Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a gathering in the halls of the Great Lodge. Some celebration in honor for a war long won or some special warrior, who changed the tides of battle by being cunning as well as formidable in a fight. It truly didn't matter, the reason never did, the Aesir would clink glasses to a goat shitting in a circle if it meant they could drink from the All-Father's mead, eat the All-Father's food and touch shoulders with the All-Father's family and inner circle. Those kinds of feasts always went down the same way, too. Everyone would get piss drunk, yell some fancy tale of the All-Father's many exciting, awe-inspiring adventures, they would sing the king's praise until the sun would rise to hear of them, too, and at some point there would probably be a fight or two, because where would be the fun in merely sitting around, conversing and having a generally good, peaceful time, if you could also just bash some guy's head into a wall instead, because he compared your wife to a cheap Vanir whore. 

Heimdall – priding himself with being a man of tact and elegance – despised these kinds of feast. It was loud, crowded, and the stench of cheap alcohol and a hall full of people who have apparently never even heard of a bath, let alone soap, was near unbearable for his fine-tuned senses. Not to mention, drunken thoughts were all jumbled and messy and disgustingly primal – for Heimdall it was like treading a minefield of vileness. So, he did what he did at every feast he was forced to attend – he was after all a son of Odin, no matter how desperately some people wanted to forget that fact, namely his brother Thor and his sister-in-law Sif and maybe even the All-Father himself sometimes – which was occupying some table at a corner that was not quite as crowded, nursing a mug of mead and watching. There was no place reserved for him at the All-Father's table, not that he even wanted to sit there, in the midst of it all and surrounded by his so-called loved ones. He would rather shove Gjallarhorn bareback up his ass than share drink and words with any of them. 

However, there was one thing different about this night as opposed to the countless other ones that had come and gone throughout the centuries. One thing oh so utterly out of place. A rat amidst the eagles. A Jötunn amidst the Aesir. The harbinger of Ragnarök itself. Loki. 

He was sitting there sandwiched between the bulky forms of Thrúd and Forseti, distractedly pushing his food to and fro on his plate and deep in thought. One glimpse into his mind revealed the usual chaos between plans of predestined peace and dreams of destruction and death. Though, there was a cloud of anxiety shadowing most of it. Good, the jötunn at least had the decency to realize that he wasn't welcome.  

Heimdall would have looked deeper into that however, the constant discord and self-deception that was reigning in that Jötunn's mind always managed to make him nauseous. So whatever it was that put Loki so on edge would just have to present itself in time. It could also just be the realization that the only thing keeping him alive was being in the All-Father's good graces that had finally gotten into that big ass, thick-skulled head of his. After all, he was occupying the spot Modi had usually taken. The very god he had killed, not that Heimdall or anyone except for maybe Sif and, on his more sober days, Thor actually gave a shit about that fact. Honestly, Heimdall was grateful to not have to ever hear that pathetic excuse of an overgrown cumshot with daddy issues he was forced to call nephew spout another word of how he was the one worthy of wielding Mjölnir, not Magni – the objectively better brother, not that that was a hard feat by any means. But not only that, the brat also sat right next to the son of another god his father had killed. Now, that one was not so easily forgiven. At least, judging by the hateful side glances he received from the usually rather level-headed Forseti. 

Or maybe, the jötunn had just drunk too much mead for his inferior body to handle. Given that Heimdall was pretty sure he was just downing his fourth mug of mead, that might very well be the case. He had, after all, only just started drinking alcohol mere weeks ago, which was blatantly clear by the way he couldn't hold his drink at all, really. It was always an amusing sight to watch him stumble over his own feet like a new-born fawn and listen to his slurred little speeches. In those hilarious moments, his behavior matched what he truly was – a child way in over his head. 

Leaving it at that, Heimdall was about to look away, when the jötunn suddenly met his gaze as if he had sensed that he was being observed. Now, there was a different intention overshadowing his previous worries. There was a small smile tugging at his lips and mischief in his eyes. Well, Heimdall took that as a sign to leave. Whatever little trick the jötunn had planned, he really wasn't in the mood to stay around and find out. He stood up and was just about to ditch the feast when the All-Father's voice echoed through the hall: “Heimdall, you can't be leaving already! Why don'tcha sit with us for a while, son.”

It was phrased like a suggestion and maybe also meant like one – Odin never cared if he left early, he didn't even seem to notice half the time when he didn't show up at all – however, Heimdall obeyed either way and turned back to make his way towards his family. He was just about to politely remind the All-Father that he had duties early in the morning and there wasn't an empty place for him to sit at the table anyway, but his hopes of easily getting off the hook were nullified as soon as the king threw one meaningful look towards Forseti, silently ordering him to abandon his seat – and the deep conversation he had been involved in with Sif – and make place for Heimdall. 

Great. Splendid. Now, he truly had to sit there no doubt at the request of a certain giant, right next to him even, and he probably also had to talk to him as well. Could his night get any better?

Biting back a snarky comment or three, Heimdall stepped over and sat down on the bench, claiming Forseti's abandoned mug and promptly downing half of it. Sif eyed him with an openly irritated expression. She clearly was just as elated by his presence as he was at the opportunity to mingle with his dearest sister-in-law, his drunkard brother, who was busy staring at the mug of mead placed in front of him, fighting a little war of his own, their little helspawn and lastly and most certainly least, a particularly nosy Jötunn brat. And of course, the little bastard had the nerve to first demand his presence only to now turn his back on him, having some lively conversation with the Thorsdottir as if completely unaware of the god of foresight cursing his very existence right next to him. 

Said god made a show of leaning forward in boredom, his elbows on the table, glaring at each of the occupants of the long table – with the exception of the All-Father, of course – in various degrees of disinterest, disgust and lastly pure, utter hatred. He knew no one wanted him there. He could practically taste the discomfort caused by his arrival oozing off of every single one of them. It was nothing new. And it wasn't like he cared. Quite the opposite, actually. He reveled in being able to make each and every one of them feel miserable. It was the least, he could do as payback for making him the unwilling audience to their pathetic, self-important desires and ridiculous insecurities. 

Sometimes, he wished he could afford to stop listening – only for a little while – to not be privy to every thought and every emotion going on around him. But then again, it was his purpose, his duty to Asgard and its people and most importantly the All-Father himself, even if in his darkest of moments, locked away in Himinbjörg and isolated by both choice and necessity, yet still listening – always listening –, he wished for them all to drop dead and finally be quiet for once. 

However, that was the price he paid for being the Watchman of the Æsir. For being a good son. A useful one. He was to always be the first to know of any treacherous intent – he had been the one warning the All-Father about both Týr's and Frigg's impending betrayal –, he was the first to hear whispers of a rebellion in Svartalfheim and the first to spy discontent amongst the Valkyries' ranks. His unwavering focus and far-stretched senses were vital for the continued safety of the realm. And if that meant also listening to his pitiable, older half-brother's inner battle for sobriety while watching his hand reach towards the mug as if it had a mind of his own, well then so be it. Noticing her husband slipping, Sif moved to put away the offending tankard, her hand not nearly as steady as she probably wanted it to be. If Heimdall had cared more, the display would have probably made him laugh. However, Heimdall was in no mood to have fun, even on the expense of other's.

All that was left for him to do now was wait until the All-Father dismissed him – too fed up with the tense atmosphere his presence inevitably brought upon the table – and pray to the Norns the half-breed next to him kept his back turned to him-
Oh. No, of course not. Why would he.

“So, uh, how was your patrol, today?”

Heimdall wanted to ram his own head against the nearest wall. Instead of doing that however – he wasn't quite at Baldur's level of insanity yet, though with every day he had to endure the giant's presence, he found he related to his late half-brother more and more – he just sighed, taking another swig from the mug. Norns knew, he needed it right now. The wine did nothing to lighten his mood though, quite the opposite actually. It was too bitter, just like Forseti, and it certainly wasn't strong enough to numb his irritation.

“Just because I'm sitting next to you, does not mean I want to talk to you.”

“Oh come on, Heimdall, I'm just tryin' to make conversation, is all. It's just-”
Oh goody, here he goes. Heimdall could see the insecure need to be liked by everyone coming from a mile away.

“I donnow, I think we got of on the wrong foot. That's why I asked Odin to-”

“You will address the All-Father by his title, you little rat!” 

Heimdall turned sharply towards the young imbecile, staring him down with a cold, menacing gaze. Loki met his eyes with a shrug, a perfect picture of nonchalance. “Sure, yeah. Whatever.” 

Oh, that brat was in for a fight. Heimdall scoffed condescendingly. “Of course, how could I expect a jötunn to know proper manners. Did that savage mother of yours never teach you respect?”

Loki opened his mouth to retort, but Heimdall ignored him. “No, no, I guess not. She was probably too busy teaching you how to fail at everything you do. Given how her little 'revolution' in Svartalfheim went, I can safely assume she must have been quite the expert.”

“What is it with you and my dead mother, Heimdall?” The jötunn's scowl turned smug and Heimdall grinded his teeth together, knowing exactly what the brat would say next. 

“Are you jealous, because she actually loved me? I mean, I get it, you're bitter. But like, come on, Heimdall. Nine mothers and you couldn't get a single one to care about you?” 

Heimdall was distantly aware of how his niece and her mother were exchanging uncomfortable stares across the table. In his peripheral, he could see the corners of Thor's mouth twitching upwards in amusement – his earlier struggle forgotten in favor of watching the jötunn trying to get under Heimdall's skin with petty comebacks worthy of a toddler. Heimdall scoffed, he could not care less about who listened in. No one has dared to try verbally sparing with him in a long time and he could think of no better way to blow off some steam than to rhetorically crush the half-breed jötunn.

“And look where this 'mother's love' got you, hm? You're a pathetic, whimpering weasel, desperate to proof himself only to fail at every turn.”

“Better to fail, than to never even try.”

Heimdall barked out a laugh. “Spoken like a true Jötunn, who never learned that his actions might have consequences. Seems to be a key trait with your people. No wonder, they're all dead.”

“They died honorable deaths. They stood against Asgard knowing what would happen to them, in order to protect the Nine Realms from you bastards.”

“And look where you are now. Tell me, what would that loving mother of yours think of you now?” 

Loki's smile turned a little strained at that. 

“Last time I checked she wasn't so fond of us Aesir and yet, here you are – her supposed pride and joy – happily mingling with the people she hated the most, desperate to lick the All-Father's boots.”

“Nah, I'm pretty sure licking his boots is your job. I'm working with him, not for him. I'm his equal.”

“Equal? You actually think you are the All-Father's equal? Are you truly that conceited? Oh never mind, of course you are. What else could I possibly expect from the sheltered helspawn of some Jötunn bitch and that god-killer father of yours.”

“Oh, you're really desperate to find out just how much I inherited from my god-killer father, aren't you? You're nothing more than the All-Father's snotty lapdog. Tell me Heimdall, can you at least do some tricks? Like sit down, roll around or play dead?”

“At least, I'm not the All-Father's little who-”

“Heimdall.” The All-Father's voice cut through any counter, Heimdall might have added like a hot knife through Dwarven flesh. The king hadn't raised his voice, he didn't need to. His voice was calm, yet firm in its demand for silence, but not unkind. At least, that was what any lesser being would believe. The god of foresight however, sensed the underlying annoyance like a deer would a threat hidden in the bush. Heimdall tensed with barely contained insults that now lay sour on his tongue, the mug in his hand creaking miserably in his tight grip. There was so much more he wanted to throw at the jötunn runt. But he held his tongue.
A shame, really. Heimdall had almost been starting to enjoy himself.

He was just about to settle back into his seat – he hadn't even noticed how close he had gotten to Loki in order to stare him down – when said jötunn moved forwards, a self-satisfied smile on his face and his mead-laced breath hot against his ear. 

“That's right”, he rasped lowly, only for Heimdall to hear, “down, doggy.”

Leaning backwards again, he went back to sipping on his mug of mead, as if completely unaware of Heimdall's bifröst eyes burning metaphorical holes into the side of his head.
Oh, how he wanted nothing more than to wipe that pretty smile from the jötunn's lips with his fist, grab his red hair and slam his head against the edge of the wooden table until his teeth were cracked and his breath would whistle through his shattered nose. How he wanted to wrap his hands around that neck and squeeze until that smug sneer was replaced with suffocating desperation. How he wanted to bend him over the table and pound into him until screams turned into curses, turned into whimpers, turned into breathless moans of his name-

What?

No, that was... that was not..

Heimdall slammed his bent mug of wine down, forcefully shaking himself out of that particular fantasy and shoving it into the deepest, darkest corners of his mind where it had apparently crawled out of. Without wasting another second, he swung his legs over the bench and stood. Bowing to his father, who was eyeing him with his usual mild, all-seeing gaze that never failed to leave Heimdall's skin crawling, he announced loud and clear: “Right, I think I will retire now. All-Father.”

When he looked up, the king wasn't paying attention to him anymore, so he took that as a sign of dismissal. With brisk steps that seemed to echo unusually loud in his already sensitive ears and his head held high, he took his completely dignified leave. None of the other Aesir seemed to have been paying any kind of attention to the commotion at the All-Father's table – too involved in their own conversations and thoughts – not that it was anything out of the ordinary for Heimdall to make a fast retreat from gatherings like this. Most assumed he had some kind of important duty to attend to at the Great Wall or a secret mission from the All-Father, something to do with their protection and the continued safety of the realm. Those who for whatever reason knew him closer were aware that he could only stomach the stench of drunk, simple folk, their incessant chatter and dimwitted, private thoughts for so long. No one tried to stop him. 

Once outside of the Great Lodge, Heimdall let out a sigh. Breathing in the crisp, cold air helped in calming his strained nerves and he took several deep breaths, before listening into the conversation between the All-Father and that Jötunn bastard once more. Through the mindless rumble of the commoners talking, he could hear his father say: “You will have to forgive Heimdall's sharp tongue, Loki. Sometimes, he is so busy reading minds, he forgets to mind himself. I will be sure to remind him next I see him”, Odin chuckled at his little play of words. 

“No need, All-Father”, Loki answered, his tone perfectly polite, if more than a little slurred by now, “it was all in good fun. What's a little verbal spar with a friend, if not a fun way to keep one's mind sharp.”

Friend. That shameless, little shit.

The half-witted remark apparently made the All-Father laugh. “Couldn't have said it better myself, boy! Now with that said, drink up, Loki. I have something to discuss with you in my study.”

“Oh, now?”

“No time like the present, don't you agree?”

Heimdall stopped listening after that. He had heard enough.

Chapter Text

The birds he was said to share a sleep cycle with still had their heads tucked safely under their wings, presumably dreaming about flying high above the clouds and feeding on the fattest of worms, by the time Heimdall fastened the last few buckles on Gulltoppr's saddle the next morning.

The great beast only gave a quiet, displeased sound at how tight he pulled the leather straps. Heimdall petted her flank in a silent apology. With the rocky terrain on top and around the wall, a loose saddle would just not do.

With practiced ease, the god of foresight mounted his beast, clicking his tongue to command her to start walking. The moon bathed the rough stone of the wall in a cold, pleasantly dim light, making the jagged rough edges resemble snow-covered mountaintops, the air was crisp and clear up here and yet even such soothing quiet did nothing to lighten the watchman's mood. He hadn't slept at all that night, nor for the last few ones before and while he didn't require sleep in the way most people did, it was a pleasure he treated himself with every once in a while, if only for a few minutes to at the most a handful of hours.

Of course, even then he wasn't completely out cold, as the Watchman of the Aesir he could not afford the indulgence of ignorance, of being unaware. And unlike his wretched half-brothers, Heimdall took his duty seriously. While Baldur had gone around searching for every which way to kill himself and disregarded the All-Father's commands to his liking, as consequences had no longer mattered to him, and Thor was off to drink himself into a stupor, then promising his little family he'd stop only to end up in the Black Thunder once more with a tankard in hand and vomit in his beard, Heimdall was patrolling the Great Wall with sharp senses and even sharper focus.

At least usually, he was focused. However, ever since that little pest of a jötunn decided to wedge himself right into the core of the Aesir's golden realm, Heimdall found himself constantly on edge.

This wild well of constant chaos and destined destruction was a throbbing thorn in the god's side and more than once while doing his usual patrol did Heimdall's thoughts wander to how all this could have been avoided if he had just thrown the jötunn of the wall like he first intended to, consequences be damned.

It wasn't like he would have gone against any orders from the king. Not once did the All-Father bother warning him about the arrival of this half-breed – not a word had fallen about a guest climbing the wall who was specifically not to be thrown right back down. But no, he just had to entertain the brat's ramblings of of being the All-Father's guest – more for his own amusement than anything else. A jötunn breaching the Great Wall, claiming to have been invited by Odin All-Father himself – now that sounded like the beginning of a particularly bad joke.

Of course, Heimdall had been suspicious about the presence of All-Father's cursed, feathered rodent. Even birds normally had better things to do than follow a lost, young man on his search for new adventures. But maybe, Huginn had just been hoping the brat would slip and fall, so he could feed on the carcass.

Just for a moment, Heimdall indulged the itch that near constantly plagued his mind to fixate his senses inside the Wall rather than out, zeroing in on one particular redhead.

And there he was in all his glory, bent over one of the tables at the Great Hall were the feast was still ongoing – as was custom for the Aesir – fast asleep and oblivious to the ruckus around him. Of course, he was also drooling on the wood with all the grace and manners of a toddler.

Heimdall could hear the huffs of breath escaping through the jötunn's lips as well as the occasional snore, because it seemed everything the half-breed did, he had to do it loudly and demanding of everyone's attention, not that he got any from the drunkards around him.

Heimdall shook his head in silent exasperation and turned his focus towards potential threats outside the wall rather than the one sleeping soundly inside. Not that he deemed Loki capable to do much harm. The brat may be able to hold his own well enough against some brainless Einherja, but he was no match against an Aesir god.

Even young Thrúd would be able to rip him apart, as soon as he dropped the act of trying to be friends with her.

Another contradiction, Heimdall could not hope to decipher. A jötunn wanting to be buddies with the daughter of the one who literally wiped out almost the entire race. It was mind-boggling. They should be mortal enemies, almost as much as Heimdall and Loki – the God of Foresight and Order and the scrawny, Jötunn-shaped ball of chaos. And yet, he and the Thorsdottir ran around trying to impress each other like a bunch of teenagers.

No matter. The jötunn would be gone soon enough, anyway.

Beyond the Great Wall, Heimdall spied nothing noteworthy catching his attention in the plains and woods, which to his utter annoyance meant that his thoughts kept drifting towards what had occurred at the feast before his abrupt departure.

Which had absolutely not been a retreat. He had likely just confused someone else primal urges as his own and gotten a little overwhelmed, like he tended to when being surrounded by a bunch of drunken mongrels and their pathetically feeble-minded thoughts and utter lack of both self-control or even simple awareness at how deeply deplorable they all were at their core.

It was near torture for him at the best of times. So, he did what he always did, when the intrusive thoughts to strangle, behead or shove Hǫfuð down every single one of their throats to finally shut them all up got just a tiny bit too tempting. He left.

That was it.

It had nothing to do with the jötunn. Loki could never dream to elicit such a reaction from the untouchable God of Foresight. The Scion of the Aesir.

Maybe, he should have stayed and endured a little longer, just to prove he was not leaving because of the brat. Not that he cared about what he thought of him. He didn't care about anyone's opinion and especially not some Jötunn pest's. The ticks on Gulltoppr's ankles were more significant than that brat.

But just like a tick, if you try to remove it too forcefully, you're met with poison. You had to pry it away carefully. And that was exactly what he was going to do with Loki. Slowly, but surely pry him of the All-Father's ankles and then step on his pretty face for good measure.

Heimdall smiled sharply, as he silently congratulated himself on that genius idea and then promptly not so silently, as he said: “Gulltoppr, you might just have the high honor to carry Asgard's most brilliant hero!”

He leaned down to pet the golden mane that earned her her name. Gulltoppr purred, happy at the attention and sensing her master's good mood rather than in understanding of what he was saying.

“I will squash that little cockroach and prove once more why I am the protector of the Golden Realm. They will celebrate me and Loki will be nothing but a tiny, unimportant stain in Asgard's glorious history, soon to be washed away by the tides of time. Thanks to me, Asgard will rise to its destined greatness and Loki?”, Heimdall chuckled in dark delight at all those sweet possibilities of what he could do to the runt giant, his superior eyesight focusing on the brat once more “Loki of the Jötnar will fall.”

~~~

Heimdall's good spirit returned with the prospect of ridding himself of the jötunn half-breed once and for all.

The rest of his patrol, he spent plotting of how to best demonstrate Loki's false promise of answers and never-waning treacherous intent to the All-Father in a way that would finally convince him of his supposed protege's deceiving nature. Once that was done, Heimdall would revel in watching the half-breed burn. He even dared to fantasize of his father's eye on him, congratulating him on a task well done and thanking him for his devoted service to the realm.

“Now, don't get ahead of yourself”, he scolded himself out loud, parroting what the All-Father often told him, whenever he was too eager to act without thinking through the possible consequences.

But what consequences could there possibly be to rid the Nine Realms of Loki of the Jötnar? The only thing that came to Heimdall's mind was the half-breed's father however, surely, the All-Father would deal with the god-killer. Because he was the All-Father. It was what he did. Protect Asgard from threats like that brute and his son and as a result protect the Nine Realms. Just like Loki, his father would be naught but a footnote in Asgard's undisturbed, continued existence.

But for that to happen, Heimdall had to play his part to perfection. And it started with him doing his usual patrols to ensure no threat would reach past the wall.

So, once again he stretched his senses past New Midgard and over the plains of Idavoll and towards the woods pooling at the foot of the mountain range in the south-western region. There was another settlement of humans hidden amongst the trees. They consisted mostly of outcasts and criminals – not vile enough to be left behind for the Desolation to take its course, but not redeemable enough to have them anywhere near the Aesir's glorious home.

A fleck of shame, buried away, half forgotten. Now, apparently also half-dead. They had managed to disturb a nest of wyvern further up in the mountains and promptly paid dearly for it.

Now, while Heimdall would call that natural selection and an unimportant detail, he would still include that in his report to the All-Father. Mostly, because there was already a party of three young men and a woman making the journey from their home to New Midgard in the hopes to receive aid for their problem.

Not that the humans living there were any more capable of fighting. The group seemed to be aware of that fact however, at least judging by the agitated conversation they were having. One of the men – the youngest, stricken with grief and anger, probably lost a family member or two to the wyverns – was convinced that they should ask for the All-Father's help instead, while the woman and another man – presumably the leader – were both vehemently shooting that idea down, having enough of a mind to know their continued existence was of little interest to the All-Father. He had provided them with a place to rebuild, one that was away from the restless undead and Fimbulwinter's harsh impact, which was already way too generous if one would ask Heimdall.

But of course, no one asked him. Which was exactly why he had started voicing his opinion unpromptedly. Nevertheless, he would inform the king of this little situation.

Before he turned his attention away and towards the east, he took only a moment to let his eyes wander to one particular, little cabin in the outskirts of the Midgardian settlement. There was an old woman busying herself with picking low-hanging apples from a tree, quietly humming to herself. The tune was a familiar one. Heimdall quickly averted his gaze again.

It took him another hour to reach the west end of the Great Wall and another one until he arrived at the stables by the Great Lodge to give Gulltoppr over to the stable hands and make his way towards the All-Father's study.

The feast had since died down – quite early actually for Aesir standards – and the servants were too busy cleaning the mess of plates and spilled food and drink to pay the Watchman any real mind.

One servant mumbled to himself in frustration after several unsuccessful attempts of waking up one special, little jötunn who was still snoring away happily without a care in his mind, oblivious to how his mere presence once again got in the way of people just wanting to do their job. Typical.

Heimdall had half the mind to kick the brat awake, but ultimately decided that at least one of them had to act like an adult and Loki, who had a wet patch on his sleeve from where he had shifted to now drool on himself, was obviously unfit for that role.

Noticing his attention on them, the servant quickly bowed to him. “Good morning, Lord Heimdall.”

“Don't worry about that table. Just leave your bucket and rag here. Our honored guest here can clean up after himself, once he wakes up.”

“Of course, my Lord.” The boy bowed again, trying to mask his confusion at the order, did as he was told and then quickly scurried away, when he was dismissed by a wave of a hand.

Resisting the urge to dump the bucket of filthy water over the giant's head, he continued his way towards the All-Father's study, not wasting another second of his precious time and attention on the worthless brat.

He reached the wooden door to the king's study, letting himself in without knocking. He had no need to announce himself, he had done this almost every single days for the past two and a half centuries which gave him some leeway when it came to occupying the All-Father's time. He was expected, of course. He was needed. His work was paramount to the king's peace of mind and the safety of the realm and he was the only one fit for the job. Knowing that gave him the confidence to approach his father, who was sitting at his desk, surrounded by books and parchments and documents, most of which Heimdall couldn't begin to decipher, nor was it his place to.

In the middle of the clutter stood a tankard of wine as well as a jug. He didn't comment on that either. Instead, he put his hand to his chest, bowing his head respectfully. “Good morning, All-Father.”

“Heimdall”, the king greeted in return, not looking up the scripture in front of him. Only once he stopped reading some minutes later, did Heimdall speak up again.

“Nothing truly noteworthy outside the Great Wall. There was a series of break-ins in New Midgard, but the humans have already found the culprit and dealt with her. Also, there is a nest of wyvern in the mountain range to the south, near another small, Midgardian settlement. They have managed to get almost half their population killed trying to get rid of the beasts. They sent out a group to ask the humans in New Midgard for help. One of them even suggested going to you.”

Heimdall could not help but scoff at the mere thought. “Those creatures truly have no grasp of their own insignificance.”

Odin waved a dismissive hand to before Heimdall could go on a full-blown rant. “And inside?”

“There is some unrest in the Hrafn District caused by the new laws on proper holding of livestock, but Forseti is already handling it. Other than that people are generally content and as always grateful for the protection and prosperity you so kindly offer them. However, there are some whispers and uncertainties surrounding your guest. Common belief is that he's a mere human from New Midgard , who somehow managed to catch your eye. They are mostly unsure on what to think of him and how to treat him properly. I would suggest you give some kind of public statement about the jötunn to counteract any flyaway assumptions.”

The king sighed, closing the book in front of him and stood up. He swiftly downed the wine from his mug and put it back down in one motion, before turning around and searching for something in the mess of countless books and priceless artifacts lined on the shelf at the wall. Heimdall busied himself with refilling the All-Father's tankard with more wine from the jug, while he waited for Odin to speak up.

“Records on casualties in the Midgardian settlements from the last three decades?”

“Bottom left, second to last shelf.”

“Ah, there we go!”

He pulled out the documents, skimming them quickly, before his eye fell on something that made him furrow his brow. “Hm, doesn't seem to be the first time that village is plagued by wyverns. We wouldn't want my efforts to keep them alive be for naught, now would we? Go deal with those pesky skepnur, will ya?”

“I will, All-Father.”

Heimdall did not argue that that was technically really not his job. A couple Einherja – or even a Valkyrie – would have been more than enough to handle some wyverns. Sending a son of Odin was just kind of overkill. No matter, he would make quick work of it.

Once again, silence stretched between them. Heimdall waited patiently for either further orders or an official dismissal, while the All-Father was back to leaning over his desk, reading, making important decisions, learning vital, new information and drinking his wine. He always took his time asking Heimdall for more important estimations and the god of foresight had no problem with waiting. He could be patient when he wanted to. And there was one topic he was sure the king wanted to discuss with him and- ah, there it was.

“Heimdall, what's your read on Loki?”

“He's really weird.”

The All-Father snorted at Heimdall's dry comment, taking another sip of wine, before nodding. “That he is. But, anything more substantial, please? I know you've been keeping quite a close eye on him.”

“He still thinks he's fooling you, eager to get on your good side to get what he wants. His intentions remain treacherous, though he's starting to doubt himself, because he apparently only just realized that bringing you down – which remains his end goal, no matter what he tells himself – would lead to greater casualties than he first assumed. He's ultimately enjoying his stay here, which frustrates him, because it makes his plans considerably less cut and dry.”

Odin smiled in amusement, as if what Heimdall told him wasn't deeply troubling. There was a strange sort of fondness in the rare softness of his expression – one that in return made the younger god exceedingly uncomfortable.

The king took a moment to consider the assessment of the jötunn, as if taste-testing a brand new kind of wine, before ultimately putting down his tankard, apparently having made up his mind, when he chuckled: “Quite the troublemaker, that one.”

Heimdall shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to release some of the nervous energy prickling just beneath the surface of his skin.

“All-Father, what exactly do you intent to do about your honored guest?”

“What's it to you?”

“I just think I could help speeding up whatever plan it is you have for him, if you let me in on it.”

Heimdall tried to play it smooth.

“I know you want to get rid of him, Heimdall.”

Apparently not smooth enough.

“Can you fault me for wanting to dispose of a potential threat to Asgard's safety as quickly as possible. With all due respect, All-Father, I don't understand what you see in him.”

“Your jealous streak was cute when you were a child, Heimdall. Now, it's just annoying. I swear you got that from those mothers of yours.”

The younger god was taken aback, openly staring at his father, feeling quite a bit offended.

“I'm not-”

“Leave it, son. The only thing you have to know is that Loki remains my guest and is to be treated as such. And don't think I didn't notice your attempts at antagonizing him. I'd order you to stop, but he seems to enjoy your little squabbles. Just tune it down a notch, wouldcha? Keep distance if you have to.”

“I'm trying, All-Father. But he won't stop trying to talk to me.”

The moment Odin's eye snapped up to meet his, he knew he had overstepped. Shit. But instead of a harsh scolding about his mouthiness or a slap to remind him, who he is so audaciously complaining to, the king just sighed as if dealing with a particularly hard-headed child.

“That's because, for some unfathomable reason, Heimdall, he likes you.”

Heimdall just barely suppressed a scoff, though, judging by the All-Father's disapproving look, he hadn't hidden his disbelief at the mere thought well enough. Not that it was possible to hide anything from his father. And not that Heimdall ever even wanted to.

“So, do me a favor and don't go breaking my student's heart, hm?”

“Of course, All-Father.”

“Now run along, deal with the wyverns and you know what? Why don't you take Loki with you. It would do the boy well to see Asgard in all its beauty, not just boring, old Gladsheim.”

So much for keeping distance if he had to.

“All-Father, I'm not sure that is a good idea.”

Scratch not sure, he was certain nothing good would come of showing the jötunn Asgard's less protected parts. The king however, just sighed, already turning his attention back to the documents on his desk.

“You questioning my judgment, Heimdall?”

“Of course not, All-Father.”

“Perfect. Now, off you go.”

~~~

Heimdall closed the door to the All-Father's study behind him and suppressed the urge to punch something. Instead, he made his way back upstairs, back to the Great Hall, back to the jötunn with long, purposeful strides and a murderous expression. The servants and other inhabitants and usual visitors of the Great Lodge all wisely kept out of his way, not wanting to be met with the Watchman's infamous ire.

They didn't need to worry – at least not all that much – he already had a target to let his anger out on. Said target was still napping soundly, none the wiser to the furious god of foresight approaching.

Coming to a stop next to the jötunn, Heimdall regarded him with open disdain, contemplating on how best to rip the brat out of his sweet slumber – no doubt he dreamed about the destruction of Asgard and everything Heimdall loved.

Then, his eyes fell to the bucket.

He pulled the rag out of the water, making sure to not get any of the filthy water on his bracers, and discarded it on the table where it made a wet flopping noise. He then proceeded to give in to his prior urge and dumped the bucket of water on Loki's head.

The giant was immediately wide awake, gasping like a fish stranded on land, his head shot upwards and his body backed away instinctively. Too late did he realize he had pushed himself farther than the bench went. Flailing with his arms as if that would help him regain balance somehow, he landed on his back with an entirely undignified umpff.

Heimdall stood over him with his most condescending, golden smile he could muster, looking down at the giant disaster. “Rise and shine, mutt.”

Loki stayed on the ground and grumbled a string of obscenities that would make even Thor blush, wiping the water off his face. Heimdall of course understood every foul insult coming from the half-breed's mouth and those that even he did not dare to voice, and decided to give in to another nagging impulse and kicked the brat in his side.

“I said 'rise', you lamebrain.”

“Ah! Alright, fine! Fucking asshole”, Loki groaned as he pushed himself of the floor, holding his side and glaring daggers at the god above him. “I'm up.”

He wiped his hair away from his forehead, looking at his drenched clothes, like he had never been wet before. His expression went from incomprehension, to frustration and settled lastly on rage.

“The fuck was that for?!”

“See it as cultural education. This is how us civilized folk get rid of unwanted mutts.”

The jötunn groaned, thinking fucking asshole once again – how very creative – and turned around with the intention to head to his room, change his clothes and go right back to sleep. Lazy, little leech.

Heimdall moved around him and right into his way in a speed the half-breed's underdeveloped mind could not possibly keep up with, shoving him right back. “Not so fast, jötunn. The All-Father has a mission for you.”

“What, really?”

The sudden change in Loki's posture and expression at the mere prospect of him being given a task was ridiculous. It reminded Heimdall of a puppy being told to bring back a stick.

“Some Midgardians have acquired a little wyvern problem in the south-west.”

Loki's blue eyes widened in excitement – always so eager to prove himself. Though, Heimdall made sure to quickly stump out any spark of hope that might bubble up in the jötunn.

“It is my mission to solve said problem. You're just there to tag along. Be a shitty mascot or something. Cheer from the sidelines.”

The jötunn looked at him utterly dejected. Now, he resembled a puppy who had managed to retrieve the stick only to be beaten bloody with it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The Aesir god reveled in the disappointment the brat gave off in waves. The sight made him smile. “All-Father's orders, I'm afraid.”

Before the jötunn could utter another word and waste more air than he was worth, Heimdall cut him right off. “So, get yourself cleaned up and meet me outside the Great Lodge. Try to hurry, some of us have actual important jobs to do, hm? Ah, speaking of which”, he picked up the discarded rag throwing it at the brat. Unfortunately, Loki had just good enough reflexes to catch it before it slapped right into his face. Shame.

“You got in the way of a servant trying to do his work, so I helpfully volunteered you for it.”

Then he turned around, not interested in spending another second in the jötunn's reeking vicinity or listen to his exasperated protest. “Go on”, he called over his shoulder, “And do make haste, Loki of the Jötnar. Mortals are dying.”

Chapter Text

Leaning against the wooden front wall of the Great Lodge and waiting for his little companion, gave Heimdall some time to rightly wallow in his annoyance.

This was beneath him. The entire thing. All-Father could have just as well sent some helmets to deal with the wyverns, or even the Thorsdottir as a way to test her competence. She would have been overjoyed being given such a task, would have been fine with bringing the jötunn along, too, so they could once more run around, get in all kinds of trouble – as it seemed Loki was incapable of staying out of it – and talk about Valkyries and training and whatever else these children loved to drone on about day and night whenever they were together.

Despite his interest in his niece's development being little to none, Heimdall was aware enough of her potential and as such in her ability to keep the jötunn in line. She was, after all, a granddaughter of Odin, if not much else. And given who her father was, she was also used to dealing with overgrown man-children.

Heimdall, on the other hand, had neither the time for this, nor the patience. He was the Watchman of the Aesir, Bearer of Gjallarhorn and Herald of Ragnarök, he was above playing babysitter to some unimportant Jötunn runt. He had things to do, a realm to protect – from greater dangers than some wyverns running wild, that was – and he knew that. And so did the All-Father.

Heimdall couldn't help but feel this was some kind of punishment. It had to be. It had to be some kind of way to make him pay for overstepping. Maybe, it was the king's way of reminding him of his place as his loyal servant, as he had promised Loki just the night before. The thought made his skin crawl.

Heimdall would be impressed by the All-Father's brilliant resourcefulness when dealing out discipline, if he wasn't so hurt for being punished at all. He was just doing his job, was he not? Had he gone too far with his insults towards the jötunn? Never before had the All-Father really cared for his sharp tongue and brutal honesty, he even found it amusing at times. So why was this different? What was so important about Loki of the Jötnar? And could anything ever truly be so vital, as to allow the enemy into their closest ranks?

Heimdall shook his head to rip himself out of his spiraling thoughts. He had to be missing something. There had to be more to this, something he wasn't seeing. Admittedly, it wouldn't be the first time.

It was... a problem the All-Father had chastised him about time and time again. And while Heimdall had never quite managed to get past that flaw, he was able to trust the king's decisions fully and still do his job enforcing whatever Odin decreed, no matter if he understood the purpose or even rationality of it or not. It had worked out for him perfectly so far. It's what made him the golden son, the All-Father's left hand and an ideal role model to the Aesir.

