Chapter Text
The foreign god had defeated Heimdall.
Untouchable, infallible Heimdall who had evaded harm for thousands upon thousands of years. Not even the mighty Thor had ever been able to strike him down. Forked tongue speaking little more than mockeries. Taunting and jeering his fellow gods. It was no wonder that Heimdall was so greatly despised. Not only by his own brothers, but most of the Aesir and Einherjar that populated Asgard.
It was a sight to behold, when he finally returned.
He’d been sent to Vanaheim under the Allfather’s command. His mission had been to slay the foreign god. This violent creature who had laid waste to both of Thor’s sons. Magni and Modi. Asgard trembled at the feet of this man. Knowing that anyone who could get away with the murder of the Allfather’s kin was someone not to be trifled with.
No one had been particularly concerned -- about Heimdall. Yes, clearly this foreign god was powerful -- powerful beyond imagining, but Heimdall was practically invulnerable. He was untouchable -- even to the Allfather himself. And though he was hated for his blunt tongue and insufferable attitude -- he was also widely -- perhaps not loved, per se -- but widely revered as the Scion of the Aesir. The guardian of Asgard itself.
At first, no one had recognized him. Watching the lift as it descended the wall. This dark haired, red figure in the distance, slowly focusing into a familiar shape. It couldn’t have been Heimdall though -- he only wore white. In fact, he was particularly obnoxious about that fact. Eyes turning away, losing interest until they noticed the Bifrost burning through his irises. Watching in awe stricken horror as the god shambled along. Bleeding quite profusely from one arm, cradling it with the other as -- with his head bowed -- he stumbled toward the Great Lodge.
A Valkyrie stepped toward him, offering her aid, but he’d snapped at her like a dog. Waving her off angrily, wincing at the pain. Cursing at anyone who came within any interpretation of too close. Growling and barking cruel words at any who had the audacity to meet his gaze. Swarms of Aesir and Einherjar gathered to watch -- to see it as Heimdall wavered. Pushing open the doors with one shoulder, collapsing onto the floor of the Great Lodge. Doors swinging shut behind him.
That was the last Asgard saw of the god. Prying eyes and ears, always listening, preening for gossip on Heimdall, but there was none to be found. He never left the lodge -- in fact, he never left his room. Holed up in silent solitude. Rejecting any and all company -- except for, of course, the Allfather’s -- though whatever high standing and value Odin had placed on the man before, was now gone. Rarely even acknowledging his now humiliated hermit of a son. Focused -- more often -- on far more important matters.
Elvi had been there. The day Heimdall returned from Vanaheim. She’d been in the lodge, reading. Her day off, as it happened, and perhaps if she’d been working she’d have seen him, but only a few maids had. Midin and Helga, who had since had their duties reassigned. A blessing in disguise, perhaps, as it gave Elvi the opportunity to work inside the lodge. Beyond the servant quarters, of course, which at the time, had been a dream come true. So long as she was quiet, and for the most part imperceptible, which most would argue she was. Infamous for appearing in rooms she’d not been seen or heard entering. Not that she was particularly skilled at it, but more or less due to the fact that not many paid her any mind.
The excitement, however, had been quick to dull. As much as she had expected to see of the Aesir gods, she’d not seen much of them at all. Odin was often in his study, Thrud was often training in the yards, Sif was often reading with her door closed, Thor was perpetually drunk and frequently gone -- and Heimdall -- of course, never left his room.
So, all in all, nothing much had changed for her.
Week after week, day after day, each as boring and fruitless as the last.
That is, until one day, she’d caught a glance.
It hadn’t been intentional. She’d been changing out the linens in Thrud and Sif’s rooms. Making their beds, standing in the room across from Heimdall’s when the door opened.
She hadn’t been expecting it, and so without thinking, she’d glanced up. Freezing up in place as she watched an arm protrude from the narrow opening. Laying a plate down over the chair beside the door.
Elvi had only seen Heimdall up close a handful of times. Usually on his way to the lift to ascend the wall. Or, at an even further distance -- appearing as a small dot upon it. Pacing for hours up there, alone. She didn’t pity him. No one she knew did. Heimdall was not well liked, and there were more reasons than she had fingers to count for that, but in that instant her stomach had dropped at the sight.
