Chapter Text
You limped down the uneven stones. The warm blood cooled across your cheekbone and your shoulder panged with each jolt. The streets were ominous in the shadows of the night but nothing so frightful as that cursed house. You could still hear your father’s screams in your ears, felt his hands around your neck as he squeezed, his fist across your face and body.
It began as usual. He didn’t believe that you’d been on your knees scrubbing the floor all day and pointed out all the errors in your work. The meat was dry and overcooked and he didn’t like beans. He didn’t like anything you did and it only made him remind you that if your mother was still around, it would be done right.
Then he hit you. You learned long ago it was best to hide before it got that far but he blindsided you, sent you sprawling before he climbed atop you and wailed away to his temper’s delight. You only escaped because he thought you were unconscious. Waited until he left you broken and brittle, with a large stein of ale in his hand.
You shivered as the chilled air swept over you and rustled the thin fabric of your shift. The present was almost as terrifying as the scene in your head. You were free, after all those years, but what good was freedom when you had nowhere to go?
Then, as you turned the corner and saw the water, you realised you were lost. You never went down this far, only permitted to go as far as the market or the butcher up the road. All your life, you lived in Asgard but you only knew a small corner of it. To you, it was a prison, not the golden beacon ruled by gods.
You stumbled and caught yourself on the side of a shop. You edged around it and sat on the ground as you groaned. You listened to the heavy tide and closed your eyes. Either you would stay here and starve or your father would find you and drag you back in the morning. You couldn’t go any further and that was your fate.
You heard the soft scratch of soles on the ground. You huddled against the brick and hugged yourself as you waited for whatever vagrant was wandering around to pass. If you were still, they wouldn’t notice you. You glanced over as the footsteps echoed down the stones but they didn’t appear.
“It is not safe here,” the voice made you wince and you turned your head to look up at the man as he seemed to solidify from the shadows. His golden eyes shone as the rest of him was concealed by the night.
“I… have nowhere to go,” you croaked. Your throat was raw from your father’s strangling and it hurt to speak.
“No home?” he tilted his head as his hand rested on the sword buckled to his back. You cradled your face between your hands. He was likely an officer and would take you down to some cell for loitering.
“Not anymore but I… I can go,” you got up stiffly and clung to the wall as your ankle twinged beneath you.
“You’re injured?” his questions sounded more like statements.
“I’m… I’ll be alright,” you assured him and kept your arm around your middle as you shivered again, “I’m sorry for–”
“Do you think I would hurt you too?” he asked.
“You would arrest me for trespass,” you murmured and touched your neck as you coughed.
“I am not a gaoler,” he said evenly, “and it would appear you have been assaulted and cast out. You require help.”
You frowned. The only man you ever knew was your personal tormentor; cruel and crass, though to others, he could be gentle and genial. You knew better than to trust strangers as your own blood was barbarous.
“Why would you–” you couldn’t speak anymore as your throat throbbed and your head pulsed painfully.
You merely pushed yourself from the wall and spun awkwardly to hobble away. On your third step, your leg gave out and hit the ground hard on your knees. Your landing jolted your injured shoulder but you felt a warmth beside you. The man knelt at your side and tried to look you in the eye.
“You cannot stay out here,” he carefully pulled his sword from its sheath and you fell over on your ass and shielded yourself with your arm.
He planted the tip in the ground and his hand wrapped around your arm. A rush of light bloomed around you and left you dizzy and you felt as if you were floating. You came down as he let go of you and a chamber came clear to you. Beneath you, the stone was clean but hard, and the round structure was limned in moonlight and the glow of lantern as its open walls looked out over the city.
You blinked as you glanced around and brought your legs under you. You sat on your knees and held yourself in confusion as the man replaced the sword on his back. You watched him but could not look him in the face. He wore amber-coloured armour, that of a wealthy man, of a god, and walked like one too.
He went silently to a chest and pulled out a long cloak. He bent to drape it over your shoulders as you flinched and stood to peer down at you.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
You hung your head and said nothing. He exhaled and you felt a gentle weight on your head. Golden light hazed your vision and memories of your father’s assault rose again followed by your lifetime of terror. He drew his hand away and you whimpered as the fear and pain swelled in your chest.
“My apologies,” he uttered as he stepped away, “I… who is the man who does this to you?”
“My fa-ther,” you croaked and rocked beneath the cloak.
“I must look at your injuries,” he said as he knelt by you again, “may I?”
You peeked at him for just a moment and nodded. He pulled your leg out from under you carefully and felt your ankle until you cried out. He then brought his hands up around your jaw and touched your throat and traced the cut under your eye. You felt his bold eyes on you as his hand glanced over your shoulder and you hissed.
“Sprains, bruises,” he muttered, “but you will heal.”
You shrugged with your uninjured shoulder and he drew away from you.
“You should sleep if you wish to get better,” he girded, “you might’ve seen worse before but it does not make your current ailments any better.”
“Wh-why?” you eked out.
“It is my job to watch over this city,” he said, “I would be remiss to leave a woman out in the cold… especially after all that I did not care to notice before.”
