Chapter Text
Heimdall woke up from a dream he no longer remembered, though its echoes still remained in one's mind like a thick fog.
A particularly loud crack from the fireplace caused him to blink and take a sharp breath. As the remnants of sleep began to fade away, Heimdall grimaced at the disgusting sensation of a fabric sticking to his skin and the bed he was lying on. For some reason, he was drenched from head to toe. And most important — he was not home.
Heimdall swallowed the lump in his throat. The place he found himself in felt abandoned and lived-in at the same time. Without a second thought, he used his gift and saw that he was apparently in… Midgard?
He used both of his arms to sit up. However, something about that simple motion felt wrong. No, not wrong — different. The thought of looking to his right made him tense, unable to take a steady breath as if his body already knew something he did not. Heimdall kept forcing his focus on the wind, slipping through gaps in the walls, an irritating scent of the smoke, or the cold drops of water falling down his face, how he felt them everywhere, except…
Heimdall looked to his right. His heart skipped a beat as he stared in disbelief. It was no longer his regular arm. This one was much heavier, firm and had a golden shine to it.
"What the Hel..?" He whispered and carefully moved the arm closer to take a better look. Along the golden surface, he noticed carved lines, some of which looked like runes but not of his knowledge. When he looked at the ripped, bloodstained sleeve, his eyes widened as his mind flooded with horrific memories of his arm being blown off in a fight with the foreign God of War and his desperate attempts to remove a strong grip until the darkness swallowed him.
His lips parted as he touched his neck. In that moment, when their eyes locked and he saw the monster inside, Heimdall was certain that death would claim him. And yet, he was still here — alive. However, it didn't change the strange nature of it. Why did he wake up in Midgard, in this cabin in the woods? How long had he been gone?
Heimdall sat down on the edge of the bed and took a calming breath. He looked at the door that led outside and frowned, feeling an unpleasant tightness in his chest. It weighed him down as if his heart was now made of gold as well. He felt a familiar voice at the back of his head, whispering things to him the way a melody would. Warning him.
The shadows appeared on walls like a dark veil, consuming everything with its embrace until only the door remained. Heimdall got up, not able to look away from it. The sound of his footsteps was drowned out by his heavy breathing and beating heart.
He was startled when the door swung open, stopping him from taking another step. What he saw made him freeze in terror. The pieces of a shattered realm, floating through silent emptiness. And no matter how hard Heimdall tried to suppress or deny it, he knew that the thoughts of Asgard brought his mind here. The thoughts of the home he no longer had.
The vision disappeared, leaving Heimdall once again alone, surrounded by wooden walls. He began to shake as the reality of what he saw finally sank in. With a first tear falling down his cheek, Heimdall broke down. Under the weight of grief he fell on his knees and clenched his chest. The wailing filled the house as if it belonged not to a man but a wounded animal.
It was his fault. He failed everyone. He failed the All-Father. Lost his home, his purpose. The very reason why he was born, raised, made. His very soul was filled with so much pain it felt like he could die. He wanted to die.
Heimdall froze when a familiar presence pierced his soul. He slowly raised his head and scowled, "You."
The paralyzing sadness shifted into something else: an ugly feeling boiling his insides but fueling his body to get up.
Kratos remained silent, but it didn't matter. One look into the amber eyes was enough for him to see everything he needed to know. Who was to blame for the destruction of his home; who was to blame for Ragnarök.
Blinded by rage, Heimdall screamed and launched himself with so much force he knocked Spartan out of the cabin to the ground. He threw his right fist but Spartan dodged it. Everything happened so fast that Heimdall realized he was on the ground only when the back of his head hit the hard surface. The pain from the impact caused him to squeeze his eyes shut and let out a pained cry, giving Kratos the opportunity to sit on top of him.
When Heimdall opened his eyes, it was like being at the arena in Vanaheim again, at the mercy of another god. The thick air of the realm that felt like breathing liquid into his lungs and the ghost of hands, gripping his throat. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe. His heart pounded like it was gonna break his rib cage as he began to tremble, gasping for air again and again and again.
With a shaking hand, Heimdall desperately grabbed Kratos' armor before the forceful presence of Vanaheim ripped through the sky. The intrusion of another realm felt like being pushed into a mass of water, knocking all wind out of his lungs. He tried to restore control over his power — bring his mind back to Midgard but instead, the great mountains of Jötunheim appeared before his eyes. Not a second later, the hot air of Muspelheim burned through his vision, leaving him breathless. Each new foray of a realm against his will pushed Heimdall deeper and deeper into the void: to fall through an endless darkness, where every piece of him was ripped away until there was nothing left.