So, Heimdall figured, that was just what he had to do. Trust the All-Father's intention as always, take what punishment he imposed on him and try not to completely break the jötunn before he inevitably lost his usefulness and in extension, Odin's protection. After that, he would be free to be ripped apart. That thought alone managed to sooth some of Heimdall's irritation. It was almost enough to make him reconsider his approach to his jötunn problem.

Should he play nice instead? Pretend, the brat's attempts at weaseling his way past the Aesir god's distaste for the giants and everything they stood for were working. That he would become his friend, even. Would it not hurt the jötunn even worse if he acted all amicable with him only to turn his back and laugh at his inevitable downfall? And it would be so easy, too. The half-breed seemed so determined to get closer to him, so desperate to be liked – especially by those who hated him on sheer, entirely justified principle.

However, that would also entail being actually nice to him. Or at the very least not quite as cruel. And that was were the true challenge lied. But Heimdall prided himself with his steadfast resolve and skills of emotional manipulation. He would readily face any challenge – no matter how great – in order to protect his people.

He was ripped from his musings by the footsteps quickly approaching from the inside of the lodge. It seemed, the jötunn had finally managed to somewhat get ahold of himself. He came to a stop near the doors and Heimdall could listen to the brat's thoughts as clearly as if he was screaming them into his ear.

Fucking Norns, why do I have to do this? Why does he have to come? Why fucking Heimdall?Doesn't matter, I'm gonna help people. Maybe, Skjöldr will be there. Would be fun to see him again.

His thoughts moved on in several different directions all at once, alternating between excitement for getting to see more of Asgard as well as both anxiety and annoyances at Heimdall's presence. He tried mentally preparing himself for the expected onslaught of sarcastic comments, passive aggression and plain insults. And – ah, yes – there it was. That same foreseen, if completely misplaced hope of maybe he just has to warm up to me a bit. Maybe, he's not all that bad and I just I have to get to know him better or something. Worth a try.

Heimdall scoffed. Fat chance of that happening, you fuck-nut.

He pushed himself off the wall and started walking towards the stables. If the brat didn't finish doubting himself quick enough, he would just have to walk. The Watchman had waited long enough.

As if sensing that he was officially late now and had once again succeeded in offending an Aesir god, Loki finally walked out the door, looking left and right to search for said god, only to find him further away across the muddy grounds Heimdall had kicked his ass on at his arrival, and quickly scurried after him. “Hey, wait up!”

Heimdall didn't bother slowing his steps as he turned his head to call over his shoulder: “Did the two brain cells left swirling around in that big ass head of yours not managed to catch the meaning of 'hurry up'? Should I speak slower next time? Spell it out for you, maybe? Can you even read? One never knows with the likes of you.”

Loki slowed his steps, once he managed to catch up with him. “Whatever, man.”

Alright, being at least somewhat nice towards the jötunn might be more of a challenge than Heimdall anticipated. However, the brat simply always made for such a Norns damned, easy target. The Aesir god was naturally gifted at recognizing and picking apart people's inner flaws and deepest insecurities and Loki was just positively riddled with those.

No matter. Either the giant finally stayed out of his way like most people did or it made him just try harder to prove himself, which then in return would leave him even more vulnerable. Both outcomes, Heimdall could live with.

~~~

The pair stayed mostly quiet on the way towards the stables. Loki was busy figuring out if he was more annoyed at the prospect of having to spend time with him or looking forward to what he imagined to be a great adventure, while Heimdall took great effort not to throw some more harsh comments at the jötunn. A task that require quite a bit of will power. However, he didn't want to run out of insults quite so soon – not that he thought that was even possible – after all, they did have an entire journey ahead of them. One neither of the men were all that excited about. Heimdall didn't need his foresight to know that this mission would suck the ever-loving spirit out of him.

Both men were ripped from their respective inner musings, once they got to the stables, where Gulltoppr made a purring sound at seeing her master. The giant also seemed happy to meet the beast again, but Gulltoppr – the good girl that she was – ignored him in favor of growling happily as Heimdall greeted her in his usual manner. “Gulltoppr! Who loves me the most?”

He elegantly mounted the excited beast, impatiently waiting for the brat to follow behind. Loki however took the time to once again get on Heimdall's nerves with his ceaseless antics. He held his hands up as if holding a document in front of him, pretending to read it.

“Well, that prize would go to you yourself, closely followed by your own reflection, then there's Gulltoppr and oh! How curious! Seems like the list just abruptly ends there.”

He even bothered to mimic throwing the imaginary list away. Heimdall rolled his eyes. Any doubts that this was a punishment were now definitely gone. This was going to be a long day.

“Shut up and get on, you already wasted enough time. Do I seriously have to remind you that there are wyverns currently ripping apart another group of human hunters?”

Loki grimaced, looking quite a bit guilty at that. It seemed the little giant had momentarily forgotten about his little, self-imposed mission of saving mortals. Goes to show just much he truly cared about helping people.

The jötunn climbed up on the saddle behind him, wisely keeping the several responses swirling around in his head to himself and staying quiet. That was, for a few blissful seconds, until...

“So, how do we-”

Before he could finish his stupid question, Heimdall interrupted him. “Huginn!”

While they were quickly being engulfed by the magical ravens, Loki mumbled to himself. “Right, yeah. Obviously.”

~~~

Upon arriving in New Midgard, Heimdall was immediately reminded of how little he cared for this little shithole and its inhabitants. They scurried about like little mice, filthy, loud and oblivious to their own insignificance even when living directly in the shadow of the Great Wall that harbored literal gods. How they did not just cower and waste away in their pitiful existence was beyond him. No wonder, Loki seemed to like them so much.

Once they were noticed, which was of course immediately – the swarm of ravens and a giant gradungr that carried an actual Aesir god were quite a spectacular sight – a small crowd of over-excited humans formed around them quickly. They stared at the newcomers with utter adoration, their minds filled with fascination and devotion. Some bowed deep, some even got to their knees in the ankle high mud. They were shouting praise and gasping in delight.

Heimdall paid no attention to their worship – they were after all little more than lost children to him – and if his posture straightened a little more, his head held high, then that was just because it was a more comfortable sitting position.

“Well, this is awkward”, Loki piped up behind him, looking around nervously. Heimdall sighed at the jötunn's incapability to keep his thoughts to himself – not that he would be spared from them even if he did –, but refrained from commenting on it, instead beckoning Gulltoppr to get them to the center of the settlement.

They passed mortals hurriedly shepherding their cattle out of their way, and startled chicken trying to get away from the golden beast roaming through the street. The stable hands back in Gladsheim would probably take hours freeing Gulltoppr's fur and paws from all the filthy mud the streets were positively flooded with.

Some Midgardians trailed after them, but of course, they kept their distance. None of them dared coming too close without permission. Heimdall was once again reminded at how much he hated this little eyesore of a civilization.

Soon – but not nearly soon enough in his taste – they reached the main lodge of the village.

It was a pathetic, decrepit, little excuse of a long house, surrounded by cabins of similar, if considerably smaller and somehow even poorer build. Most consisted out of dark wood and thatched roofs. They seemed sturdy enough, but Heimdall found they looked primitive. Which matched their occupants, he supposed.

There were stables to the right with rickety fences and a brittle stone wall that wouldn't be able to keep toddler in, much less anything out. The stench of cow shit, piss and sweat assaulted Heimdall's heightened sense of smell to the point where if he hadn't such flawless control over his body and reflexes, he would have gagged.

Displeased with just about every detail of his situation, he dismounted Gulltoppr in one elegant motion that Loki clumsily imitated. He waved away one brave soul who was about to offer to take Gulltoppr's reins for him – a broad-shouldered woman with little understanding on what exactly their visit meant and how to act when graced with the presence of a god, so she just resumed to the safety of her usual tasks. However, Heimdall's golden beast was both perfectly capable of staying in place when ordered to and had also quite recently been fed, bathed and given water. And not to forget, he wouldn't want this foul odor to cling to her golden fur for the rest of the trip. Furthermore, it wasn't like he planned on wasting much more of his time in this stinking shithole anyway.

He made his way towards the entrance of the main lodge with long purposeful strides, perfectly ignoring the atavistic crowd around him.

Loki, of course, couldn't help but preen at any kind of attention – even the lowest forms of it. He smiled and waved at them, sporadically even greeting them with “Hello” and “Good morning” and “That's a nice cow you have there”.

A Midgardian man with just enough presence of mind hurriedly opened the doors for them. Heimdall strode past him without even a glance, Loki took the time to thank him.

Entering the lodge, all eyes immediately fell on him, the room eerily quiet. As was to be expected when a god enters a place otherwise occupied only by some meager mortals. The room was a laughable imitation of the Great Hall in Gladsheim. Two long tables stretched from the entrance to the back on either side, leaving some free space in the middle to make a clear line straight to what Midgardians apparently considered a throne. It was decorated with bones and branches poking out like rays on both sides and almost completely covered by the thick pelt of a bear. The skull of a great stag rested on top like a crown. How very unimaginative.

Through the silence caused by their arrival, he could hear the jötunn's thoughts, as his eyes flitted to and fro, curiously taking in the drapery and pelts and animal skulls hanging from the walls and ceiling.

'The All-Father doesn't need to puff himself up like some mortal chieftain'. Guess he was right about that one.

Of course Heimdall was right. The weaker the man, the more he needs to show off to compensate for constantly falling short on anything else. And the jarl of New Midgard was a perfect example of that. A washed-up copy of his father, who in return had also been nothing more than an old, broken man who shared the same dreams of greatness as his forefathers before him. And so on and so forth. A sad little cycle for a sad little man.

Said man abruptly turned towards his guests, eyes wide and clearly entirely unprepared to meet a Son of Odin, which – according to what Heimdall could read from his thoughts – he had apparently always dreamed of, but not in such circumstances and with way more gold, mead and naked women around. What a fucking child.

He was still young and unfledged, he had some time to realize his pride – of which he had an abundance of – and honor – of which he had none – were built on the muddy foundation of a false sense of self-importance. But then again, Midgardians had similar lifespans to bugs, so he would probably die first. Tragic.

“Egill Svendson”, Heimdall greeted , making sure his voice was clear and loud, cutting through the tense silence, and laced it with as much enthusiasm as he felt having to talk to the chief – that was, none at all, of course.

Egill put his hand to his chest and bowed deeply. At least, this one had some manners, unlike his father, who in his old age had dared to think himself equal to an Asgardian. That elderly sack of bones had been worth less than a single piece of Asgardian furniture. Heimdall had seen woodwork that would surely make better political decision.

“Lord Heimdall. You honor us with your presence. And you are accompanied by...?”, he glanced at the jötunn behind him, confusion poorly hidden in his features.

“Oh, right. I'm Loki.”

The brat walked right up to the chief to shake his hand. The human stared at him in utter bewilderment, before taking the offered hand, clearly completely lost on what to think about this peculiar stranger. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Loki.”

“Pleasure's all mine.” The jötunn smiled brightly, before his eyes fell on someone behind the jarl. Namely a scrawny Midgardian servant with dirty blond hair. “Oh, hey Skjöldr!”

Of course. Skjöldr , Heimdall remembered that particular name, The expert on Aesir history in the flesh. Lucky day.

The young man waved awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the attention he was getting at being directly addressed by an Aesir god's mysterious companion. “Hi, uh, Loki – Lord Loki, I mean! I see you made it up the wall in one piece.”

“Skjöldr, you won't believe the past few weeks I had!”

Loki promptly pushed past Egill to get to his little friend, completely disregarding any sort of manners, which Heimdall didn't bother reminding him of, because that was neither his job nor did he mind all that much, after seeing the chief's expression going from bashful to irritated in mere seconds. Loki had that effect on people.

“Uh, right”, Egill turned his attention back the guest of actual importance, “Can I ask what brings one of the honorable Sons of Odin – and Lord Loki – to our humble settlement?”

“One of the Midgardian settlements up south at the mountain range has stumbled upon a nest of wyverns. The All-Father sent us to get rid of them.”

The jarl furrowed his brows, swiftly throwing a look towards another forgettable man – presumably an advisor – who merely shrugged, shaking his head and making himself very small in his shadowy, little corner.

Egill bit his lip nervously – how easily he was thrown out of his element was laughable. He was no natural leader, relying strongly on other people to give him advice which he then in return could pose as his own decision.

“My apologies, Lord Heimdall, but I know nothing of a wyvern problem. But surely-”

Heimdall had enough of the mortal's blabbering, cutting right through it: “That is, because the party that was sent to request your assistance has not arrived yet. Which they will...”

He stretched out his senses, but did not have to look for long. They were right outside, the leader already hastily jumping off his horse to enter the lodge. Too quick to hear what his companions shouted after him as they noticed Gulltoppr.

“Ah, here they are.”

The doors were thrown open with a bang. Loki was momentarily snapped out of his conversation with his little, human friend, jumping at the loud sound. As did several other people who had been listening intently and not with small amazement to the god talking to their chief.

Heimdall merely crossed his arms and glared at the newcomers. He hated loud noises. He despised unnecessary dramatics. It reminded him too much of the time he still resided in the Great Lodge. With Thor as his half-brother there truly was not a moment of peace and quiet to be had.

“Jarl Egill, please hear us! We need your help at once-”

His wide eyes fell on Heimdall and he immediately dropped to one knee. According to his thoughts that consisted mostly of panicked curses, he was at least aware of his insolence.

“I already know Ulfr. The All-Father in all his generosity has sent Lord Heimdall and Lord Loki just in time to aid you in your problem.”

Heimdall suppressed a condescending snort at the sheer disbelief in this Ulfr's expression. He could not however hide the scoff at how easily the man's thoughts of relief and hopefulness were almost overshadowed by confusion. Who the fuck is Lord Loki?

That's what that mortal focuses on? Seriously? Not a literal Son of Odin coming to their aid. Fucking imbeciles, the lot of them. Heimdall had half the mind to just leave them to deal with their problem on their own, it wasn't like the All-Father genuinely cared about any of the settlements outside the Great Wall.

However, he as the Scion of the Aesir was the protector of Asgard and as such it was his duty to defend all its inhabitants – or at least most of them. He was to enforce order in the Golden Realm and a bunch of dead mortals was not a good example of that.

The humans were lucky, Heimdall took his duties actually serious, unlike his brothers.

“Now, with that out of the way, we will take our leave.”

“Our h-horses need a quick rest, but then we can immediately leave so I can show you where t-to find... the...”, the mortal trailed off at meeting Heimdall's gaze. The angry scowl was enough to shut him up completely, so abruptly indeed, that his yellowed, half-rotten teeth clacked at the forced at with he closed his mouth. Maybe Loki could learn a thing or two from the mortal- that was, if the brat would finally pay some fucking attention. Which he wasn't, of course.

Heimdall took a step closer to the kneeling human, looming over him. He leaned his head to one side, raising an eyebrow. He could hear the mortal's fragile, little heart beating wildly. Could see, how quickly any previous relief was now replaced by gut-renching fear.

“You think I need some mortal to show me around in my own homeland? That I need guidance through the lands I have walked, long before your forefathers first stepped foot on Asgardian ground?”

He did not raise his voice, this petulant child was not worth the effort. Around him, none of the other mortals dared to even so much as breathed too loudly. Jarl Egill had completely given up pretense to be in any kind of control over what was happening. He did not even try to deescalate the situation, too busy reconsidering his career choices. The other occupants of the room – both servants and advisors of the jarl – took care in keeping themselves small and unnoticeable. Like little mice, hiding in their holes.

It was deathly quiet, except of course for the one corner in the back, where Loki was still jabbering on as if completely oblivious to the shift in atmosphere around him. But the slight tension in his posture betrayed his unrest. No doubt would he step in, if he thought Heimdall would hurt the human. Not that he would be fast or strong enough to do anything about it. However, bleeding heart that he was, he would certainly still try. There were already several comments or insults swirling in his head, that he could shoutin an effort to at least redirect the Aesir's ire towards him.

As if Heimdall would dirty himself by so much as touching the Midgardian, let alone soil Hǫfuð with his blood.

Upon receiving no answer from the frightened human, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a patronizing smile. “Thought so.”

With that, Heimdall turned around leaving the human spiral in his dread at having offended an Aesir god. He crossed the distance to the open door in brisk steps, and with an impatient look back, whistled for the brat to follow him. Loki quickly said his goodbyes to the blond mortal, before hurrying to catch up with him, ignoring the Midgardians they were leaving behind in a state of shock.

“Don't whistle at me. I'm not a dog.”

“Well, it worked, didn't it?”

“Whatever.”

Chapter Text

The beginning of their journey towards the mountain range was relatively peaceful.

The cool wind blew past them sharply at Gulltoppr's fast pace across the Plains of Idavoll. At this speed they would arrive at their destination just past noon.

Loki had apparently forgotten all about his prior frustration at the constant, scathing remarks targeted at him and his personality and his behavior and his overall unpleasant presence, while Heimdall did the exact opposite. He indulged himself in further wallowing in his irritation. He even went so far as to allow some degree of self-pity.

Whatever transgression he was being punished for couldn't possibly have been so serious as to justify this torture. All he wanted was to get this over with, go back up the wall, do his patrols and unwind once he was done. Norns knew, he needed it.

Needed a break from dealing with the Jötunn pest, from being left in the dark about the All-Father's plans – for the first time in a long time – and honestly, just from people in general.

However, he had a jötunn to babysit. One, who was for a blissful moment distracted by watching the landscape fly past them.

How the brat could so quickly loose interest in the beauty of Gladsheim and yet be so utterly mesmerized by the Plains of Idavoll was beyond him.

Of course, most parts of Asgard were breathtaking to look upon and the plains were no exception. With the large rocks and jagged boulders breaking up the fields, long grown over with moss and luscious, green grass covering them, making them look as if they were just pieces of the ground that were lifted up to show off the minerals running through the rugged ground, Idavoll was truly a sight to behold. It was just also a little repetitive.

The most interesting view it had to offer were probably the masses of water that fell from higher lying terrain further to their right, soon breaking up into small rivers and creeks that divided the giant patch of land like a wide-looped net.

Alright, Heimdall might just maybe be a little biased. After all, he had seen this landscape every single day for several hours at a time for most of his life.

Also he was just a little on edge at the moment. So much so, that even the occasional shift of light, whenever the sun was hidden behind a cloud was enough to agitate him at this point.

Loki seemed to have found some peace, starring at the quickly changing surroundings in open wonder. It was like he had never touched grass before, which considering he grew up in Midgard during Fimbulwinter might just very well be.

He was entranced by the rich green and the wide open view, seemingly forgetting about the Aesir god's existence. Heimdall really couldn't have that. He slightly turned his head and raised his voice to cut through the howling wind.

“I know you've been raised amongst animals of the forest, but here things work a bit differently.”

The brat ripped his eyes away from the landscape to stare at him in confusion.

“You're are a guest of the All-Father. As such, you should not be seen mingling with some lower class mortal.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because that would give some Midgardians the illusion that they are worth more than they actually are. They will try to use you to get into the All-Father's favor.”

Loki scoffed at that, rolling his eyes at him.“By the Norns, you're paranoid.”

“That's not paranoia, you nitwit. Your gullible nature has already managed to spread seeds of malintent in some of them.”

The fucking idiot didn't look the least bit convinced. How he was so completely incapable of grasping simple concepts such as the importance of keeping up the natural, social hierarchy, Heimdall could not possibly fathom.

“So, what? You're trying to protect me from being manipulated?”

The Aesir sighed, fully turning his upper body to glare at the younger man, talking very slowly so he would just maybe get the message.

“I'm trying to save myself from having to clean up another mess you will inevitably cause.”

“Sure yeah, let's go with- whoa!”

Heimdall quickly grabbed the jötunn's collar, pulling him forward and back into the saddle, keeping him from toppling off Gulltoppr's back, as she leaped over the clear water of another river without breaking her sprint.

“Uh, thanks.”

Heimdall merely sighed in lieu of a response, letting him go again and turning his attention forward to the edge of the forest they were heading towards, still quite a distance away. They would have to slow down once they reached the first trees.

While gradungr were no natural, long distance runners, Gulltoppr had been trained to perfection as both a mount for travel and a weapon for battle – Heimdall had personally seen to that. However, her sheer body mass was not ideal to efficiently navigate through such dense undergrowth. They would have to leave her somewhere to get to the wyvern's nest.

Behind him, Heimdall could sense Loki's thoughts jumping from one thing to another. Questions. Always with the fucking questions.

Once again, it reminded the Aesir of a toddler. Thrúd had had that phase when she had barely been taller than a table, at which her favorite words had been how, why and what. Sif and Thor had quite quickly started to just sent her to ask the respective other parent – as if either of them had the brains or the patience to be able to quench her thirst for knowledge – and she had more often than not been dismissed with a simple I don't know why, Thrúdie or just being plainly ignored. That had always been Heimdall's approach. Unless of course, when he was in a good mood and she asked about something, he was actually interested in talking about. Then, he would spent hours indulging her little interrogations, until one of her parents in their drunken stupor remembered that they indeed had a child that was neither old enough to drink with them nor to be left unattended. Which meant, he often stayed well into the next morning, even after Thrúd had already fallen asleep.

But unlike with his niece and her childish excitement for the world around her, Loki was never not being indulged. That spoiled brat.

Suddenly, the All-Father found the young man's incessant pursuit for knowledge refreshing and endearing, while everyone else would have long since been branded as nosy and greedy.

While the giant was still fighting an inner battle between his curiosity and apprehension, Heimdall sighed again, kissing the last, little glimpse of hope for a quiet trip goodbye. “Just ask already.”

“Why exactly did we go to New Midgard first and not just straight to the nest to kill the wyvern.”

The jötunn truly knew nothing about politics. Heimdall absently wondered what the All-Father was teaching him all this time, because there were clearly some major holes to be filled. Not that he was all that eager to take up that job. But then again, Heimdall could never really pass up an opportunity to flaunt his own wellversedness regarding all matters of the realm he loved. It was a weakness, Thrúd had exploited time and time again in her youth.

“While all Asgardian ground and in extension the inhabitants its harboring all rightly belong to the All-Father and as such fall under his protection as well as jurisdiction, the Midgardian settlements are mostly left to their own devices. But every once in a while – as you can see now – they manage to run themselves into the ground and that's when we step in. These interventions are to be reported to the current jarl of New Midgard and records of such incidence are kept in the All-Father's study. Let's just say it gives mortals a sense of codetermination, while also shielding them from their own stupidity and inherent self-destructive tendencies.”

Loki paused for a moment consider the new information.

“Hm, very noble.”

Always with that fucking sarcasm.

“But why you? Doesn't really sound like a job for the Watchman of the Aesir.”

“Because the All-Father decreed it.”

“And so you do it.”

“Obviously.”

Loki leaned further towards him, clearly unable to ever just let things go.

“Even though, sending some einherja would have done the trick? And you could have continued your actual job patrolling the wall?”

Well, Heimdall was questioning that himself. Of course, he wouldn't let the jötunn know about his doubts, though. Not that he questioned the All-Father's decisions. Rather he doubted his own ability of comprehending them. He was sure, he was just missing something. Which – as someone revered for their unmatched perceptiveness – was downright shameful. But the giant didn't need to know that.

“I think you should be a little more grateful that you get to follow around yours truly instead of some brain-dead einherja. I am much better company.”

“Doubtful.”

“You want me to make Gulltoppr throw you off again?”

The giant wisely stayed quiet at that.

“That's what I thought.”

“But still, why you? Of all people!”

Heimdall resisted the urge to fling either the jötunn or just himself off the saddle. Everything to escape the brat's constant questioning. He found he wildly preferred it when Loki was silently breaking his little brain trying to figure out his own answers, instead of announcing his lack of knowledge out loud and making him do all the work.

Heimdall was completely content with not knowing the All-Father's intention from the get-go. Mostly, because he was usually enlightened sooner or later. It was up to his king to determine when exactly that would be.

So, in lieu of admitting to his own lack of a real answer, he chose guilt-tripping, instead. It was way more enjoyable, anyway.

“You're so right, Loki! Such a job would fit some others way better. Let's say Baldur, for example. Oh wait no, he's dead.”

He pretended to think again, putting a hand on his chin. Just before Loki could cut in again, he snapped his finger, as if having thought of a better option.

“How about Magni instead? Ah, I forgot, he caught an ax with his face. Not much use there, anymore. Not that there was much to begin with. Or... I know! Modi! He'd be perfect for the job. Ah right! Dead, too! Killed by a brat with an attitude problem, complete lack of self-awareness and an inability to realize when it's time to shut the fuck up.”

“Alright fuck, I get it! I'm sorry, okay?”

Heimdall laughed at the clear discomfort and – oddly enough, regret – rolling of the giant in waves.

“Now don't go around feeling too guilty about that one. Honestly, if it weren't for the fact that I truly cannot stand you, I'd actually be inclined to thank you for getting rid of that one.”

Loki inched closer again, bending forward to try and read his expression. Heimdall turned to meet his gaze, bearing his golden teeth in a sharp grin. The incomprehension in those stupidly blue eyes was hilarious to him. This little Jötunn runt's utterly unsophisticated view of the world was both undeniable proof of his sheltered upbringing and also quite fun to shatter.

“He was your nephew.”

Heimdall barked out another wry laugh. He let go Gulltoppr's reins just to throw up his hands dismissively. Unlike Loki, he was more than capable to keep himself in the saddle by the sheer strength of his legs and core and of course his impeccable body control.

“A tragedy, really. That utter piece of wyvern waste was a pitch perfect personification of Thor's innumerable imperfections. Put the whole family to shame, that disgusting degenerate.”

He got an undignified snort in response.

“You really have a way with words when you insult people. You should try writing poetry, you'd give Kvasir a run for his money.”

Heimdall shook his head with a dramatic sigh.

“Yes well, thanks for reminding me of why I hate you so much.”

Instead of having the decency to look dejected, Loki smiled his most unpleasant, little smile that had numerous, lesser men and women fawn over him. “You're very welcome, my Lord.”

~~~

The rest of their trip towards the forest was spent with further bickering back and forth, which mostly consisted of Loki being his vexatious, entirely disagreeable self and Heimdall continued verbal assault on every aspect about him in an attempt to both shut the jötunn up and also release some of the irritated tension inside of him in the best way he knew how.

Once they arrive at where the forest grew more and more dense, they parked Gulltoppr at a small clearing, where she could both drink from a small river and hunt for her own food as she waited dutifully for their return.

At some point, Heimdall stopped responding to the jötunn, who took that as a sign to fill the silence by blubbering on about his stay in Asgard, new experiences, his impression on the Great Lodge and its inhabitants and went on several tangents like there was no tomorrow. Whatever had been holding him back from talking so much before, had obviously lost its effect, leaving the Aesir god to deal with this incessant drivel.

Meanwhile, said god wondered how furious the All-Father would be if his prized student was suddenly missing a few of his teeth. Or his tongue. Or his head.

Then, his thoughts went on to ponder over just how great his punishment would be, then. And would he have to pay for disobeying the king's orders or because Odin actually wanted to keep Loki around? Would the All-Father even go so far as to order Heimdall's death for that? Would he take the life of the god of foresight and order, the protector of Asgard and his own golden son, as punishment for killing some worthless, filthy degenerate, who was quite literally planning to bring Asgard to ruin? Surely not. The All-Father would not make such a fatal error.

Such an utter lapse in judgment would be befitting of a mortal like Jarl Egill, but not the All-Father, King of the Aesir. The mere thought was near blasphemous.

Odin had a plan – he always did. And in the end, it would all work out and make sense, he just had to have trust in the All-Father. And that, he could do. Even if it meant enduring the presence of the runt of a god-killer.

Heimdall's gaze returned to the very bane of his existence, who had moved on to ramble about how he met this delightful woman once in a tavern, who had been able to out-eat him in a contest, which was apparently quite the impressive feat. Then he went on – in a more hushed tone, as if there was anyone around to witness this torture – how she was supposedly also interested in eating things other than bread and venison.

At this point, Heimdall was mostly busy trying his very best to tune the jötunn out, which was why that filthy, little innuendo kind of went over his head, even when Loki winked at him. His confusion at the gesture was apparently visible on his face, as the brat immediately harped on to elaborate on what exactly that meant, as if Heimdall had never heard of oral sex before. The jötunn truly had not a single self-cognizant bone in his body.

Apparently, Loki enjoyed gossiping shamelessly over his own sex life and continued on telling Heimdall all kinds of things he truly had no desire to know in such vivid detail.

Meanwhile, the terrain around them changed quite abruptly from a somewhat rocky forest to a full on mountainous region. More than a few times, did they have to revert to climbing when their path got too steep to walk or led them over cold, crystal clear rivers and stony clefts.

For a time, they walked on the edge of large ravine following the rapids upstream, the roaring of the water masses far down beneath them as it wildly slammed against the walls of its earthly cage, was almost enough to drown out the constant stream of bullshit coming from Loki's mouth. Unfortunately for him, Heimdall's superior hearing was not so easily overpowered.

The Aesir came to a stop still some distance away from where the masses of water bellowed down into the ravine and decided that this would be the safest place to cross the large gap. The rocky walls on the other side bent a little towards them and provided just enough foothold to be climbed despite its glistening, wet surface, which was as good an opportunity as they were going to get.

Before Loki could interrupt himself to instead ask why they had stopped, Heimdall took some steps away from the edge, to then run up and leap across the cleft, elegantly catching himself on the rough, protruding edge he had been aiming for and started climbing the rock face without looking back to see if the giant followed. If Loki was too scared to jump, he would just have to wait here for Heimdall to come back after completing his mission. And wouldn't that be a dream.

However, the brat was apparently nothing if not persistent – downright impossible to shake off, even. He needed a little more run-up than Heimdall did and landed further down and not half as graceful, as he very nearly smacked face-first into the rock. Nevertheless, he made it. Which wasn't actually all that surprising, given that he did somehow manage to climb the Great Wall. But, hope springs eternal.

And so did the giant's blabbering. The entire time it took to make their way up the rock face and continue following the ravine from the other side, Loki had seemed to make it his task to prevent any possibility of a moment of silence between them with even more entirely inappropriate tales of his numerous sexcapades. At this point, Heimdall was pretty sure he was making at least half of them up on the go.

Heimdall took a sharp left turn and expertly navigated them through the thick undergrowth. He swiftly hopped over the large log of a recently felled tree, as the brat got started on another story. “You know there was also that one blacksmith-”

“For the love of- you truly make the filthiest whores of Vanaheim look like virtuous fucking virgins!”

Loki gasped theatrically. Obviously, Heimdall had sensed his intention to see how much he had to rile him up for him to snap at the jötunn. He hated sensing his satisfaction as he did, but Norns knew, he couldn't take it anymore.

“Heimdall!”, the brat exclaimed in faux incredulity, a hand on his chest, “That's no way of talking about your mothers!”

The Aesir grabbed him by the throat.

“You little piece of-”

Heimdall cut himself of when he heard the screech of a wyvern. He hadn't even realized how close they had gotten to the nest, too busy enduring the company he was in.

Apparently, Loki had also heard it, head turning to look in the general direction of where the noise had come from. Throwing the jötunn one last seething glare, Heimdall shoved him back and moved to make his way up another upwards slope, the giant quickly scurried after him. Once they reach the top, they had a perfect view down to a small, rocky valley – so far down indeed, that they stood at the same level as the peeks of the largest pine trees growing below. The basin was surrounded by harsh mountain walls and high towering slopes. Without expert-level climbing skills or wings to fly away, there would be no way of escaping that deathtrap. And a deathtrap it was.

One adult wyvern was currently occupied ripping flesh from bone with its razor-sharp beak. Judging by the shreds of clothing scattered across the grass, bushes and stone, it must have been one of their human victims. The mess of entrails, blood and crushed bone strayed about weren't much to go by.

Another beast was perched inside a small cave in the stony walls higher above, where they had apparently built their nest in. And a third one came in sight from behind the mountain top, landing next to the first and bigger one to get scraps from the feast. The adult wyvern however, let out an ear-piercing screech and snapped at the younger one.

Heimdall studied the scene, quickly scanning their surrounding for every possible way to attack. While he was confident in his ability to kill the wyvern effortlessly without getting hit by so much of a single spark of their lightning breath, he wasn't so sure about the jötunn, who looked a little paler than usual at the sight of the violated corpse.

“Okay, so how exactly do we do this?”

At the sound of Loki's voice once again tainted his ear, he changed his mind, remembering that he did not care about his well-being. He kicked the brat in the back of his knee, put a hand on his back and roughly shoved him straight over the edge.

The surprised, panicked shout it elicited was like balm to Heimdall's frayed nerves.

Loki rolled down the slope gracelessly, before he managed to catch himself about halfway down by ramming a knife into the hard dirt. It wasn't enough to entirely stop his descend though, but the jötunn had bigger problems as the young wyvern immediately charged straight towards him. So, he pushed himself away from the slope entirely, dodging the beast's attack right before it crashed right into where he had been only a second ago.

Loki landed with a grunt, rolling several times to both dissipate the force of his fall and get out of the way of the biggest wyvern's giant beak, coming to a stop only to fire three arrows in quick succession, all of which hit their target. Two in the right eye, one in the left. Heimdall had to actually conjure bifröst around his ears to drown out most of the shrill outcry. The jötunn reverted to putting his hands over his ears and backing away hastily to get away from the crackling electricity shot in his general direction.

To his left, the young one charged at him once more, this time it had its razor-sharp talons stretched out, ready to grab the giant and claim him as his own prey. Loki released three more arrows, targeted at the beast's throat and underside of its belly. There was a strange light that betrayed some kind of enchantment. As soon as the brat shouted “Springa!”, the arrows gave off a strong burst of energy, tearing the wyvern's throat apart.

As the corpse slammed to the ground and skittered towards him, Loki shouldered his bow in one practiced motion, before side-stepping, grabbing the dead beast by the torn up remains of its throat and one of its wings and redirected the momentum to fling it into the blind wyvern. It was enough of a distraction for the jötunn to run up to the stunned animal, dive beneath its feathered wing and jump up on its back to stab his knife deep into the back of his neck and through the cervical vertebrae. The wyvern instantly collapsed underneath him and Loki quickly cut its throat to fully end its life.

He ripped his gaze from the corpse, directing his focus upwards, and wasted no time drawing bow and arrow to shoot at the remaining beast. The target in question spread out its wings to reveal its admittedly quite impressive wingspan. Heimdall hadn't been aware wyvern could grow that big in this environment.

He knew they originated from Vanaheim, where they could grow so large as to even rival some dragons, while their main diet still mostly consisted of snakes and fat bugs. In Asgard, feeding on humans seemed to do the trick, which Heimdall would consider only a slight step-up.

Meanwhile, down in the valley, Loki hesitated. The arrow was notched and the bowstring pulled taut, the arrowhead pointing straight at the animal's heart. But he did not shoot. The fool was contemplating to let it live. She just wants to protect her eggs.

Heimdall couldn't believe the bullshit thoughts he was hearing.

The jötunn had had no such qualms killing the other two wyvern, but now, he suddenly froze because of second thoughts. He even went so far as to lower his bow – the man truly had no sense of self-preservation – and tried to come up with a way to spare the beast, while also saving the mortals. But the animal held no such doubts. The moment no arrow was pointed at it, it swooped down from the ledge in a nosedive and straight towards the jötunn.

Heimdall sighed, it seemed the giant wasn't capable of handling himself after all. Who would have guessed.

“Slow down!”

The realm around him came to a near standstill. The wyvern hung in mid-air, the jötunn was just about to draw his arrow again and Heimdall stared at the scene, thoroughly annoyed. Then, he bent down to pick up a large stone and immediately had half the mind to throw it at Loki. He chose to hurl it at the wyvern's head, instead. But it was a near thing.

Time rightened itself and resumed its usual pace just before the stone connected with the top of the beast's skull, the brunt force of his throw enough to push and crush it against the rock face. There was a mess of viscous and brains stuck to the rough surface, as the rest of the body went limp in the air and moments later, hit the ground lifelessly with a dull thud. While Loki was fast enough to not get squashed by the corpse, he did not quite manage to evade getting blood splattered onto his face and clothes.

Heimdall jumped down the slope and sauntered up behind him, taking in the bloody scene with a pointedly bored expression. The jötunn whipped around with a murderous expression.

“Why do you feel the need to be like this?!”

“What ever do you mean?”

Loki gestured wildly first at the slope he had been pushed from, then at the wyvern's fractured head and the nasty stain at the wall and lastly at himself and his dirt- and blood-covered armor. Heimdall didn't quite see how any of that was his fault. After all, if the brat had just kept his mouth shut instead of insisting on talking his ear off, he might have been in a more collaboratory mood.

He pushed past Loki, who was still pointing at things he blamed Heimdall for, and began climbing the rock face to get up to the eggs. The cave didn't run all that deep, but it was still large enough to fit the adult wyvern inside without being too much of a tight squeeze.

And there they were, surrounded by what was presumably more human bones, as well as those of some larger mammals and laid amidst filthy, ripped cloths, moss and small branches. Two eggs, slightly bigger than his hand and spotted with dark blues and greens.

Heimdall considered throwing them at Loki – he found he was just itching to hurl something harder at him than mere insults –, but he still had to bring the brat home at some point, and covered in blood, dirt and egg yolk was admittedly not the best look. And also, he didn't really want to touch the eggs with his bare hands. So, he reverted to crushing them with his boot.

Once, he got down again, Loki was staring at him wide-eyed. “Did you just..?”

“What, you wanted to hatch them yourself? Raise a wyvern army against Asgard?”

Loki groaned, throwing his hands up. “We could have relocated them or something.”

“Hm, true”, Heimdall nodded, “we could've also given them to the mortals. I heard wyvern eggs are a delicacy there.”

The jötunn's shoulders sagged unhappily. Heimdall ignored him, moving past him towards the slope to leave the valley.

When he reached the top and waited for Loki to get a move on, he took a moment to scrutinize the younger man.

His messy hair was matted and stuck to his forehead in clumpy strands. Half-dried blood and dirt were smeared on his face and arms and his armor was positively covered in dark plasma and sand. While the jötunn seemed significantly more bothered at how Heimdall had managed that entire situation – it worked out, what right had he to complain? – Heimdall already knew, the All-Father would not be all too pleased seeing his guest so filthy.

So, instead of leading them right back to Gulltoppr, he decided to take a little detour. They crossed the ravine again – Loki stayed blissfully quiet now, presumably very close to pouting –, but then took more of a left turn to head towards where Heimdall knew would be a smaller river with less rapid waters.

Loki had noticed that they were not on the direct way back, but did not comment on it. If only Heimdall had known this was the way to successfully shut the giant up, he would have shoved him down a cliff and stomped on some eggs sooner.

Once, the underbrush cleared up to reveal the river, the Aesir pointed at it with a nod of his head.

“Go on, make yourself at least somewhat presentable. You reek.”

Loki bristled at that. “Well, whose fault is that?”

While he knelt down to wash his hands and face with the cold water, Heimdall stood next to him, bending down to clean the remnants of egg from his boot. “Entirely and utterly your own, junior.”

The jötunn grunted in response, as he tried to get some of the sand out of his short hair and braid. With little success, of course, but Heimdall would not allow him to waste too much time. He still had patrols to do after this.

When he was satisfied with the state of his boot, he straightened up again and was just about to order the brat to do the same, when his senses pick up on something. Or rather someone.

Someone who really shouldn't be here. Someone, he really didn't have the patience left to deal with right now.

So, he quickly grabbed Loki by the hem of his shirt, pulled him upwards and hurriedly made his way back towards the trees. But of course, the giant had to struggle against his grip, pushing him away and was just about to yell at him to stop manhandling him like that, when he was cut of by a sharp voice.

“Ríg! How dare you come here and not even think to stop by for a visit?”

Chapter Text

Both men turned around to the tall, old woman stomping towards them in long, angry strides that made her loose trousers billow against her legs, pointing at Heimdall with an accusing finger. Her sleeves were tucked up to reveal bony forearms and her wide tunic was fastened around her waist by an old, light gray apron that was unraveling in several places. She was also taller than both of them. She had one or two inches on Heimdall, and Loki reached only up to her chin, which was a hilarious sight, as he – ever the hero, of course – immediately stepped in, thinking he'd have to safe a poor, confused elder from the Watchman's infamous wrath.

Meanwhile, Heimdall just closed his eyes for a moment, cursing the Norns for their utterly distasteful sense of humor.

“Why now?”, he mumbled exasperatedly, and opened his eyes to see the woman easily push past Loki's laughable attempt of stopping her. She intended to push her finger against his chest, and none too gently. Heimdall dodged it swiftly, at least somewhat trying to safe face. “Dúfa, I really don't have time for-”

“That is 'Svana Dúfa' to you, you ungrateful, little shit! I did not raise you, just to lose that title as soon as you're out of the house.”

Well, there went his last hope of salvaging this entire situation.

“I'm sorry, Svana Dúfa, but we really have to get going.”

He could see in her eyes that she stopped listening after his forced apology and at this point, he didn't need his gift of foresight to know she would not let him leave without first dragging him to her home and forcing him to spent time with her. Looking past Dúfa, he saw Loki's face going almost as red as the blood still sticking on him in some places with the attempt of holding back his laughter.

His eyes were as wide as his grin, when he mouthed that's your mother?.

Heimdall shot him a glare that would certainly make any other person cower in fear, 'other person' as in someone with at least a smudge of a sense for self-conservancy in their veins.

Loki – ever acting like a bumbling, newborn fawn, that had yet to learn about the dangers of the world – just opened his big mouth in a deliberate attempt to make Heimdall's life actively worse.

“So, you're Svana Dúfa? I'm Loki. It's a pleasure to finally meet you! Ríg here has told me so much about you already! It's great to finally have the pretty face to go with his stories.”

Loki of course was lying through his teeth, however his usual overbearing, entirely ill-fitted familiarity immediately managed to force a hearty laugh from the old woman. He used that opportunity to throw the Aesir god a woefully unnecessary wink, who in return rolled his eyes in annoyance.

As she calmed down again, Dúfa grabbed Heimdall by the arm – a gesture he only allowed because he already foresaw that if he didn't she'd go on a tangent about how he used to love hugs as a child and now, not even his own mother is allowed to touch him and what a shame that development was and that it was all his father's fault.

Her grip was even after all these years still deceptively strong, as she pulled him in the direction to her house and opposite to where Gulltoppr was still waiting for them while lazily bathing in sunlight. Lucky animal.

Soon enough, when she was sure he wouldn't just turn on his heels and flee – of course his pride would never allow him to do that, anyway, and probably neither would Loki –, Dúfa released his arm again in order to gesture expressively while nagging him about how long it has been since his last visit and how he was lucky she had been working on a new recipe for apple pie this morning, so she had something for him to eat and promptly appointed the task to him to taste-test it and tell her his opinion.

Behind him, he could hear Loki's thoughts being directed straight at him.

You're gonna have to explain a lot after this.

Heimdall turned around with a snarl. “I'm not explaining shit to you, mutt.”

“What was that, dear? You're gonna have to speak a bit louder. You know my hearing is not as good as it used to be.”

“Nothing of importance, Svana Dúfa”, he said calmly to his mother, before looking back at the jötunn, hissing, “Just. Play. Along.”

Loki crossed his arms over his blood-smeared clothing, thinking: You know, I feel like we're not pulling our weight equally in this relationship.

He lifted his hand to count the next points he thought up on his fingers.

Like, I did most of the work here, get thrown off a cliff right into a literal nest of wyvern, and now you go and ask me for a favor. Not really how this works, you see? What do I get out of it in return?

Heimdall was entirely unimpressed by the jötunn's attempt at bargaining.

“An intact spine. How does that sound?”

Loki rolled his eyes, before giving him an artificial smile and a mockingly excited thumps-up, that turned into quite the rude gesture as soon as Heimdall turned his back to him again. Fucking brat.

