The Dove
She was a little thing. He first noticed her when she staggered along perilously close to the edge of the bifrost, her bedraggled wings fluttering to keep her upright against the gusts of wind blowing across the water. Heimdall shifted between his Gaze and his gaze, curious about why a Valkyrie would walk to his post; indeed, why a Valkyrie would come to see him at all.
As she drew closer, Heimdall noted that her tunic had seen better days, and that her wings—a soft shade of pearly grey- were ruffled and poorly groomed, with bent and missing feathers. Part of it was the wind, but the rest of it came from neglect, and his brows drew together. With care he set his sword to lock the gate, and stepped down, moving smoothly to better look at his little visitor.
"Hail, daughter of victory," he rumbled to her.
She stopped several yards away from him, still swaying, and even from where he stood Heimdall could smell the mead on her. He hid his smile, but as his gaze took in her face, he stiffened.
Misery gleamed, tear-bright in those mossy green eyes. She drew a hand across them and tried to lift her chin, freckled cheeks wet with more than the spray of the grey seas below them.
"Hail, guardian of Asgard. I ask a boon of thee who sees all in the Nine Realms," She squeaked at him, her voice high and gentle.
A prickle of concern rose in him, and Heimdall moved closer, noting how the gusting wind caught on her wings. "How may I be of service to you, little one?"
"I beg you to look away from me. Close your eyes," she called out. "What you do not see will not trouble you, or anyone else."
This was definitely alarming, and Heimdall took another step closer to her, all too aware now of where the conversation was going. He braced himself. "That I cannot do, little one. My duty is to Odin and Asgard. ALL of Asgard, which means you as well."
She uttered a rude oath, and at any other time he might have laughed, but coming from one so woebegone and desperate it only confirmed his suspicions. Spinning away from him, the small Valkyrie tried to leap but Heimdall snagged her easily, and the sudden surprise of slamming into his huge arm blocking her way was enough to bring up all the mead she'd downed.
It arced out of her in a messy spray over the side of the bifrost, carried away by the gusts of wind luckily enough, and Heimdall waited for her retching to stop, feeling less revolted than sorry for her. When she was done, she sagged against him, clearly cried out and done with everything for the moment.
He picked her up and carried her back to the gate, fetching water and a cloth from his effects and mopped her face, urging her to rinse out her mouth. She did, reluctantly, and curled up into a little ball of feathers and tunic, her face to the curved inner wall of the gate.
Heimdall tucked his cloak around her and returned to his duty. After an hour, he realized she was asleep, and he relaxed, wondering what could have happened to bring her to this.
Three hours later, when the time came for the gate to be locked for the night, Heimdall went through his duties and then scooped up the little Valkyrie. She struggled sleepily, but he hushed her and strode the length of the bifrost with her in his arms, letting her settle back into slumber against his chest while he considered what to do.
The Valkyries had their own hall high to the north of Asgard, and it would be wisest to bring her back there, where she belonged. Yet once he reached the end of the bifrost, Heimdall continued on the road that led to his home, Himingbjorg, his steps slow and deliberate. The gates opened at his approach and he made his way inside with his armful.
It would be better to let her sleep, he decided. In the morning she could go about her business with no one the wiser to what had transpired on the bifrost. In the meantime she could rest, undisturbed.
That decided, Heimdall carried her to a guest room and set her on the bed there. She seemed reluctant to part from him, but once he'd pulled the throw over her she settled in again so he left her there and went to his own bed across the hall, oddly pleased to have helped, in some small way. He realized only as he was falling asleep himself that he did not even know her name.
-oo00oo-
The day dawned bright, and when Heimdall awoke he took a minute to cast his Gaze upward, scanning beyond the ceiling to the distant stars, assuring himself that no threat loomed, no danger to Asgard was forthcoming. Satisfied, he moved to rise only to find his progress blocked by a face full of feathers brushing his bearded chin. Startled, he realized that he had company; the little valkyrie had insinuated herself into his bed at some point in the night.
He arched an eyebrow. Awkward enough that she had done it at all, even though Heimdall knew nothing carnal had occurred, but worse still that she had done so without him even realizing it had him troubled. His Gaze was all-seeing; to be set upon, even by so small and vulnerable a creature was . . . unseemly. He cleared his throat.
A pitiful little groan rose up from the figure curled around his arm, and the folded wings quivered ever so slightly. Heimdall tried to pull free, gently, but she clung, face pressed to his muscles there, and he hesitated. Clearly not all of the mead had left her system and she was paying terrible price for it this morning. He tried not to grin, well-aware of how much her head was probably throbbing.
"I have need of my arm, little one," he whispered in a lion's rumble.
