted- could not think and lead without Odin commending it so.  

He thought he could correct that with Heimdall- and truly Heimdall had been a gift fashioned so perfectly for his purpose; when the waves had brought Heimdall to shore and a mere babe- Odin had wept when he felt that gift only the Giants had held- something lacking in his two other sons. Heimdall had been perfect yet unpredictable. Odin reasoned that dulling the boy’s gifts to his will had been necessary- a small price for the grandness of his gift. His mothers had disagreed but that mattered not when Odin stole the babe from them in the middle of the night. Heimdall had been his to fashion; at first, he wished to be gentle- did not want to dull his natural gifts too much and yet Heimdall had no focus and saw more than Odin wished in certain cases. Too much of his mothers, Odin had thought bitterly, only a slight downfall to the exchange for the Giants’ natural gifts. At first, Odin had not meant to bind Heimdall’s mind so fully to his will and yet the magic inside the child... it threatened even Odin’s and it struck a fear inside that he could not quell. The more he shrouded the child’s mind, the more... manageable he had become but at a cost. Heimdall obeyed. To a fault. The magic had twisted his mind so completely that his foresight had become unreliable in some instances; not so much that Odin could not trust it... but enough to doubt Heimdall. Then Heimdall had become desperate when he noticed Odin’s disappointment- spiteful even and that was a rather undesirable habit.  

But Baldur... Baldur had been perfect. Simple and perfect. That Odin had barely had a hand in crafting, Frigg had managed that all on her own; Odin merely had to nudge the child in the right direction, whisper enough doubts in his ears and he followed Odin’s commands and thought freely to do so just to spite his mother. It was only a shame that the boy was part Vanir and lacked any of the Giant’s gifts to speak of. Had he... Odin would not be where he was now. Playing a desperate game of chance and betting on Heimdall’s wants for his mothers to grant him his deepest desires.  

It wasn’t what Odin had wanted. But again, he was the one being forced to make these decisions. They want a bad guy, they can have one, Odin thought absently, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head was starting to hurt from all of this, all this thinking and waiting and planning. They’ll see... they’ll see once this is all over, that I did it for them. Odin rolled the marble in his palm, Blóðughadda’s name inscribed on the side. It must have been fate, to find hers out of any of them- a destined thread that promised him victory to have the one that Heimdall would remember- even if he had not known at the time that she had been his mother. Once this is over, Heimdall will beg for forgiveness for even questioning me- for doubting me. It still left a bitter taste in Odin’s mouth when he thought back to how easy it had been to break Heimdall’s loyalty- even when Odin had sensed the link of his magic had been severed after his son’s battle with Kratos, he had hoped to mend it only to find Heimdall’s descent to treason a fast and impending one. Better to dull his mind with poison than to allow him to speak against his father.   

The flutter of wings sounded upon Huginn’s return. Odin raised his frown to his most loyal companion and found satisfaction when he knew his message had been received; despite Huginn’s protests on the near loss of his life at Loki’s arrow. He found he could care little for his raven’s complaints- especially when the dawn of the new age loomed so close he could feel it press into the back of his mind.   

“Gna,” Odin called out, knowing his Valkyrie Queen would not be too far from him.  

The metal clink of her steps entered too quickly for Odin to be wrong, “All-Father?”  

“It’s time,” Odin said, turning to face the Valkyrie. “Heimdall will be here, shortly- when he arrives here, do what you do best-” the smile on Odin’s face matched the sickening pleasure that radiated from Gna, knowing what the All-Father had promised her. “- go to Vanaheim and attack the camp with all the forces you can muster; Frigg’s free game as well and make sure they stay on Vanaheim long enough..”  

The last statement lit a fire underneath the Valkyrie’s eyes that often was shielded by forced indifference; the permission to indulge so often denied by the All-Father until now. This, Odin pondered, was true power at its finesse. The ability to invoke such gratefulness by simply giving permission was not a feat many could do.   

“Some troops should remain by your side for protection,” Gna added, the slight hesitation noticeable when she dared herself to amend the All-Father's plan- though she dared nonetheless.  

Instead of the ire that Odin was sure that Gna was expecting, he merely shook his head; holding up instead the marble in his palm, “I have all the protection I need right here; just make sure to follow my orders.”   

The Valkyrie Queen bowed her head, low and purposeful as always and marched away with her orders; the thrill of revenge palpable in the air; almost rolling in waves from Gna as she made her exit. Her armour shone in the white shine of this realm; soon to be tainted and bloodied with the taste of battle and finally, Odin waited for the moment he had been carefully planning for.  

“Well, Blóðughadda,” Odin started, half wondering if her soul inside could even recognise the world around her- such intriguing magic the Jotunn’s did hold; if only they had been more amendable to the Aesir rule. “You’ll finally be getting what I promised to you. I always keep my promises, after all.”   

The silence was all that answered him; not that Odin was expecting much of a response from the marble or the soul within it to be more precise.  

But truly, Odin kept his word. He always did in the end.   

Chapter 22: 'speak of her over my grave"

Notes:

Got a dash of Heimdall's mums, a dash of Freya and a hint of Heimdall being an idiot!

We have everything in this chapter!

Also, feel free to come over to the server! I'm still spitting out coping AUs to this game for some reason and I need more people to pollute with my 'make villains humans too' toxic trait!

GOW Discord link: https://discord.gg/xJ2P6nwbRF

Two thousand and forty-three, two thousand and forty-four, two thousand and forty-five...  

There was a point in her... confinement that Blóðughadda had lost count and had to restart. If she could maintain time here, perhaps madness would not invade her mind as she feared so many of her people would fall to. With the power of her sisters, they could speak and connect with one another for brief moments; but Odin... they all feared Odin and knew well that he had always known where they had been. They risked drawing his attention if they whispered too much, so they waited.  

And they waited.  

And they waited.  