You grasped the front of the cloak and moved slowly to lay on your side. He watched you curiously and shook his head.
“You will not sleep on the floor,” he pointed behind him to a hatch that led below, “there is a bed down there. I never use it anyhow.”
“I…” you groaned at the pain like shards of glass in your throat.
“Go on,” he said bluntly, “you will be safe. No one has ever come here unwelcomed and that will not change.”
You gulped, a regrettable act, and rose rigidly from the floor. He caught your elbow as you swayed and he fixed the cloak around your shoulders. He led you to the stairs and pulled open the heavy metal door.
“You may keep that,” he touched the hood of the lined cloak, “and if you should require anything else, you will inform me.”
You were too tired and sore to do anything but descend the steep steps. The adrenaline slaked away and left you even weaker. You felt him watching you from above as you staggered across the floor to the large bed against the far wall. You fell into it like a sack of potatoes and ignored the agony it sent through your body.
You nestled under the cloak and closed your eyes as the room dimmed. The metal door was not replaced, rather it was left open so you could hear the man move above you on the stone. The cool breeze seeped in through the hatch but could not touch you through the thick velvet and fur. You sank down into slumber, coaxed by the steady winds and whispers that whistled around the watchtower of Asgard.
🌕
You awoke in a ragged ascent. Layers of your unconscious parted and the room slowly unveiled before you. You stared at the stone, your strange surroundings stoking the memories of the previous night. The man with the bright eyes. You knew the man as your mind cleared.
The Gods of Asguard were reknowned throughout the golden city and beyond. The eve before you’d been too panicked to connect the threads in your mind. It was him. Heimdall, the watcher, the anointed guardian of the celestial metropolis.
You heard movement above, the door in the ceiling was still open and as you looked at it, he appeared as if summoned by your awakening. He descended swiftly and stopped to watch you without expression. You sat up and murmured at the competing aches throughout your body.
He carried his sword on his back, as if it was another part of him but his horned helmet was gone. His armour subtly clinked with his movement. Even without it, you suspected his bearing would remain entirely awe-inspiring.
“You would need to eat,” he said, almost a question but more a detached observation, as if the practice was unknown to him, “I have oats and some fruit.”
“Um, I…” you let the cloak fall and moved to sit at the edge of the bed. You cradled your shoulder and suppressed a groan, “I needn’t stay–”
“You should,” he said curtly and crossed the room.
You watched him search a tall cabinet and a bowl appeared from the air on the round table. He measured a handful of oats into the bowl and a steaming kettle materialised in kind. He poured it over and stirred in with a spoon that suddenly glimmered against the inlaid wood.
He continued to mix the porridge as steam rose and it cooked in the bowl. You leaned in as you tried to see a source of heat but there was only the carved wooden top of the table.
“I could… I could have–”
“I didn’t bring you here to be a maid,” he said, “come, sit.”
He nodded at an empty chair and you rose cautiously. You wanted to ask why you were there but the answer made you wary. You neared and lowered yourself onto the seat. He stilled the spoon and let it rest against the brim as he sprinkled vibrant berries over the top. He slid it to you and drew away.
“Let it cool,” he warned, “do you have a taste for tea?”
“Thank you,” you stared at the berries as they bled red and blue across the oats, “this should suffice.”
“Milk? Perhaps some for the porridge,” he offered.
You looked up at him and winced as your eyes met his golden ones. He was a god and you were nothing. You dropped your chin and shrugged.
“This is more than I deserve,” you took the spoon and pushed through the thick porridge, “you are Heimdall, I have heard the tales.”
“You would be correct in your assumption,” he confirmed, “and you are…” he said your name and you gasped. “I know all in Asgard, though it seems I do neglect some.”
“I… no, it is my… plight” you stared into the porridge and a tall shining glass appeared beside it, water sparkling from within.
“You should drink as you eat,” he backed away and sighed, “I have a visitor approaching, I must see to them.”
He turned and his golden cloak swished. You watched the hem off it as it fluttered from his towering fingers and his broad shoulders disappeared above, his boots the last of him before the hatch closed in his stead. You pursed your lips and blinked at the golden barrier set in stone.
Then you dared to ask yourself the question you were too afraid to voice. Why did he bring you there? Why, amid a city of thousands, with many belaboured and struggling, were you there?
The questions added to the steady thump in your temple. You blew over the porridge to taste the tartness of berries seeping into the bland paste. There was a hint of cinnamon that made it palatable, a spice you coveted and used sparingly when you could have it. You couldn’t help a hum as it filled you with a pleasant warmth.
You heard a thunk above but not much else. You ate, driven by a deep hunger, and drank of the sweet pure water. It was better than anything you’d tasted before, better even than your beloved mother’s cooking. The thought dampened your delight as you lingered on that long-seeded grief.
Naturally, your mind wandered to your father. He would be incensed to find you gone. Heimdall had shown you kindness and grace, but would he stand between you and your own father? Certainly, this act of charity was nothing more than a fleeting favour. A brief respite from inevitibility.