~~~

They crossed the small distance to Dúfa's house in surprisingly little time. How he hadn't noticed how close the river actually was to her home, Heimdall blamed entirely on Loki's distractingly irritating presence.

As they reached the narrow stone path that led through her wildly growing garden, Dúfa told him about all the tasks she still had to do and how well the apple tree he had gifted her years prior had flourished over the last spring and how she was growing thyme and marjoram and knapweed and field peas.

Meanwhile, Loki was just trailing a step behind them like a lost puppy.

Clearly, he wasn't happy with being ignored like that, as he spoke up again, desperately trying to insert himself in the conversation. It was hilarious to see how out of depth Loki was as soon as he wasn't the center of attention.

“My mother used to make paint out of knapweed, is that why you grow it?”

Dúfa jumped at the voice behind her. For a second, she seemed to have forgotten about Loki's existence. She might just be the only being capable of doing that.

It was quite the impressive feat – after all, he constantly seemed to draw everyone's focus towards himself, intentionally or otherwise. Most of the time, his mere existence positively demanded to be noticed. Something, Loki seemed to revel in shamelessly, even though it got him in trouble just as often, if not even more than it got him out of it.

“Yes, that is one use for it, but honestly, I just like the color when they bloom. Anyway, here we are-”

She pushed open the wooden door to her humble cabin and the scent of old books and freshly baked pie filled Heimdall's nose. It immediately reminded him of his early childhood, back before he came to Asgard and some of the tension in his shoulders lifted – entirely without his consent.

It did not however, help with the headache already developing that he knew was coming full force soon enough. At the very latest, it would arrive as soon as they left again and Loki started bombarding him with his inevitable questions, none of which Heimdall was particularly looking forward to deal with. Especially not if this visit ended like the last few, which had been bad enough on their own and really not something he wanted the giant to witness.

Either way, there was no way out but through and so he stepped inside the cabin and let himself be led the few steps through the small living area to where a short table had been placed near the left corner.

On one side of it, there stood a bench, adorned with sheepskin to make it more comfortable and between the head of the table and the wall, she had cramped her old armchair which was worn with age and frequent use.

Dúfa hurried into the only other room in the cabin – the kitchen – with the order for them to make themselves at home while she retrieved the aforementioned pie. Heimdall obeyed and took a seat in his usual place on the bench near the armchair, unclipping both Gjallarhorn and Hǫfuð from his belt and neatly laying them down next him, exactly where Loki had intended to sit.

At the jötunn's annoyed expression at being denied a place on the bench, Heimdall just gestured towards the rickety stool standing tucked away in another corner, which creaked pathetically as Loki brought it to the table and plopped down on gracelessly to then stretch his legs out with a groan.

Up to this point, there journey had taken up roughly half of the day and most of that time was spent on Gulltoppr's back. Why the brat was already tired evaded Heimdall. Until he heard the brat's rumbling stomach.

“Did you seriously not eat anything at the Great Lodge?”

Loki threw his hands up defensively. “I was kinda in a hurry.”

“And it didn't even cross your mind to bring anything with you for the journey.”

“I was hungover! Still am, by the way – thanks for asking. But unlike some people I don't have to make my suffering everyone else's problem.”

Heimdall laughed dryly. “How very gracious of you, considering you already are everyone else's problem.”

Just when Loki opened his mouth for some truly creative comeback along the lines of 'fuck you', Dúfa reappeared with a tray of apple pie slices and three wooden plates in her hands. The jötunn immediately shot up again to help her by taking the plates and placing them on the table, while Dúfa put down the heavy tray.

“Thank you, dear.” She gently touched his arm, before sinking into the armchair and filling each of their plates with hefty slices of pie. Loki preened at her touch – because of course he did –, sat down again and instantly started to devour his portion as if he hadn't seen any food in days.

Heimdall waited, as Dúfa served herself a slice, and then took a bite. He had to admit, the pie was delicious. Her food always was.

The pieces of apple were baked just on the side of soft, without getting mushy, the crust was crisp but not dry and the filling was neither overly sweet nor sour and had a hint of honey and warm spices. It almost managed to make the whole experience bearable. Though, Loki and his obnoxious chewing and moans of delight counteracted that quite efficiently.

He had barely swallowed the rest of his first slice, when he helped himself to a second serving.

“I have to say, Dúfa, this pie is delicious! It's like”, he took a bite and continued talking with his mouth full, “It has the perfect consistency, and the filling is just divine!”

Dúfa laughed, waving her hand dismissively at the compliment. “Oh, stop it, you! It's not even my best work.”

“Really? Because this tastes incredible! I can't even imagine what your best work might be like, this is already a masterpiece! Don't you agree, Ríg?”

Heimdall rolled his eyes at the easily excitable jötunn. “It's decent.”

“He loves it”, Loki translated for Dúfa, who was smiling at her son's dry comment. “Oh, I know.”

The giant turned his attention towards Heimdall. “If this is the kind of food you get here – paired with such lovely company, of course – I really don't understand why you don't visit far more often.”

That unnecessary comment earned Loki a nice, irritated glare. The brat was obviously back to trying to rile him up, which Heimdall found was a downright villainous move while in the presence of his mother.

Dúfa sighed as she finished the last of her pie and wiped her hands on her apron. “Oh, you know, he's always so busy doing... What is it you do again?”

“I'm a watchman”, he answered noncommittally and took the last bite of his slice.

“Right, right. He's too busy playing sentry, to pay his poor, old mother a visit from time to time.”

A sentry. She calls the Watchman of the Aesir a sentry! Heimdall stared daggers at the jötunn, as he heard Loki's thoughts just as loudly as the words he actually spoke in response: “Well, he certainly takes his responsibility very serious.”

“Too serious, if you ask me. What could possibly be so important to watch over, that he can't make time for one of the women who raised him.”

Loki smiled in significantly overplayed sympathy, apparently so invested in hearing Dúfa's opinion on Heimdall's career choices, that the fine, little detail – one that should really have caught his attention by now – of how she knew nothing of her son's title and position went right over his head. Heimdall would prefer to keep it that way.

“Anyway, you should watch out on your patrols, I heard there are wyvern running wild in the mountains. Someone really should do something about that.”

Loki lit right up at the opportunity to boast, but was just about smart enough not to reveal anything vital – after Heimdall kicked him in the shin in warning, that was.

“Ah- I heard they have already been dealt with.”

“Oh, that's a relief. Must have been Ulfr and his men. Such brave souls! I really have to invite them for a meal some time, soon. Oh, Ríg, you ought to come, too!”

She once again got ahold of his arm, her face lighting up at the idea. She looked younger like that – the dim light making her gray hair resemble the dirty blond it used to be and some of deep wrinkles smoothing over –, she almost looked like she did back when he was a child.

“You should finally meet them, they are really nice. I really don't know why you avoid them so much. Or how you even do it. Shouldn't you as a sentry work with them? I swear every time I tell them about you, they seem to have no idea who you are. They act like they don't even believe you exist.” She laughed at that outlandish thought.

“Either way, they have so many stories to tell and sometimes, Ulfr's wife – uh, Hilde-”

“Hilgard”, Heimdall corrected.

“Right, right, Hilgard. She sometimes brings me books and pelts for the winter. She also helped me with a leak in my roof, because someone wasn't there to repair it for me.”

She threw Heimdall an angry look. He shrugged.

Her gaze drifted to Loki who was busy ogling the pie, contemplating if he should take another piece, and her expression softened again.

“And you want more apple pie.”

“How did you know?”

Because you have been salivating over it like a starving animal.

Dúfa tipped her temple, smiling conspiratorially and giving him another piece of pie. “I might be old and my vision is not what it used to be, but I'm still quite perceptive. Though”, she sighed, her gaze momentarily losing some of its sharpness, the age returning to her features, “I was never as good at it as my sister Blóðughadda. You know, with her it was almost like she could read your mind or something. Though, that didn't stop her from having terrible taste in men.”

While Loki snickered at her jab at the All-Father, Heimdall focused on a different detail. Leaning forward, he asked: “Svana Dúfa, wouldn't you like to tell Loki about the other Svana, too?”

It wasn't that he was particularly keen on having the jötunn know more about his mothers, but rather that it was an opportunity for him to see how much she would remember this time. Last, she spoke of her sisters she only came up to three.

“Well, let's see. As I said, there's Blóðughadda. She's the one, who gifted us with this little ray of sunshine.”

She again laid a hand on Heimdall's shoulder. An affectionate gesture he would immediately dodge if it had come from anyone else. But with Svana Dúfa, he let it happen. Why though, was beyond him.

“She was quite a force of nature, strong and a bit arrogant at times yes, but she had a kind soul. Then of course, there's Drǫfn. Not much between her ears, but she had a good heart, that one. A bit naive, but generous. Then – oh, Himinglæva and Bylgja! Those two could never see eye to eye.

Ríg, you remember how much they always used to bicker.”

She said it like a statement, rather than a question. One that Heimdall couldn't help but confirm with a short nod.

He did remember Svana Bylgja's constant nagging and Svana Himinglæva's hot-headed replies. As a child, he found it quite entertaining, but when their fighting became a little too intense, he would always side with Himinglæva by telling Bylgja off in such an over-the-top and obviously joking fashion knowing that Himinglæva would still somehow take it seriously, while Bylgja found it hilarious enough to forget about her frustration with her sister.

While Heimdall reminisced about the past, Dúfa went on to tell Loki about another instance, where he had been left alone with those two for just a few hours, but they had gotten so distracted by their arguing over some trivial thing or another, that he had gotten fed up and promptly wandered off alone beyond the gardens of the homestead.

What she didn't tell him was how Heimdall had been missing for so long that they had to call for Svana Blóðughadda who had been away for her 'wifely duties' in Asgard. A distraction that had let to a big fall out between her and the All-Father about his continued stay with the Svana in Vanaheim. Only months later, Heimdall was taken to Asgard and he never returned.

“There was also... ah! Kólga! How could I forget! Timid, but surprisingly strong. A menace in the kitchen – at some point we banned her from even going in there – but oh so talented at woodworking. She made all kinds of toys for you.”

She turned back to Loki filling his plate with yet another slice of apple pie, which he happily started to devour too. Dúfa paid the greedy degenerate no mind, continuing her tale.

“There was this wooden horse, you always loved to play with. What did you name it again?”

Heimdall clenched his jaw. He really didn't want to get into that detail. This was getting way too personal for his liking. “Can't remember. Also, I didn't name it, Svana Kólga did.”

“Oh, I almost forgot about Kólga! She was always so crafty. Made you that wooden horse you used to love. Tell me, what did you name it again?”

Loki slowed his insistent, disgustingly loud chewing to regard her in confusion. Didn't she just ask that?

Well, someone is paying marvelous attention. Heimdall thought bitterly in return. But because the brat was capable of reading minds just as little as painfully obvious social cues, Heimdall simply settled on throwing him a warning glare.

When the silence stretched on for longer – Dúfa lifting an eyebrow, stubbornly demanding for him to reveal his personal affairs and Heimdall just as stubbornly refusing to give away any further information to the Jötunn brat – Loki cleared his throat and smiled cheekily at him. “Yeah, Ríg, surely you remember the name of your favorite childhood toy.”

Heimdall wanted to rip that nosy bastard's tongue out and stuff it right down next to the pie.

“Oh yes”, Dúfa's mind rapidly lost focus, he could read her building frustration, not only at his refusal to reveal such seemingly innocent detail, but also her lack of memory of it, “That little wooden horse... What did you name it again?”

This was getting out of hand. Heimdall had half the mind to just stand up and drag the jötunn out of the cabin. It wasn't like Svana Dúfa would remember that slight for too long. And what could she do about it anyway? He was a god, for Norns' sake! He should be above entertaining an old woman's failing mind.

But before he could do so much as stand up, and as if she was sensing his intention to leave, Dúfa slammed her hand down the table loudly, making Loki jump in surprise.

“You! You are not going to leave, Ríg! I- I just got you back! With Blóðughadda gone a- and that fucking one-eyed bastard you call your father... you're the only one that's... you're the only one who isn't-”

“Gulltoppr.”

Heimdall cut through her episode, before she would completely unravel with the only thing that came to his mind. He should be above this. But apparently, he wasn't. He would definitely regret this later.

“What?”, Dúfa asked, unable to make sense of what to her was a sudden change of topic.

“Huh?”, Loki asked, because he was incapable of keeping his big mouth shut. Heimdall ignored him, turned fully towards his mother and swallow the need to snap at her, at Loki, at everyone.

“Remember the wooden horse? The one Svana Kólga gifted me? She called it 'Gulltoppr'.”

Loki's eyes lit up in delight, quickly forgetting about Dúfa's fit. He named Gulltoppr after his favorite childhood toy! Adorable.

Heimdall rolled his eyes at the jötunn, who just smiled pleasantly at him, knowing fully well he could hear his thoughts. The brat then just continued stuffing his face with pie.

“Ah, Gulltoppr! Such a pretty toy that was. I don't even know where Kólga got the idea of painting the mane golden. It's not like there are any horses with light fur like that here in Vanaheim.”

Loki piped up again to insert himself back into the conversation, asking another one of his countless, stupid questions. “Vanaheim? You think we're in Vanaheim?”

Dúfa threw a scrutinizing look at him, one that was a little too familiar to the Aesir. “Of course, we are.”

Then, she turned to Heimdall, asking in a hushed tone that was as loud as if she had spoken normally: “Did your friend get hit in the head or something?”

“You know, I've been starting to wonder that myself.”

Loki crossed his arms and tried to stomp on Heimdall's foot, which he of course evaded expertly.“Well, I was quite recently pushed off a cliff, so...”

“It was a small slope.”

“It really hurt.”

“And yet, you live to tell the tale.” He gestured at the jötunn's fine, if a little ropy state.

Loki scowled at Heimdall, and the Aesir answered with a fake smile.

Dúfa furrowed her brows in confusion. “You were- Is that why you're so filthy?”

Then, she looked between them, putting two and two together. “Ríg! Did you push your lady-friend off a cliff?”

Any satisfaction, Loki might have gotten from manipulating Dúfa to be on his side was immediately squashed by the dread at being called Heimdall's lady-friend. Meanwhile, the Aesir could not help but snort at his utterly dumbfounded expression and tried to hide his laughter as best he could behind his hand.

“Dúfa, I'm a man.”

The old woman narrowed her eyes, looking him up and down, taking in his underwhelming appearance, before asking: “You sure about that, dear? You seem a little confused about a lot of things right now.”

Oh wow, so that's where he got his snark from, Loki thought, suddenly feeling very exposed at being surrounded by not one but two people who could pick apart his insecurities masterfully. Heimdall could sense his rapidly building desire to leave.

“Uh...yes?”

Honestly, Heimdall was not quite sure where Dúfa's observation came from. Yes, the brat was an undefinable mess and confused about a lot regarding both his surroundings and himself. But his outside appearance just looked a little under-fed and scrawny, not really feminine in the slightest.

Dúfa shrugged and waved her hand, dismissing the topic effectively, which seemed to suit Loki just fine.

“Either way yes, we're in Vanaheim, but I mean, I see were the confusion might come from, but. It's not nearly as humid or warm as it used to be. One might think Fimbulwinter has set in or something.”

Dúfa laughed heartily and, at seeing Loki's discomfort grow even more, Heimdall couldn't help but join in with a chuckle of his own.

The jötunn tried to disguise his twitchiness by forcing down the last of his pie, even though his appetite was officially gone at this point. Dúfa sighed as she collected herself, and her eyes fell to Loki's empty plate – well, empty except for all the crumbs left behind from his messy eating.

“Do you want some more pie? I will get you some more, I'll be but a moment.”

Loki was starting to look a bit queasy. “That is really not necessary, Dúfa. Though, it's the best apple pie I have ever eaten”, also the first I have ever eaten,”I really don't think I have place for any more-”

“Nonsense! Look at you! You're wasting away as we speak. Child, did your parents not feed you?”

That struck another sensitive nerve in the jötunn. Heimdall was almost inclined to feel sympathy for him at this point, being all too familiar with Svana Dúfa's unique talent to put her foot in her mouth. She was almost as good at figuring out people's vulnerabilities as him. However, while he made his comments with the full intention to hurt and belittle his peers, she still seemed convinced it was all in good fun and not to be taken seriously.

Loki quickly gave up trying to assure Dúfa that he was not hungry anymore and instead opted on biting his cheek as he watched her leave the room to get to the kitchen. When he turned around again to slump back into his seat in defeat, he almost jumped at the purple stare boring into him. He genuinely seemed to have forgotten the Aesir was still there. The thing was, Heimdall wouldn't put it past him.

Trying and utterly failing to hide his slip up, he coughed in his hand – that disgusting mongrel – and put on a smile that might just have fooled a blind man, but only on a good day.

“Uh, well. The pie's really nice, don't you think?”

“Of course, you like the fucking pie. Unsophisticated, gullible, little toddler that you are.”

“Okay, get a grip. I'm a grown ass man.”
“You are? I would have never guessed.”

Loki groaned. “Sure, fine. I'm a child. So, it's up to you – grown, mature adult that you are – to get your mother to let us leave. Not that I particularly want to, of course. But you have probably a lot of grown-up responsibilities still left to do, that I – with my underdeveloped, little toddler-brain – could not possibly grasp.”

If there hadn't been truth in that Heimdall still did have a job to do today and no more time nor energy to stick around any longer, he might have just told Dúfa that they could stay until dinner, helping her with her garden and whatever other chores she could think of. All just to spite the rude runt.

But then again, he did have duties he had yet to attend, patrols and reports, and also the tremendously tempting prospect of finally getting rid of Loki that spoke against that idea.

“Sure, I will do just that, if”, he added as an afterthought, “you swear to keep quiet for the rest of the way home.”

The jötunn paused, contemplating the bargain. As if his end of the deal was such a difficult task. For him, it probably was.

“You know what? I-”

Heimdall jumped up, a moment before the loud crashing noise coming from the kitchen even reached his ears. Loki was on his feet a second later, as Heimdall already pushed past him to the open kitchen door. He hadn't even crossed the threshold, when his hand instinctively shot up to catch the kitchen knife flying towards him.

Discarding the cutlery, he stepped inside the small room where Dúfa stood amidst scattered pieces of pie and the tray lying on the floor, pressing herself in the far corner between cabinets and holding up another, bigger knife pointed directly at him.

“Svana Dúfa.”

He held out his hand attempting to appear the least threatening. He knew it wouldn't work, could read it in her terrified expression, but he tried nonetheless. Behind him, Loki remained very silent, struggling to comprehend what he was witnessing.

“You-”, Dúfa started, her voice unsteady.

“Svana Dúfa”, Heimdall tried again, “Put down the knife.”

But there was no recognition in her eyes. Her features turned from fearful to furious.

“Shut up!”, she screeched, waving the weapon around wildly. “Don't call me that! Y-you don't get to call me that! You fucking Aesir filth!”

Heimdall sighed and lowered his hands. It had no use. Not when she was in this kind of state. He should have known.

Dúfa's eyes narrow in distrust and her wrinkled lips pulled back in a hateful sneer that aged her significantly. She held the knife in such iron grip that her knuckles poked out white beneath her leathery skin. Like this, she resembled what she truly was – a shell of her former self, as if the real Dúfa had rotten away and all that remained where skin and bones and a broken mind. It was only a matter of time until something would give.

And yet, she had a certain clearness in her eyes, even as eyed the room for more sharp things to throw at him. There was a kind of awakeness that only ever surfaced through her hatred for the Aesir.

Ironically enough, it was exactly these moments where she remembered the most. The only thing her mind just blatantly refused to comprehend was the fact that her son, Ríg, was Heimdall and Heimdall was one of the very gods she loathed so much. That connection – if her mind would ever again be capable of making it – would probably kill her.

She stood taller, putting on a brave facade. Even though she knew she would not be able to beat him, she would still try. She would do anything to protect something that didn't even exist anymore from something that had already happened centuries ago.

“Odin sent you, didn't he? H-he wants to take him away, but I won't let him! You hear me?”

Heimdall turned around, trying to tune out the words coming from his mother's mouth. He grabbed Hǫfuð and Gjallarhorn from the bench, fastening them to his belt again, before taking the stunned jötunn by the arm and dragging him towards the entrance of the cabin. “Come on.”

Behind them, Dúfa shrill voice pierced through the room. “You won't take him from me! Not him! You hear me? Not him! Not my sweet, innocent baby!”

Heimdall remained stoic as he pushed Loki through the door and stepped outside after him, pulling the door close. It did little to drown out Dúfa's screams and crying, not that anything could, of course, given his superior hearing.

This was exactly what he hadn't wanted the giant to see. But at least, they could go back now without further delay.

He started walking towards where Gulltoppr was still waiting for them.

Loki didn't immediately follow him, instead staring back at the cabin, where the screams soon ebbed out into sobbing, before abruptly ceasing altogether. He shook himself out of his shock enough to ask: “Are you sure, we should leave her like that?”

Heimdall continued walking. He didn't look back. He didn't care enough to.

“Don't worry about her. She's already wondering why she set the table for three people.”

Chapter Text

They made their way back through the forest towards the clearing where Gulltoppr awaited them, in record time. Heimdall had set a fast pace that was just short of running, entirely fed up with not only dealing with his own thoughts, which he expertly suppressed as always, but also Loki's mind working at full speed. Honestly, Heimdall was almost impressed at how much the jötunn was able to think at once, though he doubted Loki fared any better than him discerning one train of thought from the next.

Before the brat could make up his mind on what part of the entire situation he wanted to pick apart first, Heimdall held up a hand in warning. “Not. A. Word.”

Of course, the jötunn didn't listen. “Are you okay?”

Had the Aesir god not foreseen that question it might have stopped him in his tracks. But he had, and so his steps did not so much as falter at the strange inquiry.

“Except for the part where you're clearly struggling to hold your end of the bargain and shut up – yes, I'm doing wonderfully. Why shouldn't I be?”

Truly, why shouldn't he? Sure, his mother was not doing well, but he was used to it and he cared little for the woman anyway. In all honesty he was just waiting for her to forget him entirely.

And wouldn't that be a dream. To not be forced to check in on her every once in a while, which he did rarely anyway. Sometimes, months or even years would pass in between his visits, depending on what state the Nine Realms were in and how busy he was with protecting his homeland and enforcing the All-Father's rule. He was far too occupied with his missions, patrols and responsibilities to care about the well-being of one old woman, especially when she made it this bothersome.

The only thing keeping him from avoiding her altogether was the nagging, little feeling of obligation the source of which was the mere fact that she was one of his mothers and as such he owed her at least that much.

It was, of course, utterly dwarfed by the duty he had towards his father – barely more than a tiny, insignificant speck of acknowledgment of a familial affiliation. Heimdall entirely blamed his highly renounced sense of responsibility that caused him to force himself to make a quick stop at her place every now and then, but only ever if his schedule allowed it and when he was in the area anyway.

Loki sighed, trying a different approach. “Heimdall, what happened back there?”

Heimdall was not quite sure what the jötunn was so hung up on. Or why he seemingly found it impossible to just let things go and accept them as they were. What could possibly be so hard about forgetting about them like Dúfa did. Moving on like Heimdall.

Especially because this had literally nothing to do with Loki. He had just coincidentally been there. Forced himself into a scene he wasn't supposed to witness. Seen something he didn't seem to understand without anyone explaining the circumstances to the smallest detail.

If Heimdall hadn't already had a headache from the entire ordeal, he would have searched the jötunn's mind to find out, if he was hoping to somehow use this new found information about Heimdall's mother against him. Well, even if he was, the joke would be on him, because the god of foresight held no sentimentality towards Dúfa. If it meant protecting Asgard and the All-Father, he would kill her in a heartbeat. Lucky for her, she posed little to no threat in her malady.

“She has a condition. She forgets things. Happens sometimes. Any other obvious details I have to spell out for you?”

“Hey, come on! I'm just trying to-”, Loki groaned in frustration, wiping a hand through his hair.

He was just about to start again, rapidly searching his brain for yet another way he could try and manipulate Heimdall into admitting to any imaginary weaknesses however, he came up short and quickly discarded the idea entirely, his irritation finally overweighing any faux concern that Heimdall knew had to be some kind of deception anyway. Because what could the jötunn possibly be concerned about?

“You know what? Forget it. I don't even know what I'm trying to do, here.”

“Excellent, because I'm not listening.”

For some reason, Loki really wanted Heimdall to turn around and look at him. Which was exactly why he still hadn't graced the giant with a single glance, refusing to further deal with whatever was going on in his puny, little brain or give him the attention he craved. Unfortunately for the Aesir however, Loki had seemed to have figured out how to force a reaction out of him.

“You know, except for that last part, I gotta say, she's a delightful woman.”

That statement reminded Heimdall of when they had still been on their way towards the wyvern's nest. Especially the phrase delightful woman left a particularly sour taste in his mouth when used in regards to Dúfa, as he had heard it before, with-

He stopped dead in his tracks and swiftly turned around, looming over Loki with the most threatening, golden sneer, his hand instinctively reaching towards Hǫfuð's hilt.

“You are not going to fuck my mother!”

“What?! No!” The jötunn stepped back, raising his hands as a sign of peace. “Why would you-”

Heimdall raised an accusing eyebrow and the half-breed had just enough self-awareness to backtrack. “Okay, yeah sure, I get why you'd think that. Guess, I earned that one. But no, Heimdall. I actually meant that this time. She seems really nice.”

Heimdall relaxed only minutely, the mere suggestion of the possibility of that happening was enough to get his blood boiling. He did not care about Dúfa, but the thought of having Loki anywhere near her with such vile intention made him want to rip him to shreds.

He had to take a deep breath and repeat the All-Father's orders to not ' break Loki's heart' several times in his mind in order to calm himself down enough to release Hǫfuð again. The king's demand was the only thing keeping him from beheading the brat on the spot and calling it a day.

Meanwhile, said brat seemed blissfully unaware of his show of masterful restraint.

“What I wanted to say – before you came to your own weird conclusions”, Heimdall scoffed at the hand waving in front of him and returned to walking, “is that she made me curious. I would love to meet your other mothers.”

“Well tough luck, she's the only one left.”

Loki fell into guilty silence at that. They soon reached the clearing, Gulltoppr greeting her master with a delighted purr as he swiftly mounted her.