Heimdall's piercing scream filled the forest. The throbbing pain in his leg spread like wildfire through every nerve in his body. His lungs, as if also grazed by flames, hurt with every aching breath. So when the wave of agony began to slowly wash away and the world finally stopped spinning, he couldn't help but smile, ever so slightly. He felt his heart beating against a warm hand on his chest. Kratos was sitting close, looking at him with an unreadable expression.
The realization, like a hollow embrace, touched his soul — the world was suddenly so… quiet. He no longer sensed Spartan's presence or what he thought and felt. The wind traveling through golden leaves, the smell of the cold forest and the shine of the sky: nothing of it was the same as before. As if he was again a little boy who didn't understand anything about the world. Before the first sorrow that didn't belong to him, like a single tear on the cheek, entered his heart. Before the heavy weight of responsibilities was put on his fragile shoulders. Before—
Heimdall flinched when he felt Kratos' arms on his back and knees. "What are you doing?" he managed to ask before Spartan easily lifted him off the ground. A sharp breath escaped his lips when the pain in his leg immediately reminded of itself again.
"I will take care of the wound." Kratos' deep voice vibrated through his body.
The younger god just nodded and closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth radiating from the body. For now, he didn't have the strength for anything else.
The cabin met them with the already familiar smell of old wood and smoke. Kratos gently placed him on the smaller bed, not far from the one he woke up on today: he could see the wet stains. The right arm supported his body since it didn't tremble like the one made of flesh and bones. He didn't have the strength to keep his head straight as a couple of drops slithered from his hair on the floor. Even without the foresight, Heimdall felt Spartan watching him before proceeding to look for something among the shelves. A particular sound of a glass clicking against each other brought Heimdall memories of the numerous times he spent in Odin's study.
"Is he dead?" Heimdall whispered. "The All-Father?"
He held his breath. Deep down, Heimdall knew the answer to that question, but he still wanted to hear it. He needed to.
"Yes."
Heimdall felt nothing. Not even something primitive as sadness or anger. As if someone he barely knew had died and not the most important person in his life. It wasn't right. He was supposed to feel something — anything. But now, memories of Odin were like an old painting that had lost its color, leaving only a faint outline of what it once was.
The planks creaked under the weight of Kratos sitting down on the floor by Heimdall's troubled leg. Alongside, he placed a torn cloth and a small bottle with some kind of mixture that had a distinct earthy smell to it. Spartan didn't comment on his next steps, simply ripped the already ruined fabric of his pants. Maybe because he expected Heimdall to see his intentions or just wasn't a very talkative person. Probably both.
Heimdall grimaced at the sight of hideously sliced, burned skin. With the first touch of a finger covered in paste, Aesir tensed up and let out a quiet moan. To his surprise, Kratos made an effort for his following touches to be more gentle.
But how peculiar was the whole scene. In their fight in Vanaheim, there were so many emotions, like a blaze of fire that could burn the whole realm. Heimdall almost lost sense of where his rage began and Spartan's ended. Kratos wanted to kill him — Heimdall sought the same. Now, he was sitting on the bed, presumably in Kratos' house, letting his enemy care for his wound. Not even a spark of hate left. It almost didn't feel real, as if being bound to a dream's narrative.
"What happened in Vanaheim?" Heimdall asked, looking at warm shadows dancing on pale skin.
"You died. By my hand."
Heimdall stared at Kratos, who didn't even deviate from the matter at hand. He was almost ready to ask if the foreign god was absolutely sure about it since it was a known fact that the gods of this world never came back to life. Well… until now, apparently. Or Heimdall was indeed dead and by some cruel twisted joke of the universe, he had to spend an eternity with the person who murdered him.
"This morning I found you on one of the shores of the Lake of Nine. Unconscious, but alive. I brought you here. You know the rest."
"Huh…" Okay, that explained why he was wet. But how did his body end up in Midgard? Heimdall's intense gaze dropped to the golden, perfectly still hand. He tried flexing his fingers — only one barely moved. "I assume you found me with the fancy arm already attached to my body."