They waited for that moment, that hopeful belief that their son, their little ram, would reach out for them. But it had been so long... so long that Blóðughadda had felt the hope dim in her sisters that their son would never reach for them.  

First, it had been Uðr, her mind dimming faster and soon they never heard from their sister- felt her soul still alive and well, but she remained silent.  

And then Kólga and shortly after Hrönn. Himinglæva. Hefring.   

Hope remained in her sisters Dúfa, Dröfn, and Bylgja, but it had become so dulled that Blóðughadda could barely feel it. It made the will to maintain it in herself ever more challenging to hold onto. But she did. She held onto it for the boy she had seen. Their Heimdall. Their boy. He had been so precious, her mind sharing it with her sisters the moment she had gazed upon him in that cabin. They had all rejoiced, cried and wept. To see him after so long... to touch, to talk and to care for him; had been a cruel blessing from Odin and yet they had all cradled it and begged to stay.  

It had been cruel. It had been the best moment of their lives.  

So Blóðughadda waited and held hope.   

And then... she felt it, faint and dulled. So tainted with the taste of Odin’s foul magic, and yet it persisted and endured, reaching and yearning for them. Her sisters rumbled and stirred, daring to glimmer with that old hope they had not dared entertain until now. The aura that reached for them sang with their son’s energy, so familiar and foreign at the same time but Heimdall’s nonetheless. So, Blóðughadda persisted and went where her sisters could not go anymore, and she held onto that thread that Heimdall had given them and pulled. She pulled until she entered his mind... his dreams so clouded with Odin’s corruption it was all she could do to soothe his mind and ease it for a moment.  

That had been enough for her, for her sisters- to know their son was trying to free himself from Odin’s corruption, yet their hearts melted when he asked for them. They yearned to find them, and they wept further for it. They couldn’t maintain that connection for long- dared not when Odin’s eyes remained so watchful, but just that moment had been all they needed to endure this confinement. To endure what was to come.  

And so, Blóðughadda continued to count, waiting for what would happen next. She waited. And she waited. And she waited. Time ever ticking on at a gruelling and steady pace, the conscious awareness of it pressed on her mind now that she knew the end was near.  

Two thousand one hundred and ninety-one, two thousand one hundred and ninety-two, two thousand one hundred and ninety-three...  

---  

When dawn broke the skies of Vanaheim, Freya found even her brother’s ever-bright optimism dimming when the air soured. The beat of Valkyrie wings condemned this place to battle. Her stomach churned with acid and bile at the thought of it; her nose scrunched at the familiar smell of iron and heat in the air. The first strike had happened only moments after the others had left for Nilfheim to confront Odin- a planned occurrence on her once husband's part, she was sure. Freya knew then that Gna would seek her out, no matter where they were in the battle, that Gna would cut down anyone between them just to prove something to herself of all people.  

Yet even then, Freya had not been prepared for the first strike that Gna delivered, emerging from the shadows as though she had been a viper and Freya, a mouse. The snake is eager, she thought. She had hoped not too keen, yet, even now, with the press of Gna’s heel to her throat, fangs sinking ever so more into the meat of her neck, venom pumping with every press. Vanaheim’s skies had darkened, and yet the fires from battle cast a deathly glow about it. So the calmness of her home warned against the invasion, but Freya could no more have said who would be the victors in either the realm’s fight or her own.  

 It seemed as though now there was no one else but them on the battlefield. The cries and grunts that had been deafening before faded and became mute. They were painted into the background like trees and bushes, a part of the forest. And the forest was filled with so many that Freya couldn’t tell the difference between branch and limb. Some lay bloodied on the forest floor, right where Freya lay now. This fight should have just been between us, Freya thought sourly. But Gna always needed an audience. There was no questioning Gna’s might. In her armour, the new Valkyrie Queen looked bigger than any other person here. Admonished in Asgardian golds, deep reds, and blues, Gna favoured light armour just as much as Freya herself did.  

Even close as the two were now, Freya felt too far from her once friend. Yet in that moment of gloating on Gna’s behalf, Freya quickly struck her old friend’s leg and swiftly removed it from her throat. The ground almost shook when the two finally squared off, yet Freya also felt that might be the resounding thud of her heartbeat as she finally met the gaze of Gna.  

“Why do you continue to follow him?” Freya finally asked. “Even after everything?”  

Gna scoffed through harsh, puffed breath. “I am no traitor.” Gna levelled with venom, lunging forward with precision.  

The Vanir Goddess dodged sideways, tracking the movement with ease. “The only traitor here is you, Gna,” she said as Gna readied herself for another attempt. “And the saddest part is you are too blind to see it.”  

“Silence,” Gna growled.  

Freya’s favoured sword struck forward, but Gna had been ready and took the opportunity to meet it with her own blade, shoving it aside, pulling back from the former Valkyrie Queen to only move forward for her own attack. The Vanir quickly spun away and so continued a dance of fine swordsmanship. Each strike deflected, and each strike was made to kill. Metal screamed on metal, yet it was hardly distinguished from the rest on the battlefield. It wasn’t until Freya’s sword finally kissed flesh a deep cut along Gna’s arm that sliced through the thin fabric and left a long bright red wound. “You were my sister, Gna.” Freya wanted to hiss but felt no venom behind her words. “You turned on me. On our people. On yourself.”  

Gna’s eyes only widened a fraction in response. The only tell before she charged forward with furious intent to hack away at her once friend. Freya had no difficulty avoiding the strike. “You follow Odin to your death and would towards our peoples.”  

“Asgard’s blood is on you! Not me!”    

“Asgard’s blood is on Odin’s hand.” Freya landed another, more lethal strike against Gna’s leg, piercing flesh. Gna swung wildly and missed in return. Freya would scarcely be able to forget now, not when Gna was falling more and more against the physical and mental assault. The Vanir Goddess circled Gna like prey, striking and avoiding retaliation. Gna was losing this fight. And Freya was making good use of that.  