Heimdall wasn’t exactly a large man. A dwarf in comparison to Thor, and he wasn’t particularly muscular. Not like Magni and Modi had been. Broad shouldered and muscle bound. Though one might describe him as lean -- perhaps thin, the word “skeletal” would never have entered her mind. Watching very thinly veiled fingers retract back beyond the door. Scarily thin fingers, which, if she hadn’t known any better, she might have assumed were someone else's. Swallowing hard until the shock dissipated and she went about her business.
The last room to attend was Heimdall’s, but she knew, as well as every other attendant within the lodge’s confines, that the only person who ever so much as touched that door was Heimdall himself. In the meantime, they’d been using the chair as a vessel for exchange. Picking up the not-quite-empty plate; exchanging it for a stack of folded sheets. Peering down at the plate which left evidence only of a slice of bread, which he’d obviously eaten, and a thick slab of mutton, which he had not.
It occurred to her then that she’d never actually seen Heimdall eat any meat. As bloodthirsty and wolfish as he came off, at times, he didn’t seem to care for it. Unlike his brother Thor, whom Elvi had seen, on multiple occasions, eat an entire goat. Heimdall himself, tended to eat lighter. Grapes, apples, a particularly good cheese, bread, pastries on the rare chance. The appetite of a spoiled child, Osana might say -- the woman responsible for the gods meals. Odin’s favourite chef.
She supposed that’s why Heimdall had yet to complain. That, or perhaps the foreign god had removed his teeth for good. She doubted that very much, though. Thousands of years of absolutely unfettered indulgence could not be washed away over the course of one battle. At least, not for most, she imagined. Heimdall, for his part, though, had never lost a battle yet.
That had to sting.
Perhaps not enough to justify his sulking, but enough to understand.
When she returned the plate to the kitchen, Osana was rolling out dough balls for the feast. Thor had slain another foe. Some giant who’d been hiding up in the hills, evading capture until now. Glancing up, Osana asked what she always did.
“Did you see him?”
Elvi shook her head, approaching the wash basin, sliding the meat off into a bin before rinsing the dish. “No.” She said, brows furrowing -- unsure quite why -- exactly she’d lied.
Perhaps to avoid the rant.
Osana had a personal vendetta against Heimdall. She’d worked these halls far longer than any of the other maids and as such had suffered far more than the lot of them combined. On one occasion -- an occasion she brought up far more often than necessary -- she claimed that Heimdall tripped her. Her hands had been full of mead mugs and she’d tossed them all into the air. Falling head first onto the back of a chair. Chipping her tooth and granting her a subtle lisp. Heimdall had laughed apparently.
Elvi wasn’t quite sure she believed that though. While she had no doubt that Heimdall would do such a thing -- considering what a nasty little shit he was renowned to be -- she had seen Heimdall before, many times, standing at a distance. Sulking in the corner, away from everyone else. Passing by the feast hall only to see him scowling in the dark. Osana must have done something to provoke him. Though it was more likely that she said something. In her growing age, Osana had lost her filter. More often than necessary she spoke out -- said things she ought to know better than to say. She was Odin’s favourite cook, however, and so somehow, for more than a decade she’d gotten away with it.
Heimdall wasn’t quite so benevolent, however.
He’d apparently assaulted a number of servants. Each with their woeful tale of his cruelties. And while she knew most of them were likely true, she also knew that most of them came with cause. Heimdall generally stuck to himself -- unless someone approached him -- or stood within close enough proximity for him to hear a particularly twisted thought. She’d always noticed him glancing. Eyes scanning the room, looking up and down anyone who got close enough.
She’d never bothered him, and in exchange, he’d never bothered her. None of the gods ever had, and she wasn’t sure if that was luck -- or because she understood where she fell in the chain of command. Sometimes she wondered if others got the notion that because they were servants in the Great Lodge that, that meant something. That they were important, or should be revered above their station.
She’d had no such illusions, and so she had prospered. Osana often teased her for it too. Every servant, high and low, good and bad -- all of them had received at least one complaint. Elvi -- however -- had received none. Mostly, she figured, for the fact that no one ever seemed to register her presence in the first place.
“That coward. Hiding out in there. He’s probably waiting us out.” Osana muttered.
It was a rule not to speak ill of the gods. Especially not in their home. It was the greatest insult the Aesir were capable of, and yet, Osana never seemed to care. Elvi never reported her though. There wasn’t any point. Besides, as bitter as the woman tended to be, she was good company. Hesitant to pry, however, lest she be involved in Osana’s unspoken crime. Luckily enough though, the woman elaborated, which she almost always did.
