Chapter Text
Heimdall didn’t wake. Not even days later, not even when a week had passed. Kratos understood Atreus’ Aesir friend’s suspicion - if he hadn’t seen Freya’s confused, worried face at the news that Heimdall is still asleep, he might have even shared them and assumed malice.
At first it could have been merely - merely, a poor word choice for someone who did not even remember how to sleep - exhaustion. Heimdall was grievously injured, had been barely kept alive by Odin to be used; it made sense that his recovery would be just as taxing, and sleep was the great healer.
But even as some color returned to him, as his wounds began to heal, he didn't stir. Not even when they cleaned and treated his arm. The wound was ghastly, the ragged edges burnt closed by the magical arm Heimdall had forced onto himself with what had seemed like pure rage and will.
In that matter alone, his deep sleep had been a mercy, when the healing looked more brutal than the inflictment of the injury.
For his part, Kratos’ guilt over the injury was tremendous; there were things worse than a swift death, and losing a limb - especially for a warrior - was among them.
It was worse, somehow, that after that first, well deserved anger, the Aesir didn’t look at him like the monster he was any longer. They hadn’t fully forgiven him, but they weren’t blind to the truth that Heimdall had angered Kratos into his actions.
And it was Heimdall’s death that had freed him from Odin’s curse. Only for the younger god to be cruelly enslaved by his father once more, now without even the illusion of choice. Not even Zeus had been that callous. He discarded his children with little regret when they dared to move against him in even perceived slight, but he never forced them to love him for the chains he wound around them.
But Odin had molded Heimdall from such a young age, made himself his son’s first priority in all things and hadn’t even had the mercy of letting him rest once Heimdall died under his orders.
Mimir wasn’t the only one who wished he could kill Odin again.
Freya, too, had settled her rage on Odin - more so, in her case. She had known Heimdall as a child, better than Mimir had, and clearly had buried most of those memories deep during her exile.
Kratos found her sitting beside Heimdall’s bed, looking down at him with a weary, resigned sort of grief.
“I taught him his first spell.” She said, not bothering to meet his eyes. “He was a quick study, and unendingly curious. And…kind.” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “It was a simple little trick, something to mend…small tears in clothing, cracks in wood, such things. He spent the rest of that day inspecting every single one of…Baldur’s toys and fixing any little thing he found.”
She turned to him then, her eyes dark and shuttered. “I’d forgotten about that. After Tyr’s ’betrayal’ I…I didn’t have time for him. Baldur was still too small to understand what was going on, just aware enough to know something terrible had happened, and…I didn’t have time for Heimdall. For a child who was not my own.”
She curled her hand into a fist before taking a deep breath and continuing. “And then, the next time I saw him, he was…different. Cold and…cruel. And I told myself this was merely grief. But then he just stayed like that and things got worse and worse…or maybe I started noticing more, and somewhere along the way I told myself the child was just as wretched as the father was. And I didn’t even try to understand him. I just judged them both and left it at that.”
“Odin was good at blinding people.”
“And I knew that.”
“Knowledge of his guile does not make you immune to it.”
Freya sighed tiredly, not yet ready to absolve herself of perceived guilt, and turned back to Heimdall.
“There is something…wrong. Obviously. But I don’t know what. Odin’s spell ceased when Heimdall died, but he is still…it’s not a broken mind. Not just a broken mind at least, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Who would know?”
“Odin, of course. And…” her eyes widened as she turned to him swiftly, their gazes meeting. Kratos realized what she meant the moment her mouth opened.
“The Norns.”
They brought the possibility to the Aesir gods together, Thrúd slipping away the moment she saw them leave Heimdall’s room to keep vigil at her uncle’s bedside.
Sif and Thor exchanged a look, then Sif sighed.
“Of course. We should have thought of them…but we don’t know where they live.”
Freya started in surprise. “What?”
“Odin never allowed any of us to seek them out.”
“Why…no, of course he didn’t.”
“He took Heim. Once.” Thor said after a moment of consideration, looking tired. “He never said anything about it, but I don’t think it went well. That was before…before.”
From their first meeting on, Kratos had known the other god was worn down and world weary, the kind of resignation that made you accept any chains placed on you, because there was no reason to fight.