The wave of misplaced sympathy hitting him made Heimdall's skin crawl. Before Loki could get his bearings and backtrack once more – do something stupid like apologize for his constant disregard of boundaries or lack of any real social skills or Norns beware offer him condolences – Heimdall interrupted: “Save it. Don't wanna hear it. Don't care. Now, get up here or we won't reach Gladsheim before your bedtime.”

~~~

Well, to Loki's credit – which Heimdall only gave begrudgingly – he did keep his mouth shut while they left the forest behind them.

This mission was the first in many years, the watchman had to complete accompanied by someone with a more complex cognizance than some brain-dead einherja and this entire experience had successfully reminded Heimdall on exactly why that was.

All in all – starting with the All-Father's unusual secrecy, the Midgardians' ridiculous self-importance, Loki's overall unpleasant company and lastly Dúfa's mental breakdown – this had objectively been just a shit fucking day. Even shoving Loki done the slope had brought him nothing more than a short-lived moment of satisfaction, soon to be squashed by Dúfa finding them.

Admittedly, Heimdall didn't deal particularly well with situations such as these. He didn't have to. Wasn't part of his job, anyway. Which was exactly why he did everything in his power to either avoid them altogether or at least be alone for when he sorted things out for himself. Having to sort things out for someone else, too, wasn't something he had any talent nor desire in doing. But apparently, he didn't have much of a choice considering Loki's swirling thoughts brushing against Heimdall's ears like a particularly persistent bug, impossible to ignore.

“Fine”, he groaned, “spit it out, before you choke on it.”

“Must be hard to not be recognized by one of the people who raised you.”

This again. Heimdall sighed.

“She did not raise me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was taken from my mothers when I was a child, and I was raised in Asgard where they couldn't follow. But she wishes she could have raised me. And so she started telling herself that she did. The more her mind deteriorated, the more she held onto that lie. She found comfort in the thought that even with her sisters gone, she still had me. I just let her believe it.”

The jötunn furrowed his brows, working that information over in his head, before saying: “And you won't tell her the truth, because it would just upset her and then she would forget about it again anyway, so why bother.”

Not so slow on the uptake, after all, though such was to be expected from a student of the All-Father himself. “Now, you're getting it.”

Loki hummed noncommittally, watching their surroundings fly by.

“It's still sad. You obviously care about her.”

“I do not-”

“Right, right, of course. You're only concern is the protection of Asgard and doing whatever Odin wants. Still, visiting her is a nice thing to do, either way. Why hide it? People might actually like you more, if they knew that side of you.”

Heimdall scoffed. “That side of me, hm? The side that has a mother with an ill mind, who – I will remind you – I do not give a shit about? Again, she didn't even raise me. I barely know her. But sure, that little nugget of information will polish up my reputation quite nicely. Also, what part of me living on top of a wall makes you think I need people to like me?”

“Alright. Point taken. Though, there's something I still don't get.”

“Now, that's a surprise.”

Loki ignored the jab and asked: “Why 'Ríg'?”
“Can't really have her going around telling everyone she is the mother of a high-ranking Aesir god.”
Loki shifted forward in his seat, the saddle might be broad, but not exactly designed for two people to ride on comfortably.

“But they wouldn't believe her anyway. They'd probably call her crazy and blame it on her condition.”

“They already do. They think she made 'Ríg' up to battle her loneliness.”

“That's such a sad thought.”

“It makes her happy.”

The brat hummed again, struggling to put the mixed emotions inside of him into words.

While he sorted that out, Heimdall continued: “Either way, on the off-chance that someone does figure out she's one of my mothers, it would put her in danger of being used or manipulated to get to me. So, 'Ríg' it is. And every once in a while, I have to relocate her when it becomes too obvious that she doesn't age nearly as fast as a human.”

Loki sagged further into the saddle. If he continued frowning like that, he would have deep lines beneath his brows by the time he reached his thirties.

“Why can't she live in Gladsheim? There, she would be safe.”

Heimdall groaned at the giant's persistent inquiries. Why he still entertained him, he truly did not know. Maybe, because he hadn't spoken to someone about Dúfa in decades. But then again, why would he? She was a problem he had to deal with on his own. The All-Father had made that clear, when he allowed him to bring Dúfa to Asgard. The king viewed him taking care of her more like a side-project for Heimdall than anything else – something he granted him after years of uninterruptedly dedicated, loyal service and only if she didn't turn out to be too much of a distraction. No need for anyone else to get involved.

“I don't think you're quite grasping how special your treatment here in Asgard actually is. We're not usually this welcoming towards outsiders. Not after the war with the Vanir, that is.”

“Well, then I should probably count myself lucky that you're here to oh so gently remind me of that every chance you get.”

“Someone has to make sure your head doesn't get any bigger than it already is.”

Loki groaned. “My head is not that big. It's.. proportionate.”

“To your insolence, maybe.”

The jötunn let out a heavy breath, clearly fumbling to coming up with any satisfactory comeback. He was obviously tired – not mentally, like Heimdall was increasingly becoming – but physically. His inferior body apparently did not handle working off of two hours of mead-induced sleep, a poor diet and a little fight with some wyvern all that well. Add to that, his mind was still struggling with a daunting quantity of half-baked brain work – of which one thought in particular, he was contemplating voicing, weighing in pros and cons of revealing whatever was burning on his tongue to the god of foresight.

In the end, he settled on just saying it, figuring that Heimdall would just read his thoughts either way, which in actuality, the Aesir hadn't bothered to do, because he knew Loki was incapable of staying quiet for long.

“You know, back when my mother got really sick – right before her death – she had high fevers that sometimes made her say just really weird, cryptic stuff.”

Now, that was an abrupt change in tone if there ever was one. But Heimdall already had an idea, where the brat was headed with this, so he let him continue.

“I mostly ignored what she said, it was barely discernible anyway and didn't make a lot of sense, especially not to an eleven year old kid. But one thing did stick out. One night, one of the last ones actually, she seemed to have forgotten my name. Instead, she kept on calling me 'Loki'.”

Heimdall turned his head slightly, to throw the jötunn an entirely unimpressed look.

“So, you even lied about your own name. Typical.”

It wasn't a question so much as a statement. Heimdall had already known, of course, with Loki sometimes calling himself a different name in his mind. But it was interesting to hear him confess to a lie all by himself.

“Well, sorta. 'Loki' was the name, my mother initially wanted for me. But, when I was born, my parents settled on the name 'Atreus', instead. I guess that's my real name, though I kind of feel it doesn't fit at times. That's when 'Loki' comes in.”

The jötunn pushed a hand through his hair, as if that would stop the wild curls from flying into his eyes at Gulltoppr's fast pace. It was more of a nervous gesture, anyway.

”I mean, at this point, it feels like 'Atreus' and 'Loki' are barely the same person. Me going by the name the jötnar used for me long before I was even born felt like a way to protect that other part – Atreus – from whatever I would find in Asgard.”

Loki looked at him as if to ask you see where I'm going with this? And Heimdall did.

A secret for a secret. A lie from the God of Order for a truth from the God of Chaos. 'Ríg' for 'Atreus'. How very poetic.

And yet, instead of sneering at the very idea to make a deal with Loki, Heimdall couldn't help but feel maybe, somewhat, very begrudgingly... grateful?

That's... new. Or – no, not new. Just very, very old and buried long ago. Something, only Dúfa managed to bring out from time to time and not in recent years. Something, his brothers might have made him feel once in a blue moon far back when he was still a child – new to Asgard, happy to tag along on adventures with Thor and Týr and innocently excited by the mere idea of having brothers instead of growing up an only child. Something, he now merely experienced through other people and that he himself only ever felt, when the All-Father allowed him to in the rare moments where he showed the trust he had in Heimdall. Gjallarhorn was the proof of that trust, and Heimdall would never not be humbled and grateful at the feel of it secured on his belt.

He scoffed, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He'd be damned before he was indebted to that Jötunn runt. All he was feeling was the pleasant knowledge that he had even more lies to hold over Loki's head when it came down to it. The brat had stupidly revealed a vulnerable truth in the false assumption that Dúfa was such a weakness to Heimdall that he needed to be reassured wouldn't be abused.

The thought was laughable. So laughable indeed, that the Aesir remained silent, refusing to acknowledge the giant's words at all.

Loki seemed content with that. In the – not really - safety of his mind, he was just glad he wasn't being mocked. And, annoyingly enough, his little, entirely redundant admission had managed to lift some of the nervous tension from the runt's shoulders, as he repositioned himself a little further up the saddle to sit more comfortably.

~~~

By the time they had already crossed half of the Plains of Idavoll, Gulltoppr slowed down into more of a trot – even decades of training could not change her anatomy of a short-distance sprinter – which Heimdall only allowed because with the jötunn going relatively quiet behind him, he could do his patrols just as well on her back as he could on top of the Great Wall.

He stretched his senses just like he had that morning, and countless other times before, and let his gaze swipe over the landscape, into every little corner, over-viewing nearly all of the Nine Realms and observed. He took in any and every information he could gather, sorted them into categories and level of importance.

He saw Dark Elves crawling through their hive-like caves like maggots through a rotten corpse. He smelled Svartalfheim's polluted breath as fire burnt bright in the hearths of countless workshops, the rhythmic tinging of heavy tools against hot metal acting as the realm's very own heartbeat. He could feel Niflheim's biting cold and Muspelheim's scorching heat. And lastly, he could hear Vanaheim's vegetation ever-growing, bending, battering and breaking even the tiniest hint of civilization with its untamable wildness.

All these were observations he had made before thousands of times and would continue to make until Ragnarök was upon them.

What was new however, was a certain, foreign war god, running around trying to find a way to get his son back. The very son who was busy carrying out missions for the man who he was supposed to hate the most. And that with seemingly not a care in the world about the absurdity of his own actions. And who was also in the process of falling asleep while in the presence of an enemy, judging by the way his eyes were barely open, the gentle swaying at Gulltoppr's steps only pulling him further into a trance and his head slowly dropping forwards only to jerk awake again, before sagging into his seat once more – rinse and repeat.

As long as the brat wasn't going to lean on him, Heimdall was fine with letting him nod off. At least like that, his thoughts were reduced to a light drizzle of muffled, half-lucid contemplation, instead of the full-blown whirlwind, Heimdall came to expect from the runt.

While he let his eyes wander over Asgard, they inevitably landed on the very cabin they had just left a few hours ago. He only spared a second to look inside and find that Dúfa had cleaned up her mess, washed the plates and was now lounging comfortably in her armchair reading some book about Asgard's political history, using her finger and a bowl of diluted, blue paint to mark certain passages. Heimdall wasn't familiar with the book – there were only so many recollections of historic events one could bear reading about, when one has actually lived through them. Either way, it was probably written by some Midgardian singing high praise about things their feeble mind was barely capable of comprehending anyway.

His gaze turned to the inside of Gladsheim's walls, to the bustling market place, the Asgardian common folk hurrying in the rush of the early evening hours, to the training fields, where Hrist and Mist were ruthlessly disciplining some new einherja with sharp, barked orders and to the Great Lodge to where his niece was once again loudly arguing with her mother.

Heimdall had no idea how they could fight about the same thing over and over and over again without ever coming to some kind of conclusion. It was obvious, Sif wanted to protect her daughter, thinking that her becoming a Valkyrie would put her in harm's way and also into the All-Father's field of attention – which she dreaded would end with the last of her children dying. But somehow, despite being assigned the role of diplomat, it never seemed to cross her mind to explain her reasoning to the young goddess, believing that Thrúd as her child ought to listen to her regardless. Thrúd on the other hand was terrified of the thought of becoming like her mother. A warrior spirit crushed to make room for wifely duties that she had no interest in. She had chosen her own path a long time ago and had become so fixated on it that any possibly valid points against her decision made her cling to her dream even harder instead of reevaluating the conundrum she was actually in.

If he had cared more, Heimdall might have offered to play mediator, just like he did when Thrúd was still an infant and no one but him understood what she was crying about. But he didn't. They wouldn't listen too him anyway, the only common ground between them seemed to be their mutual dislike for him.

Heimdall snapped out of his idle contemplation, when his gift of foresight flared up in a warning. He pulled Gulltoppr's rains and pressed his calfs against her sides as a command to halt, so he could fully turn around just in time to watch the sleeping jötunn lean dangerously to the left before slowly, but surely completely sliding off.

Loki's eyes snapped open at the last moment and he let out a startled noise – one that mirrored the one from this morning –, trying and failing to hold on to the saddle and proceeded to fall off of Gulltoppr's back to hit the ground for the third time that day with another entirely undignified yelp.

Of course, Heimdall could have just taken ahold of him, saving him from involuntarily meeting the hard ground with his back – again. But that would have meant missing out on the utter delight of watching the supposed Doom of Asgard's utterly graceful descent straight into the grass. And what a sight it was. Heimdall couldn't help but laugh.

First, it was only a condescending chuckle, but then that look of confused shock on Loki's face right before he fell kept replaying in his mind, making him laugh so hard, he almost doubled over. He actually had to grip Gulltoppr's saddle in order to not accidentally join the jötunn into the dirt in his mirth. It took quite a while for him to somewhat collect himself. Sighing, he mimicked wiping away a tear.

Meanwhile, Loki groaned, as he picked himself of the ground, face having gone completely red. “Shut up.”

Heimdall swung his leg to cross over the other, sitting sideways on the saddle and leaning back casually in a display of both perfect body coordination and excellent balance. He leaned his head to one side, smiling at the man beneath him with the most patronizing smirk he had in his repertoire.

“Loki of the Jötnar, we have got to stop meeting like this.”

“I said, shut it! It's really not that funny.”

“No, you're right. Fucking hilarious is what it is.”

“You knew that would happen”, Loki accused.

“Of course I did.”

“You could've just woken me up.”

“Naturally.”

“But you just let me fall, because you're an utter piece of shit who gets off on watching other's around you get hurt.”

He grinned and shook his fist in the air as if celebration Loki's skillful deduction. “Right on the money!”

Then, he bent forward, one hand on his knee, the other splayed across his chest in mocking concern. “My, with your observation skills, I might just be out of a job soon.”

“Asshole.”

“Maladroit mongrel.”

~~~

When they arrived in Gladsheim some time after that, Heimdall was looking pristine as ever, not a hair out of place, nor a single speck of dirt on his clothes. Loki on the other hand, was a little muddy around the edges, but overall fine, as he hopped off of Gulltoppr, absently thanking her and storming off to his room in the Great Lodge without so much as a glare spared for the the god of foresight, who had continued heckling him the entire rest of the way home.

At least, now that their trip was over, Heimdall could finally go back to ignoring the giant nuisance's existence and he would surely never have to endure his presence like that ever again.

Wasn't his job, anyway.

Chapter Text

A week went by after their mission, then two, then three, and Heimdall had the creeping suspicion that Loki was going to be far more of a long-term problem than he initially thought. He continued to study under the All-Father, aiding him with the completion of the mask, and was still a frequent nuisance on training grounds and taverns all over Gladsheim. Most Asgardians had become accustomed to the jötunn's presence over time and while he was still side-eyed constantly, it was more out of careful curiosity and ignorant intrigue rather than outright mistrust. That was, of course, excluding Heimdall, who never grew tired of bullying the brat every unfortunate time their paths crossed. Which was often. Way too fucking often.

Every time, Heimdall made his way down to Gladsheim to give his daily report, maybe nurse a mug of mead or read a book in the Great Lodge – of course under the All-Father's order to spy on the inner goings of the people inside rather than his own relaxation, there was nothing relaxing about this place –, the red-headed ball of chaos was present without fail. Sometimes, he was seated at a table in the Great Hall, other times he hid in his room working on that little journal he always had with him or even lounged in the All-Father's very own study, hunched over some ancient scrolls he was so focused on he actually jumped when Heimdall raised his voice to deliver his report to the king.

He was such a constant, in fact, that it had become part of Heimdall's daily routine to grace the jötunn with some kind of snide comment or – whenever he felt merciful – simply with an upturned nose and golden sneer. He hadn't forgotten about his plan to convince the All-Father of Loki's malicious nature, but as long as the opportunity didn't present itself, he would just revert to mocking the runt every chance he got.

One time, a few days after their mission together, he had caught Loki fastening a saddle onto one of the domesticated dragons' back.

“You sure you want to take that kind of saddle? I think there should be some children-sized ones in the back. Then, at least you won't slip off so easily.”

Another time, he had to side-step in order to avoid the giant bumping into him, when he visited the market place to buy new bracers. Loki had a dark blue piece of fabric in hand and had just turned around to ask the shop keeper for the price, deep in thought and utterly unaware of his surroundings as per usual. “Thinking about stealing it, aren't we. Don't think I haven't noticed you picking up everything shiny like a kleptomaniac magpie.”

Usually, he was met with a bratty eye roll or dismissed with a scoff and a wave of a hand, though sometimes, when his frustration bubbled over, the jötunn would snap back with some nasty insults of his own. Heimdall took great satisfaction in knowing he could get that kind of genuine reaction out of the pathological liar.

With most people, the giant put on a fake smile, an even faker laugh and think to himself fucking asshole, while buttering them up with compliments and halfhearted flirtation. But with Heimdall, Loki had given up on that farce soon enough, revealing his ugly truth – one that had a deep rage sizzling just beneath the surface, the urge to destroy prickling at the tips of his fingers and pure chaos following behind every step he took.

That truth remained, however hard Loki tried to hide it – from others just as much as himself. He was a destroyer, had poor impulse control and relied heavily on deceiving others to do the work for him as he himself wasn't capable of shit. The only saving grace Loki had was that he was somewhat pleasant to look at. It made people want to like him, despite his appalling characteristics, made them willingly put up his numerous, poorly hidden flaws, because they wanted him in their bed. It was a regrettable downside of the Asgardians' open-minded nature.

One that Heimdall would warn them of, if only he actually cared. He didn't though, and they wouldn't listen to him anyway. Not when Loki smiled so prettily, his ocean blue eyes twinkling in an illusory reflection of a false kind soul. But rather than a well of hope and sweet gentleness, those who got too close would sooner or later find themselves drowning in the whirling waves of the chaotic currents hidden beneath, instead. Lured in and then left to their own devices, when the next person struck the giant's interest.

While it was a tragedy to witness Asgardian commoners and even some minor Aesir gods falling for the jötunn's trap, Heimdall couldn't help but find it more than a little amusing to observe the inevitable heartbreak and listen to the people gossiping about that new student of the All-Father being an utter scumbag. What can he say, he just enjoyed being right. And he always was.

Safe to say, in the short time after Loki had first infiltrated Gladsheim – upon the All-Father's invitation, of course, otherwise he would have been dead the moment he set foot on Asgard – with his treacherous intent and self-absorbed dreams of heroism, he had managed to build himself quite the reputation. From allegedly being quite an attentive lover and a silver tongue – that nickname had made Heimdall want to gag when it had first reached his ears – to being one of the worst pieces of shit to ever walk on Asgard's grounds, right next to Baldur after he had gone completely insane and – naturally – Heimdall himself.

The people had a lot of different opinions on Loki, most of them accurate assumptions, some of them so outlandish that Heimdall doubted they had ever even met the brat, but there was one common consensus shared amongst those in the vicinity of the giant. No matter what he did or what one thought of him, it seemed just about impossible to stay away from him.

There was just something about Loki that spoke to people, pulled them back in, again and again. Something, he abused shamelessly, relishing the attention he got wherever he went.

Some smart souls kept their distance – Heimdall could only wish to be able to count himself amongst them, but he had a job to do, a realm to protect –, but even they watched from afar. No one seemed truly capable of turning their eyes away from such a disastrous shipwreck of a person.

And for some reason that evaded Heimdall entirely, the All-Father seemed to revel in that fact. He had spent more time in Asgard in the last months than he had in the last couple decades combined. More often than not, the king could be seen drinking wine in the Great Hall or walking Gladsheim's streets – always with the giant disaster in tow. The amount of attention Loki got from the All-Father was probably the main reason of why people gravitated towards him so much. It wasn't every day that their king took such a liking to anyone, much less an outsider. Being in the king's favor gave the brat a certain... well, Heimdall didn't want to think of it as authority, but there was definitely a certain inviolability, which then again, made Loki naturally intriguing to others. Or at the very least to the common folk with way too much time on their hands.

Well, apparently the half-breed was determined to uphold the status as an undefinable mess with a pretty smile, at least judging by the form he – she? – had taken this morning.

Heimdall had been surprised to say the least, as he turned his gaze inside the Great Lodge to see what the giant was up to so early in the morning, only to be met with the sight of Loki standing in the middle of the bedroom, clad in a long tunic made from the dark blue fabric she had bought and tan pants. The belts around her waist were just a little tighter, accentuating the subtle change and holding up the timeworn, red and gold cloth, the giant could never be seen without. The black leather pauldrons were fastened to shoulders, that had definitely been broader before, which made them hang over on the sides awkwardly, now. Loki frowned as she viewed herself in the reflection of her full length mirror – a gift from the All-Father himself – pushing the pieces of armor further up towards the high neckline of her tunic. That movement however, made the leather straps keeping the armor in place span tightly over her chest – where the brat had breasts now, apparently – in a way that couldn't be comfortable. In the end, she ditched the shoulder pads entirely, opting to just throw on a light cloak made of white fox fur.

She walked closer towards the mirror, racking her hands through her hair, and Heimdall watched with mild interest how it grew longer at her touch. The sides of her head were still razor-short, but the rest now fell in long, auburn waves down her shoulders and a bit further still, the red shine accentuated by the stark contrast against the pale fox fur.

As she tried and utterly failed at braiding her hair in a way that would keep it from getting into her face every two seconds, Heimdall studied the subtle changes she had done to make her face more feminine. There weren't any truly noteworthy differences, though – it wasn't like Loki's features had been the epitome of masculinity, before. She still had pouty lips, annoyingly blue eyes, a rather sharp jawline and her nose was only the smallest hint less prominent, while still proudly proving Loki's Greek heritage.

The jötunn made her way to her desk to retrieve what seemed to be a kind of circlet or headband depicting two ornamented ravens made out of solid gold and held together by a thin, dark leather band. She put that on, as well as just a shit load of golden rings. More gifts from Odin. Heimdall frowned. Gold wasn't Loki's color.

Draped in furs and accessories that a commoner would not be able to afford within a lifetime of hard work, she looked like royalty. Which was probably what the All-Father had been going for. It didn't however change the fact that Loki was anything but. After all, a rat wearing gold was still just a rat.

Nevertheless, the jötunn was definitely going to turn every head in Gladsheim now. Except for Heimdall's, of course. Loki could change her outside appearance and cover herself in the finest linen all she wanted, his point still stood. She was a nuisance, a pest inside his home and he still very much wanted her out.

~~~

After delivering his daily report to the All-Father, Heimdall made his way towards the entrance hall of the Great Lodge, knowing exactly who he was going to find there. His suspicion was proven right soon enough when his eyes fell on Loki, leaning casually over a counter and beaming brightly as she let herself be hand-fed a piece of bread by a light-blond servant girl. The servant laughed loudly at Loki's obviously over-exaggerated moans of delight at tasting the baked goods and blushed wildly as the giant leaned closer to whisper something in her ear. However, her smile fell and whatever she was going to say in return died quickly on her tongue, as soon as she noticed the god of foresight approaching them. Heimdall put on a particularly bored expression to showcase just how unimpressed he was by the jötunn's antics.

She was just about to leave, when Loki caught her wrist, still smiling softly at the girl. “I will hold you to that promise. Oh, and be a dear and cut me another slice, will you?”

“Of course”, the girl said, giving Loki another thick slice of bread, before her eyes once again fell on Heimdall. She bowed low, greeting him with a forced cheerfulness.

When he just completely ignored her, his gaze trained on the giant who was shamelessly enjoying the view of the servant's decolletage, she turned to finally remove herself from the scene. But not before throwing Loki another quick look and a smile, which she of course reciprocated like the slimebag she was.

The runt's smile fell the second she turned her attention towards Heimdall. “The fuck you want?”

With an air of nonchalance, Heimdall leaned backwards on the counter, crossing his arms and turning his head towards Loki to look her up and down disapprovingly.

“Flirting with peasants now, are we? Does civilized folk not strike your fancy? Or do you not strike theirs?”

“'Flirting?'”, the jötunn repeated with a perfectly innocent expression, taking a bite out of the thick slice of bread, her eyebrows raised in faux surprise. Once again showcasing her utter disregard of any kind of etiquette, she continued speaking with her mouth full. “I wasn't flirting, Heimdall. I was merely having a refreshing conversation with a delightful woman.” Delightful woman. Heimdall had come to hate that phrase coming from her mouth. Loki swallowed the bread, and Heimdall wished she would choke on it.

“I know that concept must be foreign for you, but at least try to keep up, would'cha?”

Ignoring the insult, Heimdall focus more on how the half-breed seemed genuinely satisfied about the conversation she had just had with some forgettable, low-ranking servant. Any lesser man might have been fooled by her show of innocent flirtation, but Heimdall wasn't the Scion of the >Aesir for nothing. He could see past the self-satisfied smile, he could see that little, mischievous gleam in those treacherous, blue eyes. It was enough to make him wonder where the brat was going with all this. Heimdall lifted his brow, silently demanding for the jötunn to elaborate. The redhead was eager to adhere to his command.

“You see, this 'peasant' is called Signe.”

Heimdall immediately regretted to even bother. This was going to be a long one. The things he did for the protection of Asgard...

“She has been working as a servant for the All-Father since she was barely more than a child, trying to earn money to support her father who is unable to properly provide for his family due to an unfortunate hunting accident”, the brat droned on, all too happy to share such utterly useless information with the god of foresight, “You see, her older sister drank herself into an early grave, leaving young Signe to care for the remaining family members. I mean, can you imagine that kind of pressure at such a delicate age? Lesser spirits would crumble away just like her sister did, but no! Signe kept on fighting. Now, she's saving some of the money she earns for herself. You know, she dreams of opening up her own bakery. She has such an inspiring passion for baked goods. Says, it's the one thing she used to do only for herself and even that she wants to share with others, now – truly inspiring stuff!”

It was moments like these were Heimdall wished he could momentarily go deaf. Just for a little while. Just long enough for Loki to get her bullshit out of her system and then he could carry on with his day. Not that the giant seemed to run out of said bullshit any time soon.

While Loki babbled on for even longer, it occurred to Heimdall that he could also just walk away. It was clear that whatever mischief Loki had planned wasn't anything in the category of world-ending, so really this wasn't any of his business.

He had just about made up his mind to just throw some insult into Loki's face and then make a dignified exit for his own sanity's sake, as the brat went on to tell him how delicious the pumpkin bread the servant girl had given was – especially eaten with honey or just butter and salt – and how she had managed to convince her to give her the recipe. “I mean, she even invited me to her place after the end of her shift tonight so she can show me just how she does it. What a sweetheart.”

That made Heimdall stop in his tracks. Surely, Loki wasn't that clueless. “She wants to fuck you.”

“Oh well.” Loki grinned and ah, there it was - that peculiar edge in her intentions. “I would have never guessed.”

She continued stuffing her face with the bread, while pretending to be conflicted about something.

Heimdall sighed, “But there's more.”

It wasn't a question, he knew there was something the jötunn wasn't telling him.

“Thing is”, she swallowed the rest of the bread, then started again, “The thing is, there's also Skarde.”

“Oh, and who might that be?”

Loki's pleasant smile took on a sharper shape.

“Her husband.”

Now that... that was actually somewhat interesting. Heimdall raised his brows, scrutinizing the jötunn. “Is that so? And what do you intent to do about that husband?”

“I intend to show his dear wife how to have a good time. One finds him lacking in... certain aspects.”

The half-breed didn't need to explain further, he had already figured out just what exactly she meant by that. “You fucked him.”

“Not my proudest moment.” Loki shrugged in a nearly perfect act of indifference. However, there was a certain restlessness lingering in her movements. Heimdall had noticed it before – though, usually it was so minute even he almost missed it – but, it seemed to be getting worse with time. While Loki managed to distract herself from it in typical Aesir fashion – sex and mead an the occasional brawl, mostly – there was looming storm of mixed emotions hidden underneath, that sometimes got just a little too close to the surface. And of course, someone with as little impulse-control as Loki reacted either in more desperate attempts to drown out such feelings again or in a fit of violence. And right now, the wooden counter was creaking pathetically under the strain of Loki's tight grip, but other than that she kept her composure. Well, as much composure as she had to begin with. Clearly, she was riled up about something.

“It was pretty much right after I arrived here. You know – first time really drinking alcohol, so I was completely sloshed at the time, don't remember half of that night, to be honest. Nor how I even ended up in his bed-”

Well, that explained it. Heimdall frowned as he felt a sudden spike of anger and the urge to do something terrible to some lowlife commoner. Which was... peculiar. What should he care about how others treated Loki? It wasn't his job to protect her from her own horrible decision making and the consequences following suit.

As he looked back up to meet the giant's eyes, he saw the same fury he felt reflected back at him. He scoffed as he realized he was most likely just mistaking Loki's feelings as his own. That would make much more sense anyway, so he settled on that explanation.

Meanwhile, the jötunn had gone quiet, lost in her own contemplation, her aggravation soon hidden again beneath a veil of anxiety, which then was hastily covered up by a front of cheerfulness. Heimdall didn't call her out on it.

Loki cleared her throat and grinned, fully turning towards him and gesturing at herself, determined to completely change topic.

“Aaanyway, aren't you gonna comment on the obvious stuff?”

Heimdall gave her an entirely dispassionate once-over, before commenting: “You have tits now. Congratulations.”

Loki puffed out her cheeks and rolled her eyes, but weirdly enough her act of cheeriness got a little more genuine at his dry statement. Heimdall could not begin to understand why that was.

“Wow, tough crowd. Anyway, I'm kinda proud. Thought you might like it.”

“What exactly should I like about this. It's still little old, unpleasant you, and – I can't believe I still have to remind you of that – I don't like you.”

“What, not even now that I have these?” Loki pressed her breasts together, trying to divert his attention to her not even all that impressive cleavage. Heimdall sneered at her in disdain, feeling thoroughly insulted by that suggestion.

“Who do you think I am that a pair of tits would sway me from how hopelessly incompetent and utterly aggravating you are?!”

Loki held up her hands, but didn't move away from where Heimdall was looming over her.

“Right, right. I'm sorry. How could I have forgotten what a courteous, honorable nobleman you are. Must have slipped my mind, when you pushed me off that cliff.”

Heimdall waved a hand dismissively and leaned back against the counter, putting a little more distance between them, while saying: “Norns, you're still hung up on that? Just get over it already.”

“Maybe I would, if you'd just apologize for it.” The brat crossed her arms.

“Apologize?”, Heimdall let out a mean laugh, “watching you roll down that slope was the highlight of my day. I'm not going to apologize for something I can guarantee you I would do again in a heartbeat if I ever get the chance.”

Heimdall sensed with no small amount of satisfaction, how Loki made a mental note to not be on any kind of high points while in his presence.

The brat was just about to say something more, when her eyes fell on something behind him which made her stop in her tracks. Heimdall knew exactly what – or rather who – that was, could read it both in her eyes and in the slight shift in the atmosphere around them. He straightened up and turned his head to greet the All-Father, but Odin didn't spare a single glance towards him, all his focus being - as per usual - on Loki.

The old god took in her entire appearance, smiling and putting a hand on either of her shoulders.

“I have to admit, Loki, I almost didn't recognize you at first”, the king laughed good-naturedly, his eye gleaming in open amazement. He studied the giant like she was a priceless artifact, something that only gained value the more details of her new form he discovered.

“I see you got the hang of the spell already. And so quick, too, you truly have quite the talent. I mean look at you! What a beautiful, bright, young woman you are!”

Heimdall suddenly felt painfully out of place. Which was just absurd. This was his home. He had spent a decent portion of his childhood and teenage years living in the Great Lodge and was a true Son of Odin. And yet, despite Loki being the actual jötunn, Heimdall felt like he was the one intruding. He should probably leave. It was obvious Odin didn't care for his presence here. But...

Loki didn't want him to go. At least not as long as that would mean being alone with the All-Father.

The sheer nerve of that runt. It was an honor and a privilege to have the undivided attention of the king of the Aesir. And while Loki seemed to enjoy the compliments and gifts, at least for the most part, there was also a deep, underlying discomfort that strained her smile and tore at her barely contained temper.

Still, Heimdall stayed. But that didn't mean he didn't feel kind of awkward just standing there, while the All-Father continued praising Loki's looks and skills in shape-shifting in a way Heimdall could not remember his father ever talking to anyone else.

He forcefully had to stop himself from frowning. Odin never deliberately handed out compliments like that. Whenever someone got on his nerves or failed at doing their job, he would deal out well-deserved punishments, and in return for doing a good job a lack of said punishments was reward enough. For Heimdall, the king went even so far as to gift him his trust. Heimdall knew more about the inner-goings of the Nine Realms and his father's secrets and plans than anyone else. That was higher praise than anyone could ever ask for. But then why was there a dark weight in the pit of his stomach? What was that icy sort of anger suddenly making his blood run cold?

Heimdall's contemplation came to an abrupt hold, when Odin directly addressed him, his one eye piercing into him, picking him apart. In moments like these, the god of foresight wondered if his father could read minds, too.

“Now, Heimdall, what are you still doing here?”

Heimdall tensed. “All-Father, I was just-”

Odin interrupted him with an upheld hand, turning his attention to the giant. His expression softened into something kinder, his tone concerned: “Loki, child, is he bothering you?”

Heimdall's mouth snapped shut so quickly, his teeth clicked. Loki shrugged, perfectly pleasant smile back on her face. “Just the usual amount.”

“Alright then. Heimdall, off you go.”

“No, no, it's alright”, Loki said, a little too quickly. The All-Father noticed too, and for a split second, annoyance hardened his features.

Heimdall was almost surprised to see his father actually getting irritated at the jötunn's rudeness. And, oddly enough, he wasn't nearly as relieved to learn it was indeed possible as he should be. However, Odin's momentary anger at being talked back to was gone as quickly as it had appeared in the first place, the old king schooling his expression into a mild smile, when Loki hastily added: ”We were just having a little discussion. You know, a harmless squabble amongst friends.”

She quoted herself from the time they had argued at the feast weeks prior. It seemed to work. The All-Father chuckled lightly, as if Loki was a child playing a harmless prank on him that he just couldn't bring himself to be mad about. Heimdall clenched and unclenched his fist behind his back.

“Either way, I have some business to attend to outwards, so no new lessons for you today, I'm afraid. In the meantime, read up again on how to focus your magic on your facial features, will you?”

Loki frowned, touching her own face. “I don't know, I kind of like it like that.”

“Your task was to shift into a woman, Loki. And that”, Odin used the ring on his forefinger to tap her nose, “that is not a woman's nose. I expect you to try again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, Heimdall thought as he watched Loki's shoulders sag dejectedly, a tattooed hand moving to cover the apparently offending facial area, that one was kind of deserved after testing the All-Father's divine patience like she had.

He considered mocking her for the sudden bout of self-consciousness he sensed from her. But he didn't really feel like it. He didn't want her to think it was an attempt on his part to diffuse the situation.

“Very well”, the All-Father clapped his hands together, “I will see you tomorrow at first light in my study, Loki.”

With that the king took his leave, throwing Heimdall one cold, brief look. The god of foresight bowed to his king again, but was only met with a tsk and a disapproving head shake.

Watching Odin disappear in a swirl of ravens, Heimdall wondered what he did wrong.

Loki coughed, successfully redirecting his attention to her again. He scoffed and relaxed back against the counter, itching to let his frustration out on her.

“Failed at the one task you're trusted with, hm?”

Loki cleared her throat, before snapping: “Maybe, I should ask Odin to come back. At least, then you stay as quiet as a mouse.”

“It's called having respect, runt.”

“I would call it being scared shitless of your own father, but whatever suits you I guess.”

Heimdall stared at her with a blank expression and remained silent. His lack of reaction made her backtrack in record time. “Alright, sorry. That was outta line. You, uh, wanna get a drink or something?”

It wasn't often, that Heimdall was ever caught off-guard. That was kind of his whole thing. But somehow, the jötunn just had talent for coming up with such mind-boggling, nonsensical ideas out of seemingly nowhere, that even the literal god of foresight couldn't always predict exactly what kind of bullshit would come out of Loki's mouth next.

“For what?”

“For staying – I guess?”

Heimdall clicked his tongue. He himself wasn't quite sure why he hadn't just left like the All-Father had obviously wanted him to. However, whatever the reason, it was decidedly not because of Loki.

“I have better things to do than to drink whatever low-shelf garbage you could afford while being in your equally piss-poor company. Also, you should get going with your little studies on how to change your nose. But try to do it somewhere, where you're not in the way of people doing actually important jobs, hm?”

Loki's fingers absently went to touch her face again, a scowl darkening her eyes. “I don't get it. What's his problem with my nose?”

“That I cannot answer you. Truly, your nose is the least of your problems, jötunn.”

“Why do I even talk to you?” She wiped a hand over her face.

“Honestly, at this point, I'm convinced you just get off on degradation.”

As she removed her hand again, she was smiling mischievously underneath. Her eyes brightening up in challenge. “And what if I do? Hm? Then you, Heimdall, are truly a gift that keeps on giving.”

While saying that, Loki made an obscene gesture as if jerking off. Which didn't even make sense considering she was a woman right now. Then, she turned around and walked away, all while laughing obnoxiously at her childish, little joke and completely unperturbed by Heimdall's prize-winning sneer of utter disgust.

Chapter Text

“The fuck you want?”

Heimdall had made himself a nice, relaxing evening. He had been done with his patrols, had treated himself by buying and preparing himself the finest salmon he could find on the market, seasoned with salt, dill and thyme, and through the course of the evening he had drunk through two bottles of wine that were aged to perfection.

To further calm his nerves he had taken a nice, long bath, washing himself clean from both the dust and sweat on his skin and the tension in his muscles.

Getting out of the bath as soon as the water cooled down to an unpleasant degree, he redressed himself in only a simple pair of trousers, not bothering to put on a fresh tunic as it would only get damp from his still wet hair curling in his neck and the fire burning in the hearth warmed the air just enough for him to not freeze, either way. It was never overly warm on top of the Great Wall, not with the constant chill caused by both wind and altitude, but he would chose being chilly over being warm any day. He hated the feeling of sweat on his skin. It made him feel disgusting.

However, his peaceful evening soon enough found an abrupt end, when he heard the wooden lift rattling and bringing up one particularly annoying individual with it.

Heimdall sighed. He was really not in the mood to deal with people – least of all, some especially nosy bastard of a jötunn, who apparently just couldn't take a hint.

Loki – now back in his male form after spending a full week as a woman – seemed fidgety, tapping his fingers nervously on the lifts railing in an offbeat rhythm that was impossible to make sense of. His thoughts were scattered and all over the place to the point where Heimdall couldn't discern any of them as they reached his ears like an onslaught of disjointed pieces of several puzzles thrown together into one big pile of utter confusion.

The jötunn made the short way from the lift towards Himinbjörg, considering several times to just turn back and abandon whatever plan he had. But unfortunately for Heimdall, the brat was nothing if not stubborn, when deliberately throwing himself into danger. Amongst his doubts, there was also the memory of Thrúd's voice warning him that this was a bad idea. However, her words of wisdom met deaf ears as Loki had chosen to twist them into a challenge instead. Because of course he had.

Reaching Himinbjörg's door, the giant disaster hesitated once more, hand already lifted to rap his knuckles against the dark wood.

Heimdall opened the door, before he could even so much as think of being ready enough to knock. It took little effort to showcase his annoyance through both the tone in his voice as he asked the question and a cold, purple glare to match.

The jötunn's eyes widened a fraction, mouth hanging open dumbly – as if not expecting to see the watchman, while literally coming to his home –, but was quick to put on a determined face. But not before nowhere near sneakily taking in the sight of Heimdall's bare chest. Fucking pig.

Heimdall just furrowed his brows in irritation, not quite understanding what he was reading in Loki's eyes. Even this close, his mind was muddled, and he was slightly drunk – well, tipsy, more like it. Enough to loosen his tongue, but not enough to cloud his judgment. As had been clear since day one, he didn't need alcohol for that – and which was once again proven by the words he blurted out. “Fight me.”

