10

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Six years past and worlds away

I pulled my feet onto the wooden bench and tucked them beneath me. Warmth from Valhalla’s hearth glowed against my skin, but even snuggled inside fur-lined slippers, my toes somehow always managed to remain cold.

Heimdal sat at the opposite end of the same bench, as far from me as he could get. The two of us sat in the great hall, by the hearth furthest from the High Seat, although that stood empty for the moment. A handful of servants worked that other end of the room, laying fresh rushes on the plank floor, but aside from that the hall was empty.

Heimdal leaned forward, face toward the hearth and forearms resting on his knees, a cup of mead in his strong fingers. I studied him in profile—the lazy tousle of his hair, the strong line of his jaw, the way his silver-trimmed shirt stretched taut across his muscled shoulders.

A small frown knit his brow, as it so often did when I started asking questions in an attempt to turn his terse explanations about things into full-blown stories, complete with details I considered crucial and Heimdal evidently viewed as needless fluff.

I sighed. “All right. If you ‘don’t know’ any more stories about Midgard, then I guess you don’t.”

“Don’t know” had been Heimdal’s assertion. So many people lived on Midgard. Surely stories about that world must be plentiful.

The creases smoothed from Heimdal’s forehead. I saw his shoulders hitch in a sigh of his own.

I missed him, suddenly. Not stone-faced and recalcitrant Heimdal, but the warm and charming man with sunshine in his voice and a hint of a smile that I’d first met. Which was ridiculous, because I’d known that Heimdal for all of an hour. I hadn’t seen him since.

A hand on my shoulder. Fingers brushing my cheek, as I hid from my grief.

“Tell me something else, then,” I said, suddenly desperate to keep him talking.

Heimdal lifted his head and turned his face toward me, his eyebrows raised enough that I realized some of my desperation must have filtered into my voice.

“Please,” I added.

A moment from our first meeting echoed in my memory, of standing inside Heimdal’s arms with only his magical ward standing between me and the firestorm that had destroyed my world and now thrashed against the ward in an attempt to reach us.

“Please,” I’d whispered, wanting him to do something to help people we both knew couldn’t be helped.

An odd expression flitted across Heimdal’s face. Maybe he was remembering, too. He looked again into the hearth, and his brow creased all over again.

“Such as?” he asked.

The resignation in his voice abruptly flipped my desperation into determination. I hadn’t imagined the connection we’d felt the first time we’d met. I just hadn’t. What had been going on with him since, I didn’t know. Maybe he thought he was respecting my grief. Maybe he was playing dutiful Watcher for Odin, and Watchers weren’t allowed to smile or be friendly. I didn’t know. I just knew I was tired of it.

Without turning his head, Heimdal glanced at me from the corner of his eye.

He can hear my pulse. Did he know that irritation had caused its quickening?

“I don’t care. Anything.” I didn’t need Frigg’s talent for foretelling to predict the response that would net me, so I hurried to add, “What’s the smallest sound you can hear?”

As soon as the question was out of my mouth, I regretted it.

Again with the raised eyebrows, although he didn’t look at me this time. Heimdal pursed his lips and peered into his mead cup.

“The grass,” he finally replied. He spoke the words carefully.

I swore I heard that faintly-recalled note of amusement behind them. My heart lifted, tentatively hopeful.

“The grass,” I repeated. “Grass doesn’t make a sound. Unless you count the wind blowing through it. But everyone can hear that.”

“I can hear it growing.” Heimdal paused for a single gulp from his cup. “Its roots make a quiet, whispering sort of sound as it pushes through the earth. Like the worms do.”

I stared at him. He certainly looked serious. When did Heimdal not? Still, my heart kept up its hopeful little patter.

“You’re lying.” But I said it lightly, as if teasing.

“I don’t lie.” Heimdal turned his head as he spoke. His brows angled downward between his eyes and his mouth flattened. Firelight glittered in his oh-so-blue eyes as he aimed a sharp glance at me.

Then his eyes narrowed.

A breath later, his eyes widened. His brows lifted. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile.

The hope in my heart blossomed through the rest of my chest and into my limbs. With great effort, I suppressed a smile of my own.

“You can hear the grass growing.” I said it flatly, as if I disbelieved.

Heimdal’s eyes moved as he looked me over. Then, with great deliberation, he returned his gaze to the fire.