Because there was no reason to hope. It was a familiar feeling, and a part of him wondered if this was what would have become of him had he stayed in Greece.
And even now, with the one holding the chains finally slain, there was still no real reprieve for the God of Thunder, the way Faye, and then Atreus, had been for him.
He resolved to change that, no matter what it took.
—
Kratos found himself leading Thor to the shores he had visited with Freya before, but the other god remained on dry ground. The kelpie refused to take him. They’d both agreed, without having to say it out loud, not to take their children. Kratos wouldn’t burden Atreus with the weight of fate any more than he already had been, and Thor obviously agreed.
The ride under water was as disorienting as it had been the first time, and he felt his shoulders tense as he brushed past the first golden strings in search of the sisters.
“Oh, look, he’s sad now. How surprising.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply.
“Yes, yes, wouldn't do to lose your temper…again. Get over here, we’ve been waiting long enough.”
The crone waved him over impatiently, her sisters sitting beside her. Despite the sarcastic words, there was none of the mocking levity of his first visit present. The child - Skuld, sat sideways in the adult sister’s lap - that was Verdandi, he recalled - her eyes red, as if she’d been crying.
“Obviously we know why you’re here, so let’s skip all the unpleasantries. Ask your question, and make it short. You don’t have much time.”
Before Kratos could even open his mouth, Skuld surged to her feet and rushed over to him.
“You have to find the missing part and give it back to him, or he won’t ever-”
“Skuld!”
Kratos ignored the sharp rebuke. “What missing part?”
It was Verdandi who spoke next. “The answers you need are already in your reach. What has been done to Heimdall has been done before. You have met others cursed this way. Loyal to Odin even beyond his death.”
Her eyes were somber, but she and Urd both went quiet, the room slowly fading into darkness. Skuld looked over her shoulder and then stood on her tiptoes, whispering frantically.
“Odin stole it, but he kept it close, because he couldn’t get rid of it. It’s not what you’ll expect it to be, either. You can’t…” the words lowered into little more than breath, too soft to make out as the eternally youngest of the sisters of fate too vanished into shadows.
Leaving Kratos on his own, none of his questions answered.
—
It was Thor’s daughter, Thrúd, who understood the Norns cryptic words first. She was frozen as Kratos had finished his recounting of the second time he sought out the Norns, and looked at her parents frantically.
“The Einherjar.”
Sif’s eyes widened, her hand going to her mouth as they both turned towards Thor, who also showed uncharacteristic shock.
“I don’t understand.” Freya said, looking between the family members. “I know the Einherjar are brought back to life for dying valiantly, but they serve of their own free will.”
“They did, yes. But Odin wanted…more than willingness.” Sif frowned. “But…Skuld said Odin took something from Heimdall? Something that is more than…will?” She turned to Thor again, looking up at her husband.
“I’ve seen him cast the spell on them, but there was never any…He didn’t take anything from them.”
“What is the difference between Heimdall and the Einherjar? That he is a god? They’re mortals.”
Kratos felt the tensioning of his son’s body, turning towards him before the sharp inhale had alerted everyone else to Atreus’ thoughts.
“They’re dead. I- I mean they died, and then they’re brought back. Like…”
His wide, worried gaze settled on Kratos, looking more like the child he had been before Fimbulwinter had forced him to grow up as fast as possible.
“Like Brok.”
Mimir, who had been quiet until those words, deep in thought, gave a cry of realization.
“That’s right! Well done, lad, that…that’s…” His face moved from excitement at a riddle solved to slowly dawning horror.
“That means…”
He trailed off, visibly steeling himself. His crystal eyes closing for a second of grief before he looked at them again.
“Brother, what’s Brok missing? He told us.”
All at once, Kratos remembered that day they had gone to craft the Draupnir spear. The mermaid, and her reaction, and the dwarf’s shock and angered grief as the implication of her dismissal sunk in.
“A part of his soul.”
Atreus moved closer to him, close enough to brush their arms together for comfort, but he turned towards the others with determination in his stance nonetheless.
“That’s what he stole. Odin stole part of Heimdall’s soul.”