Finally, the final blow was made. Freya’s hand shot up, grabbing at Gna’s wing and bringing it downward- feeling how it threatened to tear from the joint at her back. Gna brought forward her weapon, but she was severely off-balance, and the swing was too far to make contact. The atgeir was soon forgotten by her side as Freya’s grip on Gna’s wings tightened and twisted, yanking her further down until the Valkyrie Queen was on her knees. They wrestled for a moment in the dirt and the leaves of the forest, blood mixing with earth till it clung to both of their skins. The moment Freya’s hold over pinned her down completely was when Gna saw with settled clarity that she had lost this fight.  

“I failed... All-Father...” Freya faintly heard Gna whisper out in breathlessness. Her once-proud voice filled with sorrow. “You would seek to judge me, sister.” Freya finally moved to face the kneeling Gna, recognising the fight long since gone. “You, whose cowardice has left entire realms in ruins?” Gna’s eyes finally met Freya’s, and she looked at her old friend for the first time. “Finish. It.” Freya found no words would bring her old friend ease or comfort as she drew back her sword, the blood on the steel seemed to haunt like a foreboding sign of what was to come. First, there was a clean cut of steel moving through flesh and bone. Then a dull thud to the floor. The battlefield suddenly roared back to life in Freya’s ears as she stared down at her former sister. She found herself unable to find the satisfaction that she thought she once might have had in seeing Gna’s death.  

She did not recognise when the battle had quietened enough. Perhaps it had ended the moment Gna had fallen. She had been staring so long at Gna before she realised when she looked up that the battle had long since ended, and Odin’s forces had retreated. “Freyr?” she called. Her brother beside her rested a firm hand on her shoulder. She would waste no more time pondering on the dead.  

---

“ You know, Heimdall, you don’t have to do this,” Atreus had reiterated for the hundredth time on their journey through Niflheim- the barren and freezing realm had been a place that Heimdall seldom glanced at, the follies of the dead hardly interesting him.   

He was hardly surprised when it had been the little giant to volunteer to come with, nor when Kratos did as well... his brother, well his brother had been only slightly shocked even with his foresight telling him Thor had intended to follow them. The plan, simple as it was, had been to meet Odin as he wanted, retrieve Heimdall’s mother and then trap Odin in the soul marble. Simple yes- but not without room for error, and those errors flared at Heimdall’s foresight as though to relentlessly mock him.  

“You saying I do not want to save my mother?”  

Atreus rapidly shook his head, “No! That’s not what I meant; I-”  

“I know what you meant, junior,” Heimdall said, the bit lacking in his voice. “It is appreciated yet not necessary.”  

Huginn flapped impatiently at them; the raven sent to guide them to where Odin was- meaning he was well aware that Heimdall was not alone and that... that was what was worrying Heimdall the most. It may have been Atreus, but both Kratos and Thor accompanied him, and that did not alarm Huginn- meaning it was what Odin was anticipating.  

They walked the frosted scape; the realm, though, still was alive with the wailing of Sinmara- her agony finding every corner of this place and pounding on Heimdall’s mind like a blacksmith's hammer and raising and falling in a rhythmed beat. The air seemed even more chilled than Heimdall ever remembered it to be, worn echoes of buildings almost completely unrecognisable underneath to building ice of the realm. It had been a place of coldness, of the first kiss of winter that built to the height of the coldest winter night, yet now it seemed to force a blizzard that never ended. It once had been tolerable; once had been a discomfort, but now it felt like it could crush them. As though Sinmara, in her grief, knew those responsible for the death of her beloved and poured every ounce of her sorrow out into this realm. It was consuming, and Heimdall feared for those who dared tarried too long in this realm.  

“This doesn’t feel right,” was Thor’s excellent insight, as always; Although; however, Heimdall was grateful and touched to see his brother come to his aid; the familiar habit of sibling rivalry would not be quelled by it- nor would it erase the hundreds of years they had spent at odds with one another.  

Heimdall hummed an amused hum and shook his head, “Stating the obvious as usual.”  

“I preferred when you knew when to keep your mouth shut.”  

“And I preferred when I did not have to listen to your snoring throughout the night. Did you know you caused the Wall of Asgard to deteriorate so rapidly with your earthquake-inducing snoring? I had to ensure builders were constantly maintaining-”  

“Is this truly a useful way to spend our time preparing for Odin?” was the most polite way Kratos could have ever asked the two to ‘shut up’.  

“Maybe not topical for the issue that is our father, but an alarming issue for the structural integrity of Vanaheim’s architecture,” Heimdall quipped, and he allowed himself to be distracted by it- even grateful that his brother had indulged it whether he knew or not that it had been what Heimdall had needed. Because if he thought too long about what Odin planned and felt too long about what his foresight had been showing him, he feared he would crumple and be consumed by it.  

And when Heimdall caught Thor’s eyes, he was ever thankful for how utterly forgiving his brother could be. When he saw that Thor had meant nothing ill in his words, so undeserving Heimdall felt in that moment for such kindness. He had pulled thread after thread to unravel any love Thor held for him, to fit in the illusion that his brothers had been stains on the Aesir- to lessen the loss he felt when his foresight had only ever shown him the worse in those he had loved. There had been brief glimpses, faults in Heimdall’s will to be what Odin wanted where he had craved his older brother’s jovial nature when they were younger but had known that the Thor he once knew had long since disappeared.  

Having Thor here, to have this bond dare to return... it felt like one more piece had been returned to Heimdall. He could only hope to provide the same to Thor with time. But you are lying to yourself. Heimdall ignored that voice, even as it was louder and louder to the point where he thought himself deaf. Heimdall would miss that. Miss that potential to rekindle that bond with Thor- maybe even search for their older brother and see if he had survived the destruction of Asgard. It had been a wishful hope of his, foolish and not the ending that was planned. No, what was intended was something else at Odin’s hand. He had agreed to the others’ plan if only to allow himself to be here for what was to come.  