“He’s probably waiting for the next few generations of Aesir to die before he feels comfortable enough to show his face. Can’t leave the lodge. Can’t look any of us in the eyes, knowing we saw him crawl back to the Allfather with his tail tucked between his legs. He’s waiting us out, I tell you.”
Elvi made no comment to that. Knowing it would be above her station, even to listen as the woman droned on. Ragging on the god whom she’d known all her life. Most Aesir revered the gods. Not Osana -- she’d served them long enough to document and file their flaws. The only god she didn’t seem to hate, really, was Odin. Quite taken with him, in fact. If she wasn’t talking down about Heimdall, she was lilting the Allfather with flattering words.
Elvi sat, after a while, leaning over the counter. Listening to the woman as she spoke, constantly and without pause for several minutes. Almost an hour.
She didn’t know when, exactly, but soon she’d have to go back. To check and see if Heimdall had taken the new sheets and left the old ones out for her to collect. It usually took a while. Heimdall didn’t often check the chair, and most servants knew better than to vex him by knocking. It was her last chore of the day, and so she didn’t mind waiting. Watching Osana as she paced back and forth across the kitchen. Preparing the feast alongside Ranni and Rinna, her two daughters. Equally skilled and almost faster than their mother, before any of them knew it, the counters were full and Elvi sat in the far corner -- out of the way. Watching as servants flooded in -- one after the other -- taking dish upon dish out to the feasting hall.
They could already hear shouting. Jeering -- drunken singing.
Sif didn’t often attend these parties. Though they were more often held in her husband’s honor, she abstained. Likely in her room, with the door closed.
Osana made a separate dish for her, and another for Thrud, who would be returning soon enough from her Valkyrie training. She also tended to skip out on these feasts, though not for lack of trying.
“Take these to the girls, would you Elvi?” Osana asked. Placing a plate in either of her hands.
Tentatively, her eyes flicked between each plate. “Oh, uhm, what about Heimdall?”
Osana waved her off and shook her head, “If he doesn't want any meat, he might as well starve.”
That was harsh, but Elvi supposed it was fair. Osana had known Heimdall’s dickishness far longer than she, and if Osana could say it with such confidence, she supposed she ought not question it. Pacing down the halls, knocking first on Sif’s door. Bowing and averting her gaze as the goddess took the dish and closed the door behind her. Osana might have made a remark about manners, had she been there herself, but Elvi didn’t mind. At least she wasn’t cruel about it. Slamming the door, or humiliating the girl with mocking words.
For Thrud, she left the plate on the girl’s desk. Stepping back out into the hall. Peering down at the wrinkled linens Heimdall had laid out for her. Messily folded and strewn about the chair. Quietly, she approached and scooped them up. Gaze lingering for a moment on the door. Imagining those thin fingers again. Morbidly thin fingers. Shivering at the thought, before ultimately returning the sheets to the laundry basin. Turning in for the night after bidding Osana adieu.
*
The next morning, Elvi was on laundry duty -- again. Today, it would be clothes. Guthra went around and collected the clothes she could. From Thor, Thrud, and Sif -- though she hadn’t bothered with Heimdall. Dropping each garment into the basin. Scrubbing alongside Elvi, who was dutiful in her work. Reminding the woman, who’d almost dumped Heimdall’s spare clothes into the basin along with everyone else's -- that Heimdall preferred for his clothes to be washed separately. This was a fact which Guthra was well aware of. They all were, but with Heimdall in hiding, their bold distaste for the god grew more and more apparent.
“As if he’ll know.” Guthra muttered. Dumping them in anyway.
Elvi might have argued, but she knew better. It didn’t matter anyway. If there was any critique which the god had to offer, he’d likely keep it to himself. Afterall, that’s how Osana had gotten away with serving him meat for going on months now. He didn’t seem to care anymore.
Around lunchtime, Elvi arrived in the kitchen with freshly dried towels. Handing them off to Ranni just as Rinna entered with her arms full. A giant bowl of green apples slapped down on the counter and in burst Osana. “Took you long enough! I needed these an hour ago!”
Elvi sat down, taking a well deserved break, watching the women zip around, “What are you making?” She asked.
Osana was sorting through the flour, shrewd eyes squinting as she glanced over to Elvi, “Pastries. Thor’s request.”