Heimdall moved to close the door in his face.

“No, wait!”, Loki put his foot into the door to stop being shut out, invading his space further in the process.

Heimdall sneered at the sheer audacity. “If you want to brawl in the dirt, go find some einherja. Or maybe Thrúd. I heard she's in need of a new practice dummy. You'd be perfect for that job. You even come with quite a punchable face.”

“Ugh, would you shut it, I'm trying to explain.”

The Aesir's eye twitched. Gone was any peace of mind he had gained from the bath or the wine. Loki put a hand on the door to push it open some more, but failed to move it even an inch from Heimdall's grip. Apparently, the jötunn was worried that he would just crush his foot – which was... a fair assumption.

“Look, I know we don't see eye to eye, you made that more than clear. You hate me, I get it. But we both know we can't stay out of each other's shit. So, I'm making you an offer. You take your hatred for me, I take my frustration for you, we have a good old fight and after that: peace. Or at least a truce – or something.”

“Are you really this desperate to be touched?”

“Wha-? No! I-”

“'No'”, Heimdall imitated in a high voice, “Then, what is it? You love getting beat up? Do you get off on pain, is that it? Humiliation? Do you like the taste of dirt that much? Does it make you hard to be reminded of your own inferiority? Being treated exactly like you deserve?”

He shoved the baffled giant away from the door roughly, watching as Loki stumbled for a moment, before meeting his condescending gaze with a glare of his own.

“That is not what I-”

Heimdall didn't let him finish. “Oh, we both know I'm right. Now, what does all this say about the kind of childhood you enjoyed, hm? Might be something worth looking into.”

The god of foresight evaded the punch coming towards him with ridiculous ease, laughing dryly as he grabbed the jötunn by the back of his tunic, using his own momentum against him as he shove him against Himinbjörg's wall face first.

He stepped further out of the door and dodged a quick succession of nasty punches when Loki launched at him once more. He could dance around the half-breed all day.

“You want to fight me? You can't even touch me!”

“Now who's the one desperate to be touched, huh?”

“You little-”

Heimdall blocked the next punch coming his way, grabbing the jötunn's wrist and twisting his arm forcefully. As Loki instinctively bent his knee to relieve some of the tight pressure, Heimdall used the opening to pull his legs from under him, while simultaneously shoving him back, which resulted in Loki's back meeting the ground hard, Heimdall on top of him, one knee pressing into his solar plexus. The brat's head made a weird thudding sound as it connected with the stone and he was looking a little dazed, but quickly shook himself out of it again, trying to grab at the other's face to bring him close enough for a headbutt, but the Aesir stayed just out of his reach, watching the giant struggle like a bug on his back, baring his teeth and grunting like some feral animal. When he reached for Heimdall's right shoulder and tilted his hips with the intention to switch their position the god of foresight officially had enough. He slapped the jötunn square across the face. “Snap out of it already.”

But Heimdall's lack of any real reaction other than mild irritation only worked to make the brat angrier, his face flushing at his humiliating position. The watchman groaned. He caught Loki's arms forcing them above his head with one hand on both wrists, leaned down – the movement putting his entire weight on Loki's chest, punching out any air inside his lungs – and took hold of the brat's jaw with the other, shaking his head roughly like one would a disobedient dog.

“You happy now, half-breed?”

Loki's eyes snapped up to his face, labored breaths whistling through his gritted teeth: “Don't call me a half-breed.”

Heimdall shook him some more. “I will call you whatever I like, junior.”

Loki pushed his arms against Heimdall's tight hold, revealing a surprising strength. It was not nearly enough to free himself though.

Heimdall gazed into the jötunn's eyes and deeper into his mind, trying to figure out what all this was really about, the pieces just weren't adding up properly. But what he found was... strange.

A memory – still fresh, it must have been only a few days or a week ago at most – clinging in the back of Loki's consciousness in a way a piece of nutshell would stick between his teeth. It was more than a dream, yet less than reality, an undefined mixture of hazy, foreboding dread and clear determination. Pictures and snippets of terror, burning cities and sickening loss. But there was also serenity, peace, the feeling of a new beginning and a clean slate. Hope for the future, but trepidation on how to get there.

A prophecy. The brat had somehow gotten his sticky fingers on a fucking prophecy.

Of course, Loki would inherit that one particularly annoying gift of the giants. The one thing that, because of their misuse of it, got his whole race eradicated. And yet Loki lived. Walked amongst the very same people whose destruction he dreamed of at night.

Heimdall pushed further, trying to get a glimpse of more – of something that would help him identify some kind of cause, a trigger, something that he could do to stop it. But the memory of the prophecy was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Instead, he quickly came across darkness. A void. He had to tread carefully as to not be sucked in. With wonder, he stared into Loki's blue eyes and the shadow hidden in the corner. In all his years of reading minds, Heimdall had never seen anything like this.

It has happened before that his gaze had been shut out or redirected by powerful spells that he then had worked ages for to wipe out any records of. But this was different. It wasn't that something was intentionally hidden from him – it just wasn't there in the first place. Not anymore, at least. Leaving a hole behind. Like something had been cut out, the edges fraying as if it had been removed in a hurry with a dull knife.

Belatedly, Heimdall realized his grip on Loki's wrists had loosened. The jötunn immediately took the opportunity, ripping his arms away and Heimdall had to move back, removing his knee from the other's chest in order to dodge a nasty punch to his groin.

They both quickly got to their feet again, circling each other.

“Come on, jötunn”, Heimdall spread his arms as if inviting Loki to punch him, “is this all you've got?”

In lieu of answering, the brat charged once more, throwing one punch after the other to no avail. Heimdall laughed, ducking the left hook targeted at his jaw and used the opening in Loki's defense to shove him backwards to mess up his footing. To seal the deal, he kicked the runt in the chest, which sent him right back on his back, skittering a good few paces on the stony surface.

Loki turned, pushing himself up to his knees, but Heimdall was already beside him planting his foot square the jötunn's back to shove him right back down. “I know you don't do well with following orders, but I'd really advice you stay down.”

Loki reached behind himself to try and grab his foot, which he immediately came to regret as soon as Heimdall took ahold of his arm once more and twisted it behind his back in a painful angle as he loomed over the younger man. At this point he was severely pissed off.

The giant groaned pathetically, splayed out on his stomach, his face pushed against the rough ground. Heimdall quickly shut down any attempt of the brat to get his knees under himself by applying further pressure on the bent arm until he foresaw that even the slightest amount more would knock the jötunn's shoulder out of its socket.

He leaned down, body pressed closely against the other's, until his lips almost touch the shell of the younger man's ear. “Is this what you wanted, Loki?”

The jötunn grunted, face flushed in humiliation.

Then, Heimdall abruptly pulled away from him, stood up while brushing off the dirt from his trousers, before turning around and heading back towards Himinbjörg. If the jötunn hadn't learned his lesson now, he was beyond helping.

Loki slowly pushed himself of the ground, his mind riddled with so many mixed emotions it was a wonder his head didn't combust. Heimdall looked back over his shoulder to take in the sight of the beaten man, watching in real time how one specific emotion overshadowed the shame and anger – no, rather it was being fueled by them. Lust. That twisted, little shit.

Heimdall smiled condescendingly at the pitiful sight. He could work with that.

“Chop chop, little jötunn. I don't have all day.”

Loki scrambled up so quickly that, by the time Heimdall reached the door to his home, he was right beside him. The Aesir shoved the door open and before the brat could open his mouth to ask one of his stupid, incessant questions, a hand grabbed his collar and Heimdall pressed their mouths together roughly.

He didn't care for etiquette, he was angry, he was annoyed and the jötunn now paid the prize for it. This had been cooking up inside him for weeks now. Ever since the night at the feast, maybe even before that. A heat in his stomach, energy that would crawl just beneath his skin. A thirst for something a fight couldn't possibly quench. But this? This might just do the trick. He bit the jötunn's lip, using the gasp it elicited as an opening to shove his tongue into his mouth. Loki moved his own tongue against it, he tasted mostly like mead – no surprise there – and honey.

Heimdall removed his hand from the collar to instead grab the giant by his hair, pulling him back. He used the moment of confusion it caused to shove the jötunn through the entrance and into the main room of his humble abode. Before Loki could look around and take in the true splendor of Himinbjörg's interior design, Heimdall closed in on him again, forcing him to back off until his back hit the edge of the kitchen table. Heimdall used the full capacity of the few inches he had on the jötunn to stare him down. Loki defiantly stared back, lust fueling his determination and numbing the far hidden specks of uncertainty. So, he was aware of the danger. He just didn't care enough to take the hint.

Heimdall bent down as if to get an even closer look, the intense scrutiny was met with gleaming, blue eyes and hitched breath.

“Next time if you want something from me, don't bother trying to hide the truth. It's honestly insulting that you think you can trick me.”

“Would I have come nearly this far if I'd just straight up asked for sex?”

For a moment, the Aesir god stopped short, contemplating. Would he have? No, of course not. Getting the door shut into his face is what what Loki would have achieved, probably getting his nose broken in the process.

The watchman suddenly had the slight feeling that he had confidently stepped into a snare thinking that his knowledge of it would somehow be enough to defuse it.

Heimdall scoffed. If this was how they were going to do this, he would make Loki regret setting that trap in the first place, still arrogantly believing that the All-Father's favor would protect him from any and all harm.

Heimdall lifted his hand, tracing the deep lines and dents on the left side of Loki's face. Absently, he wondered if they were birthmarks or scars – though in the end, it mattered little. They were disruptive, uneven and destroyed any kind of symmetry the young god's face might have possessed. Ugly little furrows for an ugly little giant. They suited Loki in the same way a blond wig and wedding dress would suit Thor.

His fingers moved from the lines over to Loki's ear, observing the red flush spread there from his cheeks. Loki's grip on the table behind him tightened as he kept himself from fidgeting in anticipation. It was ridiculous how much the brat melted at the gentle caress, how eagerly he awaited what Heimdall would do next, where else touch would travel. Blue eyes were trained on him, as if Loki hoped to be able read Heimdall in the same way the watchman could him if he just looked close enough.

Finally, Heimdall's hands stilled, cradling the jötunn's jaw, watching with amusement how antsy he got with every second that nothing was happening. He knew Loki wanted nothing more than to finally get on with it – for him to kiss him again, sneer at him, bend him over the table, insult him, do something – anything, at this point. Silence seemed to be Loki's greatest enemy, uncertainty creeping up again, but he held strong. The brat was nothing if not determined. In his mind he figured he had come this far, so he might as well go through with it. There was a peculiar kind of naivete in Loki's carelessness, a juvenile over-confidence that whatever happened, in the end it would always work out for him.

Heimdall wondered if this was the price of knowing the future to such an extend. A dangerous sort of apathy for the present.

As soon as Heimdall heard the creaking of his wooden table breaking beneath Loki's fingers, his silent contemplation came to a halt, and his touch turning into something harder as he dug his finger deep into the soft spot behind the brat's ear. Loki yelped in pain and twitched forward to escape the uncomfortable pressure, only to be grabbed by the shoulders and pushed to his knees.

“Asshole”, he mumbled, but Heimdall could see the relief as the jötunn was finally given a task he understood.

The message was clear, even for someone as dense as Loki, and so the giant reached out with both hands stroking Heimdall's thighs through his trousers.

“You better be good.”

“There's a reason they call me silver-”

Heimdall slapped him. “Shut up.”

Loki looked back up at him. Surprise quickly made way to a shit-eating grin. “Yes, sir.”

The younger man made swift work of unbuckling his belt, throwing it carelessly to the side and Heimdall was very close to slapping him again, this time making it actually hurt. Instead, he his grip on Loki's shoulder tightened in warning.

“Careful, you runt. That belt is worth more than you.”

“Sorry”, Loki mumbled not sounding apologetic at all as he pressed his face into the Aesir god's groin without further hesitation. Heimdall scoffed, but let it slide.

Tattooed fingers untied the laces of his trousers, while Loki mouthed his clothed member hungrily.

Heimdall swallowed a groan at the sensation of the hot tongue creating a wet patch on the corduroy – he would not give the jötunn the satisfaction of knowing that what he was doing was working on him. It was evident enough in how his dick was filling out quickly under the runt's attention. And he would lie if he claimed to not have enjoyed repeatedly throwing Loki to the ground and forcing him into submission at least a little bit.

Loki carefully fished him out of the pants, licking his hand several times and then stroking him leisurely to coax him into full hardness.

Heimdall couldn't stop himself in time from inhaling sharply as cool fingers wrapped around him. It had been... some time since he had last had sex. It wasn't that there wasn't anyone willing to sleep with him – he was after all renowned for not only his exceptional skills, but also his incomparable beauty. He just neither had the time, nor was he in a mood to deal with people for longer than strictly necessary.

However sometimes, he found himself unable to fully unwind at the end of the day. When something would grab his attention and refused to let go. In those instances, he found, fucking was a pleasurable and efficient enough way to force his mind back into focus.

Being able to both keep an eye on the latest threat to Asgard's safety and simultaneously also get off in the process – now, that was admittedly not the worst outcome imaginable.

Heimdall watched in mild interest from above as Loki took in the sight of his erection.

Wide, blue eyes met his gaze. “So big”, Loki gasped.

Heimdall flicked him between the eyes. “Don't play coy.”

The pretense of sexual innocence left the giant's expression in record time. It was almost impressive at how fast he let that farce go. Loki obviously didn't enjoy it all that much himself. He just did it to get what he wanted.

The younger man leaned his head to one side, regarding him questioningly.

“Then, what do you want?”, he asked, all the while still gliding his hand up and down Heimdall's length, his breath dusting over the sensitive skin.

“Don't pretend with me. Won't work, anyway.”

Loki's grip on him tightened at that, his strokes becoming just a little more purposeful. He nodded.

“I can do that.”

Heimdall smiled in mocking doubt. “Can you?”

Instead of responding, Loki licked a wet stripe up the underside of his cock, before taking half of its length into his mouth in one swift motion.

Heimdall groaned at the feeling of his tip sliding against the warm, wet surface of Loki's tongue, placing his hands on the table behind the jötunn's head for better stability. Cast in even more shadow of Heimdall's larger form, Loki's eyes almost seemed to glow in the sparse light of the fire crackling softly.

A calloused hand traveled up and down the older man's side and exposed chest as if exploring the unblemished, pale skin. The other was still wrapped around the base of his cock, adding short strokes to the smooth glide of his mouth. Heimdall hissed out a curse, when Loki twisted his head, every time he moved back, while humming in whorish excitement.

The runt could smile and be smug all he wanted, as long as he kept sucking like that. Heimdall had to admit, Loki did know what he was doing, which was a new occurrence. But miracles did happen every once in a while, the Aesir supposed.

He took ahold of the back of Loki's head and was just about to press even deeper into the jötunn's mouth, when he foresaw Loki abruptly pulling away, gagging and coughing violently. Apparently, the little slut couldn't deepthroat. A shame.

Instead, he used his hold to force a quicker pace, moans escaping him without his consent, the wet sound as well as the sight of Loki's hand leaving his chest in order to touch his own arousal straining against his pants, egging him on further towards his peak.

Heimdall had half the mind to paint the jötunn's face with his cum and then throw him right out, but watching Loki desperately palm himself through his trousers, he got a better idea. He wanted to see how much the brat would truly allow him to wreck him.

An experiment of sorts. Like bending a stick to see how far it would go before it snapped.

Because it was one thing to use him for his own pleasure, but there was something far more satisfying in the way Loki clearly wanted it. Craved it. Needed it, even.

He truly did get off on degradation it seemed. Not that Heimdall had ever doubted his own observation skills in the first place.

He pulled his hips away, his cock leaving the jötunn's lips with a pop, who immediately tried to follow the sudden movement. Before Loki could attach himself again, Heimdall used the unwavering grip on his hair to pull him upwards, far enough so he could bent down and capture the other man's lips once more. Momentary confusion was quickly replaced with delight and Loki moaned breathlessly against his lips. Heimdall definitely preferred the taste of himself over that of cheap mead and so he deepened the kiss. Loki got to his feet, trying desperately to not break the contact in the process.

Heimdall allowed him to straighten himself, then pushed him against the table once more, crowding the giant while his hands already worked to unbuckle and rip of the sparse pieces of armor Loki still wore. Loki broke the kiss only long enough to complain: “Hey, careful-”

“Shut it”, Heimdall hissed, getting rid of the brat's tunic next.

The next kiss – Heimdall could not possibly say who initiated it this time – was cut short when he forced Loki to turn around and lean over the table.

He reached into the younger man's pocket and fished out the vial of oil, he knew he would find there. He slammed it onto the table right next to Loki, while sucking harshly on his jaw.

“You little slut.”

“Oh, don't think too highly of yourself, I always have that with me.”

“How about instead of your mouth you open yourself up, I'm not gonna do all the work for you.”

Loki huffed. “Seriously?”

Heimdall stepped away. The jötunn rolled his eyes and pushed down his pants just far enough to uncover his ass and coated his fingers with the oil. Then reached behind himself, circling his own rim and smearing the glistening substance all over it.

“Lazy piece of shit”, he mumbled which turned into a grunt, as soon as he pushed one finger inside himself. Heimdall ignored the insult in favor of watching the jötunn hastily prod himself open.

Ever the impatient fool, the runt pressed in another digit way earlier than what was advisable. And then another. The Aesir god tsked at the predictable incompetence and covered his own fingers with oil, pushing Loki's fingers away to replace them with one of his own and pumping it in and out in skillful motions. Adding another one after a short while immediately forced high gasps out of the younger man, his hand moving to stroke his cock on instinct.

“If you come now, I swear to fucking-”

“Then fuck me already”, Loki cut through his ranting, his voice rough with the breathless demand.

Heimdall leaned over him and pulled his fingers out, hissing hotly into his ear. “Then don't come complaining to me when you're all sore tomorrow.”

Instead of answering, the brat pushed his hips back, rubbing his ass against Heimdall's dick and – Norns, Heimdall didn't remember the last time he had been this hard. It took every last bit of his impeccable self-control to move away from the admittedly quite inviting pressure. Loki looked back at him in poorly hidden confusion. Apparently, his past sexual partners were usually far past coherent thought at this point, but Heimdall had a theory to test. Also, how dare he compare the Watchman of the Aesir to some commoners.

“You know what? I liked you better on the ground.”

“Mhm, kinky.”

Loki smiled smugly at the demand, straightening up and removing his pants in deliberately slow movements, obviously trying to come off as enticing. However, it only managed to irritate the older man.

“You gonna get down already or would you prefer me to knee you in the nethers first?”

Loki shuddered at the threat knowing damn well it wasn't an empty one, and lowered himself to all fours on the cowhide that stretched across the floor of the living area with what was for him only a minimal amount of complaining about how his knees were going to hurt after this.

Heimdall strode over to position himself behind him, using some more oil to lube himself up. Kneeling behind the jötunn, he took in the sight of Loki probing himself up on his forearms, breath quickened in anticipation and looking back at him over his shoulder wit pure lust darkening his eyes.

Heimdall slid his hand up and down on Loki's ass cheek and inner thigh, with the other he stroked himself a few more times before lining himself up, rubbing against the other man's rim with his tip.

Just before entering, he bent over. One hard shove to his shoulders was enough to make the giant's trembling arms give in, his face once again meeting the ground. With a mean smile, he echoed Loki's words from the night of the feast: “Down, doggy.”

Any retort from the jötunn might have sputtered out was cut short when he finally pushed inside.

Some part far in the back of Heimdall's mind – possibly the only one that wasn't occupied marveling at how hot and tight Loki was around him – was distantly aware that some rough fingering probably really wasn't anywhere near enough preparation, the oil doing only so much to ease the way.

Underneath him, the giant grimaced, hissing and grunting at the intrusion, and pressed his flushed, red face down to bite into the skin of his own forearm to suppress any more embarrassing sounds with little success. With a whine, Loki reached his other arm backwards, clammy fingertips clumsily taking hold of Heimdall's hip. But rather than push him away, he used his grip to pull Heimdall closer instead and in consequence taking him further up the ass.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

A string of curses escaped the jötunn, his pain just as evident in the rasp of his voice as his pleasure.

Once Heimdall finally bottomed up, his hips snugly pressed against Loki's, he took a moment to breath through the near overwhelming feeling of his cock being buried deep inside the younger man. Loki wasn't faring any better, his chest heaving harshly as he adjusted to his size. But Heimdall wasn't exactly in a giving mood, and so as soon as he was sure he wouldn't come on the spot, he drew his hips back halfway only to snap them forward, punching any oxygen the brat might have gotten right out of his lungs again. Loki lost his grip on Heimdall and instead let his hand fall to the side, bawling his fist tightly as he continued gnawing at his other arm that was already covered in excess spit and imprints of his teeth at this point.

Heimdall was way too riled up for anything other than a hard, fast pace, having lost any speck of patience left as soon as he felt himself drag against Loki's walls.

He basked in the sight of Loki's back flex and arch in an attempt to simultaneously get away from and also meet his thrusts. But he wanted to drive this further, so he gave in to the urge to lean over the younger man, chest pressed against his sweaty back – a feeling that would disgust him in any other circumstance – one hand placed next to Loki's that had now begun uselessly clawing at the cowhide beneath him. With the other, he pushed Loki's braid out of the way to swipe his tongue over the exposed neck and trace the uneven ridges on Loki's face which earned him a shudder from the man underneath. Sensing at how much Loki liked that gesture, he promptly bit into the delicate skin of his shoulder.

He cared only for his own pleasure. Not the jötunn's. He would be damned if Loki believed anything different for even a second.

The brat let out a pathetic whimper at the not so gentle reminder, which was quickly swallowed up by Heimdall forcing his head upwards with a sharp grab on his jaw and shoving his tongue into his mouth, all while still driving his cock into him in a harsh, steady rhythm. Loki wasn't capable of anything other than panting into the harsh kiss, his arched back changing their position just so that Heimdall hit a particularly pleasurable place inside him.

It wasn't that the Aesir had made much of an effort to seek out his prostate, he blamed that on just being a talented lover. The fact that Heimdall could not just feel his own mounting pleasure, but also Loki's resonating inside of him was the only reason he continued abusing that spot.

Through the haze of his bliss, he noticed how Loki's hand had gone from clawing at the carpet to grabbing and holding onto Heimdall's wrist in a last ditch effort to cling to him for support.

He pulled his arm out of the grasp and straightened up again, taking hold of Loki's hips to move him just the way he wanted to.

Looking down from above, Heimdall might just be forced to admit he could see that supposed attractiveness Loki was renowned for. He did look good, kneeling on all fours, face to the ground, wet and red from tears, rug burn and exertion, while being fucked from behind like the dog he was.

Soon enough – too soon for Heimdall's liking, his stamina was usually better than this – he could feel the ever-building pressure low in his stomach grow closer and closer to snapping.

Heimdall reached down to pull at the jötunn's neglected cock. He would be damned if he came first. Why he suddenly wanted Loki to come at all, he had no mind left to wonder about.

Loki cries grew louder and needier with each stroke. “Fuck yes! Don't stop, don't you dare fucking stop.”

He didn't have to worry. Stopping wasn't an option Heimdall could even think about right now.

Loki thighs tensed as he neared his climax, an unceasing litany of broken curses, barely intelligible demands of “harder”, “faster” and “right there” mixed with sharp gasps leaving his mouth in quick succession.

Heimdall was glad his own desperate moans as the pressure inside him grew to be both too much and not enough were covered up by the jötunn's sheer loudness.

In such highs of pleasure, the outside world was drowned out, his senses overridden, leaving only Loki. Loki's hole clenching around him, Loki's high-pitched moans reaching his ears, Loki's pleasure filling his mind as he finally reached his peak, shoving him right over the edge with him.

With a groan, he came deep inside, his mind blissfully empty.

It took quite a few moments for Heimdall to come down enough from his high to realize he had once again draped himself over the younger man, mouthing lazily at the spot he had bitten before. With one arm he was holding himself up, while he had wrapped the other around Loki's chest, keeping the man close and also from collapsing into the mess he made on the cowhide.

Loki hummed softly at his ministrations, moving his hips in slow, careful circles as if reveling in the feeling of the cock still buried deep inside of him. Heimdall humored him for a little while before pulling out, when the sensation became too much on his oversensitive skin. The gasp that act elicited made him smile against Loki's neck, where he breathed in the smell of sweat and sex mixed with Loki's usual scent that reminded him of a forest after rain.

Just as the younger man turned his head with the intention to kiss him again, this time slow and sweet, Heimdall's eyes snapped open as clarity suddenly hit him like a cold shock. What the fuck just happened?

He abruptly released his grip from the giant, getting to his feet and moving away, while pulling up and re-lacing his pants to regain some sort of composure. Loki looked taken aback for a moment by the sudden shift in behavior, but for once in his life he knew better than to argue. His bewilderment and returning uncertainty was quickly covered by his usual mask the smug satisfaction of a cat who got the cream.

The brat followed suit, got off the ground and redressed himself however, his movements were a little clumsy and sluggish around the edges – likely because of the lingering afterglow. When he saw the giant stumble – his legs not quite in full working order yet – Heimdall had the strange urge to offer him some support. As if he owed it to him after putting him in that position in the first place. What a ridiculous sentiment. Loki had asked for this. Never had there been even a hint in his mind of any discomfort that wasn't greedily embraced with open, masochistic arms.

And so, Heimdall swallowed down the notion and stayed put, watching the giant as he made his way across the room with a slight limp to gather his discarded tunic and armor. Loki pulled a face when he discovered the ripped hole in one of his belts where Heimdall hadn't bothered to properly open it before pulling it off. The jötunn showed the broken belt to him as if expecting an apology and got ignored.

“You happy now, half-breed?”

Loki sighed, but seemed otherwise unperturbed by both the insult and his dry tone. His voice was rough from all the noise he had made during their fucking, as he said:

“You look good with that hair all messy. You should wear it down more often.”

Heimdall clenched his fist behind his back. “And maybe you should cut your hair off. That rat's nest is beyond salvaging. I truly hope for you that you didn't bring any fleas in, you mutt.”

“Norns, you're really always like this, huh? No wonder everyone avoids you.”

“'Everyone'? If everyone avoided me, then what, pray tell, are you doing on my wall, in my home, with my cum drying between your thighs?”

Loki's eyes snapped up to meet his, expression filled with a strange, somber seriousness, Heimdall had never seen on him before.

“You wanna hear some lie about how I needed a distraction and your home was closest? Or that I was horny enough to look past all your nasty flaws and just saw a pretty face with a cocky attitude that I figured had to be coming from somewhere? Or”, he hesitated for a second, unsure if he truly wanted to continue, but fought through it, “Or, do you wanna hear the truth?”

“The truth? From the God of Lies himself? Now, you've might just peaked my interest.”

“Well, truth is, you – of all the people in Asgard, maybe even in all the Nine Realms –, you might just be the only one, who hates me more than I hate myself.”

An uncomfortable feeling settled low in Heimdall's stomach as he scrutinized the man before him. Loki wasn't looking at him. He just stared at his hands fidgeting with the ripped belt. Heavy silence settled between them, as Heimdall searched for some kind of lie in those blue eyes – some kind of trick or deception. Some kind of sign that Loki was just trying to manipulate him, to make him feel sympathy. He found none.

Through the usual cloud of conflict inside the giant's mind, all Heimdall could spy was cold, clear honesty. Where there had been pleasure before, there was now an uncomfortable weight low in his stomach. Why was he feeling like this? He should be laughing at the jötunn's face, taunting him for such pathetic display of weakness. Should be elated at how this meager, little weasel was so woefully and openly vulnerable right now – a kind of vulnerability, Heimdall would normally revel in prying apart, laying it bare and stomping on it. He should be overjoyed by the fact this giant had not only made him come harder than he had in years, but was also punishing himself by sleeping with him, pretty much doing his job for him.

He sat down on the bench at the kitchen table, a sour taste in the back of his throat. Once, Loki met his eyes again, there was a self-deprecating smile on his face.

“You know, people tend to just let me do shit to them. They see a pretty face and a charming smile”, Heimdall couldn't suppress a scoff and in turn Loki's smile grew just a little more genuine, “and they just look past every fucked up thing I do. No one ever truly holds me accountable for the pain I cause. Sure, I enjoy the chaos that ensues. The anger, the hatred, the selfishness, the sheer unpredictability of it all. There's just something so satisfying in getting people to act in ways they wouldn't usually. To make them discover a completely new side of themselves. But most of all, it's the change that comes after. When emotions have settled, deeds have been forgiven and circumstances accepted. That is where true change comes from – for better or for worse.”

Heimdall continued to just stare in silence and Loki continued to speak with a chuckle, running a hand over his face and hair, disheveling it further, if that was even possible.

“There's something so fulfilling, so amazing to watch people realize their own potential for improvement. To give them a little push in the direction of reconsideration. But it also reminds me of how hard it actually is to change. Like, why would I bother to be better if I could just do whatever the fuck I want and people would forgive me anytime anyway, because they believe in a version of myself that is better than”, he gestured at himself, “all this.”

He cleared his throat before moving on.

“I mean, I think I used to be. At least, I used to feel a lot, all of the time. Back, when I was just Atreus.

I would meet new people and learn of their suffering and then I would suffer for them – with them. I could feel their sadness as if it were my own. Of course, soon enough I had to learn that you can't safe everyone. I had to draw a line of how much pain I was willing to take upon myself and what lengths I would go to to elevate it. As a child, I wasn't really good at that. I was constantly worrying over problems that weren't really my own, trying to fix everyone else's life, because I was so woefully unprepared to face my own. It's just like you said. I wasn't really only trying to help others. I was just helping myself. And when that didn't work, I kinda just stopped. I closed my heart to their suffering. At that point, I was convinced compassion like that just made me weak, hinder me from doing what has to be done.

And yet, now that I'm free from everyone else's pain, I feel emptier than ever before. I'm surrounded by people, but I have no way to connect with them. It's like there's a barrier, something that just doesn't align anymore.”

Another moment of eye contact. Still no lies to be seen. This time Heimdall was the first to look away, sick of what he found – and didn't find – within Loki's mind. He closed his eyes.

“Loki.”

“No, wait. Just let me say this. Out loud, I mean. Please.”

When Heimdall remained quiet, Loki took it as permission to continue.

“You know, back when my mother died and when I first learned that I was a god, I wanted to do good. I wanted to help people – well, after an initial bout of self-important arrogance, but then again, I was like eleven years old. I thought I could easily do better than all those fucked up deeds I've heard and seen you Aesir commit. How could I possibly ever hurt people like that. But then, something terrible happened and I... just got so bitter.

Point is, I used to be so determined to you the power and knowledge I have for good. And look at me now!”

Loki made a noise halfway between a snort and a sob.

“Look at what I've done! What I'm destined to do! I think she would hate what I've become. Who I am now. I know my father does, I saw it in his eyes every time we fought.”

Then, Loki laughed. Laughed so hard, there were tears in his eyes and his lungs struggled to provide enough air as he bent over. He laughed like he had never before heard as funny of a joke as the way he view his life. He laughed and he coughed and that made him laugh even harder. It took a long time for him to calm down enough to notice that Heimdall wasn't laughing with him. Or at him. Or in general.

Loki threw his arms up.

“Come on, you can laugh. It's fucking hilarious, to be honest.”

Heimdall didn't move from his place on the bench and locked the jötunn in a cold, expressionless stare.

“Get out.”

“Hm?”

“Get out of my fucking house.”

“What? Why?”

“You want me to hold you accountable? Well, this is me holding you accountable. You don't get to just spread your legs and then wallow in self-pity, expecting to be coddled and told it'll all get better. You don't get to use me as a distraction from your own self-hatred and then expect me to pity you once reality hits you again. You don't get to pull others down into your spiral of self-loathing and utter lack of impulse-control and then blame them for throwing you away just the way you would discard them in a heartbeat.”

The giant sobered up. He had the audacity to look affronted.

“Heimdall, I-”

Heimdall stood up, banging his fist loudly on the table, which made the runt jump.

“No, Loki. You want me to insult you? You're the lowest, nastiest piece of shit I ever had the misfortune to be in the utterly vindictive vicinity of. Of all the vile, pathetic mongrels whose bullshit I'm forced to witness on the daily, you truly take the crown.

You want me to hate you? Well, here you have it. I hate you. I despise you. I cannot stand being around your miserable, entitled, meager, little excuse of a presence for even a second longer. Now, get the fuck out of my house!”

Chapter Text

The next few days after the incident at Himinbjörg, Heimdall had been tense. Which wasn't a particularly unusual state for him to be in, but the cause for it was.

A good fuck usually worked wonders on his strained nerves, provided some stress relief and while that effect rarely lasted longer than a day or maybe even just a few hours, he would always find himself in better spirits afterwards.

This time however, had left him even more on edge than he had been before, if that was even possible. And it hadn't even been the sex itself. Honestly, he would have preferred for the brat to just turn out to be a bad lay, that would have quite effectively killed off any and all vague interest to figure Loki out beyond what he already knew about the chaotic half-breed.

No, albeit begrudgingly, the watchman had to admit that the sex had been pleasurable, to say the least. It had... hit a certain spot inside him. He had been right in his assumption that fucking Loki within an inch of his life would scratch that little, invisible itch that had been nagging him for quite some time. The actual problem was, the itch hadn't vanished. Worse yet, now that he identified the cause, it somehow got harder to ignore. Especially because his brain oh so unhelpfully kept on providing him with memories of Loki kneeling on the ground or leaning over the table, legs spread, lips bitten raw, fully exposed. And the sounds – the mewling and keening and groaning –, those fucking sounds kept replaying in his mind in the most inappropriate moments.

Which was downright outrageous considering Loki's confession on using him as a distraction.

He should be angry, furious even. He should hate Loki just like he had claimed he did, like he had all the right to. And he was angry at the jötunn – more so than the usual amount –, but he was more angry at himself for not kicking the runt out like he should have when he had the chance. But he hadn't, going against any common sense he had previously thought himself to be in possession of. It wasn't like he had been tricked or coerced or manipulated, either. In fact, there hadn't been a single moment throughout the encounter in which he couldn't have rejected the offer, send the jötunn on his merry way right back down the wall and maybe laugh at his face for the ill-advised attempt for good measure. And yet, he had chosen not to.

The question was, why? Had he been so inebriated by the wine that it had clouded his judgment? No, he hadn't drunk nearly that much. He knew his limits and unlike his brother, he took care not to cross them. So, was he truly just so sexually frustrated to the point where he would lay with anyone? Absolutely not. Heimdall valued his own body and time far too much for that.

But then, why Loki? How in the Nine Realms did every single one of his problems in recent times boil down to Loki? When had this insolent, little twerp gotten himself this involved in his life?

In the dozens of decades, he had lived, Heimdall had been in more than a few nasty arguments after sex. Whether it was because his sexual partner turned out to not be worth his time or he had lost interest midway through and just ordered them to leave or they had gotten fed up with his demands – he was quite high-maintenance, which was something he saw no reason in changing.

It never really bothered him all that much, as he had no need for soft words, gentle touches and calming caresses after the fact, anyway. Rather, he preferred to be left alone to revel in the afterglow in peace. He took the pleasure for what it was and mostly ignored the person behind it. They were insignificant. So naturally, the highest reaction such arguments got out of him was annoyance. He didn't care enough for anything beyond that.

But then Loki came along. And of course, that half-breed runt would force a stronger reaction out of him. It was just sheer impossible to stay indifferent about anything involving Loki. There was just something about him that polarized people, that brought out deeper emotions, whether they be positive or negative.

For Heimdall, that had been rage. And he had taken out this rage in the one way he knew how, that wasn't physically violent. He had snapped and cursed at the jötunn and Loki had taken it just as he had taken his thrusts mere minutes before that and- Norns, he really had to stop thinking about that.

With a deep scowl, Heimdall met the purple gaze from his reflection in the water basin he had been washing his face in. He hadn't yet braided his hair, so some blond strands stuck to his cheeks and forehead, while the rest fell over his ears and framed his face.

As he reminisced about the past couple days, thinking about all the ways he could deal with the situation at hand, he came up short. The only two possible outcomes he could think of at this point were that either, Loki would finally leave and everything would return to normal or the more likely option that Loki remained in Asgard, remained a thorn in his side and he would just have to move on and continue ignoring him.

Which was significantly easier now than it had been ever before.

Where their paths had usually crossed daily with Heimdall going about his normal day and the giant's ability to somehow always get in his way, it seemed now, the watchman could only ever see Loki behind several doors and walls separating them, his thoughts hidden away behind a cloud of chaos.

It wasn't that Heimdall was avoiding him. That would be bothersome and ridiculous and childish and also he didn't have to, because the jötunn was very obviously avoiding him. The lengths to which Loki went to prevent their paths from crossing were downright impressive.

