Page 10 of Last Thrall of Asgard

Aside from what Loki had shown me of when the sky went black from smoke and the possible eating of the sun and moon by Fenrir’s pups, Skoll and Hati. We hadn’t seen any of that on Midgard, so maybe it was a metaphor. Or maybe, for the gods, it had been very, very real.

As it continued to settle within me that this was no dream, that I was at the top of Yggdrasil among gods my people no longer believed in, I imagined doors would have prevented very little of Ragnarök, even if Heimdall had been watching, poised to see it coming.

What did that mean? What had he seen when the end of the reign of gods came rolling in like a devastating storm and the battle and carnage Loki let me witness waged for real? And how had it simply washed away, anew now, as if none of it had happened?

Ithadhappened, according to Loki’s assessment of the male gods’ current states. After fire raged through a wood, and years later, new growth took root, it wasn’t the same plants, and certainly not the same animals that made their homes there. So, what form of the gods was I about to meet?

New or withered remnants?

Heimdall’s home was made of wood and stone that looked like alabaster and gold, just like the rest of Asgard. The wood smelled fresh, as if this place had only recently been built. Rebuilt? It opened into a lower-ceiling entryway with benches and hooks on the walls. There were furs and clothing and armor. A sword hung on the wall, pristine as far as sporting no bloodstains from battle, but its edge was dull, as if recently used and not resharpened.

Beyond the entryway were a dining hall and area for cooking. There was space enough for dancing too, and far at the back was what I assumed to be Heimdall’s throne as master of the house. Stairs to my left led to a loft. I could faintly make out a bed upthere, covered in more furs. Higher still, the ceiling arched above the bedchamber, with a ladder leading to a platform and an open window at its peak. Heimdall’s perch to watch the world.

It was lovely, grand, utterly spotless. And dormant. Quiet.

Sad.

“It may surprise you, young Oli, but gods are not accustomed to seeing pity on the faces of mortals on our behalf.”

I spun, barely having cleared the lower ceiling into the higher expanse of the dining hall. Heimdall stood in the doorway behind me, though where he had come from, I couldn’t guess. There was no land around the watchtower, merely the path off the rainbow bridge that had allowed me to reach its entrance.

I was going to have to get used to being ambushed by gods.

“What a worthy specimen of a mortal you are,” Heimdall said, and his slow, almost menacing approach made me backpedal. What madness was in me that I had agreed to this, to be used by gods with barbarous and obscene stories told about them?

Heimdall didn’t look barbarous—obscene was yet to be discovered—but he stole my breath and voice, nonetheless. Tales told of him spoke of a bright white, gleaming figure, and how true it was now that my eyes looked upon him.

Everything about Heimdall was white or shining gold. His platinum hair was braided in multiple sections, bound just past his shoulders, and then hung loose to his waist. His skin was fair as if never having been touched by sunlight, and his clothing was all white too, trousers and a sleeveless tunic, accented by gold bangles on his wrists and a choker around his neck. No gold teeth, like some of the stories said, though his smile was as bright and foreboding as the sun itself.

Imprinted on his bangles and choker were depictions of battle horns and unblinking eyes. The same design was stitched along the edges of his tunic, alternating colors like a rainbow, like the very bridge Heimdall looked after that had brought me to hisdoor. His eyes were rainbows too, shimmering as though they looked right through me.

He was beautiful, cheeks smooth and bare like Loki’s. Whether he chose to not grow a beard, attractive as I imagined one might be in platinum, or was unable to, he was handsome enough to not call into question his manhood. Beards did not signify manhood, but it was another old belief, that how one looked, just like which class one was born into, determined one’s worth and character.

“You knew of my coming?” I tried to keep my voice from wavering. I had no more room to backpedal, since my thighs had hit the dining table.

Heimdall cocked an eyebrow. “I know of all your comings, Oli.”

“Ha.” I actually laughed, because of course he knew. The watchman of the gods saw all, every moment of my life, from my first step to my last release of seed into my own palm, which I had then smeared over Heimdall’s name—among others. Why be formal then if he knew my sins anyway? “Quite the voyeur you must be.”

Heimdall’s smile stretched wider, and his eyes, those rainbow eyes, raked over my body. He was taller than Loki, taller than me, but not broader. If he had been human, I believed I easily could have beaten him in a wrestling match, but everything about him warned me of how inhuman he was.

Then again, if Loki thought my supposed fearlessness was an asset, why be anything else?

“Loki seems to think you all need a good fuck to get over being reset for a new age,” I said, “since most people in Midgard have forgotten you. Or doyouonly like to watch?”

Heimdall’s smile remained. “I do like to watch, and I have been watching you. On your knees, thrall!”

I dropped.

OffuckingcourseI did.

“Hm. How subservient.” Heimdall lifted my chin since I had dropped my eyes as well. Forced to look at him again, I almost had to squint, he was so bright above me.

I hated how right he was, but hesitation meant the lash or harsher chores back home. “To my eternal chagrin, my lord Heimdall, being subservient is in my bones.”

“Not eternal if you prove to please Loki.”

“I thought I was here to please you.”

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