Chapter Text
It’s not a very dignified death. Especially for an Aesir. Especially for the deeply respected, revered, untouchable watchman of Asgard. This shame that wrecks him is numbing—he, of all people, has been defeated, and at the hands of a brute no brighter than Thor at that.
But it’s a death that never comes. Heimdall doesn’t realize it, at first. He’s too busy handling— or, failing to handle sensations and emotions he has never even dreamed of. He hates them all. He hates the feeling of his heart racing in his throat, and he hates this deafening symphony of pain that threatens to rumble his body into dust.
It’s even more shameful that the bringer of this lamentable end, this hulking mountain of a man who has just enough brains to be capable of speech, is walking away.
“Wait…”
The pale god turns to look at him, slow, spiteful. The moment this battle had started, there had been one single, unwavering goal in his otherwise empty mind: to murder him. Heimdall never even had to guess the motive behind it was his little disaster of a son. It was what made him so hilarious, so utterly predictable… until he wasn’t.
But that fire has smothered itself out now, for reasons Heimdall cannot fathom. Feral anger persists in his creased, battle-worn countenance, and yet this monster, who singlehandedly massacred an entire pantheon in cold blood, is no longer willing to act upon it, in spite of the regret written in each little step he took away.
“What is going on in that empty head…? You are going to spare me out of pity?!”
He laughs, because by all means, this is all a joke.
The Aesir live to die; everybody knows that much. It’s their way of life, and one they hold with great honor. When they start a fight, it ends. For them, for their enemy, for both; it never stops until it’s over, be it in the span of a handful of seconds or a few thousand centuries.
This so-called god killer cannot change that on a whim.
“Let it go and you may live.” is the only thing the Ghost of Sparta says. Icy eyes bore through his, and he recoils. Heimdall has regrettably met many people he’s incapable of looking into for long, their most inner thoughts so wild and morbid they make his guts churn, and this god of war certainly is one of them in spite of his mercy.
And yet he is pushing those thoughts away, and Heimdall doesn’t understand.
There are few things he has never grasped the meaning of, things that keep him bitter and closed off and angry, but this one takes the highest honors. This man may be even more dissonant than his son. Heimdall never thought that would be possible after meeting the half-breed—even the All-Father’s conflicting and ever-changing thoughts are easier to decipher.
“…why?” is all he can muster, a deplorable whisper no thicker than the softest strand of hair.
Kratos turns away from him, a grunt more feral than human deep in his throat. “I do not want this war. Nor does my son. He does not wish for you to die.” Idly, he points the spear at him, regarding him for a moment. “You are no longer a threat. Keep it that way.”
Heimdall stares at him. He stares long and hard but his gaze is lost and his mind muddled. Any and all words he could think to hurl at the god die at the very tip of his tongue as he leaves, uncertainty slowing his every step even as he destroys the doorway and goes on his merry way.
His limbs ache with a primal urge to run after this barbarian and cut his head clean off his shoulders—something he should have done from the very beginning, damn it—but the weight of fear keeps him cold and still like he has become part of the wall.
For the first time, Heimdall doesn’t know what to do. It makes his blood boil, until it feels like his skin is burning off—or that’s perhaps the accursed spear still embedded in and through his arm, painting the stone floor beneath him red, a wound that refuses to heal. A dire reminder of this… loss.
It shouldn’t be keeping him here, motionless and pathetic. He knows of brutes who would have chewed their own arms off to continue fighting, not once so much as blinking at the pain caused.
Is he just…
Weak?
Rage seeps from his restless heart into his spilling blood, hot and wrathful and maddening. For a blessed moment, it turns him deaf to the pain, but the shards of his fragmented dignity sting so much more. He grabs the spear. Winces. He grits his teeth hard enough to shatter, until a raw scream rips from his throat when he pulls it out.
He can’t regret it fast enough, as he falls to his knees and forgets how to breathe for a second too long. He clutches his arm where fresh blood trickles between his fingers from the hole left in it, and damns the god of war’s bloodline as he tries and fails to regain his bearings.
“This is not over, you hear me?!” he shouts in the direction Kratos had taken, stumbling a couple of steps forward like some drunken lowlife lost in a brimming tavern, and he hopes the lack of an answer means he and his pathetic friends are currently being mauled by Einherjar soldiers. “The All-Father will hear of this! You’re dead, sunshine! You, and your friends, and your son!”
Right. The All-Father. He will have to explain this mess to him, and he would much rather have the god of war come back fueled by the mention of his son and finish the fight. Pity it’s no longer going to happen; at least not today. He has never had to report a failure to his father. That is simply not who he is; not what he does.
