Work Text:
Why here of all places?
With everything that’s happening — the looming threat of Ragnarök, that pesky Greek god and the boy by his side, the mask and its stubbornly hidden secrets, his vengeful ex, the impending doom of his death — perhaps he might have been thinking of simpler times.
Perhaps he might have been thinking of you.
And of course, that gift of yours.
It’s been some time since his last visit, since he last had either Huginn or Muninn keep an eye on you. Easier to pretend you never existed, though at times, a fool’s errand. You did, after all, spend several lifetimes with him. Then there’s your kid together, a walking reminder of your former union.
Sometimes, Odin wishes things could have been different, but here you are. And here he is.
You catch sight of him first.
Or maybe you saw him coming.
"What are you doing here?"
Fimbulwinter has taken its toll on Midgard, and it looks just as bleak and miserable as he remembers it to be from his last visit with Thor. With that, you — you make a most lovely sight in this dump.
Maybe it was cruel of him to bind you to a place such as this, among lesser people and where monsters lurked in every corner. Then again, he’s reminded that, just like his Frigg, you are here by your own fault.
It’s not that you mean nothing to him, you just … well, you just needed to be taught a lesson, that’s all.
Clearly, you still don’t see it that way.
"Come to gloat?" you inquire bitterly, standing in the doorway of the modest cottage you now regard as home.
If only you hadn’t been so goddamn stubborn, you could have been so very far away from … all this. Still living comfortably in the lodge he built, with servants to cater to your every whim, and the unforgiving winter nothing but a frigid tale to be told to you in passing gossip by members of his court. But you’ve always insisted upon your own way, upon your own … principles.
And so, you’ve brought this on yourself.
"You tell me," is all he says.
And yet, a challenge. You recognise it too. He looks at you, watches your gaze narrow. When you finally speak, your tone is as frosty as the snow that surrounds you both.
"I don’t do that anymore."
Odin merely shrugs. "Pity. Real gift you had."
This seems to irritate you further.
"What are you here for this time? Why now?" comes your impatient demand. And yet, he detects an undercurrent of hurt. It’s been … too long perhaps, since his last visit. You might have thought he’d forgotten about you.
A beat passes. He sees realisation dawn, anger fade. You start to smile, an almost gleeful edge to your voice as you guess, "Oh, this is about that prophecy, isn’t it? You don’t know what else to do. Or perhaps it is about that mask of yours. You always did spend so much time pouring over it."
"Maybe I’m here for you," he muses.
"You’re here for my gift," you correct sharply, displeasure returning. "I don’t need it to tell me that."
With that, you turn on your heel without another word.
Soon he’s trailing after you, shutting the door behind him, feeling the last gust of cold air disappear. A watchful eye takes to surveying the room, scanning for signs of anyone else other than you. The fact that he even has to look sours his mood just a little. Admittedly, he has been a little lax with your punishment lately.
"I see you’ve been decorating," he observes, taking a seat at a table you’ve set up in the centre of the room. Odin looks to you, tone light. "You got anything to drink?"
"Just tell me what you want this time."
You remain standing, ever watchful, ever cautious, seeming so very far away from him. Not impossible to reach though. He always has a way of getting to you, somehow. You’ve missed him, despite how vehemently you might deny it.
Still, you’ve changed, haven’t you? Even more so than when he last saw you. Midgard’s influence, no doubt. It never does you any good. You don’t seem to need him as much anymore. Perhaps you never did.
He’s not sure he likes the thought of that.
"No how have you been?"
An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air.
You stare at him wordlessly.
He relents with a sigh.
"You’re right, that’s not fair. Expecting you to welcome me back. You’re angry at me for not visiting, I get that."
Odin gazes at you intently.
"Unless … this isn’t about that at all, and you’re still angry about what happened." He shrugs. "Yeah sure, I may have … overreacted, but that doesn’t change the fact that I did what I thought was best. For you."
Something flickers in your expression.
"You always say that."
"And I mean it every time."
"I wish I could believe you."
"You can," he coaxes tenderly.
"Can I?"
He inches closer towards you, voice low and reassuring. "Don’t you know I’ll always be here for you? That I’ll always care for you? Didn’t I promise you that?"
"You promised me many things."
"And I intend on keeping those promises," he murmurs. "All you gotta do, is trust me."
He reaches out to you, but you immediately draw back, voice tense.
"Just — get on with whatever it is you’re here for this time."
He leans back, unfazed by this … contempt you make a show of. After all, you did this the last time too, and the other visits that came before. Even so, he’s still here, isn’t he?
"Alright, if that’s what you want."
A moment passes and you take a seat, unable to look at him.
It’s almost … satisfying. Knowing that even after all this time, his words still have the capacity to affect you. And why should they not?
You must still love him.
Didn’t he give you everything?