Because Odin needed a part of Heimdall that he could not live without.  

Odin needed Heimdall’s magic- his essence and soul- all the fundamental parts that matter in making a person who they were. For what lay beyond a veil that resembled the tear at the roots of the Yggdrasil tree and Odin lacked a fundamental ability to access that secret. Something that Heimdall had glimpsed himself when he connected with the trees through Yggdrasil’s roots, yet it had been a passing glance and nothing more. Heimdall had no knowledge to search further, nor did he even want to discover this secret wealth of knowledge that his father had craved so thoroughly that he had forsaken his own blood to achieve it.  

With Heimdall’s death... they had a chance to stop Odin. To end him once and for all, and that was all that mattered. Of course, he had hoped... wished to get to know his mothers, be there for his family, but that often doesn’t happen, and why should it happen for such a wretched person like himself?  

No, this is it.  

And Heimdall was okay with that.  

Everything had to end at some point.   

Chapter 23: "and watch how she brings me back to life"

Notes:

And here comes the final chapter before the epilogue!

It has been such a journey writing this story from start to finish and actually... ya know, finishing it. Although I have the epilogue to post, this is the conclusion of the main storyline for this series.

I know there are quite a few things left unresolved (the whole Tyr situation being a big one), which is why there is a planned sequel coming out for this one, maybe in the next couple of months or so, given my study commitments at this stage. Honestly, this is what happens when you set out to write a cheesy evil dude redemption arc that spirals into its own full-blown story.

Also link to the GOW Discord for those interested in chatting and memeing with me! https://discord.gg/xJ2P6nwbRF

The roots of the Yggdrasil tree thrummed with such radiant energy here. It beat and surged with a power that was so close to being Odin’s. He had been staring at it, had been doing so for hours; it felt like his as he waited. Odin knew they drew near, Huginn’s link to him warming the closer his raven got- leading Heimdall straight to them. Day and night meant nothing on Niflheim; time was such a loose concept to Odin these days anyway- days could pass, and it was a blink for him, so insignificant was time to someone like himself. He was relatively certain that there had been an oversight for many of his errors in the past. Had he paid attention to its passage, would things be as they were now? Would he have planned everything out with a little more care than he had? It didn’t matter anymore, not when everything was finally falling into place anyway, and he had the taste of understanding drawing ever closer.  

The path before him was so clear, even when he lacked his son’s gift for foresight- so wasted on Heimdall. If only Odin had realised this to be the proper path to victory, to begin with, then maybe he wouldn’t have lost so many valuable assets in the process.  

Ah well, dwelling was pointless now.   

It was-  

Then he felt them... Loki and his father were expected- Thor not so much, but that was no bother. How peculiar it was that Thor and Heimdall would work together; in the past, it would have made Odin somewhat proud, but now he just resented the fact. None of them would be able to do anything anyway, not with what was to come next.  

“So nice of you, Heimdall-” Odin spoke, his eyes not leaving the Yggdrasil roots that broke through near the centre of the realm of Niflheim- the thinnest point between the tree and the realm and a point of access for those who dared test the boundaries of the tree’s potential. “-to listen for once in your life to reason and think.”  

When the All-Father finally turned to meet the ire of those that opposed him, he was unsurprised and unfazed when he was met with raised weapons and hateful glares. Before, when Ragnarök was descending on Asgard, he might have been at least shocked to see it. To his eyes, though, it only instilled his belief that what he was about to do must be done.  

They will understand once they see it.  

They will understand when they know it was done for a reason and that this all had a purpose. Every action he made and every step he took was made with purpose.  

For how could they live as they do now? Without knowing the purpose of all of this? Odin had lived so many lifetimes and found a purpose for nearly everything in existence except for them- was there something grander beyond this point? There had to be... there must be, because if there was not...  

Then it had indeed all been for nothing.  

But even now, now when he knew in those Bifrost-tainted eyes of his son that his son would never understand- so much potential wasted on someone so small-minded-“ I came as you asked, release her, and I will willingly submit to what you intend to do.” Heimdall spoke with a confidence he had never once dared to level at his father.  

Something vague flashed in his son’s eyes. He thought it wasn’t there at first, and for a moment, Odin was ever curious about what his son saw of the future before them now, the knowledge that it held. He wanted to ask, wanted to dare even be jealous of such talent, and yet he did not. For what good was seeing on someone who never understood it to begin with? Odin had lifetimes on Heimdall, seen the way the universe spun its tricks, Heimdall was still a child. He was foolishly believing that there was freedom to choose on the Fate's given paths. But the Fates had never been kind, and Odin knew even they were bound to the laws of the universe. So, what could Heimdall possibly see at that moment? And realised then that this was it. That the flash in his son’s eyes was understanding- defeat mixed with acceptance.  

And that was so satisfying, a victory before a victory.   

“Of course,” Odin chuckled, a mirthless and empty one but a delirious and maddening chuckle. “Of course, I keep my word after all, here-” Odin chucked the marble in the air towards Loki, who had to make the choice between keeping his bow trained to Odin and catching Blóðughadda before she crashed to the ground.  

It was never a choice, really; Loki would make the predictable one. Save a Giant’s soul. Save some of the last of his people. But, being young, he didn’t understand the tactical choice. He would have learned that if he had stayed by Odin’s side, but now... Now Odin would use that against him.  