"Yes," Kratos said and got up, finished with a bandage. "That will be enough for now."
"Why did you do that?" Heimdall asked, watching Spartan put the empty bottle back on the shelf. "The cut, I mean."
"You fell into some kind of trance. Stopped breathing. Did not react to any of my attempts to snap you out of it. Time was running out, so I used the blade. You did not react to the pain right away."
"Oh, I'm..." Heimdall bit his lip. "I don't remember what happened..." There was a distant feeling but it slipped away before he could make sense of it.
"We have to go and get Freya's help to heal it."
Heimdall grimaced. The last time he spoke to her was not his greatest moment. He was so smug and confident about killing Kratos and then coming for her and her brother. But then he lost. And died. The last thing he wanted right now was to see that woman, but not being able to walk properly for a while, he wanted even less. It wasn't like he could stumble on someone else in these woods who could provide healing abilities.
"I don't think I can walk. Not fast, at least." Heimdall said, moving his leg up and down for a little bit.
"I will carry you," Kratos said, the same way he would probably talk about carrying a corpse or a heavy cargo. But when he held out both hands, waiting for Heimdall to reach for him, for some reason, his heart tinkled from such simple action.
When Kratos stepped outside the cabin, holding the younger god in his arms, Heimdall perceived the realm as if with a new pair of eyes. Before now, he was too preoccupied to ponder over the fact that once drowned in the scads of snow, white forest, finally gained its stolen colors back: the variations of green, brown and gray blurred by the lurid, like touched by fire leaves. Nothing was left of the fierce Fimbulwinter — which also gave him closer knowledge of how much time had passed after his death.
Heimdall turned his face away from the wind. Even without the prophetic end of it all winter, it was still bloody cold. Thankfully, being held by Spartan was like being held by a kiln: solid and warm. Unfortunately, it didn't save him from feeling like a filthy, wet dog. Once they were done with the leg, he couldn't wait to free his skin from these disgusting garments, covered in blood, dirt and who knew what else.
They stopped by a pile of stones and broken planks lying on the ground. Kratos slowly put him down: first on the good leg, then the bad one. Heimdall immediately shivered at the loss of warm contact. If only he could at least hug himself to keep it. He frowned at the way his body was yearning to be back in Spartan's embrace.
Kratos took something that looked like a stone from a small bag on his hips and raised his hand. The energy from the stone transformed what initially seemed like a pile of junk into a door.
"This is how you travel?" Heimdall raised his eyebrows and took a small step forward. The skin behind the bandage didn't hurt like before.
"Yes."
Despite the atrocious temperature, he examined the magic door with genuine interest. It looked primitive, but he'd never seen one like this before; he only used Odin's ravens to travel between realms. The door kind of reminded him of small but worse-looking versions from Týr's temple. He had not visited one in a long, long time.
Kratos chose a rune in the middle of a carved tree and opened the door. Behind it was a bright portal, flowing with energy.
"I want to try to walk on my own," Heimdall said when Spartan raised a welcoming hand.
"Very well."
The Aesir followed the taller figure through the doorway but had to quickly cover his face — the energy of the light was so intense it stung his eyes. Hel, did it always hurt like that for everyone? Once he felt no need to squeeze his eyes, the bright light uncovered a beautiful sight of an enormous space, covered in shining little dots. The trees and grass on the pathway on which they stood were the same wisteria color as everything else. The drastic change from the cutting air of Midgard to a gentle atmosphere of this place almost made him lose his balance.
Kratos held him by the feltless limb. "I'm fine," said Heimdall and nudged from the older god's hand.
Another pathway made of light appeared, not far from them. Heimdall sighed, not exactly thrilled to do this again but this time prepared to protect his vision. Now the idea of traveling with loudmouthed ravens didn't seem as bad.
The other side of the gateway led them to the front of a big house. It immediately caught his eye because of how different it was from everything else. This place had an identical palette to where they just were; because of that contrast, the house looked out of place with its brown walls and thick golden accents on the roof. But the big tree growing out in the middle of it proudly stated the opposite — the house belonged here.
The god's eyes sparked with curiosity. He couldn't help but smile while looking at all the giant branches intertwined with each other like an endless circle of existence. Naturally, Heimdall knew about the Tree of Life, he just never saw himself standing in the presence of one. He had to admit how incredible it was. Perhaps this was even the heart of Yggdrasil? And apparently this was where the gang lived.