The only thing he could sense from the distance from the giant was that he was planning something. What exactly that was, kept evading him though.

It mattered little, he had his own idea on how to force the giant to engage with him again and reveal all his secrets. Nothing stayed hidden from him too long.

Heimdall sighed as he wet his hands to brush them through his hair in an attempt to keep it out of his face. Looking down at his reflection once more, he was reminded of the times he had spent at a grassy riverside back in Vanaheim in the early days of his childhood.

He would sit on his legs dirtying his already ripped pants – the wetness of the grass seeping through his clothing hadn't bothered him yet, back then – and lean forward on grimy, little hands, staring wide-eyed into the muddy, slowly treading water. Beside him would always be at least one of the Svana, smiling at his childish amazement or chiding him when he leaned just a little too far over the water.

It was an exercise to train his focus. When he got overwhelmed by all the noise he suddenly heard and all the things he suddenly saw and all the sensations he suddenly felt, back when he first got glimpses of what would later be revealed as his gift – it would take years more to actually manifest which was the main reason why his possession of such abilities had gone unnoticed for so long –, he would be brought to such a river.

There was a particular one, that stretched in one direction through the thick bush and enormous, towering trees of the Western Barri Woods and in the other, it passed a huge cliff side and a nearby village built from stone – the village was now long gone, leaving only ruins behind to be slowly but surely subdued and swallowed whole by the vegetation. He had liked that river the most, because there were all kinds of colorful fish flitting downstream and throwing up clouds of mud from the ground as well as other little creatures that caught his attention as they fled from his shadow.

The exercise was quite simple, yet effective. He would be asked what he saw and he would then stretch his senses along the length of the river and list off everything that came into his view. He could go into the most minute detail – ripples on the surface, glittering stones hidden beneath, small, wooden boats swaying in the slow current or roots feasting on the rich water. The only rule was that his gaze was not to sway over the river banks. Not into the woods to animals rustling in the underbrush, not to the rocks occasionally breaking off of and tumbling down the cliff side and into the water and not the bustling market place of the village with all its distracting sounds and smells of food.

Back then, he would often struggle keeping up with every impression his eyes pick up all at once and so he was taught to section the perimeter, take in one square meter at a time if necessary. After centuries of practice, he had gotten so fast at it and the individual sectors became so enormous, that the realms themselves couldn't keep up with his perception anymore and so instead revealed things to him that hadn't even happened yet.

However, in those early exercises, the river had been the section and while the Svana had no way of knowing if what he described was true as none of them had eyes like him, it had taught him a valuable lesson on how to rein in his senses when they strayed too far.

If only he had a way to keep his thoughts in line like that as well.

The memory turned sour when it was Svana Blóðughadda watching him from her usual place next to him, bathing in the sunlight. Before his thoughts could spiral any further out of his control, Heimdall took a deep breath and dunked his head into the lukewarm water.

~~~

The Great Lodge was only just waking up around him – the servants hurrying to and fro to prepare breakfast for the usual occupants –, and Heimdall was seated comfortably in the front hall after already having delivered his report about an hour ago. He was tucked away into a corner mostly void of people and dimly lit by the a few candles and torches on the wall at his back and the first piercing rays of sunlight from the window only just missing his eyes, warming his shoulder and hand that held a book in front of him. With the other he grabbed an apple from the basket on the table without looking, eyes trained on the text, trying to decipher the chicken scratch that could barely be called 'writing'.

The author seemed to have been quite determined to lose any possible readers in record time, filling page after page with half-assed sketches, nonsensical ramblings and – Norns help him – fucking puns worthy of a middle-aged, single father of four who had lost any and all self-respect along with his hair. Most annoying however, were the pages that had been clearly ripped out in haste.

After having scanned the contents for about half an hour, he gave up on his search for anything worthwhile, closed the book and focused on enjoying the apple instead, while he waited.

It didn't take too long for his patience to be rewarded, as a familiar redhead made his way from the All-Father's study with a quick detour to retrieve something from his room – of course stopping for a moment to give himself a vain, little once-over in the mirror – and then up the stairs with a leather bag in hand. Loki fidgeted nervously with the string keeping the bag close, but he put on his usual over-confident front as soon as he rounded the corner heading to the front hall. While Loki was looking around the room, absentmindedly greeting some servants and nobles who had noticed his arrival, Heimdall opened the book up once more on some random page, pretending to be far more invested in it than in the jötunn who was clearly in search for him.

Once the brat's eyes fell on him, Loki straightened up a bit more, hiding his nerves behind a mischievous grin as he made his way over and threw the leather bag onto the table right in front of the watchman. Heimdall spared it only a single disinterested look as he recognized the clacking sound of the content getting rustled. Coins.

His gaze returned to the yellowed page in front of him. “Are you paying me for my service?”

Loki cleared his throat and sat down across from him, the table keeping them apart at a healthy distance.

“For the carpet. Sorry 'bout ruining it, by the way.” He pushed the bag a little bit more into Heimdall's direction as if that would make him want to accept the poor attempt at compensation.

When the Aesir made no effort to react, he continued, opening the bag and spilling some of its content on the table: “I don't really know how much cowhide costs, but, uh, this should cover it. I think.”

Heimdall furrowed his brows throwing a glance at the coins to estimate their value. He did a double take, when he noticed that it wasn't normal hacksilver filling the bag, but instead Asgardian golden coins. 'Cover it' was an obscene understatement. There was roughly enough money lying scattered on the table to buy several dozen cows, as well as the stables and acres they would reside in and then a nice, modern lodge or two attached to those.

Heimdall scoffed. Not a day in his life did he have to worry about money, but even he had a better grasp on its value than the half-breed in front of him apparently did.

Giving in, he finally met the blue gaze, staring at him expectantly. He wasn't impressed, just dumbfounded.

“Who did you suck off to get that kind of money?”

Instead of getting offended at the implication, Loki merely seemed to gain confidence, the corners of his mouth moving upwards, same as his eyebrows as he put on an expression of faux surprise.

“You mean, I could get paid for that?”

He threw his hands up in widely overplayed exasperation. “And to think I've been doing it for free this entire time!”

Loki grinned sharply. Heimdall rolled his eyes at his antics and went straight back to his book. However, the jötunn was determined get on his nerves today, probably trying to make up for those blissful, last few days of avoidance.

“Anyway, didn't have to stoop to that level. I just sold some of the rings I got from-”

Heimdall didn't let him finish, slamming the book down.“You sold the rings?!”

”Yup.”

Heimdall was – for a moment – honestly at a loss for words. But he found them rather quickly, anger fueling the upcoming tirade.

“Do you have any – just the tiniest speck of an idea just how valuable those are? Oh, who am I kidding, of course you fucking don't. They are antique, you utter moron! One of a kind! They're definitely older than you, probably older than fucking Thor. Passed down from generation to generation and you sold them for a sliver, for a fucking fraction of their actual price. They're worth a king's ransom, you brainless rat! Sif is going to rip you a new hole for unbalancing the economy like that.”

Heimdall wiped a hand over his face, trying to sooth out the already developing headache and pointed an accusing finger at the jötunn as he continued his agitated rant: “Not only did you sell priceless artifacts – no, the incompetent, intellectually challenged, little imbecile that you are, you also got scammed while doing it!”

His blood was practically boiling, but any further insults got stuck in his throat when he noticed Loki's grin only widened with every word he said and oh-

Fucksake.

That was his plan all along, wasn't it. Cause chaos in the most annoying and inconvenient ways possible. Rile him up because he had nothing better to do.

Loki shrugged, a perfect picture of nonchalance. “Yup. I prefer the look of silver anyway. Though”, he leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, “I do like the taste of gold.”

Heimdall furrowed his brows, his irritation making place for bewilderment. “What?”

That made the jötunn's smug expression falter if only by a little.

“I- well, because you”, he pointed at his own mouth, but then let out a defeated breath halfway through, “fuck it, I'm not gonna explain that one.”

Heimdall shook himself out of his momentary confusion, sighing tiredly. “You really are something, aren't you, sunshine?”

Loki's expression brightened up at that, again. He leaned further on the table probing his chin up on a hand and looking at the Aesir god what could only be described as a dreamy gaze. It was all for show, of course. “You really have got to stop flirting with me, Heimdall. Or I might start acting unwise.”

“So, all this is you acting wise?!”

“I mean keep doing this and you'll see how unhinged I can get.”

Now that was an outright threat, if Heimdall ever heard one. He regretted not enjoying the days of silence more. Honestly, he didn't quite understand why he hadn't in the first place. It had been so much more peaceful – almost boringly so. But boring was good, boring was normal, boring meant nothing bad was happening. The stimulation was not worth the headache Loki's little attempts at shaking things up inevitably caused.

“How much worse than this”, he pointed at the bag of coins with a wave of his hand, “can you possibly get?”

The brat just shrugged again. “What can I say, you weren't there to stop me.”

“It's not my job to babysit idiots.”

“No? Isn't that quite literally all you do, oh great Scion of the Aesir?”

Heimdall clenched his fist, resisting the urge to launch over the table and rip the half-breed's cursed tongue out. Before he could bite back however, Loki simply steamrolled over any possible reply.

“Oh and, can I have my journal back now or do you still need time to snoop around some more?”

The watchman scoffed. “I'm not 'snooping around'.”

“You aren't? What do you call this rude, little invasion of my privacy then, hm? Is constantly poking around in my mind not doing it for you anymore? Or do you just enjoy sticking yourself all up in my business that much?”

Heimdall very pointedly ignored that entirely unnecessary innuendo, gritting his teeth as his body reacted to it nonetheless, his brain once again providing him with fitting visuals. He really needed to get a grip.

“What were you looking for anyway? My sinister, secret plans of world domination? The recipe for the pumpkin bread? A review about you performance?”

“You're giving yourself too much credit, jötunn”, he pushed the journal towards the younger man, thoroughly disgusted by the accusation, “It's not like there's anything noteworthy in there, anyway.”

“Really? Then, you obviously haven't gotten to the best part, yet. See?”

He flipped through the thin pages until he found what he was looking for, turning the book towards Heimdall, a tattooed finger proudly pointing at a childish caricature of Heimdall with sharp teeth and an exaggerated, angry scowl that mirrored the look Heimdall was giving the insulting imagery. Above the sketch, there was the long title taking up half the page. 'God of Can't Mind His Own Fucking Business'.

Loki's tone was surprisingly serious – a staggering contrast to his juvenile prank –, when he hissed the next words: “Did you really think I would be dumb enough to bare my heart in a fucking diary?”

“It definitely wouldn't have surprised me.”

The jötunn stood up, tucking the journal away in a bag attached to one of his belts.

“You're not the only one capable of seeing more than most, Heimdall.” With that Loki took his leave. Heimdall barked out a dry laugh at the outrageous claim and called after the jötunn.

“You forgot your loot.”

Loki just waved a dismissive hand at him, not looking back. “Buy yourself something nice.”

Watching him leave, Heimdall wondered how the man who had confessed his own hatred for himself mere days ago and the man now exiting the lodge in long, confident strides, smug smile plastered on his face could possibly be the same person.

Not long after, the lodge filled up with more people and so Heimdall took that as his cue to go run some errands for the day. Stealing another apple for the way, his eyes once more fell onto the bag of coins. He furrowed his brows and turned to leave. He wouldn't touch that with a ten feet pole.

~~~

“What do you see, Heimdall?”, Svana Blóðughadda asked. She was getting impatient with him, he knew, but her eyes on him made him nervous, so he hesitated. She had high expectations for her only son and he always strove to make her proud.

It was just that sometimes, he didn't understand her. Didn't understand what she wanted him to do. Sometimes, she would gently pet his hair and shaking shoulders when he failed, but go cold and distant when he succeeded in whatever task she asked of him. It didn't make any sense. And no matter how good he had gotten at reading a person's general mood – something he hadn't been able to do before – his mother remained an unsolvable mystery to him. She would praise him to his face, but then overhear her rant to Svana Bylgja about how he was so slow and sensitive.

“It's like he's blind to facial expressions. He's too old to be this stupid.”

Heimdall remembered hearing the snap of when Bylgja slapped her.

It didn't matter if Svana Blóðughadda didn't particularly like him. He had eight other mothers who did. So, did it really matter what she thought? He didn't even really know her.

And yet, he liked it when she was proud of him.

“Water”, he answered honestly, because he hadn't quite figured out what she wanted to hear. Blóðughadda laughed at his dry statement and the reaction served to confuse him more. But he liked the sound. Svana Kólga laughed like that too and so did Svana Dúfa. He enjoyed making them laugh and he enjoyed making Blóðughadda laugh. Even though he didn't understand what they were laughing about half the time. Smiling brightly, he turned to his mother, but with a gentle nod of her head, she beckoned him to focus on the river instead.

“Look a little closer than that, will you. What do you see?”

Heimdall concentrated his gazed on what was beneath the murky surface. “There is a lot of mud and grass”, Blóðughadda hummed, so he continued, “uh, oh! There's a little fish. Is it dead? It's just drifting there. I think it's dead- ah never mind, it moved. False alarm.”

He squinted his eyes, trying to find something else to ramble about.

“There are all kinds of pebbles. Blue ones, green, brown-”

He suddenly gasped in delight. “There's a golden one!”

He plunged his hand into the water to pick up the pretty stone, swirling up more mud in the process until his small fingers found what he had spied and showed it to her with juvenile eagerness. His mother took the stone presented to her, eyeing it hesitantly. “...thank you.”

The boy grinned up at her, revealing his pearly white teeth. “You're welcome.”

He returned to the task at hand. But before he could list of more of his findings, Blóðughadda interrupted him with a sigh. “This isn't what I'm asking, dummy.”

Heimdall frowned. He didn't like when she called him that, even though she said it in a gentle tone, it didn't feel nice.

The pebble made a splashing sound, when she let it fall it back into the water. She pointed at the river once more, tapping the surface impatiently, waiting for him to figure out what she wanted to hear.

Taking a deep breath he tried again, hoping he was right this time. “I see me. My reflection, I mean.”

“There we go! Now you got it!” Blóðughadda wrapped an arm around his skinny shoulders, pulling him closer to her. Though, he couldn't quite make light of the reaction, he leaned closer either way.

She kissed the top of his head as she explained: “You know, sometimes, the answer is right in front of you. Sometimes, there is no meaning hidden behind mud and fog. Sometimes, it's right there for the taking. With your gift, it's important that you don't forget to actually look at things, before you look past them. But the most important thing is to remember that everything you see, will in some way always be a reflection of yourself.”

Heimdall nodded eagerly, even though he had no idea what her lessons meant. Svana Blóðughadda's sense of sight was the closest to the Jötnar's gift of prophecy. She was by far the youngest, but also the strongest of the Svana. If he was ever going to be as powerful as her – the literal Queen of Asgard – he had to absorb any and all knowledge she gave him like a sponge.

His gaze wandered from his reflection to her. “What do you see, Mama?”

She met his eyes, playfully scrutinizing him with a hum.

“I see a little run-away, hm? A little troublemaker.”

She tickled him and he laughed, pressed against her side, squirming at the fingers poking him. When he opened his eyes, they gaze met through the water's reflection once more.

“When I look into your eyes I see kindness, potential and...”, she stopped, her smile faded from her face. She turned around to face him instead of the river, grabbing him by the shoulders. The change in mood was practically tangible, even for Heimdall.

Worried, he looked up at her. He didn't like when she got quiet like this.

“Mama?”, he asked at the same time as Blóðughadda whispered: “I see your future.”

Heimdall's eyes widened, excitement taking over his worry in record time.

“Really? What is it?”

In his curiosity, he forgot to actively read his mother's mood. Her hand traveled up to cradle his face and he leaned into the warm touch. Blóðughadda used her thump to pull down his lower eyelid to open his eye further. Whatever she found there, made her face twist into something he didn't quite comprehend. Her hand slid further to grip the back of his neck. Heimdall usually enjoyed being touched, but something didn't feel right about the strong hold.

“I see a house on top of the wall at the end of the rainbow. I see arrogance, entitlement. I see loyalty to cruelty, faith bordering on fanaticism. And I see...”, she pause, searching deeper.

Heimdall didn't know half of these words, but the rainbow house sounded kind of cool. He didn't realize that his mother was upset until he saw the tears running freely down her face. She didn't sob. From what he could tell, her face remained otherwise stoic and unreadable.

“I see gold and white. The death of the Champion. What I see, Heimdall, is a monster.”

Heimdall somehow knew what would happen next, just before it did. However, that didn't mean that he had nearly enough time to react with anything other than a surprised gasp, as Blóðughadda used her grip on his hair to shove his head into the river. He immediately choked on the water and had to stop himself from coughing, while his arms flailed wildly left and right to try and loosen the tight hold keeping him below the surface. When that didn't work, he pulled his arms under himself, trying to instead push himself off the ground, but his hands only kept slipping on the slimy mud of the riverbank.

His heart was racing so rapidly, he was scared it would burst out of his chest. It already felt like it. At least, there was a painful pressure on his lungs that desperately screamed for air that was just out of reach. His eyes were wide open and they burnt from the dirty water, but he couldn't close them and he couldn't see. His ears were ringing, he couldn't hear anything beyond his own heartbeat and the dull splashing sounds of his movements as he fought against the his mother's grip pushing him down. His head ached and he was quickly losing any strength he had in his arms.

He wanted to scream, but there wasn't anything to push out of his lungs other than pain, panic and filthy water. As stars clouded his vision and the ringing drowned out any noise from the outside world, there was only a single thought left in his mind. He knew he wouldn't die, not because he trusted his mother not to drown him, but either way he knew. He just knew. That didn't mean it didn't feel like he was dying though, when he stopped struggling, too exhausted and in too much pain to move and when the last bit of air left his lungs without his consent and fighting against the urge to inhale became an impossible task. The end of this torture was just as abrupt as its beginning, as the hold suddenly vanished and he was pulled out of the water by cold hands and dragged away from the riverbank.

Even with the warm, humid air surrounding him, teasing him with a slight breeze brushing against his wet face as if telling him 'This is what you get for taking me for granted', he still couldn't breathe. It was like his lungs had already given up. The boy knew all he had to do was move, inhale and then the pain would subside and he would live, but he just couldn't. He was too tired.

“Anda”, came the sharp command from above and suddenly his lungs filled with air again. Instead of exhaling though, he cramped up and turned at the last moment, before he vomited out mouths full of water. When he had no energy left to do that either, he just laid curled up on his side, stomach cramping miserably, lungs working more thanks to the outside force than by his own command, and slipped in and out of consciousness.

Through his burning, cloudy vision, he could barely make up a large shadow of a man shoving the smaller frame of his mother away. Through his water-filled ears, he could hear her desperate sobs – or maybe they were his own – and the man mumbling something along the lines of “ klikkuð kona” before stepping over towards him and picking him up with ease.

The man – who Heimdall distantly recognized as his father – cooed soft, soothing words into his ear, that were soon drowned out by the wild flapping and cawing noise of dozens of ravens engulfing them at the same time as he leaned into the calming presence and finally gave himself over to darkness.

Chapter Text

“I think in the last few months that you've been here, this bed has seen more action than the entire time my brother slept here.”

Atreus jerked awake at the amused voice, blinking rapidly against both the rays of sunlight piercing his eyes as well as the raging hangover threatening to split his skull. Groaning, he threw his arm over his eyes to block out the light, in the process jostling awake his last night's companion, who merely turned his broad back to him and went right back into mead-induced slumber.

All Atreus wanted to do was to turn away from the Thorsdottir – and the prospect of getting up any time soon – and wrap an arm around the man, whose name had escaped him, if he had ever bothered to ask it in the first place. Honestly, the only thing stopping him, was a second warm weight on his other side, who was effectively cutting of any circulation in his arm with her head. He pulled his limp from under her, flexing his fingers to get some feeling back into them and she shifted to lie on her stomach which was a shame, because she had nice tits.

Cringing against the pounding behind his eyes as he lifted his arm from them, he finally addressed his friend: “Good morning to you too, Thrúd.”

“It's late afternoon.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Same thing. Basically.”

Thrúd snorted. “Uh huh. Sure. Aaanyway”, she clapped her hands and he jumped as the loud noise added to his headache. Judging by the look she gave him, that had been the goal. “We wanted to spar together, remember?”

“That was today?”

“Yesterday, actually, but you were busy going on a bender.”

He winced, wiping his eyes in an effort to get them to focus on her.“Shit, sorry.”

“Whatever, just get up, I'm not letting you ditch me for a second time.”

Accepting his fate, he pushed the blanket off of himself, belatedly remembering that he was as naked as the day he was born. Whoops. Thrúd merely lifted an eyebrow, giving his undressed state a quick, unimpressed once over. He surrendered himself to her scrutiny, climbed out of the bed and made his way to the wardrobe to find some clothes. She snorted again. “Cute.”

Ouch. Fortunately, he was confident enough in his good looks, that he could ignore the scathing remark.

He pulled out a pair of trousers with one hand, flipping her off with the other. “Fuck you.”

“You wish.”

Honestly, yes he did. Just, look at her. However, he also held a healthy dose of hatred for and fear of her father, so he wouldn't dare. Not many did, a fact she had lamented quite often. But then again, he had seen several test their luck with her despite who her father was, and after watching her beat the shit out of some drunk guy trying to feel her up, he came to the conclusion that it wasn't necessarily Thor the people were terrified of.

So, yeah, not a good idea. But, neither had been going and getting railed by Heimdall. Fucking Heimdall. Of all people.

Atreus really couldn't explain that lapse in judgment. Or why, after all the bullying and insults and general unpleasantness, he still kept on coming back for more. Especially after what he had told the watchman at Himinbjörg. He truly didn't know what had gotten into him to say all that. But once he had started he just hadn't been able to stop telling the truth to the man who he knew would judge the ever-loving shit out of him.

He shook himself out of his thoughts again, annoyed at how seamlessly they went straight back to the blond bastard. Honestly, he thought he had been over all that after their fight. Should have been by any means, anyway. But that would have been too easy, wouldn't it.

After some highly confusing, anxiety-filled days, the urge to make up with the watchman had won in the end and he had found himself desperately trying to find some excuse to interact with him again. Because as annoying as the man's continuous comments and judgment were, Atreus had found that he depended on someone to knock him down a few pegs every once in a while. Or things like the day before would happen. Namely getting stupidly drunk and sleeping with anyone who would give him crumbs of attention and artificial, lust-fueled affection. Norns, he was pathetic.

Atreus turned his attention back to the present and the Aesir goddess currently standing in his room, arms crossed and tapping a finger on her biceps impatiently. Putting on a fake flirtatious smile, he asked: “You wanna watch me wash up or -”

She quickly uncrossed her arms. “Ah right, sorry. Meet me in the hall when you're finished. Oh, before I forget – Allfather wanted to speak with you, but he's gone now and won't return for at least another week, so”, she held up her finger, hurrying out of his room to retrieve something from behind the door, “he asked me to give you this.”

Before he could get too intrigued, she rounded the door again, carrying such a big stack of books that even she seemed to slightly struggle under its weight. She dropped them unceremoniously on the floor right next to the hole left behind from her sword at their first ever meeting – it had indeed not been repaired since. (The hole didn't bother him too much, except for that one time he had been drunk off his ass and his foot had gotten caught on it. He had face-planted into the floor and promptly fallen asleep on the ground, two meters away from his bed. Admittedly, not his proudest moment.)

The floorboards creaked in protest and Atreus threw a quick glance at the people still sleeping soundly in his bed. He was only a little jealous. However, that notion was eclipsed as he took in all the new reading material with equal parts excitement and dread. That would take days of continuous study to work through. Hours upon hours of reading and translating. He loved reading, but this was a lot, even for him. Especially, because he was pretty sure he had to be finished by the time Odin returned.

“I think that's your punishment for standing him up. He called your behavior the ardor of youth – so yeah, you're in deep shit. But don't worry, he likes you”, she added as an afterthought when she caught sight of Atreus' genuinely worried expression. He hummed in response as he knelt down to look through the stack to see what topics Odin wanted him to read up on.

Thrúd groaned above him. “Come on, you can worry about that later. Just get ready and meet me in the front hall in like ten minutes.”

She turned around, but took a moment to smile threateningly over her shoulder: “And don't be late or I swear I will make you regret it!”

Then, she disappeared into the hallway, leaving him alone with the books and two passed out strangers in his bed.

Frowning, he read the titles pressed into the leather bindings. Economics, mostly. Atreus had the slight suspicion he was also being punished for the teensy, tiny inflation he maybe, accidentally might have caused with his stunt with the rings.

Giving the stack one last agitated once-over, a smaller booklet caught his attention that looked relatively new compared to the old tomes stacked on top and underneath.

'Anatomy for the Artist: Form and Pose', the title said. His scowl deepened. Was the old man still not satisfied with his shape-shifting? This was getting ridiculous. He was comfortable with how his female form had turned out. There was no need to change it even further. All that would achieve would be to make him feel like he was putting on a costume rather than being himself.

Atreus was just about to throw it back onto the pile and finally get dressed, when he noticed the corner of a small piece of parchment tucked securely inside the pages. He opened the book on the page it marked. It was a study on portraits.

There was writing on the parchment, too. Just a small note in obnoxiously neat handwriting.

'Happy reading, sunshine.'

Atreus stared at the note in bewilderment, before bursting out into laughter. That fucking asshole.

He closed the book placing it on top of the stack, still smiling as he quickly washed himself and put on the rest of his outfit for the day.

For a moment, he considered bringing Ingrid. To his shame, he forgot about her existence from time to time – he wasn't used to fighting with a sword, even though he didn't even have to wield her. But in the end, he decided against it, mumbling: “Sorry, Ingrid, maybe next time.”

He ignored the disappointed noise coming from the weapon as he grabbed the bow Odin had gifted him and his arrows, also courtesy from Odin and his knife – decidedly not from Odin.