“I hear many things.” He put a melodramatic spin on the words.

I gasped. Then, aghast as I was at what he might mean by that, a delighted smile curled my mouth. I snorted a little laugh.

He was joking around with me. Somber, serious Heimdal. Joking.

“Everything in Asgard.” With effort, I kept the faux-disbelief in my voice.

“Depending on whether it’s within range. For things like grass growing, I need to be standing pretty much on top of it. It works slightly less well on…” Heimdal paused, and a frown flickered across his face. “On Midgard.”

On other worlds, he’d been about to say, I realized. And he’d cut away from that for fear of bringing Alfheim into my mind.

Just like that, the lightness in my chest faded.

Heimdal’s fingers tightened around his cup. He cleared his throat, as if struggling to find a change in topic. I was struck by the urge to slide my feet across the bench and prod my toes reassuringly against his leg. Or possibly to slide my entire body across that gap and curl against him.

That imagining was anything but comforting and quickly transformed into a vague longing.

Before my pulse soared off in a way that Heimdal was sure to notice, I took it upon myself to change the subject for him.

“Now will you tell me more about Midgard?” I prompted.

Heimdal shot me another sidelong glance. But he didn’t sigh or frown and he sounded less testy when he replied, “Why? You’ll never need to worry about Midgard.”

I’d been to Midgard, of course, as part of learning the bridge stones for later use. Alfar could only open bridges to locations we could envision. The bridge stones existed not only to hold the communication crystals that allowed travelers to call for us, but as markers for our memories.

I’d been to Midgard a few times since coming to Asgard—Thor in particular traveled there frequently. From what I gathered, the women of Midgard were pleasing to his eye. And other parts of his body, no doubt. Much as brittle, sneering Sif sometimes annoyed me, I understood that unhappiness with being wed to Thor must motivate her attitude. What I didn’t understand was why she remained with him.

I kept my opinions about all of that to myself, for the most part. Loki didn’t need fire for the fuel of his hatred for Thor—an understandable emotion, but more harmful to Loki himself than to anyone else. And none of the other Aesir seemed to care about Thor’s habits. He was Aesir. That was all that mattered.

“Because Midgard is such a big world,” I replied to Heimdal’s question. “And temperate. The people there can settle almost anywhere. No enclosures. No limitations.”

Heimdal huffed a short laugh. “And they’ve used all that freedom to reproduce to near overpopulation. They’re a short-lived, short-sighted, magic-less people. The only reason we concern ourselves with Midgard at all is to keep the world out of Jotunheim’s grasp.”

I shifted on the hard bench, drawing my knees up in front of me and tucking the ends of my robe beneath my toes as I considered Heimdal’s words. “If they’re so puny, then why worry about Jotunheim using them?”

“Because despite their lack of individual strength, the Jotun might manage to whip them into an army of numbers.” Now Heimdal did frown. “And because allowing any being to fall under the harsh rule of Jotunheim would be a wrong thing.”

His frown made me smile. “Compassion? Careful, someone might accuse you of having Alfar blood in you. Then they’ll want you to cart and ferry them all over the place. But never want to be bothered to tell you stories as repayment.”

Heimdal’s head jerked around. His frown deepened, but it appeared troubled rather than angry. I softened my smile to signal that I was teasing. For the most part.

Heimdal’s expression smoothed. He shook his head as he faced forward again.

“Part of my duty as Watcher is to protect. Not just Asgard, but worlds under Asgard’s watch. ‘Puny’ as they may be, the people of Midgard fall under that protection, as much as… as any other world’s inhabitants.”

Svartalfheim, that was the other world he meant, I told myself, determined to prevent the pain of the past from spoiling this moment of relative contentment. Svartalfheim had inhabitants. Vanaheim’s sun had burned out long ago. The survivors of that catastrophe had also come to Asgard. Muspelheim’s radiation level was even more ferocious than Alfheim’s, Helheim’s atmosphere thin and poisonous, Niflheim filled with half-lit days and gray mists. By all accounts, the Niflar civilization nestled in those mists knew even more secrets of power than the Aesir, but they chose to keep to themselves. As with the other worlds, though, I’d never been further than the bridge stone on Niflheim.