To be honest, he thought they were headed to Vanir's realm, where Freya presumably had been. It was getting very annoying, not knowing what was going on inside a person's head. But again, Spartan didn't seem like a type who would talk a lot and having in mind Heimdall's powers enhanced that outcome. If he kept asking questions, the answers he, the God of Foresight should know, Kratos might put two and two together. If he already hadn't.
Speaking of… Kratos stood at the entrance of the house, waiting for him to take it all in. With every limp, he despised how pathetic and weak he must've looked to carefully watching eyes. By the time he got to Spartan, the damn leg was aching again.
"Next time just pinch me," Heimdall said, assuming Kratos understood what he was referring to. The older god didn't bother to respond — not even with a grunt. Unbelievable!
Kratos opened the door to the inside and held it, giving the Aesir time to walk through it.
"Oh hey, Krato—oh! Is that Heimdall?"
Heimdall only had one look at the dwarf woman before he saw a more important thing and went for it.
"Yes," Kratos said.
"But I thought you killed him!"
"I did."
"Ah, well… I mean, I've always heard he was pretty persistent. I guess it applies even to death, huh?" Her annoying laughter scratched his ears like rats.
The Aesir dropped on a dining chair with a sigh of relief. The bandage thankfully had no sign of blood.
Kratos stayed by the short woman and asked her to bring Freya and Mimir here. So she still might be in Vanaheim, like he had assumed. He wondered if the decapitated head was with her. It was surprising that he was not with Kratos, the way he usually dangled on his hip.
Heimdall leaned on his left arm and lazily looked around. The interior of this house was pleasant to look at; the outside light seeped through the windows, gifting the inside with a cozy subdued atmosphere. Not surprisingly, the branches were a part of this open space too. Though undoubtedly, right now the best piece was the fireplace, near the table he was sitting at. The warmth mixed with the gentle cracking of the wood, helped Heimdall feel lighter in his body.
Kratos sat across from him by the table.
"Funny how life works, huh?" Heimdall smirked. "Before today you probably forgot I existed and now — here we are."
"I did think about you."
Heimdall straightened like a string and glared at Kratos. "Oh." The red on his cheeks spilled through his body like a warm honey. He carefully watched every possible change on the pale face. "And what did you think?"
Kratos gave him a thoughtful look as if considering whether he should share what was on his mind or not. "A god with powers such as yours… feeling what everyone else can feel. What hides behind their hearts, their fears, their regrets, their hopes and dreams," Kratos paused. "Their love."
Oh wow, Kratos did think about him. About his abilities, more precisely. Heimdall couldn't help but give him a patronizing smile for how ridiculously poetic the older god made them sound.
"Useful to someone like Odin… but of course it would have been inconvenient," Kratos continued. "He needed to raise someone who would have an empty heart, who would have no empathy, who would despise anything close to it."
A smile slowly waded from the young face. Unexpectedly, every word cut through, deeper and deeper, spreading an unpleasant tightness in his chest that felt like it was going to crash his lungs.
"What else can you expect from a father who never cared about anyone but himself, who viewed his child — his son, not as a person but as a tool."
"I am not a tool!" Heimdall hit the table with his right fist. "You think you're any better? Or did your empty head already forget that you are sitting with someone you slaughtered?"
The calmness in Spartan's composure corroded his nerves. "You were a threat to my son. A wicked god who found joy in hurting others. I do not regret killing you."
"You're such a hypocrite." Heimdall's laughter was drenched with sarcasm when he stood up and slammed both hands against the table. "Your mind might be silent when you fight but not with my last seconds. Not only I've heard about your past but I saw it clear as day. I know what you are and what you did. You can hate gods all you want but you're no better because you decided to play daddy for a couple of decades!"
The front door swung open, forcing Heimdall to pull away from the table. The injured leg was pulsing in union with his rapid heartbeat. He closed his eyes and took one long calming breath before sitting down. Shit.
"No bloody way…" Heimdall heard the familiar accent.
The Aesir drew away from Spartan when he walked past him to meet Freya and Mimir's head she was holding. They both had surprised looks on their faces. Perhaps, the small lady didn't tell them the reason behind Kratos' request or maybe found it more exciting this way.
"I thought you killed him," Freya said to Kratos. He couldn't tell if she sounded annoyed or disappointed.
"Trust me, your majesty, he very much did." There was a trace of bitterness in Mimir's voice.