Elvi glanced over at the bowl of apples. There had to be at least fifty of them. Nodding as Ranni stood beside her, mixing together the filling. Cinnamon, sugar, nutmeg, a few other things Elvi didn’t recognize.
“Are you done for the day?” Rinna asked her, setting down a mug of water, which Elvi accepted and drank; shaking her head, “No, not yet. I still have laundry to deliver. Lady Sif, Thrud, Thor and Heimdall”
Rinna nodded and Osana scoffed bitterly at the mention of Heimdall’s name, “Well, since you’re already headed that way, can you take this to Heimdall?”
Rinna slid a plate across the table to Elvi, who peered down at it. A slice of bread and a slab of meat. She’d seen this exact configuration about a hundred times. Wondering if Osana knew Heimdall’s condition. If she would care, had she seen that frail looking hand Elvi had. Hiding the concern on her face as she nodded and stood, “Sure.” She said, taking it to the gods’ quarters. Placing it on the chair.
For a moment, she considered knocking, but she knew better. Retreating to gather the laundry. Between each pace, watching the plate. Heimdall didn’t even bother to take it this time. The slice of bread was gone, but the plate hadn’t moved. When she was done, she gathered it and returned it to the kitchen, only now Ranni and Rinna were gone. Osana too was missing. Half-finished pastries lining the counters, as well as several racks of cooling ones. She sat down for a moment. Admiring the intricate designs Osana had crafted into the dough. Eyes rising to meet the woman as she burst through the doors.
“Berries!” She shouted, “Now he wants berries!”
Hastily she scooped up a rack and discarded the pastries into a waste bin. Throwing them with such force that Elvi almost jolted. Watching the woman as her hands slammed down on the counter and she took a quick, calming breath. Letting out a hoarse chuckle after enough time, tired eyes flicking up at Elvi, “I should be used to this by now. They are gods afterall.” Shaking her head as she gathered another tray and tossed it.
“You can have one, if you’d like. They’ll never know.” Osana offered.
Elvi knew better. Well, she should have. There was servant food, and there was god-food. Even if the intention to eat the god food was gone, it was still god-food, and therefore off limits. Staring down at one of the particularly nicely browned treats, before taking up a cloth and folding it up around the pastry. Smiling up at Osana, who gave her a wink.
It was on her way back to the servants quarters, preparing to turn in, that she realized she’d forgotten Heimdall’s clothes. Quickly adjusting course. It would take no less than five minutes, and she was in no rush. Finding Guthra still in the washroom, tackling the mess Thor had made on his tunic the night prior. Shaking her head and scowling as she scrubbed.
Stepping past her and scooping up the tunics, Elvi made her way quickly back across the lodge. Stepping into the gods quarters. Head bowed as Thrud passed her by, though the goddess didn’t seem to notice her. Thankful for the anonymity as she slowly placed the clothes down on Heimdall’s chair. Hesitating for a moment. Hand sliding down, subconsciously into her pocket.
Wondering, subtly, what the rest of him looked like. How hungry he must have been.
Yes he was cruel and mean and all the other horrible things Osana called him -- but -- clearly, he was suffering too.
She knew he likely didn’t deserve it. She knew he likely wouldn’t appreciate it either. That he might scoff at the mere gesture, but it didn’t really matter. She didn’t need it. Slowly pulling the pastry from her side. Unfolding the cloth she’d wrapped around it. Setting it atop the clothes delicately. Staring at the door for many silent minutes until eventually raising her fist to it.
She knocked once, quickly retreating into the hall. Standing there, heart pounding, pressed against the wall. Waiting.
One minute passed. Then two. Then ten. Then fifteen, and eventually, Elvi gave in. Turning down the hallway. Retreating to the servants quarters, where she was soon met by Guthra, who’d given up.
“It’ll smell like mead for a month.” She muttered, speaking of Thor’s ruined tunic.
“Well, at least it’ll smell like he does.” Yali replied, both laughing at her clever joke.
Yes, Thor was an alcoholic -- it wasn’t funny though. Not to Elvi, at least, who mourned Thrud’s once prospering relationship with her father. As a silent observer in the Great Lodge of the gods, Elvi had learned a great many things of the dynamic between the Aesir gods. Hardly capable of laughing anymore, not that she ever really had in the first place. Worried subtly about the girl, and -- oddly enough -- worried for Heimdall. Silently wondering if he’d seen -- or if he would even accept her offering. Knowing Osana might kill her in her sleep if she ever found out Elvi had given it to him in the first place.