And at that moment, Odin seized his only opportunity. Ruin in hand; words memorised like a prayer so forcefully ingrained in a lesser being. It was quicker than any of them had expected; before either Kratos or Thor could move to strike, Heimdall had sunken to his knees with a dreadful screech that pierced the cold air of Nilfheim like a blade so sharp and deadly to the ears—metal meeting metal. Odin was faster than either could have expected, and the words had left his lips- such a finality to them that neither could understand what to do for a moment. Reflexively, Kratos and Thor threw their weapons to stop Odin before more damage could be done, but his magic repelled the weapons with ease- the force of the All-Father's magic and the ancient workings of the Yggdrasil tree, a potent combination that stayed any weapon from damaging the caster. When the two recalled their all-but-useless weapons, they tightened their grip on the handles and willed their breaths to remain calm despite the horror of the situation reaching a crescendo.  

Loki rose. Kratos and Thor stood protectively over him, yet their eyes never left Odin.  

And then they turned to glance at Heimdall.  

His complexion was tattered; his face contorted with ruin. Ghostly shards from Odin’s magic transfixed the once purple hues of his Bifrost eyes.  

His eyes remained open. Where once they swirled with purple, they now burned a deathly pale. They saw and yet seemed blinded.  

His sword fell from now-dead fingers.  

---  

Atreus glanced with a panic frenzy at the scene before him, at his father trying his best to weaken Odin’s magical shield, at Thor bellowing furious obscenities with each crack of lightning he rained uselessly down on his father. And then... to Heimdall. The Aesir had fallen into wordless screams as he kneeled before Odin, mouth ajar and gasping with empty cries, eyes peeled wide open with a horrible paleness that had started to fill them- reminding Atreus too much of the dulled and empty eyes of the dead he had seen all too often. Odin’s reciting continued unchallenged, not even stopping to gauge his enemy's attack. With each passing moment, Heimdall’s body sunk further and further into a lifeless shell, the last links to whatever tethered him to this realm slowly being cut with each punch of Odin’s spell work.  

Odin knew this would happen. Planned this all with perfect detail. The man had nothing else to do but plan. Nothing they were doing now could stop him, not his father’s punches nor Thor’s lightning. It was hopeless.  

Then the thought dawned precisely and chilled in Atreus’s mind, a certain crispness spurned by the frosted chills of this realm. This magic was old, set forth long before any of them could comprehend it, and Atreus felt only a hint of understanding from it now. But nevertheless, this was the only plan Atreus thought could possibly work, that maybe stood a chance against whatever magic Odin was conjuring against Heimdall.  

Atreus did not think; at least, he did not overthink. He only knew that the magic from the rune in Odin’s hand felt Jotunn in nature- a wish for Angrboða to be here struck him. She’d know what to do, know whether Atreus was just being wishfully stupid or whether he was doing something useful as he pulled the soul from the marble- he had no body for her to inhabit, and yet he offered the only thing he thought could help. He offered a part of his magic, and slowly, from the crystallised ice, the soul weaved with the heating ice and swirled to form a being before him—a marbled statue warmed by life.  

The being- Blóðughadda, Atreus’ mind supplied hazily; the tiredness of sacrificing a part of his magic weighed so heavily on him. It was unlike any other time when Atreus had felt the strain of his magical use. An endless feeling of emptiness settled in him; he had never thought it so mighty before. For the first time, it was rather frightening in a strange way.  

He suddenly felt a cool hand on his cheek, icy blue eyes meeting icy blue eyes in return, and abruptly that emptiness dissipated into a mere memory. “Thank you, child,” her voice was delicate and yet firm, not unlike the gentle waves of the ocean- a potential for a powerful force underneath it, and that last thought wired and focused Atreus’ senses back into the present. “Your gift will not go unappreciated, yet now I must ask you for another.”  

Yet, Atreus thought it need not be an ask because he would do it regardless. Anything to stop Odin, anything to save the people he loved and cared about. Anything to see his people restored without fear from Odin once more. To finish what his mother started. That was how Atreus would honour her memory and continue her legacy. It was all he could do now, he thought.  

“Anything to stop Odin,” Atreus vowed, feeling a renewed sense of strength despite a tiredness that crept into his bones. Despite how long this fight had been going on for. This finally felt close to the end.  

Blóðughadda gave a small smile at that, her eyes daring to catch sight of Heimdall, and that smile fell instantly- replaced by sickened worry and then a righteous anger Atreus had remembered seeing once in his own mother’s eyes. Those eyes turned to Atreus with determination, her hand now resting on his shoulder, “The magic Odin toys with is old Jotun magic; we can break the trance with enough of our own magic. He won’t be able to contend with Jotunn’s wielding it against him.”  

“I don’t have much left, I-”  

“My sisters will draw our magic together; that should be enough to break down the magical barrier,” Blóðughadda explained. “Long enough for you to contain his soul.”  

Atreus’ eyes dared to glance over to the fruitless efforts being made by his father and Thor; they continued to try- though in vain- as Heimdall seemed to slip further and further from the realm of the living. The incessant pounding of their swings became more violent as they grew desperate. Atreus knew then that this was the only plan that had a chance of working.  

“Okay,” Atreus nodded, looking down at the marble as he thought over each step that he would have to take next, tapping his finger against the marble- testing the last few remnants of magic he could muster for the task. “Okay, I’m ready.”  

“Of course, you are,” the smirk on her lips was strangely reassuring, even more so as she stood tall and moved against the magical shield- the hums of her magic increasing tenfold, the echoes of her sisters' magic pooling in her own core and radiating almost blindly. The magic of her sisters seated in her core, splendid in its sight. Kratos and Thor continued their efforts. Their aim now was to keep Odin’s attention away from the two of them as they worked their magic, but Atreus could see the tiredness starting to grow in both of their eyes. They could not continue if this did not work. They would fail, and they all knew that. But Odin didn’t seem to notice or care; he just nursed his spell work and nursed it he did. It grew stronger as Heimdall grew weaker, his body growing duller by the second.  