"Me too," she whimpered, adding, "My eyes are roasting."
"The mead," Heimdall told her. "Even the finest will bite back."
He shifted, trying to work himself free, and sensed it wasn't going to happen anytime soon. With care, Heimdall rolled, taking her over the top of his hip in a flutter of feathers and croaky gasps. She straddled his hip, finally raising her face to glare at him.
"Have you no mercy?"
"Mercy, yes. Pity, no," he told her, and shifted his little guest until she was sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. Heimdall checked her bloodshot eyes carefully and in doing so studied the rest of her as well.
Rounded and curvy, she had a woman's body in a small package, with hair the shade of autumn leaves and freckles to match. They dappled her skin from forehead to the sweet curve of her cleavage, and Heimdall briefly wondered how much lower they went.
Chiding himself for the thought he raised his gaze. "What are you called, daughter of victory?"
"I don't want to tell you," she rasped, trying to brush her long curls back. "I'm sorry-I will not trouble you anymore."
He caught her chin and lifted it, letting his Gaze see her shame and deeper within, her desperate unhappiness.
"You are no trouble to me and I wish to help."
Heimdall found it was true, despite what she might believe, and kept perfectly still, willing to wait her out. He was very good at staying still, and the centuries of practice won when she began to squirm under his gold-eyed stare.
"You cannot help," she finally told him, blinking rapidly. "I am disgraced and banished from the hall of my . . . sisters. "
Her hesitation over that last word told Heimdall much, and he waited a moment before speaking again, his tone quiet. "Banished for how long?"
"Until I prove myself worthy of my wings," she murmured. "Guardian, I can offer you nothing in return for your kindness except service. Allow me the dignity of repaying your hospitality with whatever chore you wish. Nobody will ever say I do not honor my obligations."
Heimdall considered her words, admiring the pluck of her spirit. He gave a slow nod. "Very well. Report to my steward, Hijor and he will find work for you. But," he added, "I must call you something, and if you will not give me your name, you may not like my other choices."
Her face tipped up, her gaze so bleak that he immediately regretted his words.
"Guardian, I have already been called more names than anyone else in Asgard; another will not matter."
"Forgive my poor jest," Heimdall told her quietly. "I meant no further hurt to you."
She ducked her face away shyly, and replied, "You are kind." Quietly she shifted to stand, wobbling a little. He reached out a hand to her arm to brace her as he stood himself.
"Steady little Cygnet."
That earned him a chuckle, and she almost smiled.
Almost.
-oo00oo-
A few words to Hijor settled the matter. The elderly steward eyed their little guest for a moment then nodded. "Yes, I can find something for her to do, most assuredly, Guardian."
"Treat her head as well," Heimdall told him. "I leave her in your excellent care, Hijor."
"My lord," the steward bowed at the compliment.
Heimdall left her there and headed up to the high city, mulling over what he knew of the Valkyries and what he needed to find out. On the way he cast his Gaze northward, looking to the hall there.
It was peaceful. A few Valkyries were in the garden, and others toiled in the library or the armory. No-one seemed perturbed or upset or even searching the grounds and Heimdall scowled at this. He continued his way up through the city, passing through the crowds and up into the court of Odin to make his report, his steps slowing.
The report was short and without incident; Odin accepted it and dismissed him with thanks, turning to more important matters. Heimdall bowed, his duty done for the week. Instead of heading back to his home, however, he found himself heading for Frigga's solar, asking the guards there for an audience, which was granted.
When he was admitted, she rose to meet him, leaving her books and herbs at the table. "Heimdall, you seek me?"
"Yes. I seek answers my lady; ones you may be able to supply. Tell me, who leads the Valkyries?"
"Skuld does, with Hrist as her aide," Frigga told him, searching his expression. "Why?"
Heimdall thought how best to frame his next words. "I have seen one go missing, and wonder why no one seeks her."
"Missing?" Frigga looked slightly alarmed. "When? How?"
"Last night, on the bifrost. This morning when I looked to the north hall there was no sign of anyone searching for her," he replied.
Frigga frowned. "That is odd. Their sisterhood is legendary, and their bonds strong. Are you sure you saw a valkyrie?"
"I am," came the careful reply. "She is safe."
The goddess looked at him, one tiny corner of her mouth going up. "I see. Very well, Guardian, I will find out why no-one is searching for her. What is her name?"
"I do not know, my lady," Heimdall admitted. "Her hair is the color of autumn and her wings cinder. If you discover anything, please leave word with my steward."
"I shall," Frigga promised. "I shall."
That done, Heimdall bowed himself out and strode to the battlegrounds to take practice against all comers there, feeling a need to vent some of the frustration within himself.