Kratos raised his hand. "I will explain later. Now, his leg requires healing."
"Later?" Freya asked and glanced at Heimdall. "A god is back from the dead and you want to explain later?"
"Oh you know… Maybe no one could handle Heimdall's annoying ass in the Afterlife so they simply brought him back to life just to get rid of him." Mimir chuckled.
Heimdall rolled his eyes, "Hilarious as always, Mimir." The goat actually smiled at him. Why was the old fool suddenly so cheered up?
"Freya…" Kratos said softly. How nauseatingly sweet of him.
Even without directly experiencing her thoughts, he could still see a glimpse of conflict in her eyes. After a short moment of silence, she sighed, "Fine." As she came closer to put the head on the dining table, their eyes dropped to his new arm.
"Interesting arm you have there, lad."
Heimdall squirmed in his chair almost like he could feel their sticky eyes sliding on his skin. He wanted to cover himself but all he could really do was put his arm on his lap, closer to his stomach, which hid some of it.
"Better get on the sofa," Freya said. The Aesir grimaced at the way she purposely made her voice softer to comfort him.
He stood up, holding back a pathetic grunt. Kratos was already by his side, attempting to help, but Heimdall slapped his arm away.
Mimir sighed, "Good to see death didn't change you."
Heimdall silently reached the light blue sofa, near one of the tree branches. After he lay down, it gave Freya easier access to open the bandage. He could tell by her expression that she wanted to ask how he got injured but remained silent. The freed skin filled the space with the herbal scent; whenever he could enjoy the beautiful greenery of Asgard from its highest peak, he would deeply breathe in the fresh, floral breeze captivated by all the trees, grass and sea…
The Aesir tensed up when the vibrant alien energy pierced his leg. Vanir's magic flowed through the goddess' fingertips, temporarily occupying space in his body. The strange viscous feeling was not welcomed, but he forced himself to relax and sink back into the sofa. He glanced at her focused brown eyes. Freya looked different from their last, rather short meeting. The dark shadows painted by her motherly tears were no longer present on her face; her beautiful long hair was braided with more care and love; the sharp edges of her face softened by time. They were small changes but their presence was grand. However, even without seeing her heart Heimdall knew — the pain of losing Baldur was forever rooted deep in her soul.
She shot him a quick glance before pulling away. The pain was finally gone. The only things reminiscent of it were a hole in his pants and swampy porridge over white skin. However, in order to achieve it, Vanir's magic used part of his energy, leaving him physically exhausted. When he slightly raised his hand it felt heavier than the golden one.
"Now," Freya joined Kratos and Mimir, who had been waiting at the table all this time, "Tell us what happened."
Kratos began to tell them that he noticed a body on one of the shores while sailing down the Lake of Nine.
The words spoken by Spartan while they had been alone at the dining table crept into his mind, making him restless. He sank his nails into his skin, trying to soothe the buzzing feeling as if flies were trapped under it. Why did he even care about what that man thought of him? It didn't matter. Yet the sound of his deep voice grew stronger, merging into a high-pitched ringing.
"Heya, Heimdall!"
He was startled when the same dwarf woman appeared out of thin air beside him. Fucking Hel, he hated when they did that.
"Since your clothes have seen better days, out of sheer kindness of my big heart, I made you a new one!" She had a grin on her smudged face and a beige fabriced package in her short arms.
Heimdall slowly took the gift. "Ah… thank you, um…"
"Name's Lúnda." She proudly pointed at herself with a gloved thumb. "And you're welcome, Blondie!"
Heimdall's jaw dropped at the unexpected disdainful nickname from this woman. But of course, he shouldn't be surprised — what other behavior could he expect from uncivilized corners of Nine Realms.
"Oh and there's a room you can clean yourself in. I bet you're dying to take a bath, huh?" She snorted. "The door on the left near the entrance," she pointed until he looked in the right direction. "Cool arm by the way!" Lúnda yelled on her way back to the workshop.
Well, that was… certainly something. But the weird lady was right, his body was screaming at him to finally get into warm, clean water. And if he was lucky — to prescind from everything that happened, at least for a short period of time.
The Aesir unglued himself from the sofa and stretched his sore muscles: the remains of foreign magic were still wavering through his body. He slowly got up, happy to be able to put pressure on both legs again — walk like a god should. He had to admit that despite what he thought of Freya and her deeds, he genuinely appreciated her help. If it weren't for her abilities, he would still need to be carried around like a helpless child.