Who would you be without him? Where would you be? Who else would have brought you back to Asgard if not him? He raised you to be a queen. And just like the wife who came after you, you stupidly threw it all away. And for what?
You chose to be nothing.
At the end of it all, perhaps you do deserve to live in this wasteland. It’s the only way you’ll learn to behave. To learn your place. And once you do, it’ll be just like old times. You by his side, and your gift at his disposal. The All-Father and his little prophetess.
"You want to know why I’m here," he begins.
"I assume it’s about the prophecy."
"Yeah, something along the lines of that." He pauses, gives you a look. "You remember that … god, the one you told me was headed to Jötunheim."
"What about him?"
"You remember his son as well? There’s something the boy might be able to help me with."
You stiffen, expression hardening.
"I want nothing to do with this if it means harming a child."
"No one’s talking about killing the kid," he retorts with a snort, rolling his eyes. "You’re being dramatic."
“Am I?" you wonder coolly.
"Look, all I want is for him to help me with my mask. With enough time, he just might be able to piece it together."
"And so you want me to tell you if this will happen, if it will play out how you want it to."
"And here I thought you had abandoned your gift."
"I did. You’ve only had me do this many times, but this time I won’t. I mean it."
"Do you now?" he wonders, gaze flickering to yours.
"I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want you to hurt anyone."
"Why would I hurt anybody?" He chuckles. "I’m not always the bad guy, you know. I did save you now, didn’t I? All those years ago."
"Save?"
"Ran away, didn’t you? Then made to survive with your gift when things went to shit." His words are mocking, condescending. "The Aesir who was so very far away from home. At least that’s how I remember it. In the end, you practically begged me to take you back to Asgard. Prayed to me, pleaded with me."
"If only I was shown what entailed," you mutter. "What it showed me instead, it … misled me."
He sighs. "Still, I envy you for it."
Coldness sets in. "You’ve always envied what I think is cursed."
Odin leans back in his seat. "Nonsense. It’s a gift."
"Only when it’s useful to you."
"I suppose, but whatever benefits Asgard benefits our son, no?" he muses. "That boy of ours, he really is something. Everything we hoped he’d be. You’d want the best for him, wouldn’t you?"
The words hit you hard. Almost immediately, you shoot up from your seat, seething, "How dare you mention him? I haven’t seen him since he was a child. You took him from me."
"You abandoned him."
"I was forced to. By you," you grit out.
"And whose fault is that?" he wonders coldly.
All the colour has drained from your face, and just like that, it feels as though it was only yesterday you left home in such a state — ashen-faced, chin quivering, trying your hardest not to cry when you were asked if you’d be back. The confusion written all over his little face was probably enough to shatter your heart.
You’ve always loved that boy too much for your own good. It’s made you weak if anything. And it would have made him weak. It’s better this way, you and him apart. Besides, the man that your son is now, the man that Odin raised him to be — useful, reliable, loyal — you’d be pleased with how he’s turn out.
Odin moves to take your hands in his. When you don’t pull away, he starts in a honeyed voice, "We all make mistakes. What’s important is that you’re making up for yours. And for that, I’ll always be very proud."
He rises from his seat, a hand moving to cup your cheek. He watches you start to crack, because in your isolation, despite all the hate and anger you may feel for him, he is still all you have.
"It’s been hard on you, hasn’t it?" he murmurs sympathetically, thumb brushing across your cheek. "Being here all alone. Away from our son, from me. From family. I know I haven’t been dropping by as often as you’d like. And for that, I’m truly sorry. Truth is, I’ve been busy, but that’s no excuse, is it?"
His fingers move to grasp your chin, tilting it upwards so that you can meet his gaze. Something in your expression falters.
"I should’ve made time for you," he tells you softly. "Forgive me?"
He pulls away, gazes down at you intently.
A moment goes by.
Then finally, a crack.
"The boy," comes your reluctant response. "The boy will come to Asgard. I’ve seen it."
Eagerness grips him. There you are. There it is.
"And?"
"He’s come because of his father. He’s been … driven away."
He detects a hint of disgust in your voice, though he gets the sense that it isn’t for him, or Loki.
After all, it is your whispers that often end in suffering, don’t they?
He is bound to betray you.
That Dwarf will rebel against you.
When she leaves, you will have her wings.
Most of the time, all he has to do is tell you that it is for the good of Asgard, for the good of your son, and you carry on without hesitation.
His response now is as ravenous as it was then.
"The mask. Tell me about the mask."
Your brows crease. "The pieces … they come together. And the boy, he seems to be the key."
A thrill runs through him.
He takes and takes. Whatever you have to offer.
"And Ragnarök?"
You hesitate.
"You know I can’t see that far."
Irritation flares.
"Fimbulwinter is already here," he insists impatiently. "Ragnarök is close."
"I’ve told you everything I know," is all you say.