It was a good day for battle, and hours later, when twenty warriors young and old had been bested with sword, spear, and dagger, Heimdall toweled himself off and headed home, anticipating a quiet lounge in the bath before dinner. He made his way down the hills of Asgard in the golden light of the late afternoon, wondering what he would find at home. Would his valkyrie (and odd as it was he had begun to think of her that way) be there, or would she have departed? Would there be news from Lady Frigga?
Heimdall chose not to Gaze ahead to find out.
He found himself slightly melancholy at the thought that his guest might have left. Not many visitors came to his home; Heimdall guarded his privacy. Being witness to the glories and follies of the universe through the centuries made him that much more appreciative of his solitude, but there were times now and again when company would be . . . nice.
The gates opened for him and he moved through the main hall, helmet under one arm. Hjor glided over and took it from him. "Master."
"Yes, I must bathe," Heimdall admitted, aware that his servant was trying not to make a face. It was an old routine between them, as predictable and comforting as a blanket. "Is our guest still here?"
"She is," came the calm reply. "She has been at work on your armor most of the day and is now in the garden, weeding."
"And how fares she?" Heimdall wanted to know.
The elderly servant gave a smile, a small and pleased one. "She is a hard worker. Once I showed her what to do, she set to it with a will and barely took time for the mid-day meal. Your armor has not been so polished in . . . well, a long time."
Heimdall gave a snort. "A task well-suited to one who bears the same to the warriors; I am sure she has done it well. That would have been enough."
"Yes," Hjor agreed, "but she asked permission to work in the garden. I suppose since she was within view of it as she worked, she noticed it needed weeding."
Heimdall nodded, and a thought occurred to him. "What do you know of valkyries, Hjor?"
The steward gave a faint frown. "I know what everyone in Asgard knows, Master. The valkyries brew and bear mead for Odin's warriors; they accompany the fallen back from battle and prepare them for Valhalla."
Something in the older man's expression made Heimdall raise an eyebrow and Hjor gave a little cough. "They are a proud company, and do not associate with anyone but themselves and their consorts within the court."
Heimdall nodded. "Very true. Pride does seem to be a strong element to their natures."
"Not this one," Hjor murmured, and bowed, moving off to attend to some other matter. Heimdall made his way to the garden, aware of how neglected it had been of late. Hjor's grandson usually came to tend it, but the lad had been accepted as a guard up at the palace and ever since then . . .
Heimdall heard humming. He looked and saw the Valkyrie stroking one of the rosemary bushes, her hands cupping the branches and lightly caressing the leaves. The gesture looked decidedly . . . less than innocent, and he fought back a little surge of interest.
She looked up, catching his gold-eyed gaze and smiled. Heimdall was struck by the enchanting mix of girl and woman in that smile; the way it combined sweetness and joy with something earthier, something the valkyrie herself didn't seem aware of. "Lord Heimdall," she dipped her head slightly. "It seems your garden needs me."
"It has told you this?" he rumbled, a slight smile crossing his face.
"It has," she nodded. "Nothing here has been nurtured in ages, and the weeds are openly mocking your herbs. This cannot be allowed to continue."
"Ah," Heimdall replied, amused. "Yes, I agree. This injustice must be rectified to restore peace. What strategy do you suggest?"
"A full assault on the insouciant interlopers," the valkyrie offered, shaking her head. "They cannot be allowed a stranglehold through the mint and sage. Further, the rosemary is getting woody and should be trimmed back to encourage it to put out more tender leaves. And all of it should be fed of course—not a pleasant job but I will not mind doing it."
Heimdall, still aware of his own aroma, looked around the garden and gave a slow nod. "You speak as one who knows much about the subject. Hjor would be glad of your assistance and can provide you with whatever you need. We shall discuss more of this over dinner."
She gave a startled look, but Heimdall turned from her, lumbering his way out of the garden and towards the thermal pool in the pavilion on the far side of the main house, feeling a need to clean his body—
And his thoughts.
Hot springs fed the pool and the waters from them were carried off by the aqueducts to feed back into the seas around Asgard. Heimdall counted himself lucky to have his own pool, since most homes did not, but as the Son of Nine Mothers he held sway with the waters in a way denied to most others. Usually he found it soothing to bathe, but this particular evening he found himself far too aware of his own flesh, and how long it had been since he'd held it against any other.
Consequently it annoyed him, since the little valkyrie was a guest for the moment, and not anyone he should be interested in. Therefore Heimdall scrubbed himself clean and climbed out rather than lounge, as was his usual custom. After he had dressed he cast his Gaze towards the Northmost hall again, looking once more for some sign of distress and finding none.
Most peculiar.