He catches Huginn’s glowing gaze through the corner of his eye, and he hopes the damn bird hasn’t been there the whole time to watch him lose like a child and croak its words of mockery to its master.
“…yeah. We’re going back.”
Its shrill caw leaves his ears ringing, as per usual; more than they already are. For a split second he considers how stupid he’s being, if he should go and finish the job, but he feels as though he has wrestled the forces of nature for days, and it’s not worth fighting so many people at once when the Einherjar are probably tearing their limbs as he thinks of them—and for their own damn good, he hopes they are.
It’s fine. This is not him giving up. He never will. This was all pure coincidence, pure luck. He will have his chance again, and he will gut that good-for-nothing god killer and his mongrel, and make minced meat with the babbling traitor’s head.
Shrouded in ravens, he swallows his pride and takes one last look at the dead body of Gulltoppr.
Mangy beast.
Almost as if laughing at him, challenging him, that rat with wings leaves him just outside Odin’s study, with the doors closed and tall and menacing. Few good things are going to come out of this conversation, but he’s certain his father will at least commend his efforts.
Heimdall sighs. At least nobody else gets to see him in this pathetic state. If the most meager peasant ever finds out he has been bested in battle, and offered pity, he will be the laughing stock of the Nine Realms for as long as he lives. He can beat as many people to the ground as he likes, but it won’t erase this failure.
Surely the All-Father will heal these shameful wounds he bears.
He enters the study, where his father is having an aggravated conversation with Muninn—nothing related to the events in Vanaheim, and a wave of relief washes over him. Odin’s ravens have a tendency to exaggerate, and this story won’t come out of any mouth except his.
“Heimdall, you’re back.” his father greets gently, waving an indignant Muninn away. “Didn’t expect you here so soon. How was—“
Of course, as he raises his blue gaze to meet his, the first thing the All-Father sees is an injury, and Heimdall grimaces. This is not the first time he has seen him displeased, angry; but so far he has only ever had front row seats to see that anger directed at some poor soul foolish enough to say and do the very few things the king of Asgard does not like to hear, and those times it had been fun.
The way the All-Father’s expression falls upon seeing him is not fun.
“What is that?” Odin asks—it’s not a question—as he stands up, not once believing his single eye. “Are you injured?”
Heimdall sees one thing, and it’s this going very, very wrong.
“This- This is nothing to worry about, All-Father.” he says, trying mostly in vain to appear unfazed. He’s very much aware this is not something that can be simply swept under the rug. This is him, him, the god of damn foresight who has never lost a fight, beaten and wounded in battle against someone with the brightness of an ogre at best—someone who let him run away.
And he does not know how to go about it.
“They got… lucky. That’s all.”
The All-Father buys none of it, eye locked onto the hole in his arm like it’s the vilest sight he has ever had to witness. “Well…” he starts, voice taut, “it’s not like it’s a treat to see you in this state, Heimdall.” He walks up to him, judging coldly until Heimdall feels obligated to avert his gaze. “But at least I take it the rest of it went well?”
At this, Heimdall goes quiet for longer than he would have wished to. The room, always warm and pleasant, is mantled by a tense silence broken only by the raven’s fidgeting, and it suffocates every part of him.
“It… did not, All-Father.”
“Oh, you can’t say these things to me.” The All-Father throws his hands up in exasperation, pacing away from him. “I sent you there specifically to keep those soldiers in check and trample whoever you have to trample, and then you come back looking like this, and tell me you failed?”
Heimdall keeps his all-seeing gaze low, for he does not want to even think about this man’s mind. He has seen and heard more abhorrent experiences than even immovable walls like the All-Father or heartless beasts like Thor could ever handle throughout the years, and he has learned but one thing from them: the more beautiful their eyes, the more twisted their thoughts.
When his father was angry, he put the Ghost of Sparta to shame.
“Just look at you, you’re all fidgety, you don’t even have the decency to look into my eyes— are you broken? What happened?”
“I— I apologize, All-Father. It was all going well until… the god of war showed up. I fought him to the best of my abilities but was forced to retreat. The situation got out of control. I swear I will not fail you next time.”
“Retreat…” Odin lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his beard to collect his thoughts. Muninn lands on the table with about as much grace as a toad, eyeing between the two and the sweet details of this accursed conversation. “No, Heimdall. There won’t be a next time.”
For a fleeting moment, Heimdall’s heart stops. His lungs stop, his blood stops—it’s a blow sharper and harsher than any punch or blade and it digs deep into his soul where it makes itself home, cold and foreboding.
“…All-Father?”