Odin seizes you by the arms then, fingers digging harshly into your skin. "This is really, really important. And I need you to think carefully. Ragnarök. Anything … you can tell me about that?"
He sighs at the lack of a response.
"Might be hard for me to come visit if I’m dead. You’d miss me, wouldn’t you?"
You glare up at him, voice taut.
"I can’t tell you what I don’t know."
Odin watches you closely.
"What about your son? Our son? You want to keep him safe, don’t you?"
Your gaze softens ever so slightly, but you don’t budge.
"I really don’t know."
A moment passes.
He loosens his hold on you, fingers moving to brush your hair back.
"Well …" he finally murmurs. "I had to ask."
Odin gazes at you fondly, tone now affectionate.
"Even so, I always knew you wouldn’t let me down." He chuckles. "My little prophetess. I nearly forgot how good of a team we were. How … talented you were."
His hand slides down to rest on your throat, and the lightness vanishes. He regards you with a dark gaze, eye tracing your skin.
Then, after a while, his words come quietly.
"I’ve always loved you. You know that, right?"
He steps closer, fingers curling around your neck.
"Even after all that treachery. Even after you turned your back on me."
"You didn’t give me a choice."
"No, you just chose to betray me."
"I didn’t want to."
"But you did. You should be dead, you know. Or worse."
"And yet, you still need me, don’t you?" you challenge, neck still in his grasp.
He could kill you. Should kill you. Is it true, that he still needs you? A son blessed with your gift of foresight was all he wanted at the beginning, really. But after bearing him that child, you’ve still somehow managed to prove yourself useful. How many times have your insight proved valuable? That you’ve dealt with a problem that hasn’t even begun?
But more importantly, you’ve grown on him, haven’t you?
"You had your son kill most, if not all the Giants," you continue accusingly. "And you strangled that Giantess because you didn’t like what she saw. Now they’re all gone. Because of you. And so, now — now you keep me alive despite the treason I’ve committed because I’m the only one left with the gift of prophecy you so desperately covet. That’s unless you prefer to seek out the Norns, but we both know how much you despise them."
Your hand slides up his arm, gripping his wrist.
"If you truly wish me dead, then do it. Murder me. Murder me like you murdered your dear friend Gróa."
He chuckles lightly.
"You’re overreacting. What makes you think I want you dead? You should be, but you’re still here, aren’t you?"
"So you want my gratitude?"
"I want to know if you still care," he murmurs, gaze intent. "Do you truly hate me? As much as you claim you do?"
He sees you hesitate.
Then.
"I should. After you sent me here, after you made me leave my son." A trembling pause. "But I don’t." You can barely even look at him. "I can’t." Your voice wavers. "No matter what you do."
"I’m a difficult man," he says, fingers releasing their grasp on your throat, grazing upwards to cup the side of your face. "I admit that."
"You’re a god."
"And is that so bad?" Odin wonders, thumb caressing your lips.
Worse, you whisper as he leans in to have you. You let him.
You always do.
•••
"You’ve been to see my mother," Heimdall will later say. Carefully, for it is a sensitive subject he is about to broach. Callously, so that the All-Father does not know that a part of him still cares.
It’s pathetic. Truly.
"I have," comes his father’s response.
Heimdall waits. And waits. But the All-Father never elaborates, never looks up from his book.
"I’m surprised she made it all the way to Fimbulwinter. She always did have a rather … weak disposition," he drawls, voice dripping with contempt.
But he doesn’t hate her. Not really. He remembers her delicate laugh, her smiling eyes. That gaze of pure adoration whenever she looked at him, as though he was who she loved most. No one ever looks at him that way anymore.
She would still. He knows this.
"You’d think she’d have perished by now," Heimdall muses with a dramatic sigh, fingers distractedly grazing across a scroll as he lingers near the table where his father’s seated at, nose still burrowed in his book.
"So you want her dead?" the All-Father suddenly asks, gaze flickering to him.
Heimdall hesitates, scoffs.
"She betrayed us. She betrayed you."
"Sure, sure," the All-Father murmurs. The book slams shut. His father’s full attention is now on him. Heimdall wished for it just seconds earlier, will long for it always, but now that he has it, it isn’t a very pleasant feeling. It never is.
"So, do you?"
His brow creases. "All-Father?"
"Want her dead."
Heimdall freezes.
His father is still staring at him, waiting. Waiting for an answer. He wants to know. He always does. Somewhere behind him, Huginn screeches.
Then, reluctantly, almost disgustedly, he forces himself to respond.
"No."
A moment passes.
The All-Father hums, reaches for his book, attention shifting away from him, and it’s almost as if the moment never happened.
Heimdall tries not to look too relieved.
"That’ll be all."
His arm flies up to his chest, back already instinctively bent in a bow.
"All-Father."
He’s met with only silence. Always only silence.
And when he leaves, it’s as if he was never there at all.