Glancing to his left, Atreus locked eyes with his father- a silent word shared so loudly that even Thor stopped in his assault. As Blóðughadda’s and her sisters’ magic grew in strength, oppressing Odin’s own to a point where he hesitated for a moment at the disturbance. She did not relent as the power of the nine sisters descended upon the shield, and despite Odin’s will to maintain it; this magic was still foreign to even someone like him, and a talent that was never meant for him proved to be his weakness.  

And then there was a flicker.  

A moment where the shield faltered for a brief moment, and that was the first sign of the impending disaster that was to soon fall upon Odin’s spell work.  

Another flicker.  

One more.  

And finally, it dropped. Odin fell with it as it went down, and so did Heimdall. The invisible strings that held him upright cut in one instant. The weariness was settling in Odin’s body; it left him vulnerable to the assault that rained down on him. First came Thor’s hammer; the contentment on Thor’s face was almost contagious when it connected with flesh.  

“Consider that blood debt paid for laying a hand on Thrud,” was Thor’s only remark. It was the last thing he would ever give towards his father; the man deserved no more than that. Thor had wasted years wanting for something more from Odin; what that was, he still didn’t even know, but he did not care to find out any longer. It would finally end, and Odin would no longer be a thought in Thor’s mind any longer, and Thor felt peace at that.  

Next came Kratos’ blades when Odin dared to think he could stand against them, coiling around his limbs and binding him in place with a roughness that perhaps Kratos did not need to use. But he did, nonetheless. Kratos would not take further risks at this moment, and perhaps he would admit some minor satisfaction at finally trapping the Norse god so thoroughly/  

“I was...” Odin muttered, punctured breaths only made to emphasise his exhaustion. “I was- doing it... for all of us.”  

Those were the last words the All-Father spoke when Atreus coaxed his soul out, guiding it with a gentle hand that maybe everyone would deny the Odin deserved, and yet... even Atreus would not lower himself to worsen his enemy’s suffering when they were no longer a threat.  

That much his father had taught him, and he would show Odin that.  

---  

There was a brief moment when Odin staggered on frail feet that Blóðughadda dared to even think of doing all those dark thoughts she had conjured at her lowest points. She even took a bold step forward, unconscious and driven by the primal urge that demanded justice for all those she loved was looming deeper and deeper inside of her. She had never wished for this and never wished for her people to be almost gone from all the realms, to see every other race in disrepair because of this one man’s actions. All she had ever wanted was to be with her family. Even when she had agreed to Odin’s terms for that chance to see her son once more, she had barely recognised the boy they had all birthed. His soul had been so bright, and Odin had dimmed it so wholly and had the man no shame? No decency? It would be so easy now to crush his soul like he had done so many others. But, he would know fear in these final moments, which would bring her so much satisfaction, she thought. The rabbit would finally tempt the viper one too many times before the last strike was given.  

Yet it was the soft whimper by her feet that held her back, the stifled groans that edged too close to painful ones that caused Blóðughadda to drop to her knees and forget the thought of revenge.  

Her son.  

Their son.  

Their son, who lay motionless on the ground, the only signs of life, the sharp exhalation of air that punctured out with so much force it was as though he was forcing himself to remember to breathe despite some unknown pain it was causing. She fell to her knees, grounding herself in the frost-chilled air of Nilfheim, and stared at her son and his withering form. He was as she remembered him to be and yet so different, an impossible state of being that had crawled into her mind. His fingers twitched fruitlessly at the air as his body shuddered head to toe, and she wondered if he was even aware of his surroundings right now, if he even knew she was beside him. It mattered not, not when she ran a gentle hand down his spine and willed her magic to soothe whatever pains the spell work of Odin had done.  

Slowly, the trembling of Heimdall’s body and his short breaths eased, Blóðughadda not stopping in her task as she bundled her child until he rested in her lap, and she could pour herself even further into finding the source of his discomfort. She bit her lip when there was a horrid tear inside his mind, a damaged attempt by Odin’s doing to pry apart Heimdall’s gift. There was something amiss, something wrong, but nothing that could not be healed with time. What pleased Blóðughadda was the absence of something, the lack of Odin’s fouled magic in Heimdall. In the process, it seemed, of tearing Heimdall apart piece by piece, Odin had also had to unravel the web he had woven in Heimdall’s mind- if only to obtain the gift so entirely uncorrupted for himself.  

It would be challenging for Heimdall, she was sure. To be burdened with a curse for so long, it would not even be considered a curse for Heimdall- the boy would only know it to be normal. That saddened Blóðughadda greatly, but she could hardly ease the pains of the past now. Only pave a happier future for him now. That would be their purpose, as she would think it would be for many others for some time- the echoes of Odin’s corruption widespread throughout the realms.  

“M-mother?”  

The small voice came through lips that barely moved but still heard hesitant- disbelief. Heimdall had always had an air of doubt around him- even with his gifts. Blóðughadda had reasoned that the root of that confusion lay with the taint of Odin’s magic, his natural talents struggling to fight that corruption. But, even now, now that he was freed from said corruption, Heimdall was so unused to the feeling of clarity that he seemed cautious- a painful burn was left at the back of her throat when she thought too long on the reason why. All her life, she had simply wanted to be there for him, to make sure he knew he was loved and cared for, but now, she was faced with her failure to do so. A lot of fate-crafted designs had led them to this point- even with the Giant’s gifts for prophecy and foresight, they had been unable to change that which had been set in motion long before they had become aware of it. But now, now was the time for a better future, one that Blóðughadda and her sisters could see being woven before their collective eyes.  

At least she knew Heimdall was now finally free of Odin, as were they all. Her eyes looked up as the younger Giant guided his soul into its final resting place- a rather merciful act that even she was not sure she could commit. The people harmed by that man’s actions... Odin had been lucky it was the boy who decided his fate and not the many others of the realms he had wronged.  

In the next few days, Blóðughadda would think about offering her son the final choice of Odin’s fate, but she could not burden him with such terrible things. It was better than Odin remaining forgotten. A distant and unpleasant memory of the past. But a memory, nonetheless. That would be a worse fate for someone like Odin to remain forgotten above all else.  