Kratos was no longer talking, but Heimdall had no desire to look if all of them were still there. Maybe they had noticed him get up and were now waiting for him to disappear behind the door so they could feel more comfortable talking behind his back. Well, that was exactly what he intended to do — have a nice bath, relax, and forget about that bald asshole.
However, with each further step, the unease grew in his stomach. The clang of Lúnda's hammer resonating through the tall walls was like an echo of his own thoughts, increasing his discomfort. He closed his eyes and sighed, clutching the package to his chest. Damn it…
Turning around, Heimdall quietly gasped when he met amber eyes already looking back at him. The older god's gaze felt heavier, as if the shadows on his pale face were thick like paint and could be smeared by a single touch. Heimdall drew his eyebrows together. Did something happen? But before he could dwell on it, Kratos shifted his attention back to Freya and Mimir.
Finally reaching the bathroom, Heimdall closed the door behind him. His eyes lingered on the golden fingers awkwardly grasping a handle before letting go.
The bathroom was neither large nor small, with the same purple gleam as the rest of the house. A few candles placed on the floor and shelves, along with steam rising from the aureate bathtub beside the window, gave the room a pleasant warmth. There wasn't any fire under the tub — perhaps the dwarf used one of their tricks to boil the water. The room even had a full-length mirror on the right side of the wall, while a slender wooden chair stood near the shelves on the left side, on which Heimdall put his new clothes.
For the first time in his life, the Aesir would not only have but wear something not made by Asgardian hand. The god scanned himself with a grimace. Well, better that than walking in these demolished rags.
The skirt had three belts, which he never had a problem taking off — until now. The stupid arm wasn't cooperative at all: the fingers wouldn't grip properly, and it was uncomfortable to do it with only one hand. Heimdall growled with anger and ripped the damn belt in half. It slipped through his fingers on the floor.
Useless, broken thing.
He did the same with the last two belts. Luckily, stripping from the rest of the baggage wasn't as infuriating. Heimdall sighed with relief once all the overwhelming sensations became a pile on the floor.
The abnormal arm weighted its presence on the naked figure. Heimdall wasn't a stranger to having distinct characteristics from other Aesirs: golden teeth and purple eyes. So why did this make him feel insecure? Was it simply the shame of how he lost the arm? Perhaps… But it could have been worse, like not having an arm at all.
Heimdall gently ran his fingers over the place where his arm got blown off, where the metal merged into flesh like veins with molten gold, where the sensation went from lively to numb. While he traced the dense surface, the engraved lines scratched under his fingertips. The young god hummed — what could these runes mean? Hopefully, Freya and Mimir would have the right answers.
Heimdall wiped the hot drops of sweat from his face and took a deep breath. Okay — one thing at a time.
He walked to the steamed mirror hiding his image and pressed his left hand to it. The familiar, but weakened energy of Bifröst flew through him: a clear but poorly lit reflection of a young man with cold gleaming eyes looked back at him.
"What the…" Heimdall leaned closer.
Once whirling, pink irises now had a violet — almost gray static color, with bright white pupils. Why the Hel had they changed? Was it just another effect of being formerly dead? And why didn't those idiots say anything? Kratos' lack of commentary made sense, they had known each other only for a couple of hours or less. But those two should have.
Heimdall removed the sticky strands of hair from his forehead: the braids were a mess, but at least matched perfectly the rest of him. There was a small pink scar on his cheekbone. He tugged the skin there as if expecting it to disappear under his fingertips.
Right… Kratos had been the one who hit him in a very long time. That was the exact moment Heimdall had lost control over everything — lost himself. Was there a part of him that wanted it? No, no, of course not. He was just an idiot who should've kept his mouth shut. He was entrusted with the Gjallarhorn because Odin had believed in him; believed he could prevent Ragnarök and protect Asgard — his dear home. But he fucked it up and now, couldn't even be whole enough to feel something about it.
Heimdall clenched the borders of the mirror, holding back from pushing the damn thing on the floor and breaking it into a thousand pieces.
Was there even a point in his existence, as someone who loved and cared, if he couldn't even mourn the loss of a home and the death of the father? To honor their memories.
Who knew… Maybe all of this was not permanent. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe there could be a day he just would not wake up.