“Aye…it’s…everytime I think the fucker can’t get worse. When any being is brought back from death, no matter the intention behind their resurrection, a part of the soul is lost. So with the Einherjar, Odin’s spell just replaced what was already gone. But Heimdall…the lad’s soul was complete. Odin had to…carve out space.”
Mimir’s words rang into complete, horrified silence. After a long moment of stillness, Thor was gone in a flash of lightning, a crack of thunder loud enough to rattle the cavern echoing his departure.
Sif closed her eyes, swallowing hard as she wrestled for control, opening her arms blindly for Thrúd to rush in and cling to her, her face pressed into her mother’s neck.
Next to him, Atreus looked pained, plaintive regret about causing such additional grief to his friend. Kratos set a hand on his shoulder, as always feeling a relieved warmth when the touch wasn’t shrugged off, even in the current situation.
Freya was frozen into a statue, her eyes unseeing. Her face was set in stone as she processed the words, the depth of the depravity Odin had inflicted on his own blood.
Kratos felt cold. His rage had always been a burning thing, consuming and destructive, though he had learned to control it after years of being its slave. Faye had been the one who taught him that, and so, it had been years since he felt like he was at the mercy of his own fury.
But this felt different. He was reminded of the unforgiving, unceasing winds of Helheim, furious enough to cut even stone away, cold enough to freeze the blood in your veins.
That was how he felt now. His rage had always been intimate. It was directed at those who stood against him in any way, those who stole, lied, hurt or betrayed him. Only recently this had grown to include those he cared about - but even then it had been, at its core, a selfish emotion.
In the refuge of his own mind he could admit that in part, this was the case here as well.
The profane assault that had been inflicted on Heimdall was an unbearable weight of pain upon Thor’s shoulders - someone he felt deep kinship with, more than he ever had with anyone, except Freya.
And yet it went deeper, as well.
This was a violation of something truly sacred, something untouchable. The soul was infinitely precious. This was the reason Undead of any kind felt off, on some instinctual level few could even consciously process.
Even Brok radiated that subtle wrongness, though the warmth of familiarity and affection dimmed it.
But at least the Undead themselves were not aware of their own loss, not even the ones who regained their consciousness. Their incomplete soul was the only one they’d known.
What was it like for someone who had to be aware, even just in the deepest recesses of their mind, that there was something missing? That they were in some way lesser than anyone around them, lacking something so intrinsic they couldn’t even know what it was.
It explained so much.
Heimdall’s abrasive behaviour, caused by an unacknowledged envy, a longing for something he couldn’t even define missing.
The way it was so easy, felt so natural, to resent him.
How grateful he must have been to Odin for any scrap of warmth. How even the thought of losing the favour of the All-Father, of the only person seemingly not loathing him must have been too much to bear.
What had been done to Heimdall went far beyond personal. It was an all-encompassing wrong, a sin so profound it tainted the fabric of existence.
For the first time, Kratos’ anger was a cold, unending thing.
—
With Sif’s advice, he found Thor in a stone keep atop the wall. It was a round structure, bare stone with none of the artistic craftsmanship the Great Lodge or even most of the houses in Gladsheim showed.
Himinbjorg.
Heimdall’s home.
It made sense for it to be built atop the wall, and the ever present wind made wood an unsuitable choice for building materials. This was a watchtower first, and a home only distant second.
The first floor proved his observations true - it was sparse, cold and impersonal. This could have been a room in an army’s barracks, populated by so many there were no traces of any singular personality.
He took the winding stairs to the second floor, but didn’t bother to stop there. This room was just as bare, except for a table, some chairs, and some crates. All of it was covered in a thin layer of dust; even before his…defeat, Heimdall had clearly not spent much time here.
He found Thor on the third, and final, floor. The other god sat heavily on the ground, leaning against a pristine, dust covered, bed.
He held something in his hands, staring at it with that unseeing, tired gaze he had. The one that had seen so much it had learned not to see at all.
“I never wondered where this went. Some craftsman gave it to him when he was…I don’t even remember. He reached my navel, when he stood on his tiptoes. Carried it everywhere until…”
He trailed off.