“Yes, my son.”  

Her hands cupped the sides of his face, her last licks of magic making to wash away any trace of Odin’s magic- an effort to erase the previous hint of corruption finally done. Her throat caught when he finally opened his eyes, and she might have thought her mind had conjured such a sight if not for when she blinked, and she was met again with the same sight. Blóðughadda face broke into the widest of grins, curling her fingers gently against his cheeks as though to pet him.  

There, staring back at her own eyes, she was met with the naturally gifted golden hues of Bifrost her people had wielded for so long. Gone were the corrupted hues of magenta that had become commonplace in Odin’s corruption. She had never thought it possible to see one of her people again be blessed as such- to see her own son carry such a gift from Yggdrasil itself. It was hope, she thought. Hope that the universe was repairing itself- that it was on the path of healing.  

“Heimdall...” Blóðughadda started with awe in her voice.  

Her child immediately slacked his jaw, his own awe filling his features as golden eyes stared up at her- whirling with a strange curiosity. “You look- you look... beautiful.”  

He spoke as though he had seen her for the first time.  

And she supposed in a sense, he was seeing for the first time.   

Notes:

The epilogue will be posted most likely in the next day or so.

So see ya all shortly!

Chapter 24: Epilogue

“Ready?”  

Thor’s voice was full of joy and challenge, and Heimdall gripped his sword in a trained fashion; the muscle memory of his training sessions with Kratos imbued in his being. Before him, the fires of Muspelheim sputtered in thick flames in the air, and the jagged rocks plunged in sharp descents around the formed arena- the stone in the middle glowed brightly as though to coax would-be challengers to a fight. His mothers- though just Blóðughadda and Dúfa- had accompanied him to the realm with Thor to find their sister, Hrönn remaining tucked away near Surtr’s old forge. She was the last of them to be found and safely returned home. All others had swiftly been found and now returned to Jotunheim; the once empty and forgotten realm had slowly thrummed with new life. Atreus and Angrboða had made steady work of finding more and more of their people; now that Atreus had discovered a way of shifting and shaping their bodies, the threat of Odin was no longer a looming threat impeding their efforts. The natural order was resuming in the realms- an unusual state if you asked Heimdall but a welcomed one, nonetheless.  

Heimdall scoffed at his brother, flicking up a particularly offending stone and aimed it squarely at his brother- watching it bounce off his belly worthlessly to the ground. Thor laughed for so long that Heimdall had to remind him they had a bet to settle.  

“Or shall I say you forfeit and recognise me as the superior fighter in battle, hmm?” Heimdall threatened if there was one way to get Thor’s attention, it was to question his ability in a fight, and Heimdall knew that all too well.  

A wave of renewed competitiveness filled the air as Thor straightened and raised his hammer at Heimdall. It had once been a chilling sight, but now Heimdall knew his brother would never intend to harm him any longer. When Heimdall now looked at his brother, he saw a saddened truth of their childhood on their bitter rivalry that fostered hatred. Heimdall did not press it; better, as he saw, it was left to the past to pave the way for a brighter future, and Thor agreed wordlessly with him. It was a bizarre agreement but one that worked, and Heimdall had found their sibling bond had returned with time—a most welcomed change. Plus, Thor was always so easy to rile up in these petty squabbles that Heimdall found it rather entertaining and... and it reminded him much of when they would spar as children- all fun and no bitter bit to be had.  

Thor summoned the challenge from the stone, and Heimdall readied for the waves of enemies that screamed from all corners of the arena. Lava spat up in the rumble of the battle, raging with the new energy that entered the arena. It was a very trivial bet; who could kill the most enemies, but one that the brothers were too stubborn to let go of, and now they had found themselves here- testing word to the metal as they fought to prove themselves right. The heat of the realm no longer truly bothered Heimdall- though he still preferred the weather Jotunheim had to offer when he first ventured there, a perfect balance that did not leave Heimdall feeling gross and in discomfort. The fighting is fast and rough; Heimdall used his traditional techniques to dodge and weave his enemies, but now he had the improved technique that Kratos had guided him through. He parried and stuck foe after foe down- relying only slightly on his magic to propel an unchecked gaggle of enemies that had grouped together behind him. Thor zoomed past him, his bolts of lightning still favouring his more brutal method of battle, unlike Heimdall’s graceful and agile approach. It was only saved to Heimdall’s foresight that he caught the way Thor’s stray bolt kicked up a slab of rock underneath Heimdall’s feet, and he suddenly found himself flying with a startled yelp. He steadied himself and landed with grace, his feet skidding in the dirt as he corrected his posture, but Heimdall smirked still. Thor veered around him, so Heimdall could see the group of ten enemies he crushed with a mighty slam of his hammer- electricity frying them to a bitter death. Even with lost time trying to save his dignity, Heimdall caught up with Thor’s numbers- maybe with the help of a little more magic than he would have liked to steal a few kills away from Thor at the last moments, earning him an annoyed grunt. Heimdall looked to his brother innocently from across the arena and gave him a shrug.  

“Play smart, brother,” Heimdall slammed his sword into a screeching Nightmare, the creature combusting before him. “You might even catch up; I count a hundred and one for me and a pitiful ninety-nine for you.”  

“Then you count wrong, Heimdall. I’M at a hundred and seven.”   

Thor’s voice was all rough and gruff. It had that tendency when Heimdall or anyone really annoyed him, but as of late, it had become more lighthearted and unburdened. It was nice to hear it like that, listen to it directed at him most of the time when Heimdall hadn’t been teasing him. He was exhausted still, Heimdall saw, and there were many moments where Thor’s mind lingered dangerously to the thought of mead to ease his thoughts. But they were all there for each other now in a way that they hadn’t been before, and that had been the difference they had all needed.  