Atreus didn't know if it was ruder wake the people in his bed, if that was even possible considering how they had slept through everything else, or to just leave them there and hope they would be gone once he got back. He chose the latter option and hurried towards the front hall. He was already late.

~~~

Fortunately for Atreus, his friend was too busy having a heated discussion with Lady Sif to notice his tardiness. He swiftly grabbed some dried pieces of meat from some Asgardian's plate who was too busy gossiping to notice the theft and made his way over them gnawing on the food without much appetite.

Once he was spotted, the blond goddess held back whatever she was about to say. It was probably something along the lines of how he was a bad influence, which was... fair enough, considering how Thrúd and he had managed to get into all kinds of trouble over the past weeks, but it was more because they built off of each other's bad ideas and drunken dares than him just dragging her into his mischief.

Sif regarded him with open disdain and he was kind of glad to come to the realization that blonds who couldn't stand him were indeed not actually his type and Heimdall was just an inexplicable exception. Though, he had to admit, Sif did look great in that blue dress and with the tattoos running across her neck and shoulder and down her muscular arms and- Norns, he should be ashamed of himself.

“There you are!”, Thrúd exclaimed with far more enthusiasm than his late arrival deserved, pulling him out of his thoughts and towards the front doors of the Great Lodge with an unnecessarily strong hold on his arm. “Bye, mother! I'm gonna go spar with Loki, now. You know, the jötunn. Who is All-Father's student. And who is my friend.”

She said it in a pointed tone as to both prove some kind of point to her mother and simultaneously threaten him to go along with it, or else. Atreus surrendered himself to being manhandled, though he didn't particularly appreciate it. But he preferred a fast exit to listening to daughter and mother fighting again – or Norns beware – being dragged into it like he so often was.

Once outside and away from Sif's downright murderous expression, Thrúd finally let go of his arm.

“Sorry 'bout her. She's usually more civil. I swear, when she talks about you, she almost sounds like fucking Heimdall.”

Atreus shrugged, too busy squinting against the late afternoon sun that seemed determined to worsen his headache to care about Lady Sif's resentment. Munching on another piece of meat, he only half listened to his companion listing off what he had been called this time with a stuck-up, overly condescending tone that could be both an imitation of either Sif or Heimdall: 'Traitor'. 'Snake'. 'Liar'. 'Scumbag'. Some racist remarks about his Jötunn heritage thrown into the mix. Nothing new. He had heard it all before.

When she finally finished her recap – on the high note that he would bring doom to Asgard –, he scoffed. “Maybe, they should start a club. Invite Forseti, while they're at it – he can't stand me either. You know, I just love helping to bring families together through their common hatred for me. Favorite pastime activity.”

Thrúd let out a loud laugh, punching his arm playfully which he would love for her to stop doing.

“Shut it, Loki! I'm glad for everyday where I don't get reminded that Heimdall's family.”

Family. Right. Heimdall was her uncle. He had forgotten about that. He had fucked her uncle. Oops. Atreus had the slight feeling that was something he should keep to himself. Which is a shame because he usually loves talking to her about relationships – of which he had little experience – and sex – of which he was gaining quite a lot of experience, actually.

He and Thrúd could spent hours sharing stories with each other, gossiping about this or that person and telling each other about great or awkward moments, about what they liked and disliked. Even though their taste in partners couldn't be more different, it was at the very least always entertaining. He appreciated her brash, unreserved nature. She didn't shy away from roughing him up if she thought he handled a situation poorly. And her advice was not half-bad either, even though he rarely followed it, because he had just no real impulse control. That was another thing they differed in.

While she had a clear vision of her own wants and needs and acted with a goal in mind, he rarely knew what he wanted until it was directly in front of him and then he just took it, wasting no time on thinking about consequences. Atreus guessed it was easier to resist certain temptations, when one grew up around such an abundance of stimulation as there was in Asgard. But how would he know. He grew up in a frozen, forested hellscape.

“Hey, Loki?”

Thrúd stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and given her tone it wasn't the first time she had tried to get his attention. Atreus blinked in surprise, he hadn't even noticed they had reached the wooden railing surrounding one of the many training grounds in Gladsheim.

“Hm?”, he asked, absentmindedly throwing the last pieces of his breakfast towards one of the domesticated wyverns roaming the place. The beast caught it in its beak and flew up to gnaw on it in the safety of a high rooftop.

“Are you... doing okay?”

She was clearly uncomfortable asking, most likely crossing both fingers that he didn't want to talk about his feelings and yet she still asked nonetheless. Such emotional sensibility probably came with having not one but two alcoholic parents.

At his silence, she pressed further: “I mean, you've been acting kinda weird the past few days. Weirder than usual.”

Was he really this obvious?

“Nah, I'm great.”

Well, he was nothing if not a liar.

“Come on, let's spar already.”

Before she could answer, he jumped over the railing and down into the sandy pit.

The training ground was occupied with the usual cluster of einherja grunting and shouting barely intelligible obscenities while bashing each other's heads in, while others stood by, drinking mead and laughing at the display that couldn't be called anything other than mindless brawling. With one bellowed “Alright guys, fuck off” from Thrúd the grounds were quite efficiently vacated with surprisingly little trouble.

How Atreus would love to hold that kind of authority. While being the student of the All-Father brought many benefits and was pretty much a free-pass to all kinds of questionable behavior, it did not indeed earn him the respect of the undead soldiers. He wondered if somewhere deep down inside of the dusty sludge where a soul might have resided inside at some point, they sensed that when their time to shine came upon them – namely Ragnarök – he would not be on their side. But maybe that was just him giving them too much credit and they just hated him on principle. Which was far more likely, to be honest.

Without much further ado, both young gods got into position, pulling their weapons and falling into fighting stances. Thrúd adjusted her grip on her broad sword, smiling as she exclaimed: “Alright, pretty boy. Imma go easy on you.”

She did not indeed go easy on him, and neither did he on her. That was the point.

Thrúd was – quite predictably – a hard hitter, while Atreus was quicker, more agile, yet his blows lacked her natural bone-crushing strength. At their first sparring match, he had learned that despite the heavy weapon, she was still fast, using not only the broad blade but also whipping lightning bolts, that shot at him in rapid succession, forcing him to keep distance. Which was fine, as his main weapons of choice were still bow and arrows and magic that worked both in distant as well as close combat. He had also gained quite a bit of strength through the training under his father which had gotten significantly tougher as Fimbulwinter stretched on beyond what had been prophesied.

The first time they had ever sparred, he had swung at her with his bow and she had laughed in his face, claiming to never have seen someone misuse their weapon quite this badly. But his father had taught him to be resourceful, even unconventional. What use was there to only wield your weapon in the designated way, if you're dead? He'd rather have a broken bow than lose a limp.

The Talon Bow had been crafted with these specific tactics in mind and while blocking another vertical swing for the umpteenth he regretted not choosing it for this fight, however luckily for him, the bow Odin had gifted him was bestowed with enough enchantments to withstand the force with which the cutting edge of Thrúd's sword bore down on it.

Atreus sidestepped to redirect the blow and was only just fast enough to swing the bow right into the Thorsdottir's face, before she could hit him with a lightning bolt square in his chest. The voltage of that would have probably been enough to mess up the rhythm of his heartbeat. Instead, it only brushed against the side of his shoulder, which was still quite painful though, and they both stumbled away from each other. Panting, he massaged his shoulder, trying to get rid of the tingly feeling and random spasms. Almost immediately did she charge at him again with a roar and he opted on dodging while throwing enchantments at her. While backing away, he tried to freeze her to the ground beneath, but she quickly broke out of the cold hold. The illusions of a feral wolf pack attacking her, didn't deter her all that much either. One of them bit into her arm, but she shook it off by sending lightning through it, the second was unceremoniously kicked in the snout and the third was beheaded mid-jump. As she struggled with the fourth one, Atreus had enough time to fire another arrow. It only just missed her face, merely leaving a shallow cut on her cheek. Another arrow left a similar wound on her shoulder. He was a good archer – a perfect one, actually. If he wanted to kill her, he could have right now. But where would be the fun in that?

Instead, the attack served its designated purpose in redirecting her focus back to him. Thrúd rammed her sword into the wolf, breaking the last of his illusions and sprinted directly towards him. But this time, he didn't flee. He was getting tired and bold and weirdly agitated.

Normally, he enjoyed sparring with her. They would taunt one another, rile each other up and then have a laugh and maybe a drink afterwards. However today, his mind was otherwise occupied. There were his studies he had to catch up on – the stack of books he needed to work through in impossibly little time. Also he had a whole lot of shit to figure out. Like, what was he actually trying to accomplish in Asgard? And what was he going to do about the prophecy? How could he both stop his father's destined demise and still bring down Odin? And when had his headache gotten this fucking bad? It felt like his skull was splitting open.

In one swift motion, he shouldered his bow and took off to bridge the last bit of distance between him and Thrúd, catching her by surprise as he body slammed into her. They both went down.

For a fraction of a second, they both searched for where her sword had landed next to them on the sand where she had dropped it. Then, they immediately started to wrestle, both trying to get to the weapon first. Atreus knew that this up close, he had little to no chance of getting the upper hand. It was fine.

Father had once told him that from winning you gain pride, but from losing you gain knowledge – Mimir jokingly adding that that was of course only the case, if you manage to survive the encounter.

The knowledge that Atreus had gained from his humiliating defeat at Heimdall's hands a week prior, for example, was that sometimes he could get his way by deliberately losing.

And right now, all he wanted was for this to end – even at the cost of his pride –, so he could finally get out of the blinding sunlight. In Midgard, he had almost forgotten how bright the sun could shine. There had not been a single cloud-free day for the past decade. The only thing helping him keep his sanity back then were his visits to Ironwood. However now, the memory of his time there just caused heartache to join the pain in his head, the burning in his chest and the tingling in his limps. He did not want to think about Ironwood. About Angrboda. About- no. Just no. Not right now or ever, really. It hurt too much.

Thrúd managed to force him to the ground and pin him there, both with one muscular forearm digging into his throat hard enough to cut off most of his air supply but without crushing the entire thing, while the other arm was raised above him. Focused, yet undirected energy cackled around it like a snake writhing wildly.

“Alright”, he held up both hands, forcing himself to grin up at her crookedly: “Alright, I yield. You win. Please let me breathe.”

Any contained agitation from the fight was immediately replaced by a victorious smile, as she backed off of him and stood up. He rubbed his itching throat. The cuts on her cheek and shoulder were both long healed, leaving red lines of dried blood behind and she brushed off the sand stuck on the fur of her half skirt. Still gloating in her victory, she held out a hand to help him up, however just as he was sitting up to take it, a cough forced him to redirect his hand to instead cover his mouth.

The tingling in the back of his throat didn't stop and he coughed more with more force, bending over.

Thrúd retracted her hand, crouching down to his level as her expression turned concerned. “Shit, did I hurt you?”

“No, it's fine. Trust me”, he rasped, clearing his throat off the liquid in it, “Just swallowed a fly.”

Once more his lungs contracted painfully, which really didn't help in convincing her. As soon as the itching was kind of bearable, he got up, and turned his head away from her, as if to see how late it was by the state of the sun, while actually trying to hide his grimace as he swallowed down the blood in his mouth.

Atreus cleared his throat once more, then turned back to her smiling as brightly as he could muster.

“Congrats on your victory, Lady Thrúd”, he bowed for good measure, which earned him another punch in the arm. It hurt, but at least most of the worry left her expression.

“It was truly a fight for the ages. Mortals will sing praise in your name for the next few generation.”

Thrúd scoffed, but gave him a quick once over to make sure he was actually alright. Because underneath the roughhousing and the bragging, she was a little bit of a mother hen. Of course, he would never say that to her face, unless he wanted a shouted 'Would a mother hen do this?' and get punched in the groin.

More than once did he wonder if this was what it was like to have a sister. They had bonded fast over similar experiences with overbearing and over-protective parental figures. Of the struggle of trying to live up to high expectations and be squeezed into ill-fitting molds. He kind of liked the idea. However, the thought also made him feel guilty. He technically had a big sister already. It was just that she died centuries before he was born. When his father had first spoken of Calliope, Atreus had been fifteen years old, which was already older than she had ever gotten.

His attention snapped back to his friend when she put a hand on his shoulder. She was busy giving him tips and tricks with some good-natured quips here and there about him sometimes outright fleeing from her to build up distance again. While the effort was appreciated and he usually valued her opinion on these kinds of things, he couldn't get himself to actually listen to any of her advice. His headache was flaring up once more and he was sweating with the effort to keep himself from coughing again.

He saw his opening, when she asked him if he wanted to go meet up with some friends of hers, cleared his throat to get some relief of the itching and said: “Thanks, but I should probably head back to get started on the book.”

Thrúd seemed to have forgotten about that whole situation and she laughed at the reminder of his misery. “Oh yeah! Well, good luck with that. Couldn't think of anything the Great Loki of the Jötnar would rather do than decipher texts older than his grandfather.”

Atreus had the slight suspicion that the books where indeed not older than his paternal grandfather. The one on his mother's side though, that was more likely.

He brushed her comment off with the wave of a hand, making his way towards the edge of the training ground. “I do actually like reading, you know.”

Thrúd followed close behind. “Sure, reading is fine. From time to time. But that's just fucking overkill.”

“Still, I think I need that luck more when trying to avoid your mother”, Atreus quipped in a good nature that he wasn't actually in. The Thorsdottir groaned, as she climbed over the railing after him.

“Honestly, I don't get why she hates you so much.”

Atreus turned around to look at his friend, frowning in confusion. While Sif's contempt for him was annoying and inconvenient, if downright hurtful sometimes, it was also entirely justified with what he had done.

Killing Modi was nothing he was proud of and he had carried that shame for over a decade and would continue doing so in the years to come. It wasn't so much the act of killing itself – and definitely not who he had killed – but rather how he had done it and the why, that grated away at his conscience. He had lost control of his anger.

It didn't matter if his rage was justified. He had let it guide his actions and that was the problem. Because anger made him powerful, but short-sighted.

For as long as he could remember there had been rage residing inside of him like a pile of sizzling coals that sometimes flared up into a raging flame at the slightest spark and that burned the ones he hated just as much as the ones he loved. Mimir had once taught him a quote about how by picking up hot coals to throw at others, the one who would inevitably and always get burned was he himself. Atreus thought back to his abrupt departure from Yggdrasil's branches – how he had shifted into a bear and swung at poor Sindri, who had just tried to talk sense into him.

Guilt laid heavy on his chest, no matter who the person was, he should have never let his anger get this much out of control. What he did to Sindri only proved that he hadn't learned a damn thing in the years after Modi. After Angrboda.

So, he understood Sif's behavior towards him. What he didn't understand was how almost everyone else acted. Sure, the Asgardians that didn't belong to the High House of Powered Aesir probably just didn't know who he was. Most invited him with somewhat open arms – the public opinion of the Asgardian people seemed to be easily swayed by how much one could drink and how well one could yap on about about meaningless stories of grandeur. More than once had he ended up surrounded by a crowd, interrupted by their constant cheers as he spilled half his drink gesturing wildly to bring more life into some tale or another that was so outlandish it should have been clear to all that he was lying out of his ass.

Then there was Odin's generosity. How he seemed genuinely interested in Atreus' opinions and theories. While it remained the end goal, he never pushed him to work on the mask, instead teaching him all kinds of other things, calling him his student, helping him when he got stuck on something and listening even when Atreus' rambling went a little off course. For the first time in his life, he felt like his input was actually being validated, that he was not just a child who ought to obey because he was young and lacked experience, while simultaneously being kept from any opportunity to gain said experience.

Atreus knew he was being manipulated. But it was nice being mentored by someone who had the same insatiable curiosity for the world as him, instead of someone who saw every life lesson as a punishment and who had little interest in the world beyond being strong enough to survive in it.

Either way, neither the Asgardians nor Odin seemed overly affected by the fact that he had killed one of them and was directly involved in the death of two more. Especially Thrúd's demeanor towards him at his arrival had managed to completely throw him for a loop.

She was genuinely trying to befriend him. Invited him to activities, showed him around in Gladsheim, introduced him to her friends and sat next to him whenever they ate in the Great Hall at the same time. They talked a lot, laughed together, played harmless pranks and he genuinely liked spending time with her. But there was always this cold truth that made up the crumbling foundation their friendship had been built up on. And right now, Atreus was too agitated to be sensible. It was the same feeling that he had back at Himinbjörg where he just couldn't get himself to stop talking... Maybe, he should just walk away. Do this another time. This was a bad idea and he-

“Probably because I killed her son.” Damn it all.

Thrúd stopped behind him. But instead of saying something along the lines of 'yeah, that checks out' or 'right, I almost forgot about that', all she did was whisper: “What?”

“You know, Modi”, he elaborated – why the fuck was he elaborating? Because it was already too late, that's why. Might as well go through with it. Why was she even asking?

“I killed Modi, remember? Which is why it's so weird that I'm staying in his old room... After sticking a knife into his neck.”

He imitated the movement that killed her brother on his own throat to drive home the point. Why was he trying to drive home the point? Honestly, he had no idea. Maybe, because there was a dark part in the far back of his mind that felt a sick sort of satisfaction at seeing her expression jump from confusion to anger to disbelief back to anger. He enjoyed bringing out those kinds of emotion in people. It didn't matter that this was his friend. After all and at the end of the day, she was Thor's daughter. She had it coming.

Her confusion took over as she started. “But All-Father said it was the god-killer who-”

Oh.

So, she really just hadn't known. Well, that explained some things.

Atreus laughed. He couldn't help himself. The dumbfounded expression on her face was hilarious to him.

“Nope, all me, baby. Did Odin really fail to mention that?”

Back to stern anger she went. He was going to get whiplash from watching her flip flop through emotions at this speed. “No. All-Father said-”

Atreus interrupted her, before she could repeat herself: “Obviously, he lied.”

“Why would he lie about that?”

“Well, why would I lie about that, Thrúd?”

“I don't fucking know! Are you actually accusing the All-Father of lying?”

He threw his hand up, paired with a groan of exasperation. This was getting annoying.

“Yes! Yes I am! Norns, Thrúd, you really have to stop believing everything the old geezer says.”

Thrúd pressed a hand over his mouth, looking around frantically as if to check if someone had heard him.

“Shut up! Are you insane?! Like actually insane? Baldur level madness? He- he didn't lie.”

She released him in order to pace back and forth, obviously trying to find some excuse as to why Odin would withhold such information that wouldn't cast a bad light on the old man.

“He probably just didn't know.”

Atreus rolled his eyes. The Aesir just loved blindly defending their king to their dying breath. The High House of Powered Aesir was truly nothing more than a lodge full of people who had never had to come up with a single thought for themselves.

“Of course, he knew. Heimdall knew and if Heimdall knows, Odin knows. That guy can't keep shit to himself.”

Thrúd stopped her pacing to look at him, blue eyes filled with what looked dangerously close to betrayal. Why would she be the one to feel betrayed? Had she just conveniently forgotten what her father had done to his people? She had lost her brother, yes, but he had lost far more than that at the hands of her family.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Atreus shrugged. “I thought you knew. Honestly, I don't understand why you're so upset now.”

The Thorsdottir looked very close to punching him, anger once more twisting her face into something hard and threatening. “You just admitted to killing my brother.”

Atreus held up his hands in a mocking sign of peace, knowing exactly that it would have the opposite effect. It was weirdly refreshing seeing her upset like that. Why shouldn't she be upset. He was. The coals were burning up inside him and he let them. This was different from Sindri or Angrboda. They were good people. She was the daughter of the man who had slaughtered his people. She deserved to feel as shitty as he did. At least, that was what he told himself.

“You told me – right at the start – that it was fine!”, he snapped, “That you're all better off that way. Why do you care. You never seemed to like him.”

Thrúd racked her hands through her hair, the electricity cackling at her finger tips only managing to make the blond strands stand up even more. “I didn't like him, but that's not the point. He was family.”

For Norns sake, they were running in circles. “Okay, so it wasn't my father who killed him, but me. I don't see what's the big difference.”

“The difference is- It's just-”

“You're being a hypocrite, Thrúd.”

“And you're being a shit fucking friend, Loki. You call me a hypocrite? The jötunn working for the All-Father. Honestly, do you hear yourself right now?”

“Fuck you, Thrúd.”

The goddess groaned, still tightly reining in her own rising temper, despite his continuous prodding. Another thing he was jealous about. She knew how to control her anger. She could take a deep breath, walk away and forgive. Forgive him for killing her brother, forgive him for standing her up, forgive him for trying to rile her up. “Loki-”

Her self-control only made him double down. “No! Fuck this, and fuck you! You Aesir just love to pretend like you're so much more important than the rest of us. That your pain means so much more, while others just have to swallow their pride and move on.”

“Where is this coming from? What do you mean? We're just trying to help!”

“Look outside your little bubble, Thrúd! Your realm is surrounded by misery. Misery, that your family caused! You people subjugated entire realms – practically enslaved the dwarfs, decimated Vanaheim, whipped out Midgard! Millions of innocent people died, but Norns beware one of them might have meant something to you!

Have you ever even been outside Asgard? Ever visited any other realm? Seen the worlds beyond the Great Wall, beyond Idavoll's plains? Seen the amount of damage your people have wrought?”

Thrúd clenched her jaw tight, as she shook her head. Loki scoffed.

“Of course not. And you call me sheltered. I mean, look at you! And you wanna be a Valkyrie? You're nothing but a pampered princess, ignorant of her own privilege and desperate for some kind of adventure to prove herself.”

A nasty realization dawned on him. Norns, he had been so stupid. He swallowed back another fucking cough.

“That's why you wanted to be friends with me, right? Because you thought sticking around me might make your grandfather notice your potential.”

Thrúd took a step back, brows furrowed, but not in rage like he had hoped, but rather hurt. Her expression mirrored what he himself felt inside, but instead of the anticipated satisfaction, he just felt empty. Which then again made him more angry.

“I wanted to be your friend, Loki, because you looked like you needed one.”

Atreus deflated a little at that. The goddess shook her head, letting out a defeated laugh.

“But, yeah sure. I stuck around you to get grandpa's attention. Not like I liked you or something. Honestly, what is there to like?”

With that she walked past him, shoving him out of her way. He stumbled backwards, foot catching on the uneven wooden boards and he caught himself on a nearby pillar.

Atreus had no time to call after her, before he doubled over, the urge to cough returning with a vengeance. There was way too much liquid in his throat making him choke on every gasped inhale and soon his hacking turned into retching as his stomach tried to rid itself of the blood he had swallowed.

He spit out the metallic fluid and excess saliva and felt more than a little sorry for himself.

Wiping the blood still clinging to his lips, he wondered, if this rage inside of him was just as much part of his curse as his chronic sickness. Both haunting his steps, flaring up at just the right times and often together to make him be the most miserable possible.

Only for a moment did Atreus consider going back to the Great Lodge to get started on his studies. But his steps were already leading him to the nearest tavern, instead. He needed a drink.

Chapter Text

The tavern closest to the training grounds ended up being the 'Black Thunder'. However, after downing his first few tankards, Atreus had promptly been thrown out face first into the dirty road after some insignificant offense or another. Didn't really matter what he did, the truth was that the owner just hated his guts after he may or may not have slept with his wife... and daughter... and his son – to be fair the entire family had great genes. The added comment of “Come on, man, you're family's pretty. You know, most would take that as a compliment” had earned him a dirty mug to the head and raging laughter from the patrons still inside.

So, he peeled himself off the ground, rubbing his head, and left to try his luck in the next best tavern.

It wasn't all that difficult to find another one. Really, if you threw a stone in Gladsheim chances were high to hit either an alehouse or at the very least someone who could point you to one (and then beat the shit out of you for throwing a rock at them).

What he found only a little further down the street and through some sketchy alleyways was a building that stood out colorfully just by the sheer amount of mismatched wooden bars that had been used to fix the countless holes littering the place. Some of those were small enough that they had probably been the result of a fist or head going through it, others however were a bit more person-shaped. It was honestly a miracle the building still stood, the carrying pillars had to have been blessed by some higher god or something. All in all, a promising exterior.

He pulled open the door and if he had the space of mind to be anything other than pissed off, Atreus would have been impressed at how the rusty hinges merely creaked, yet held strong as the door banged against the wall.

It was just one large room with a high ceiling with a balcony acting as a second floor, mostly used for storage.

Atreus had been here before – once or twice, and mostly with Thrúd in tow –, so he knew the drill, pulling out bow and quiver and throwing them halfheartedly in the general direction of the weapon stand, and then headed straight to the counter, ignoring the looks he got from his loud entrance.

He didn't have any money with him and – as he had learned embarrassingly late considering he had been staying in Asgard for over three months now – the drinks were in fact not for free and someone had always ended up paying his debts for him – namely Thrúd or some Asgardian or another who had either taken a liking to him or just wanted to watch him get shit-faced (which suited him just fine, mind you). This time would be no different... probably. Otherwise, he was not above giving away another one of Odin's countless gifts, even though that was surely not the smartest idea after his last stunt.

He would do just about anything to take his mind off of the shit position he was in, make him forget about his headache and numb the gnawing feeling of guilt still incessantly tingling in the back of his throat.

His father would be so disappointed. But, he wasn't here to scold him. No, he was in Midgard probably worrying his head off all while Atreus broke one rule established early in his childhood after another.

Atreus stole an unsupervised mug from the bar as the servant wasn't looking and downed it in one swift go to drown out the feeling of even more shame bubbling up. He slammed the tankard down and wiped the stray drops from his chin, gesturing for the bartender to give him another round.

Frowning, he felt his face. He had forgotten to shave that morning and a few mornings before that and he could feel a light stubble scratching his fingertips. It was not as patchy as it used to be, maybe he should let it grow out. Or maybe not – red hair and red-ish beard? He didn't want to end up looking like Thor.

Leaning against the counter, he took in the sight of the other patrons. There were mostly einherja of course, but also some Asgardian commoners here and there. Some of them he new by face, some by name and some by other body parts. Most notable however was a middle aged woman staring daggers at him from all the way across the tavern. She had strong features, a deep scar that ran across her cheek to were half her left ear was missing and wore a mossy green tunic that strained trying to contain her admittedly quite impressive bust. Yet her age shone through in the deep crowfeet at the corners of her eyes and her graying hairline. Next to her sat a boy with short, strawberry blond hair and a bashful smile.

Meeting Atreus eyes for a moment, the woman stood up, pulling the boy with her. “Come on, we're leaving.”

The boy's smile turned into a confused frown. “Why? We just got here.”

The woman pointed to Atreus with a nod of her head, who had turned back towards the counter to thank the servant for filling his mug to the brim like he asked, still watching out of the corner of his eye and pretending to not notice their attention on him. Through the chatter and occasional loud cheer around him, he had to strain his ears to make out her next words.

“Yeah well, rule number one for drinking at a tavern, kid, is that if an Aesir enters, clearly looking for a fight, you walk the other way.”

Atreus scoffed into his mug. Aesir. As if.

At least the kid seemed to have just a tad more brains. “But that's Loki. He's not Aesir, is he. I heard he's a Midgardian.”

The woman barked out a shrill, cackling laugh. Norns, how Atreus hated that noise. It grated at his nerves. Why should she be able to laugh like that, while he was drunk and miserable in the corner?

“A Midgardian?”, she said, “Climbing the Great Wall? Just not possible.”

The boy halted, where she tried to pull him towards the doors. “Wait, he climbed the Great Wall? That's how he got here? How did he get passed Heimdall?”

Her attempts to drag him out of the tavern became more urgent, when she lost sight of Atreus who was moving amongst a flock of einherja. Her humor quickly dwindled into frustration. Good.

“Don't know, doesn't matter, boy. Come on.”

The woman pushed open the door, but only got halfway, before a hand took ahold of her forearm, Atreus stepping between her and her only means of escape. He forced her forward, invading her personal space with a fake smile on his face. She was taller than him, but not by a lot, and refused to bow down to his scrutiny. Oh, Loki was going to enjoy this.

“I'm a jötunn, actually”, he drawled lazily, swaying the tankard in his hand, watching the content slosh to and fro without much interest.

“Half of one. Don't look at me like that, a big chunk of your royal house is made up of half-breeds like me. Anyway”, his gaze snapped up to the woman in front of him, his grip on her arm growing tighter, “why would you leave so soon, Guldhilda? Party's just getting started.”

He grinned sharply at the older woman, whose expression tightened further. Ignoring how her gaze bored into the side of his head, he turned to address the boy standing next to her. His grin took on a softer edge, the kid was way in over his head – he could relate to that.

Atreus released the woman in order to grab the boy by the shoulder instead, pulling him towards himself – and out of Guldhilda's tight grasp – in the pretense of inspecting him closer.

“My! Is that the son you kept on yakking about? I thought he'd be taller. Or -”, he gasped in faux shock, “is that a new suitor? Replacing me so soon, are we? Though, he would fit the criteria.”

“She's not my mother!”, the boy tried to make himself look broader than he was. Standing tall, he had maybe two or three inches on Atreus, which didn't say much, given Atreus' own lack in height. “And I'm not that young-”

Atreus didn't let him finish, completely ignoring whatever point the kid tried to make, and instead took ahold of the back of his neck to turn him around to face Guldhilda. With the tankard still in hand, he pointed first at the boy's face, then his own, managing to only spill a little of his drink at the movement.

“Look at that! We could be twins! You certainly have a type.”

With a judging tilt of his head, he added: “You like them young, don't you.”

He knew he was scaring the kid, who attempted to squirm out of his grasp without much success, but maybe then he would at least learn to keep away from shitholes such as this one and from scumbags such as that woman.

Finally, when it was clear, that Guldhilda wouldn't give him the pleasure of arguing, he pushed the door open with his elbow and shoved the boy through it, sighing: “Go home, kid. To your actual mother. This one's no good anyway. Gives terrible blowjobs, too.”

The boy's face was beet red as he turned to storm away from the tavern without another word. As an afterthought, Atreus added: “Oh, and stay away from alcohol! Skál!”

With that he raised his tankard, however before the mug reached his lips it was promptly slapped out of his hand. He watched where the mug landed on the floor, the content already seeping into the brittle wooden boards. Oh, that was her last fucking strike.

His head snapped back up, matching Guldhilda's seething expression with a sneer of his own, as he barked: “No wonder, your son won't speak to you, if you fuck children half his age!”

Someone in the background laughed. No, a lot of people laughed in the background, but there was a specific, obnoxious one he had heard before. Atreus turned his head, pointing accusingly at the source of the ugly barking – a bulky, old, lowlife farmhand – and snapped: “Oh, you're one to laugh, my friend! The one who mistakes a pig for his wife – not once, but twice! Come on, man, if that's a reoccurring theme, at least be the one to do the violating!”

The man stood up to challenge him, shouting something along the lines of 'You utter shitbag!', but tumbled right back down into his seat, where he held on to the table for dear life, too drunk to even sit straight. Atreus ignored him, turning to point at each of the other patrons that he had shit on – which was most of them, Asgardians truly loved to gossip about things they believed to be beneath them. Adulterer. Thief. Liar. Abuser. The list went on and on.

Finally, he directed his focus back to the woman in front of him, who stared at him with utter hatred. “And you are going to buy me a new drink.”

“Shut the fuck up. As if I'm going to let myself be ordered around by a fucking soul-eater.”

Soul-eater? Well, that's a new one. Atreus had heard all kinds of slurs against the giants – one more creative than the next – but soul-eater?

Any pretense at humor faded from his expression, there was no point in it now. “What was that, Guldy? Mind repeating that?”

Guldhilda leaned over him threateningly, hissing: “Piss off back to your own realm, you filthy, argr, little runt of a Jötunn bitch.”

With that she spat in his face. Right into his fucking face. What the fuck.

Atreus lifted a hand to wipe away the glob of saliva before it could drip into his eye and for a second, he just stared at the substance glistening on his fingertips. He blinked in astonishment. Then, in a matter of a heartbeat and without him even fully realizing it, the sizzling anger inside of him flared up into blinding rage.

Guldhilda was just about to open her mouth to add something more, maybe even spit at him again, but he was faster. Atreus grabbed her by the collar and headbutted her right on the nose. With a sickening crack it shattered, but before she could so much as register the pain or decide whether to retaliate or flee, his hand closed around a fistful of her long hair, he dragged her around and bashed her head against the wall right next to the door. Her forehead connected with the hard wood with a dull thud, then again and again and again until blood was splattered all over the wall as her skin broke and her face was a mess, but he did not stop.

She was screaming, he realized, but the noise was drowned over the roaring heat that seared the inside of his skin. As her blood splattered on his face and hands, he half expected it to vaporize on impact.

Atreus was no stranger to this fire, this primordial kind of energy, soaring through him, nor to the pain and destruction it brought with it. It was familiar to him like the large, unwavering form and graveling voice of his father was.

So, he knew what to do. Knew, he needed to channel this energy, lest it would burn him from the inside out.

It was powerful and it was dangerous and watching his father fall into such rage had always terrified him just as much as it intrigued him. Feeling it himself, to such an extend however, he wondered why his father had always been so adamant in trying to suppress it. Because this scorching heat burned far more when he tried to contain it than if he just let it out. This liberating feeling of letting it go, letting it lash out – it felt good. Really fucking good.

With every time, Guldhilda's head connected with the surprisingly sturdy wood, the burning got a little less intense. The more pain he caused the less he had to feel himself. His head felt clearer than it had any right to be. His thoughts were more focused than they had been in months – maybe even years. For once, he was not plagued by guilt or doubt. He had a clear target, a set purpose and he could breath – freely breath through the fire in a way he hadn't been able to ever since he could remember. It was like a dam holding him back was finally cracking. A dam of barked orders by a gruff voice, disciplining him to control himself, to behave, to fight down that part of himself.

You're not Loki. You are Atreus. You are my son.

He should stop, shouldn't he. But he didn't want to. It felt too good to quit so soon. And why should he stop? It wasn't like Guldhilda deserved any mercy. He held no sympathy for people like her or any of the patrons in this bar for that matter. They were the lowest of the low. No one cared about their lives. Not even they themselves.

He could feel her agony, sense the hurricane of emotions taking over any coherent thought. Panic, fury, desperation. The feeling of being powerless.

Instead of inciting sympathy in him, his connection to her only egged him on. While he would never be free of such sensations, at the very least, he wasn't the one they originated one. For once, he wasn't the victim. He was the helpless, sick, little kid no longer.

The thudding was replaced with cracking when the wall finally gave and she crashed through it. Yet, she was still fighting his grip. Fucking Asgardians. Never knew when to give up. If she didn't back down, why should he? He never claimed to be a hero. These were not the people he had vowed to help. The opposite actually. This was the enemy.

Even with her head through the wall, she threw uncoordinated punches left and right, tried clawing at his arm and even kicking him. But she was mortal and he was not. She stood no chance. And he had had enough of her.

Loki was acting more on pure instinct than anything else, pulling her back through the newly created hole, broke off a piece of wood with his unoccupied hand and rammed it right into her side. Her struggling seized immediately and her furious screams were replaced by a sharp, yet noiseless gasp as the makeshift weapon was buried deep in her guts.

Loki pulled the piece of wood out and let go of her. Guldhilda stumbled back, but without his hold keeping her upwards, her legs gave out beneath her and she crumbled to the floor, where she stayed gasping for air and desperately pressing both hands onto the wound as if that would stop the blood from flowing steadily out of her and seep into the floorboards next to his spilled drink.

Loki found no satisfaction in watching her writhe about and so he ripped his gaze from her to search for his next target, which he of course didn't have to wait for long – the place was after all also crawling with einherja. One of which already came barreling towards him.

Soulless, bifröst eyes were widened in a mad craving for violence, the black markings aiding in further dehumanizing his twisted features.

No one here cared about Guldhilda's fate, no one came to help her. Those who reacted only did so, because they wanted in on the fight. Which suited Loki just fine.

He faced the einherja head on and only sidestepped at the last possible moment, using the soldier's momentum against him as he suckerpunched the fucker right in the gut. No – not in the gut, but through.

Hm. He might have miscalculated a little there. No matter.

The einherja turned to dust, revealing another one coming up behind him. With some swift, practiced kicks, hard punches and small enchantment thrown into the mix here and there, he as well as three other einherja found a quick end. The fire was overpowering the alcohol's influence quite effectively.

He swirled around to avoid the punch aimed at his face (what was the problem with these people and his face?), backing away from her quickly, but was seized by another broad one and placed into a choke hold from behind.

Loki didn't waste any time trying to pry the grip away. Instead, he used the hold around his neck as leverage to kick the warrior in front of him right in her chest, uncaring at the tightening pressure on his throat. The need to breath was secondary to the need of causing as much damage as he could. The soldier flew back a few paces until her back hit a table at an odd angle, breaking the wood on impact.

Meanwhile, Loki pulled at one of the arms surrounding his neck, managing to straighten it just enough, shifting his stance and then bending forward, throwing the einherja over his back onto the ground. Before he could get back up, he was kicked down again, his head crushed into a mess of shattered skull and black sludge. While he dissolved into nothing but grimy dust, Loki closed in on the female soldier who was shouting and screeching in pure, mindless hatred, attempting to get up again to face him, which was an impossible task given that some important part of her spine had clearly snapped when she had made contact with the sturdy furniture.

With a foot to her chest, he forced her down where she bent awkwardly on top of the large wooden pieces of the table, and then knelt down on top of her, straddling her torso. He drew back and then punched her face. And again. And then again. He held back his strength, just to prolong the process. To be able to keep punching, before she would inevitably turn to dust beneath him.

The skin over his knuckles healed immediately after it broke, too fast for any sting to reach his attention.

First her right cheekbone gave in, then her nose. He heard the crack of bones shattering and rearranging with each time his knuckles connected with her face, her head was being thrown back and forth so forcefully, Loki was sure if his fists barreled down any harder, it would snap her neck.

But that would be too easy. A broken neck was to merciful a death for Baldur and it was too merciful a death for an einherja.

She probably couldn't even feel pain.

He couldn't sense any emotions from her. Or any of the undead soldiers. So, he reasoned, it didn't matter. Distantly, he wondered if that would have even made a difference. If he could feel the twisted shreds of her soul – if she even possessed that much –, and connect with it, would that even make him stop? It hadn't with Guldhilda. Yet, a part of him – one that was far in the back of his mind and shackled in shadows – screamed that yes! Of course, he would stop!

Loki shut that part out – he had no use for it right now – and wrapped his hands around the einherja's throat, squeezing tightly. Not tight enough to crush her windpipe, but still enough to let no air pass through. He watched her choke. Her hands reached up to him blindly, clawing at him like Guldhilda had tried to before, digging her nails into his skin, scratching his face, trying to reach far enough to gauge his eyes out. Her attempts grew weaker by the second, her mouth open in silent gasps for air that would not come.

His gaze met her eyes. In midst of black blood and ashy markings and swollen skin, bifröst eyes stared back at him. They looked... wrong.

Loki blinked.

The eyes were too bright. Einherja didn't have eyes this bright. They didn't swirl around like that – like soft ever-rolling waves of purple. Observing, knowing, judging.

“Monster”, a voice muttered, perfectly clear even through the commotion around him – some patrons fleeing the tavern, while others stormed in to watch. There was shouting, someone was screaming at him. But the voice in his head was louder, more piercing, more important.

The voice was breathless, pained and coarse, but it was irrefutably and unmistakably Heimdall.

A cold shock ran through Atreus, sobering him up in record time, forcing him back into reality. He backed away from the einherja's corpse, that was already crumbling to ash, as if he had been burned.

What was that? Was it his mind playing some kind of trick? Was it another vision? No vision had ever overlapped reality like that, before. They were usually masked as dreams or a vague, foreboding kind of dread. They only ever came when he was asleep or barely conscious or when his mind was otherwise receptive to realities differing the one he was currently experiencing. Always so perfectly timed in the way that this knowledge of what was to come helped little to not at all to preparing him for it.

So, what was this then? Why was it different? And why the fuck was it about Heimdall? About the god getting killed, no less.

His throat felt way too tight, as if it was his turn to get strangled now – an overwhelming onslaught of sorrow and guilt wrapping around and digging their sharp, invisible claws deep into his throat. Emotions, he was intimately familiar with at this point. Who's sorrow was that, though? It wasn't his own, not from here and now, that was for sure – emotions of this intensity were reserved for family, the one he had left back home, but not some Aesir god he could barely stand. They had to be linked to the vision.

His headache returned with a vengeance, now that the fire had retreated back into the shadows and his vision was awfully blurry as Atreus tried to take in the damage he had caused. With the anger dissipating back into manageable embers, he was left feeling empty and really fucking stupid. Just mindlessly stupid. A fucking temper tantrum. Unnecessary, unproductive, pointless.

No matter. Vision. The vision was what he should be thinking about right now. He needed to focus. Focus, focus, focus. Curse his brain for not being able to think up even one coherent thought.

He tried to call up the memory once more in an attempt to gain something other than questions from it. A blood-smeared face beneath him, barely recognizable as Heimdall, because blood just didn't belong on the Aesir god. He was untouchable – in the myths Mother had told him of the gods of Asgard, in the legends smeared on ancient surfaces at the Lake of Nine before the desolation, in what he had heard from the dwarfs and Asgardians and in his own experience. So, seeing Heimdall's face being covered in the dirty-red substance just wasn't right. It should be impossible. But someone had clearly done the impossible. But who?

Was that Atreus killing the watchman? The hands choking the god had been covered in blood – there was no way of discerning if they were actually his own – and the vision was already fading, no matter how desperately he tried to keep it at the forefront of his mind to pick it apart. He wished he could write it down, but he would have to burn the pages after and given how after he did that the first few times, the ashes had been removed from the hearth in his room suspiciously fast, while the hole from Thrúd was still there to be tripped over, he had the slight notion, that wouldn't be enough either.