Stepping closer, Kratos could see what it was that held the God of Thunder’s despaired attention.
It was a plush toy. Little more than a slightly elongated ball, with a smaller one fashioned at the top, half of it some approximation of skin color, the rest covered in either ’leather’ armor or, in the case of the smaller head, shaggy red string fashioned as hair and beard.
Two chips of blueish stone served as eyes.
Two little ’arms’ and ’legs’.
The left one had a little hammer attached to it.
Someone had spent much care in drawing on the tattoos marking the original onto the bare ‘skin’ of the doll with what seemed to be charcoal.
“Turns out he kept it.” He huffed out a bitter laugh before setting the doll down beside him with utmost care. Only then did he focus on Kratos.
“So, this really isn’t a good time to make me look at you. Makes me remember you killed him.”
He waved a hand as if he wanted to wipe his own words from the air.
“I prefer to hit my problems until they stop moving, and I can’t do that here, because you already killed Odin. Normally, that leaves mead. But that’s…I wouldn’t do that to Thrúdy. Sif and I promised…”
Kratos didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed, letting Thor talk. But he seemed to have said his piece, staring into space.
After long moments of this, he finally stirred, looking directly at Kratos again.
“Why’re you here?”
“I will not lessen your grief by cheapening it with platitudes.” Kratos said honestly, inclining his head at the short, bitter puff of laughter Thor let out.
“So I will keep you company during this time instead.”
“What a pair we make.” Thor huffed, but nodded, accepting the words for what they were.
“We will find what was taken from your brother.”
Thor looked at him searchingly for a moment, then shrugged. “I meant to ask earlier. Why’re you suddenly so invested, Spartan? This isn’t any of your business. Last I remember you’d have been fine just living out eternity in that shack of yours.” He made a short pause.
“But suddenly you care beyond keeping your son safe? For a god, of all things?”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I saw how you looked at him.”
Kratos remained quiet. What was there to say?
He had regretted killing the beautiful God of Foresight before his blood on his gauntlets had grown cold. He had tried, he had vowed to himself he would find another way. He was not fate’s slave any longer. He had changed.
Only, apparently, he hadn’t. Not enough. A part of him had known, even as his rage clouded his vision, that Heimdall’s poisonous words were nothing more than that: words. The Aesir was beaten, maimed, and not truly a danger to Atreus any longer.
And still he had let his rage rule him again.
Seeing Heimdall again, alive, had been shocking, and for a single moment, relieving. His mistake had been fixed, he did not have to add a name to the long list of regrets he’d carried with him for so long.
After that one moment of relief, he had taken in the younger god’s state, and his heart had sunk.
The wounds he had inflicted, the missing arm most of all, still looked fresh, not even in the first stages of healing. He was filthy, and broken. So different from the white-vested, neat young god who had taunted him in Vanaheim, fair even in his cruelty.
It was worse when he had woken up. The fear and the acceptance of his fate when before he had railed so proudly against it - his certainty that they would leave him to this suffering, those eyes, different from before, the cold, piercing brightness of the magenta dimmed into a more mesmerizing blueish-purple; all had made it all too clear that this young god was broken, and had been even before he had ever faced Kratos.
But now, as Heimdall lay asleep, not waking, yet another emotion emerged. Kratos found his gaze wandering towards Heimdall every time he had a second to spare. Thor wasn’t the first to notice; he had felt Freya’s gaze on him too often for that.
He couldn’t name the feeling rising in his chest yet, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He wasn’t sure he had the right to.
“I’m not telling you to stop. Just…make sure you know what you’re doing.”
The words startled him back to the present, where he still stood in this sparse, never-used bedroom, giving company to someone who had been an enemy little more than a month ago, and who had been similar to him in all the ways that hurt from the beginning.
—
Kratos laid down to sleep slowly, exhaustion dragging at his very bones. More than his body, it was his mind that yearned for rest, the refuge of sleep.
He closed his eyes -
and opened them to golden autumn, a soft, cool breeze rustling the leaves in the trees around him.
The achingly familiar notes of a half-forgotten song couldn’t drown out the footsteps behind him, and he turned slowly.
“There you are, my Love. I have someone here I want you to meet.”
tbc