“Maybe I need to teach you to count!”  

“Maybe you need to realise that when I do most of the work, you can’t count it as your point when they are barely moving!”  

The final enemy fell... to Thor’s hammer, but Heimdall would not acknowledge that. Instead, the stone to the centre almost purred with satisfaction. It was still a strange twist in his magic; twist was an ill-fitting term, though, he supposed, especially when it had been Odin’s magic that had twisted his for so long. Yet, Heimdall’s perception of the world had changed- he saw the weaves and intricacies that played the roles in the paths of the future with better understanding. Saw how every aspect of the realms worked together to create these paths- some unavoidable and some subject to change.  

“I’d say we both know who the clear winner is here, little brother.”  

Heimdall’s lips pinched, and Thor recognised that as a clear sign of realised defeat in his brother. It used to mean hatred between them, but most of the time now, it was only a sign of innocent jesting between them. “That may be true in the literal sense, but if we are to factor in style and technique, you cannot deny I would be the winner and correct your misplaced understanding that you have won today.”  

Thor laughed again. He thought that he was so much like his brother, to find a way to still win even in defeat. That was always Heimdall’s way; his pride disallowed him to accept even a fraction of admittance of failure- especially when it involved Thor. It was even more amusing watching Heimdall’s face almost turn cherry red when Thor had sat with his mothers and regaled some of the few happier and... embarrassing times they had shared as brothers before they had become bitter towards one another. Amusing because Heimdall did not dare speak a word against any of his mothers and behaved like an obedient child preening to please; it was all too easy to get back at Heimdall. He got the feeling that Heimdall recognised that thought in his mind and quickly relinquished the battle for the title of winner for today. It was a useful weapon against his little brother.  

They had settled at the dwarven forge nearby, Brok remaking on the useful materials these creatures spewed up in their defeat and to ‘try not to make them so damn difficult to work with’ when Thor had dumped the brittle components on the workbench. Brok cocked an eyebrow up at Thor but merely grumbled his displeasure and continued his work. But, of course, they were not all on such good terms- Brok and Sindri still eyed Thor with a level of distrust, but that could hardly be their own fault, and Thor did not care enough to be bothered by it in the slightest.  

They were halfway through discussing each other’s follies in the fight when Blóðughadda and Dúfa walked over, voices trailing off when they finally approached the two brothers. They held their sister gently in their hands- not needing to say they were successful in their venture. A part of Heimdall felt giddy for finally seeing the last of his mothers reunited- even if not entirely, just quite yet. Dúfa sighed at the sight of the brothers and smiled.  

“You two done with your bet?”  

“You wanna tell them...” Thor chuckled; he thought of telling them himself, but watching Heimdall squirm in his spot was all the more humorous.  

“I would-” Heimdall started, then stopped, mincing his words in his mouth before he spoke again. “Say, in the grand scheme of it all, we both were winners today.”  

If that wasn’t a way of telling them that, indeed, it had been Thor who had won the bet, then nothing else other than the plain truth would suffice. But it was, and his mothers were gracious enough not to press the issue, even if Brok bellowed in laughter.  

“Sure yas did, twinkle toes!”  

The giant’s way of travelling through the Bifrost was a lot smoother and more natural than Heimdall ever remembered it being before; his senses no longer had to grapple with fevered tempts to control their travels when they used this method over the gateway. But, this time, Heimdall insisted on it- if only because he knew Thor didn’t like it as much, always complaining afterwards. But Heimdall loved it, and he loved it even more if it was another way to get back at his brother for that slight on Musphelheim.  

The return to Jotunheim only had Heimdall’s smile widening, and Heimdall knew in part that also had to do with all his mothers finally being home again- that he had finally found a home. His feet had found their way to Atreus before he realised he had started moving and waited for the younger giant to finish telling his father of his latest adventure.  

“Heimdall! Dúfa, Blóðughadda, Thor-” Atreus greeted them all. Turning around to face the group as they approached, taking the offered marble when Blóðughadda extended her arm out to him. Atreus looked at the marble, lifting it all the way to read the inscribed name. Heimdall could never express his gratitude towards the trickster god; he didn’t know how to deal with their complicated past and was only grateful that Atreus held no grudge to speak of. “You found her!”  

Heimdall kept his face as calm as possible, but he could not quell the hope and happiness that stirred in him. His heart was beating ever faster, and he wished for this moment to quicken, to simply see her. “Yes, finally.”  

“Well, suppose there’s no point in waiting,” Atreus reassured, his tone light as though he had detected Heimdall’s nervous anticipation. He had waited long enough. They all had really, for their happiness and peace. “Just- ahh, let me focus for a moment.”  

So, Heimdall let the boy work. It took a little while, a spike of fear icing Heimdall’s heart irrationally, but when he saw the water of the nearby river swirl and resemble the outline of a figure, it disappeared. They had all waited so long, and this moment, this moment where Hrönn finally appeared before them, was something that had felt so unachievable at one point in Heimdall’s life, and yet it had happened, and many, many moments had worked against this. Heimdall felt himself smile when Hrönn smiled at him, and in the next moment, they embraced- Heimdall was unsure whether it had been him to do so first or her, but that mattered little now, not when he felt her grip tighten, and he melted into it. He heard her sobs- his own as well- though they weren’t ones born of sadness and instead of happiness, and his heart warmed in ways Heimdall had rarely known. It really was a beautiful feeling, and it was to have freely.  

Notes:

...

And FIN!

You've all been beyond fucking amazing and have truly made me cry or grin (or both) with your comments. Thank you all for sticking with me on this journey; it's been a long journey :')

I'll still be over on Discord for those who wish to follow me in celebration; I'll be crying in both happiness and sadness.

Server link: https://discord.gg/xJ2P6nwbRF

Notes:

Thank you for reading! If you have a moment to share your thoughts, it'd be much appreciated.