The story that Odin’s eye tells is none too pretty. Reflected in it is this failure, his only failure, ever-present and relentless like his countless feats never mattered, like this mistake is all he has been reduced to and the only thing his father will ever see him as regardless of his ability to right it.
“Listen, you know I appreciate you. You do what you have to do when you have to do it. You’ve never disappointed me. Not even once. But this,” the All-Father gestures at him, all of him, “what am I supposed to do with this? Can I no longer trust you to kill a single person? What, a little thrashing and you come crashing down? Is this really who you are? Because I don’t remember raising a weakling.”
The All-Father does not expect him to say anything, so he does not.
“I am supposed to trust you, Heimdall, and now I can’t even do that.”
Devoid of any other option, Heimdall bows. “The fault is mine, All-Father. I will do everything in my power to live up to your expectations.”
"You know, you are… many things, Heimdall. You have your best and your worst. But there is one thing you will never be and that is a good liar, so I know you will. But until you can prove to me that you still care about your position, you will not step foot on the lodge, or the wall. You understand?”
“But… my duties—“
“Dismissed.” Odin cuts him off with an exasperated wave. “If you can no longer do a simple task then I believe I’m in my right to doubt your overall abilities. I will figure something out, but who comes in and out of Asgard is no longer your concern.”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Heimdall thinks this is all wrong. This is too harsh a punishment, and he does not believe he has ever heard of Thor stripped of his duties in spite of his many faults. Because Thor has many, many faults, as did Baldur, and he has one fault and a thousand triumphs. One small mistake, a lost fight that can be won with time.
He feels it again, his heart in his throat pounding as hard and heavy as Gulltoppr’s used to.
Odin extends his hand, “Oh, and I will have Gjallarhorn back.”
With this, Heimdall finds despair. His eyes dart across the room as though some imaginary being would come to his aid, but he’s completely alone in this, and his words no longer matter notwithstanding any truth or honesty they may hold. The All-Father cannot be read like everyone else can; his mind is a maze of cruel twists and turns no soul could ever expect, and he often finds himself hitting more walls than finding exits.
“All-Father—“
“Heimdall, I’m really not in the mood for excuses and much less yours.”
Heimdall lowers his head in defeat. There is no way out of this anymore, and he wishes that brute would have turned his head to mush. As unwilling as he is he urges his hand to move, unhook the horn and hand it over to his father’s impatient hand. It’s really no different than ripping out a part of himself, and doesn’t hurt any less.
Odin sets it on the table behind him, never breaking eye contact. “What am I supposed to do with you? Don’t you see? You can’t even answer to me. You’ve always had enough words to feed this entire kingdom, you lose one fight and you’re not even worth your shadow anymore.”
“Is there… anything I can do now?”
It’s a subconscious question, one that has been hanging at the back of his tongue the moment he entered this infernal room. There is a sliver of hope behind that single icy eye, and he intends to hold on to it. There would be no greater shame to him than to lose the king of the Aesir’s hard earned trust.
The Spartan god and his son will certainly not be the cause of it, lest they want to feel his sword down their throats.
It’s such a vivid image that he doesn’t notice Gungnir materializing in his father’s hand until the blunt end hits the floor, and its reverberation travels up Heimdall’s spine like treacherous chills.
His intentions with it are a dangerous blur.
“There is one thing you can do, I suppose, and one thing you can give.” Odin has a somber look on his face. Heimdall has never enjoyed seeing that dour expression directed at anyone with what heavy emotions it carries behind it. Now that it’s for him, he feels smaller than a limbless ant, and empty inside.
Heimdall does not like spears.
“I hate doing these kinds of things. I really do.” his father says with a solemn voice and a steady heartbeat. “But I can’t have you falling out of line this easily, and I know you can understand this. When you are ‘forced to retreat’, something is wrong, and I can’t take that risk now. All I ask—all I command, is that you don’t move.”
Through an opening, he sees it; this furious intent. The All-Father has his eyes in his mind. Heimdall has no time to figure out why they’re there before Gungnir strikes.
For a split second, he sees the unforgiving tip of the spear of heaven inches from him—promising no lenience.
Then, black.
Red, perhaps, as it slices through his eyes and down his neck and blood spills from its path like a raging waterfall, and he screams. Its cold touch is gone when he falls to his knees and his hands scramble to his face where pain thrives, and there’s too much blood. He breathes hard enough for his lungs to remember to function, and yet air still feels like an abstract concept.
This fear creeps back; frigid, unabated, heavy as it weighs him down and keeps him writhing on the floor, as more and more blood pools beneath him and his mind shuts down.
There’s seconds. Minutes. They don’t respond.
He can’t see.