Heimdal paused for a draught from his cup before continuing. He was finally speaking—almost voluntarily—so I put my chin on my knees and listened.

“The Aesir traveled more often to Midgard in years past, when that world was young and less-populated. These days, not so much. Most of the damage done on Midgard is done by those who live there, and that falls outside the bounds of my duty. The Allfather goes, sometimes.” Again Heimdal paused, although this time not for a drink. A note of what I possibly imagined was disgust touched his voice. “Sometimes Thor.”

He was telling me things I already knew. Odin had gone to Midgard only once since I’d taken up my lonely duty as the only bridge for the gods. Thor traveled nearly weekly. I’d tired of his boorish manners after only the first time I’d had to deal with him. I could admit, however, that despite his well-deserved reputation, he’d never tried anything untoward with me. Perhaps my newly-unique position as the only bridge protected me.

“Loki—” I cut myself off before I could finish the short but treacherous sentences I’d been about to carelessly speak aloud.

Loki and I went, too. He took me to Midgard.

As soon as I spoke Loki’s name, Heimdal’s brows lowered.

“Loki has mentioned wanting to go there, too.” Although the lie was mostly one of omission, my pulse hitched a little higher. Maybe Heimdal would misread that.

Heimdal didn’t even seem to notice. He glowered into the hearth and stated flatly, “You should be careful of that one.”

I could have let it slide. But never, not once since I’d arrived, had Loki turned a cruel act or word against me. I’d noted, however, that those most frequently the butt of his antics were those most frequently harsh to Loki in return. Or, in at least two cases, their rudeness had come first.

“He acts out of loneliness. And frustration.” Frustration of my own leaked into my voice. “If people were kinder to him…”

Heimdal turned his head and fixed me with his sky-colored eyes. “If he gave them reason to be kinder.”

I leaned forward, chest against my knees, and repeated with emphasis, “If people were kinder to him.”

Heimdal grunted and returned his gaze to the fire. “He is what he is. I doubt kindness would matter.”

I stilled. A deadly sort of uneasiness settled into the pit of my stomach. “Meaning what?”

Obviously, despite his god’s gift for listening, Heimdal failed to note the sudden drop in my voice, for he merely shrugged. “Meaning that’s he’s not one of us.”

“‘Not one of us.’“ The words soured on my tongue. “Like me?”

Heimdal’s head jerked around. His eyes widened. “No. Not like you. Loki is nothing like you.”

The urgency of Heimdal’s reassurance soothed me—a little. I pursed my lips and raised both eyebrows.

Heimdal’s jaw clenched. “He is Jotun. They have powers of their own, Loki as much as those on Jotunheim. His magic may be weaker on a world not his own, but it should work well enough. Jotun spread their chaotic influence like a poison into the minds of those who are susceptible.”

I stilled, thinking about the sapphire runes that had flashed around me when I waited for Heimdal by Jotunheim’s bridge stone. Maybe that ward had been as much about blocking Jotun magic as any physical threat.

“And you’re not worried about that?” I frowned in confusion. Heimdal had put no such ward on himself—not that I’d seen.

“It doesn’t work on the Aesir.”

Heimdal shot a quick glance toward me. His brow lowered once more. Disapproval? Concern?

Comprehension dawned, and irritation chased on its heels. My frown shifted away from confusion.

“Loki is not doing that to me,” I snapped. “He doesn’t need magic to trick me into befriending him.”

“No.” Heimdal’s frown deepened. “He only has to play upon your kind nature. The Alfar are known for their—”

I sat up straighter and cut him off. “You assume I’m allowing him to take advantage of me.”

“You assume that I’m not looking out for your best interest.” A sudden sharpness filled Heimdal’s voice.

I blinked and leaned back from him.

Heimdal took a visible breath before continuing more calmly. “I know that Loki can be… charming. And there have been times he’s proved helpful.”

“The trade agreement.” I snatched at the opportunity to prove my point. “And did you realize he also foiled at attempt to abduct Idun?”

Heimdal faced me squarely and leveled a stony look in my direction. His jaw worked.

“And who,” Heimdal said, his voice low but stern, “do you think planted those plots into Jotunheim’s heads to begin with?”

Oh.

The righteous indignation that had been burning in my throat dwindled to a mere spark. I didn’t doubt Heimdal’s honesty. And given recent events with Baldur, I could all too easily picture Loki doing just that—setting plots into motion and then sweeping in to save the day.