”-started randomly insulting us and then, this happened.”

Atreus had barely registered that the door had been opened again to let in both more of a faint, fresh breeze into the stuffy room than the hole in the wall he created could provide, and also the distinct smell of ozone and rain.

“Exactly what we needed. Another fucking Heimdall.”, a voice rumbled, followed by raging laughter. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Atreus turned around and was met with the giant looming form of Thor. Because of course. A fight in a tavern, one with a jötunn involved, no less? Exactly the Thunder God's domain.

He greeted the god with a confidence that he didn't feel. This was going to suck.

“Thor.”

The Thunder God ignored him in favor of taking a few slow steps further into the room, further towards him, taking his time in accessing the mess Atreus had made of the tavern. Dark eyes took in the hole in the wall, the grimy, dark dust covering counter, floor and the broken table and lastly, Guldhilda. Still writhing on the ground, steadily bleeding out and barely conscious. Atreus cringed. He had forgotten about her.

Thor held out a hand, but instead of Mjölnir, someone hurriedly put a tankard in it.

“Did you do that?”, he asked, pointing towards her with a small nod of his head. His tone was bored. Not shocked, not angry, not even amused. Just bored.

Atreus remained quiet, but the answer was clear in the red smeared across his hands and splattered onto his face and clothing matching the one staining Guldhilda's dress and the wood beneath her.

Thor didn't care for an answer anyway, chuckling dryly into his mug as he drank half the contents in one go. Atreus frowned. Hadn't Thor been sober? Thrúd had explained it to him. That he was staying off of the alcohol. Well, that was over now apparently.

The god made an ahhh sound, as if the cheap ale was instead the first clear, cold sip of water after a long, hot day in the sun. Then, he continued: “I would say you should fight someone your own size, but then you'd be going after children.”

Around them, the people laughed again. Atreus bawled his fists at the sound, but remained quiet. Walk away. Just walk away.

Visions were rare and more valuable than his pride or his revenge. He had to concentrate. He had to leave. Before this escalated any further.

He ignored the jab at his height and moved to make his way past Thor and out of the tavern in long confident strides, as if he wasn't leaving a crimes scene while being covered in blood.

“Alright, Thor. Good talk. Goodnight. Enjoy your first drink after sobriety. You earned it, big guy.”

Thor pushed him back. Atreus stumbled backwards, foot almost catching at the corner of the broken table. There went his chances of an easy exit. Damn it all.

He tried again, anyway. “I don't have time for this.”

At the god's lack of reaction, Atreus wasn't even sure he had heard. Once more, he tried to make his intention to leave more than clear.

“Just let me through, please.”

Thor nodded towards Guldhilda again. “ What'd she do?”

Atreus grimaced. “She spat at me. After I called her out on trying to get it on with a kid.”

“Liar.”

“Wha- Why would I lie about that?!”

“To save your own skin. Make yourself look like the good guy. Because that's what you people are. Filthy fucking liars.”

Atreus groaned, rapidly loosing any pretense of composure. “Okay, fuck. I'm in the wrong. Shouldn't have stabbed her. I'm a filthy liar and whatever else you wanna call me. Just- let me get her to a healer, then. To account for my mistakes.”

“You're not going anywhere.”

“Then call for a healer or something. She's gonna bleed out soon.”

He moved towards her to kneel down and check her vitals like Freya had taught him, maybe stop the bleeding if he could manage the concentration for a healing spell himself. But the second he so much as shifted his weight, Thor lifted his unoccupied hand and slowly moved it towards his own belt, until it finally rested on Mjölnir's hilt. The message was clear. Atreus swallowed, his gaze flitting back and forth between the woman bleeding out on the floor and the magical hammer designed specifically to kill people like him.

“So what now?”, he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady, fear would not serve him now and while he couldn't slow his quickened heartbeat nor stop the adrenaline rush, he didn't need to let it show, “We just stay here?”

“That's exactly what you're gonna do, giant.”

“She will die.”

“Aye, she will die. And you will watch her. 'Bout time your kind learns the meaning of consequences. Maybe this will finally make All-Father see just what good a jötunn's presence here can bring.”

This was bad. Really fucking bad.

Atreus desperately crammed his scrambled mind for anything that would get him out of this fucked up situation.

Should he try to run? He wouldn't get far. Not matter how fast he was, he had seen Thor soar through the air at the same speed as the lightning he commands. There was no way, he was going to be able to outrun him. And where would he go? To the Great Lodge? Odin wasn't there. No one there would dare stand between the Thunder God and his next target. No one was that stupid. He might be protected by Odin's order to treat him like a guest, but that didn't mean anyone cared about him.

So, stay and do as Thor said? Accept the consequences for killing an Asgardian – no matter how low her rank? That would force Odin to act. It didn't matter how important the mask was to him and how little he cared about his individual subjects, this would force his hand as a king. Now, while Atreus was fairly certain, he wouldn't be executed or anything, it would give the old man another bargaining chip against him. One he would surely use to make Atreus pick up the pace with his studies on the mask. Which he had deliberately tried to slow down to buy himself more time. Odin was most likely aware of that, but until now he had been just satisfied enough with their progress to not intervene. That might be over now. Or...

Or he could pick a fight with Thor. Which was a terrible idea. Downright suicidal.

The new bouts of adrenaline pushing through his veins as his body screams to run, were the only fleeting source of energy he had. He was exhausted. The spar with Thrúd had taken a toll on him and so did his lack of sleep and nutritious sustenance... Things his father had warned him about time and time again, Mimir helping cement it into his brain by explaining the reasoning behind it. Sleep for the mind, food for the body. Empty mind and full stomach.

Well, right now his head was bursting with thoughts and there was a gaping pit in his stomach, mead being the only thing sloshing around in there uncomfortably next to the building feeling of dread. Wonderful. Well done, Atreus.

All in all, those weren't exactly what he would call the best conditions to start a fight with one of – if not the strongest Aesir god out there. But he couldn't run. And he needed time. This was going to hurt.

“You're just jealous that the All-Father likes me more than you. Seems, he would have preferred a son who has actual brains instead of some fat, ugly drunkard.”

“You know, Loki”, Thor spoke through the deathly silence the room had fallen into at his taunt, “there will be a time where you will wish that was not the case.”

What was that supposed to mean?

Atreus held back a frown, instead smiling his most infuriating, condescending smile at the Thunder God. “Sure. Just keep talking like that, Thor, and you're gonna meet the wrong end of Gugnir.”

Thor chugged the rest of his drink, drawing Mjölnir and using the hammer to point at him. The people around them shuffled behind Thor, all while erupting into chants of his name and shouts of obscenities at Atreus. No one cared about the dying woman on the floor.

“Your father has paid his blood debt. Now, it's your turn to pay yours, jötunn.”

Oh. This was really happening. Right now. Fuck.

“But”, Thor continued, throwing the empty mug over his shoulder, hitting some poor, random guy right in the face, “I'll make this fight a little more even.”

With that he dropped Mjölnir to the floor, which broke on impact, creating a perfect hammer-shaped hole in the floorboards. Yeah, this tavern was not going to live another day.

Thor came towards him slowly, taking his time with drawing his fist back for the first punch, as if expecting Atreus to just stay rooted in place and accept his fate. Admittedly, if Atreus hadn't been so used to huge, menacing beings trying to kill him constantly, he might actually have done just that. But he had been raised and trained to stay nimble, to keep moving against all odds.

No one here believed this to be even close to an equal fight despite Thor's claim when dropping the hammer. Because it wasn't. It just simply wasn't. Atreus was strong, he could fight, he could kill. But this was Thor. A god who matched his father in physical strength. Whose centuries worth of battle experience easily dwarfed Atreus' twenty-five years of living. All he could do was dodge and bide his time for something to turn the tide of battle. Because there had to be something, right? He couldn't die here. He had a prophecy to fulfill, a future to live through, he had seen it with his own eyes. The giants couldn't have been that wrong. This couldn't be his end.

He jumped on top of one of the long tables and then hopped of again just in time, when the Thunder God's fist crashed through it, breaking it clean in half. Atreus thought he could hear the owner of the place crying in the background, as he swirled around to evade yet another punch.

He knew Thor was toying with him, putting on a show for those still watching. Maybe, he wasn't out to kill him. Just to hurt him. Which was bad enough, but still.

He might have been able to keep dodging Thor for a while, but what he wasn't prepared for was the crowd throwing things at him. A mug hitting his back was enough to break his concentration for a second. A second, in which he caught a left hook right into his face. His head was thrown backwards by the force, and pain exploded behind his eyes and it took a moment for his vision to go back to normal.

While he was trying to regain his bearings, Thor watched him. Studied him, most likely. Despite how dumb Odin might make him out to be, Thor wasn't actually stupid. He just also wasn't too bright. So, he pretended to catch his breath a bit longer than actually necessary, and shot forward the moment Thor averted his eyes and threw a hard punch of his own.

Despite his massive gut, hitting Thor felt like punching a boulder. Fortunately for him, Atreus had learned how to channel magic into his blows, he could punch holes into a mountainside. However, the big fucker did little more than take one step back, grunting, and then he swiped him away with his massive hand like one would a pesky fly.

“Good punch. Did you pick that up from your father's beatings?”

Atreus gritted his teeth: “My father never laid a hand on me.”

“I figured. It's obvious no one ever bothered to beat some sense into you. He was probably afraid a backhand would be enough to snap you in half.”

“Maybe, you should have worried more about that. Then, Modi would probably still be alive.”

“The fuck did you just say to me?”

Mistake. Big mistake. Atreus would slap himself if he had the time in between frantically dodging the heavy rain of punches coming his way. Heimdall was right. He really didn't know when to shut the fuck up.

Back to jumping to and fro, he went, trying to get in some blows of his own every once in a while, which made the Thunder God stumble back, but it was ultimately useless. He needed his weapons – range attacks were his best bet, it was too dangerous to get close to the god.

In a way, Thor's fighting style resembled Thrúd's, which really shouldn't have come as a surprise. Both were undeniable heavy-hitters, however with the goddess Atreus had noticed that she wasn't always fast enough to evade his long-distance attacks. She was focused, but her focus lacked range and flexibility. He wondered if Thor was the same. Probably not. Never mind the fact that Atreus didn't even have his bow and arrows, so all he could do was throw things at the Thunder God.

Which were namely broken pieces of furniture, a mug or plate or the occasional spoon.

Fuck it, Atreus thought as he ran out of ammunition, before picking up the last standing long table at one end and swinging it at Thor like an overgrown, two-handed sword. It broke just like its brethren and joined their fate of being debris on the ground.

There was a pause – Thor paused. Finally . The crowd behind him had gone quiet, anticipating their god's next move. Thor frowned. “Did you just throw a table at me?”

Atreus was panting, trying to catch his breath, and wiped a hand over his sweaty for head. Nevertheless, he used some of the air, he so desperately needed, to add: “Well, technically I didn't throw it, I just swung-”

Right as he was about to mimic the motion with his empty hands to get his point across, a lightning bolt got him square on his chest and sent him crashing into the counter.

Shit, that hurt.

For a moment, he was dazed, his heart fighting hard to get back into rhythm. But as soon as he could somewhat move his limps again – which could have been in a matter of seconds or hours – Atreus staggered back to his feet. And not a second too early, as he immediately had to sidestep a kick that would have crushed his femur.

He ignored the stabbing pain of what was obviously at least one broken rib, ignored how difficult it had suddenly become to breath properly, and climbed onto the counter. He ran from one end to the other and jumped up, just about managing to get ahold of the balcony's railing to pull himself up.

Okay, the pain in his chest got infinitely worse now. He groaned and almost lost his grip, when he felt his consciousness slipping for a second, but he shook himself out of it, gritted his teeth against the pain and tried again to climb onto the balcony.

“No, you don't.”

Atreus realized his mistake, as soon as a giant hand closed around his ankle. He kicked at it, but it was already to late, as he was yanked down roughly. There was nothing he could do but brace himself, and – to his embarrassment – let out an entirely undignified yelp, just before he hit the floorboards.

By the Norns, rolling down that cliff Heimdall had thrown him off of hadn't hurt nearly as bad as this. Any air he might have gotten was punched out of his lungs again and yep, that was definitely another rip snapping. His head felt like it had legitimately burst open, his vision was muddy around the edges and stars seemed to blind him and then his eyes started burning and he realized it must have been blood running into them from a head wound. However, he had no time to analyze and categorize his injuries, before he was lifted up by the ankle once more and swung around like he weighed less than a sack of potatoes. Once again, he crashed into the floor face first, and this time he was sure he had blacked out for a second, because the next thing he knew was him lying on the ground at the far end of the tavern, his back to the wall, while Thor slowly walked towards him, Mjölnir in hand.

Atreus pushed himself up – or rather tried to, he didn't get very far. His back hurt, his ribs hurt, his head hurt, he could barely see, could barely breath. He spit out a mouthful of blood, and oh, that was definitely a tooth clacking onto the wood. How lovely.

His face was burning hot and must have been quite swollen at this point, his left eye was barely open. Heavily leaning against the wall behind him, he pushed himself into a sitting position, but that was as far as he could go.

He was rapidly running out of option. And so he called upon Ingrid. Should have tried that before. He didn't know how far his connection with her went, he could only pray to a higher being that the sword would be fast enough. Strong enough to at least give him an edge in this fight. But there was nothing.

He called her again, desperately, as Thor closed in on him. Come on, Ingrid, please.

Thor stayed a few paces away, swinging Mjölnir casually by the leather strap at the hilt.

“Was nice knowing ya, Loki.” With that the hammer shot towards him. Atreus pressed his eyes shut at the horrible visual at Mjölnir fast approaching.

Ingrid! , he begged, knowing that it wouldn't work. That this was it. Despite what his fate was, despite what the prophecies said. He would die. Right here, right now. In a shitty tavern, in a shit part of Gladsheim, in a shit realm filled with shit gods. Many different thoughts should have been running through his mind right now. Regret, shame, anger should take ahold of him again. He wasn't opposed to loosing control again if it meant staying alive. But his head was empty. All he could think of was that maybe, Thor was right. Maybe the giants were liars. Because they had made him think he was more than this, that he would be more than just another one of the Thunder Gods victims. How wrong they had been. How foolish he had been to trust them. Any second Mjölnir would crush his head, paint the wall with his brains and-

Why was this taking so long? Shouldn't he be dead by now. He had seen how fast Mjölnir was. It couldn't possibly take that long to cross such a small distance, could it?

Still vehemently steeling himself, he tried taking a breath, but that didn't really work. Everything felt off. He could smell the weapon. The scent of ozone and hot metal. He frowned and opened his eyes slowly, agonizingly and was immediately met with the sight of the hammer, so close it took up most of his vision.

But it wasn't moving. Not really. It looked like it was frozen in the air. He tried to move away, which was when he finally realized that it wasn't just Mjölnir, that was stuck in place, but everything around him too, himself included. It was absolutely mind-boggling to have his thoughts run at only a slightly more sluggish speed, while his body – blinking and breathing included – shifted at such a slow pace, it could barely be called movement anymore. Before he could freak out any more in both real time and slow motion – because Mjölnir was still very much almost killing him – the moment was over, when he was pulled to the side. Time resumed and Atreus collapsed sideways – away from where not a second later Mjölnir shot clean through the wall, where his head had been, leaving another, perfectly rectangular hole.

Pure relief made his limps weak. Which was fine, because he was already lying on the floor, wheezing to make up for the breath he had been holding and clutching his poor, rapidly beating heart. When his brain was ready to focus on anything other than breathing and the fact that he had nearly died , his eyes shot up to see what exactly was happening.

Thor stood a few paces away. The blade of a sword pressing against his throat. But instead of Ingrid's dark metal and the faint, mystical golden sheen usually protruding from her, the sword in and of itself was pure gold. Hǫfuð. Heimdall .

Atreus was decidedly not prepared for that second wave of relief at seeing Heimdall. That was so inappropriate. But also thank the fucking Norns, that was close.

“Thank me, not the Norns, you runt”, the watchman hissed, not taking his eyes off of Thor from where he stood between him and Atreus.

The Thunder God looked down on Heimdall, a faint twitching in his fingers being the only acknowledgment to the blade pressed against his throat. Middle finger and thumb clearly itching to snap and summon Mjölnir. “You want him dead, just as much as I do. You tried to kill him too.”

Heimdall seemed entirely unimpressed by Thor's menacing posture, as he leaned closer, keeping his sword snug against the giant man's jugular. “That was before I was ordered to keep him alive. Like it or not, brother, he's All-Father's guest.”

Chapter Text

“Do me the favor, Heimdall, and keep Loki out of trouble while I'm away.”

Sure. That was an easy enough request, Heimdall figured, making his way up the stony path towards the All-Father's study after having delivered his daily report that morning. A little weird to ask the one usually tasked with keeping check on outside threats to play chaperon, but sure. Why not. It wasn't like he had anything better to do than keep an eye on some brat that had made it a habit of constantly stumbling face-first into trouble.

Well, if he was lucky, he wouldn't even have to do anything, given that Loki had spent the last few days going on quite the hedonistic bender and had only just retired to his own chamber with his latest bed warmers, there was a considerable chance that he would just sleep through the entire time the All-Father was gone.

Turns out – definitely not to his surprise, Heimdall never got surprised, that was kind of his entire deal – he was not so lucky.

Thrúd – because of course it would be his half-brother's cursed helspawn – woke the jötunn up for a spar and well. Everything kind of went downhill after that.

Heimdall paid no attention to them, he was busy on a small clean-up mission in Svartalfheim, and by the time he was back, he got some glimpses of the abrupt end to their disagreement. He could make an educated guess on what it had been about. From the glimpses he had caught of it, he had gotten the gist and decided he didn't care to intervene.

It was obvious, Thrúd wouldn't try anything stupid. No matter how aggravated she was at Loki, she still reasoned that his shitty behavior and harsh words weren't his entire personality and that most of what he had spat at her had come from a place of anger rather than a place of truth. In that she was all her mother. Thor would have long since been fed up with Loki's bullshit and beaten the shit out of him regardless of the All-Father's instructions.

Either way, the jötunn was in quite a mood. Went right back to drinking and brooding and wallowing in self-pity.

Fine. He could do that. Maybe even pick a fight with the lowlife commoners in a shitty tavern, if he had to blow off some steam that badly.

Despite Loki's questionable skills, common Asgardians would pose no threat to him. And even if they did, no one would dare outright hurt the All-Father's esteemed guest, because no one was willing or – dare one say – stupid enough to chance it with Odin. Thinking of stupid...

There might just be one. One that more than once toed a dangerous line between obedience and sheer drunken idiocy. And, there he was. As if summoned by the smell of violence and mead, Thor appeared. Like a muggy summer day right before a storm, Heimdall could feel Thor's hatred towards Loki wafting through the air. Fucksake. Time to intervene.

Heimdall took the fast way down the Great Wall – namely some climbing and jumping down when it got a little too apparent that things would derail quickly. Instead of getting all the way down though, he stuck to making his way sprinting across rooftops, taking the most direct path towards the hrafn district. Which was of course on the other damn end of the city. Because Norns beware Loki would ever get in trouble close enough that preventing him from dying wouldn't be such a race against time. Because Heimdall was fast – extremely so, especially thanks to his foresight allowing him to react before the fact –, but Loki's ability to talk himself into a certain death sentence was just on another level entirely.

Heimdall had started his descend from the wall as soon as Thor had laid eyes on Loki, knowing exactly that violence was on the Thunder God's mind, and yet he still had to make use of his realm shift by the time he reached the hrafn district in order to keep the runt from getting his head smashed in.

He entered the tavern, taking in the scene presented to him closer as he pushed through the small crowd of onlookers and was thoroughly unimpressed.

Through the slight haze created by the realm shift stretching time into infinity, he took in the broken pieces of tables and benches, several holes in both the walls and the floor and the familiar sight of Thor standing in midst of destruction like the epitome of piss poor self-control.

It was by far not the first time the watchman had witnessed his half-brother in such a position and it wasn't at all a surprising sight, however Heimdall could not help but feel a pang of disappointment. He should find it funny, how easily Thor would fall back into old habits just because of the sheer presence of a jötunn, but Heimdall was not in a laughing mood. Especially not when the figure sitting on the floor, only held upright by the wall behind him caught his eye. Loki looked worse for wear, to say the least. Neck-deep inside the metaphorical hole he had dug himself, clutching his side, his features twisted in pain and fear as he kept his eyes shut tightly to not watch his certain death approaching him in form of a magical hammer aimed right at his face.

Like this, it was especially hard to believe that he was supposed to be the doom of Asgard. So, Heimdall shoved that thought into the back of his mind.

In this moment, Loki was just a person in need of protection. And Heimdall, the God of Order and Surveillance, Protector of Asgard had a job to do.

He made his way towards the jötunn to get him out of the way of immediate danger, but almost halted in his tracks when bright, blue eyes slowly opened – the fear rolling off him in waves making place to confusion, as if Loki had noticed something had changed. That... should not be possible.

Heimdall looked around just to confirm what he already knew. The people around them, the hammer flying through the air – it was all still frozen in time. As his eyes turned back on Loki, it almost seemed like the giant was already aware of his presence. Like his mind was catching up at an unnatural speed. Yet, his body was still caught in place, so really it didn't matter. Nevertheless, it was something Heimdall should keep in mind. But not now.

He shook himself out of his surprise, focusing on the task at hand and grabbed the jötunn by the shoulder to pull him out of Mjölnir's path.

Realm shifts were quite a difficult and taxing thing to uphold for extended periods of time, so Heimdall didn't waste another moment to draw Hǫfuð and press it against Thor's throat. Just when the golden blade made contact with the fat bastard's skin, the shift unraveled and time fell back into its natural pace.

Thor didn't react in any way other than huffing in annoyance, when he realized his attempt at killing Loki had been successfully thwarted.

As his eyes met Heimdall's though, his mind revealed the fury inside. Mainly in forms of disturbingly detailed imaginings of the watchman meeting some gruesome end or another. Had Heimdall not been so used to Thor's special little way of getting under his skin, he would have definitely gagged at the disgusting visual of his own ripped off arm being forced into his backside to apparently 'join the stick already lodged up deep in there'. But he was used to it – regrettably so.

So, instead of reacting to the clear threat, he stood his ground. He would not back down like he had at the day of Loki's arrival. This time, he had the All-Father's orders on his side. He was in the right and Thor was way out of line. And so he had the freedom to act in whatever ways he saw fit. That thought alone lightened up his mood significantly. However that didn't last long, when the jötunn behind him finally came to his senses enough to realize his ass had just been saved – and immediately proceeded to thank the Norns for it. Of all the fucking beings! Truly, the fates seemed to be more determined to get rid of him than all the Aesir gods combined. The nerve of that man. “Thank me, not the Norns, you runt.”

The runt in question seemed to barely register his words – for once keeping his mouth blessedly shut. Good.

Meanwhile, when threatening Heimdall in his mind proved unsuccessful this time around, Thor chose a different approach. “You want him dead, just as much as I do. You tried to kill him too.”

Heimdall scoffed at the bitterness in the Thunderer's tone. Both of them were well aware that the watchman could not be persuaded to abandon his orders. And it wasn't Thor's intention either way. No, what he wanted was to spark doubt. To make him question. Question the All-Father's judgment. But as always the joke was on him. There was nothing to question.

Because yes, he had tried to get rid of Loki. But a lot had changed since then. It had been a while since Heimdall had last thought about actually killing Loki, much less acted on it. He still saw him as a pest, an intruder in his beloved home, but if he were to be completely honest with himself, some of his initial hatred for Loki had shifted into... something else. Intrigue, maybe. Which didn't mean his distrust had faded, of course. He trusted the jötunn as far as he could throw Mjölnir and there was nothing Loki could ever do to change that – how ever hard he may try to befriend him for some inexplicable reason. And yet, his continued presence in Asgard wasn't quite as troubling as Heimdall had first thought it would be. While their conversations tended to be annoying or aggravating or downright unsettling at times, that was true for most people Heimdall interacted with these days.

Nevertheless, things might have changed, but Loki's position as the untouchable, personal student of the All-Father had not. It was only that now, Heimdall had been made aware of it.

“That was before I was ordered to keep him alive. Like it or not, brother, he's All-Father's guest.”

Thor was not amused by the recall of Loki's first day in Asgard. No surprise there. He probably didn't even get it – with all the brain cells he had killed off with liquor over the centuries, Heimdall would not be surprised if he forgot his own name one of these days.

“Now, piss off to whatever brothel you rolled out of.”

The Thunder God remained silent, his eyes flitting past Heimdall and falling on Loki who seemed too dumbfounded by the scene before him to even try and stand up, and then going back to the watchman. Something was going on in that mead-filled head and Heimdall was not all that keen to find out what that entailed.

“He's a threat to Asgard.”

“He's the All-Father's student.”

Thor grunted, cold gaze returning to the jötunn while he continued speaking: “When have All-Father and Asgard become one and the same?”

Heimdall furrowed his brows. What was that question supposed to mean? He would have blamed the alcohol for clouding Thor's mind as it so often did, but it seemed his thoughts were clearer than they had been for countless decades. It was... unsettling. Still Heimdall scoffed, waving off the comment and pressing Hǫfuð just a little closer. A thin line of blood streaked the golden blade.

“They always have been.”

“They have not.”

This was getting nowhere. The watchman tried a different method – one he was way more comfortable with anyway –, looking around them to point out their location at a rundown tavern.

“What happened to sobriety, Thor? Not to your taste? Is the crushing knowledge of you constantly failing your family too much to bear without drink coursing like blood through your fat fucking veins?”

Again, the Thunderer did not react. Usually, it would take barely more than Heimdall's mere presence to anger the giant mongrel. What has changed? Why was everyone acting so fucking weird all of the sudden? None of this was adding up right, the watchman realized. There was something off about this entire scene. And as always it would fall back to him to figure it out. Because, of course it did.

Thor's rumbling voice once again grated against his eardrums. “Why are you protecting the enemy? You're supposed to be the Watchman, protector of Asgard.”

Heimdall frowned. He had never heard Thor acknowledge his title like that before, without it being the butt of some joke about how that made him a voyeur.

“What are you getting at?”

“Protecting him actively puts Asgardians in danger.”

Heimdall followed Thor's gaze to the Asgardian woman lying unconscious on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Honestly, he had barely noticed her. But now that he did, he recognized her. Furthermore, he knew about what she had done. It wasn't the first time she had been caught trying to groom a child. Only reason why she was still in Gladsheim was because back then, she had been an active soldier in the Aesir-Vanir war.

“She does not deserve the privilege of my protection. She should have been cast out a long time ago.”

Behind him, Loki decided it was his time to chime in. “See? I was just trying to-” That was as far as he got, when his entirely ill-timed commentary was interrupted by a violent coughing fit.

The sound was not exactly pleasant to hear. Heimdall gritted his teeth focusing all his attention back to the Thunderer in front of him.”Look what you did, you inflated idiot. You broke the All-Father's favorite new toy.”

Oh, the brat really did not like being called that. Good thing then, that he was too busy catching his breath to say anything particularly stupid in return. Small mercies.

“Why do you care?”

Fucksake, they were going in circles. Always with the fucking circles. That was why Thor wasn't supposed to talk. He wasn't any good at it. Thor shouldn't talk and Heimdall shouldn't think. According to the All-Father's infinite wisdom, that was how they worked best.

And right now Thor seemed to be trying his luck at both. Which would have been a hilarious sight to witness on most days, but right now with his furrowed brows and the eyes underneath moving back and forth between Heimdall and Loki, he was dangerously close to figuring something out, that the watchman would really prefer him not to-

Then, the Thunder God laughed. A sudden, rumbling sounds devoid of any humor banging in Heimdall's ears and making the hair on the back of his neck and arms rise in tension.

“By the Norns! You got – what? – one sloppy blowjob from some jötunn whore and suddenly that's it with your undying loyalty to Asgard?”

Damn it all to Helheim and back. That claim was just preposterous. Instead of hastily denying the claim like Thor (and Loki tensing up in the background) expected him to, Heimdall answered with a dry chuckle of his own, showing off his golden teeth in a mean smile, before dramatically looking around, unoccupied hand waving in grand gesture. “Oh, look who's talking! Tell me, Thor, how is Jarnsaxa doing these days?”

There it was, finally. Whatever clarity Thor might have possessed was immediately overshadowed by violent rage at the mention of his late Jötunn wife. Heimdall adjusted his grip on Hǫfuð once more to remind both of them that right now in this position, he was still the one in control. But that also meant he couldn't dodge when Thor made a disgusting noise of sucking up snot and spat it right on his boot.

Heimdall had to fight off both the urge to gag and to slit that fat fuckers throat right then and there.

Said bastard stepped back and turned around. “Suit yourself, Heimi. Good luck patching up the mistress.”

That turgid son of a bitch. Heimdall bit back a litany of foul insults. Now was not the time.

Sensing his honest intent to leave, he let Thor go, but refrained from sheathing Hǫfuð just yet. Without another word, Thor went to exit the ruined remains of the tavern, not even stopping as he lifted his hand and snapped for Mjölnir to return. The weapon crashed through the wall on the opposite end once more, scaring the jötunn leaned against it half to death and Heimdall had to sidestep out of the way to not get hit, all while his eyes never left the burly back of his retreating half-brother.

Only when he heard the telltale sound of him getting dragged through the air by Mjölnir – probably to go mope somewhere and start working on forgetting that entire encounter by chugging down a lake's worth of ale –, did Heimdall dare to relax and sheath his weapon.

Well, that had been... something. Norns, how he hated his brother.

Sighing, he fixed up his bracers that had stayed perfectly in place and straightened his tunic that had no need straightening, just to give himself a few seconds to compose himself before turning towards the bane of his existence who was regarding him with a strangely unreadable expression. The jötunn felt conflicted, but most of all, he was in pain and struggling to keep his bearings.

However, just as the watchman took a step towards him a weak whimper from the side caught his attention once more. Ah yes. The woman. He groaned – he really had to do everything around here, didn't he?

Scanning the small crowd of onlookers that had been successfully stunned to silence by the stand off between two of their gods, he picked some random, middle-aged man. “You. Get her to a healer. And then to the fucking dungeons.”

The man stuttered some mixture between “of course, Lord Heimdall” and “right away”, while thinking desperately 'why me?', before bowing and moving to follow the command. Heimdall ignored him in favor of approaching the brat beaten bloody with a grim expression. He clapped slowly. The sound made Loki twitch. He would have laughed too, if he wasn't so damned pissed off.

“Well done, Loki. Really making friends all across the board.”

The giant didn't even try to counter his sarcastic comment, instead remaining quiet as he used the wall behind him as leverage to finally get up from the floor. Which turned out to be quite an ordeal with several broken ribs jabbing at his insides. Heimdall indulged himself in the amusement of watching him struggle for a second, before stepping in, grabbing the man by the thick fabric of his tunic and pulling him upright. Loki hissed in response, but didn't do much else. He was pointedly avoiding meeting Heimdall's eyes, but the watchman wouldn't let him get away with this that easily.

Grabbing the jötunn's jaw, he forced him to looked at him. There were deep cuts on his forehead and scattered all over his face, one eye was already in the process of swelling, the area around it and even the white of his eye colored bright red. Blood was running out of his nose and into his mouth as he gritted his teeth against the rough treated. There was also one tooth missing, quite near the front. Most notable of all however, was the sharp stench of alcohol and blood lacing his breath.

Heimdall released him again.

Using the grip he had on his shoulder, he shoved him towards the exit. “Outside. Now.”

Loki followed the command wordlessly, stumbling on unsteady feet through the mess made of the tavern and outside. Once surrounded by the fresh, crisp air of nighttime, he didn't get very far, before he had to lean against the next best wall to stabilize himself, as he doubled over, expelling the meager contents of his stomach onto the muddy ground. It was mostly blood, which was... mildly concerning.

Heimdall remained a safe distance away, averting his eyes as if that would spare him from the nauseating sight and cringed internally at the pathetic sounds of the jötunn's retching. Unfortunately, he was forced to step in soon enough, when Loki proved dangerously close to collapsing into his own mess like some wretched drunkard. He caught the jötunn by the back of his tunic, which he barely even seemed to notice, too busy panting and spitting out the remaining bile from his mouth.

Once again, Heimdall realized how easy it was to forget who Loki really was, when seeing him in such state. Who he was meant to be. What threat he could possibly pose. It was easy to forget the carnage he had foreseen in his eyes, the betrayal and mad intent, when all he saw now was a tired resignation and crippling shame.

And so, Heimdall allowed himself to forget. To unsee . It was just tonight, while the jötunn was obviously not going to try anything.

Just for tonight, Heimdall told himself, would he see Loki for the person he was right now, instead of what he might become later on. What harm could it possibly bring, he reasoned.

It would definitely make his job of keeping him out of trouble easier, without having to justify his own actions at every turn. Not that he was doubting the All-Father's orders, of course.

Sighing, he pulled out his water skin from his belt and offered it to Loki. The younger man didn't hesitate before taking a sip just to spit it out again to get rid of some of the foul taste of bile. The next swigs he swallowed down greedily as if he hadn't drunk any water in days – which considering Loki's questionable habits as of lately – might just very well be. It was almost funny how it had taken only three months of living in Asgard for the jötunn to acquire the alcoholic lifestyle of a stereotypical Asgardian. But seeing him like this wasn't really all that amusing. Though, there was a little enjoyment to be had by seeing just how tragically the god-killer's strict parenting – that Heimdall had caught glimpses of in Loki's mind every once in a while – had backfired in that regard. The thought that even such a grim muscles mountain of a man struggled to keep Loki's impulsively chaotic nature at bay was almost comforting. The brat was exceptionally strong-minded, Heimdall had to give him that. A dangerous quality to be had.

Meanwhile, Loki poured the remainder of the water onto his hand to wipe away some of the blood and sweat from his face. A meager attempt to regain some sort of composure.

Heimdall kept his hand on the jötunn's back as he took the empty water skin back and reattached it to his belt.

“Thanks”, Loki mumbled while somewhat righting himself again.

“Don't mention it. Come on.”

He gently pushed the giant forward, nudging him further away from the ruined tavern and prying, lingering eyes. It was enough that Heimdall had to witness the All-Father's student's lowest moments of shame, no need to give bystanders any more means for gossip. There was plenty fodder for the vultures already in the mere fact that the Watchman of the Aesir personally had been ordered to guard someone who was now officially revealed to be a jötunn. A fact about Loki's identity that had been deliberately kept under wraps and inside the Lodge. The brat successfully fucked that up, flaunting his heritage to the commoner's of the hrafn district of all people. Moron.

The younger man let himself be led along the street without much complaint except for the occasional hiss when the uneven footing caused his rips to be jolted a little too harshly.

“Where are we going?”

“To a healer, obviously.”

Loki suddenly halted, forcing Heimdall to stop with him, as he shook his head. “No.”

Heimdall furrowed his brows, eyeing Loki's sorry state once more. “No? The fuck you mean, 'no'?”

“Don't need a healer.”

“Loki, you've lost too much blood for me to take even a single word of what you're saying seriously.” He went to grab the younger man once more to get him to move again. Loki tried to back away, but Heimdall was of course faster.

“I'm not going to a healer.”

He struggled against the grip and Heimdall groaned in annoyance as he avoided a flaying hand to the face.

“Norns, calm down. You want to continue suffering so bad? Fine by me. But I swear to you, if you pass out, I will drag you there face-down through the dirt. At the latest on the stone stairs up the hill you're going to kiss more than just one tooth goodbye.”

Loki in all his staggering stubbornness remained steadfast in his stupid decision.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They continued their way further up the street into the heart of the hrafn district. At this time of night it would be as void of people as Midgard after the Desolation.

The walk was silent, which to Heimdall was disconcerting considering who was taking slow, dragging steps next to him. Loki's presence was usually so loud and obnoxious, attention grabbing in his own special, annoying way. So, him staying quiet was just weird. It was almost like Loki was trying to ignore who exactly he was clinging onto for support right now, which the Aesir god really couldn't have. He was the one usually making an effort to ignore the jötunn – not the other way around. This was just rude.

“Quit moping around already. It's high time for you to explain yourself.”

“What's there to explain?”, the giant had the audacity to ask, “Thor and I got into a fight. I'm a jötunn, he's – well – Thor. It was bound to happen.”

Heimdall shook his head. As unpleasant as it was to admit, he knew Thor would not have done something quite that stupid without any reason whatsoever. Sure, being a jötunn would typically be enough for a death sentence in Thor's eyes. But the circumstances were more complicated than that, Loki was no ordinary, worthless giant and so, his story wasn't adding up. No real surprise there.

“Tell me the truth, Loki.”

“I'm not lying, Heimdall.”

“No, but you're omitting the truth, which is arguably worse. I know you're hiding something. Why did you provoke him?”

Loki gritted his teeth, staring straight ahead. “I was angry.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Loki.”

“Heimdall.”

Norns, this felt like trying to pull out teeth by hand. “Either spit it out or I will dig up the truth through less pleasant ways than by simple conversation.”

Loki got halfway through the motion of crossing his arms before thinking better of it, when a stabbing pain reminded him of his precarious situation. Through a pained gasp, he still found the breath to be annoying, though. “Feels more like an interrogation to me, anyway.”

“Answer the damn question.”

Loki let out a sigh, filled with exasperation worthy of the most petulant child, but finally budged, even if only by the bare minimum. Heimdall still counted that as a win. “I was angry, wasn't thinking straight.”

“That's your excuse for picking a fight you knew you can't win?”

The younger man sniffed and wiped a hand under his nose to get rid of some of the drying blood accumulated there.

“Guess so.”

“If the All-Father hadn't ordered me to protect you, you'd be dead now.”

“I like to think you'd have saved me either way.”

Heimdall laughed dryly while tugging the giant around a corner to the left and past one of Bragi's numerous residences (his half-brother claimed he needed several homes to keep him inspired, but in truth he was just trying to avoid having to spent time with his children). “I most certainly wouldn't bother.”
“But then, who would you get your sloppy blowjobs from?”

Heimdall could not believe his life had come to this. At this point, he really wanted to drop the runt and just leave him to his own devices. Let him see how far he got behaving like some kind of suicidal cockroach. “Is that what you're so hung-up on? Of all the things? The comment about you giving mediocre head?”

A small crease between his eyebrows joined the mess that was Loki's face right now. Heimdall knew that crease by now. It appeared whenever the giant got exceedingly irritated. Well, that made two of them.

“Of course, it's not!”, the brat argued heatedly. Half truth. Heimdall snorted.

“You're not getting around this. Why start a fight with Thor?”

“Because I have every right to! Because of the- the thing – What do you people call it? – 'Blood debt'. That's why.”

“Do you have some kind of death wish?”

“I might just develop one if you continue grilling me like this.”

“Loki, I swear to-”

He paused. He was getting aggravated again, which was exactly what Loki intended. The same exact trap Thor had fallen into. It would distract him from finding out the root of this whole mess. Sneaky bastard.

There was no doubt in his mind that Loki was well aware he had no chance fighting against Thor. Not in this condition or otherwise. The giant knew that. Because as much as Heimdall hated admitting this – he was not actually stupid. He just wasn't. Otherwise the All-Father would have never chosen him to be his student. And someone with enough intelligence to impress even Odin himself would know that picking a fight with Thor would end deadly. Which meant that-

Heimdall turned to the jötunn, taking ahold of the front of his tunic, this time to get a clear view of his eyes and the mind and intent lying underneath. He was done playing games.

“What are you hiding, Loki?”

His tone seemed to snap the giant out of his tired haze. He frowned at the sudden change from getting interrogated to his mind being invaded by force. As fruitless as they both knew the attempt to be, he still tried to shut Heimdall out. Desperately so. Whatever secret he was keeping was something important. Something worth getting beat half to death for.

“What do you mean?” Loki tried to stall time, as he failed to shake off the tight grip.

“Why did you really do this? What are you hiding from me?”

Heimdall leaned closer and Loki stepped back hastily as far as he could, probably realizing he was fighting a losing battle.

“I'm not hiding any-”

There it was. Heimdall caught a glimpse of it. For just a second, a blurry memory, hidden beneath a heavy blanket of complex emotions that didn't fit the picture.

“-thing!”, Loki yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration, which he immediately regretted, judging by another pained wheeze as his hands shot back to his rib cage. He stumbled, his legs buckling dangerously and he suddenly looked very close to fainting. Heimdall caught him once more as he stumble forward before he could hit the floor again – at this point, Loki should really just give up trying to stand on his own, it was obviously not working out for him. He all but collapsed against the Aesir god for a second and just opted on using him to keep himself upwards – one tattooed hand held onto his biceps, the other one was splayed across his chest –, while struggling to take deep breaths through the stabbing ache.

“Fuck”, Loki moaned in pain way too close to his ear and for a split second, Heimdall lost his train of thought, ”This should be healing by now.”

Heimdall rolled his eyes, but allowed the jötunn to lean up against him a little longer, expertly ignoring their close proximity. .

“Maybe if you had treated your body with even a modicum of respect, it would. Or – you know – if you would go to see a fucking healer.”

Loki hummed in a poor pretense of acknowledgment, as Heimdall went right back to berating him. As of right now, he had seen what he needed to see anyway. He shoved the information he had gotten out of Loki into the back of his mind for later contemplation.

When the younger man seemed a little less inclined to pass out any second, Heimdall pulled Loki's arm over his shoulder and wrapped his own arm around the giant's waist to have an easier time steering them both forward further along the street and towards the outskirts of a marketplace, which were of course vacated at such late hours of night and only sparsely illuminated by some torches here and there. The ground here was muddy and gross from when it had rained earlier in the evening, and once he finally healed he would definitely make Loki clean his boots. It was the least he could do as reconciliation for making this endeavor this damn bothersome.

Once they reached a bench at the edge of the street, Heimdall could finally let go of the giant for good, who then immediately went to take a seat with a pained groan. He left room for the watchman to sit down next to him which remained empty. Heimdall preferred to put some distance between them – to clear his mind first and foremost – and so he leaned against the wooden fence running right behind the bench and separating the market place from a training area down below. He watched as Loki shrugged off the rejection to instead lie down taking up the entire bench by himself. Like this, the jötunn made quite the pitiful sight.

Even though the smaller cuts and bruised have already healed, his face was a messy mismatch of colors. From the angry reddening on his cheek, clashing with the dark blue already spreading around his swollen eye and rusty stains of dried blood smeared all over the pale features his face, to the darker shadow of a stubble growing in. The braid his hair was kept in was unraveling in several places and his bangs were sticking in clumpy strands to his sweaty forehead. He looked rugged and just... kind of lost.

Loki winced as he carefully lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the dim light of the torches, and Heimdall silently considered his options. They stayed like that for a while.