They’re Aesir. They can take it.

The stiffness melted from my spine. My shoulders fell.

Heimdal watched me for a long moment. Then he stretched out one arm and laid his palm on my knee. “This is exactly what I mean. Loki twists the truth to suit his own purposes. And you are the one hurt by it.”

My attention immediately shifted from thoughts of Loki to Heimdal’s hand, pressed against my knee. His warmth radiated through my heavy skirt. My pulse, quite predictably, jumped.

Heimdal’s scowl vanished. Deep blue eyes met mine. For one endless heartbeat, we stared at each other, with that common knowledge of what he could hear hanging between us.

Then Heimdal drew back his hand, clasped it again around his mead cup, and snapped his head around to once more look into the hearth.

“Loki is bad news,” Heimdal muttered, but the stern certainty had fled from his voice. “You should stay away from him.”

Heat flushed my face.

He did notice. Gods.

I curled my knees tighter to my chest and shrugged with one shoulder.

“Maybe he just needs a friend,” I mumbled. But I wasn’t really thinking about Loki anymore.

Colors streaked Asgard’s night sky, brilliant glows of cerulean and royal purple and crimson that the icy energy enclosing the city couldn’t diminish. I walked home slowly, so that I could look up at them without risk of tripping. Light from the house lanterns I passed flickered warm against the cooler colors of the aurora.

I also walked slowly because a lump had formed in my throat and butterflies danced in my stomach, and the thought of sleep was exactly that—no more than a thought. Because for one breathtaking moment, while I stared into Heimdal’s eyes and knew that both of us heard my pulse pounding, I thought his heart might be beating faster, too.

Or possibly it was my imagination. But that couldn’t make me stop thinking about it.

“…being ridiculous.” The voice hissed, a near-whisper, from the shadows between houses, down the side path I’d been about to turn onto.

Hearing it, I stopped short of turning. I couldn’t tell exactly, but the speaker had sounded female.

“Ridiculous?” This voice was the opposite of a whisper—Thor. “To expect my wife to put some effort into her appearance?”

“Effort?” Now, I recognized Sif’s voice. It rose querulously at the end of the word. “Do you think I could put forth more effort than I already do? When you courted me, you certainly thought—”

“That was then. And yes, I do think you could put forth more effort. Your hair—”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Tears turned the edges of Sif’s words ragged. “You always said—”

“It’s too straight. And it hangs in your face. And have you been out in the sun too much? Your face looks blotchy.”

The strident accusation in Thor’s voice drove the breath from my lungs. I was shocked, mostly, but anger soon bubbled beneath that.

This time, Sif didn’t reply. Thor said nothing else, but footsteps so heavy they could only be his sounded on the plank-covered path. Luckily, they grew softer as they went, because I would have stood paralyzed in his path if he’d come my way.

It took me a second to realize softer footfalls pattered beneath Thor’s. And then another precious second to realize these footfalls were coming my way.

Sif rounded the corner. Firelight from the nearest house lantern illuminated her tear-streaked face. She saw me and stopped short.

I stood there for a moment with my mouth half-open, a myriad of possible things to say thrashing through my mind and none of them making it to my lips. I’m sorry your husband is an ass. I’m sorry you’re stuck in such a horrible marriage. You should leave him, because he doesn’t deserve you.

“I think your hair is lovely,” was what finally came out. I couched the words in compassion and looked Sif full in the face so she’d know I was sincere.

Every bit of vulnerability on Sif’s face shriveled, drawing her face into the more familiar tight sneer I’d become familiar with.

“Of course it is.” Sif’s voice no longer trembled. If anything, she sounded stronger and more disdainful than ever. Her gaze flicked down to my toes and up again to the top of my head. “Certainly not something you can say. You need to let yours grow out. Sadly, that won’t do anything for its lack of shine. It’s like straw.”

Then Sif pulled herself up taller, as if she sucked additional strength from the stunned expression I felt fall across my face, and stalked past me with her head held high.

Compassion was the trait the Alfar had valued most. Certainly I’d inherited my share of it, and I’d attempted to nurture it.

Despite all that, I couldn’t help myself. As Sif walked away, I had only one thought.

Maybe you deserve each other.