The journey through the Nine Realms had been a whirlwind of experiences, challenges, and growth for both Harry and Hela. After years of training, battling, and learning, the two had finally returned to Vanaheim—a place that had come to feel more like a home than any other realm. They settled back into their old cottage, a simple, rustic dwelling nestled on the outskirts of the village where they had first taken refuge.

But as they approached the village, they were met with a sight that took them both by surprise. The old, worn-down huts and makeshift shelters that once dotted the landscape had been replaced with grand, beautifully crafted buildings, each one intricately carved with designs that celebrated the natural beauty of Vanaheim. The air buzzed with the sound of construction, as villagers worked together to build new homes, markets, and gathering halls.

Hela, still adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of magic and beauty around her, turned to Harry. "It's as if they've built an entirely new world," she murmured, eyes wide with wonder.

Harry nodded, equally taken aback. "I've never seen such a transformation in all my travels," he replied. "It's like an entirely different village."

Curious about this drastic change, Harry decided to speak with the one of the village elder, a kind, elderly woman named Ylva, who had always been friendly to them. Together, he and Hela made their way to the newly constructed hall, where Ylva sat, carefully arranging some scrolls and magical trinkets. She looked up and smiled warmly as they approached.

"Haraldin, Helena," she greeted them with the names the villagers had given them. "It's good to see you both again. How long has it been since you last visited us?"

"Not long enough for this to happen," Harry said, gesturing to the new buildings around them. "What happened here? The village is… it's thriving."

Ylva's eyes sparkled with pride. "We are finally building, truly building," she said. "We have you to thank for it, Haraldin."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Me? I don't understand."

"You see," Ylva began, "before you and Helena arrived, we lived in fear of the space pirates. They would come, year after year, taking what they wanted, burning what they didn't, and leaving us to pick up the pieces. Our homes were never meant to last, only to provide shelter until the next attack. There was no point in building anything beautiful or permanent when it would all be destroyed."

"But that changed," Hela interjected. "Because of Haraldin?"

Ylva nodded. "Yes. When you defended us, fought back against the pirates, and showed us how to protect ourselves, we realized that we didn't have to live in fear anymore. With your guidance, we built walls around our village, warded them with magic, and trained to defend ourselves. The space pirates no longer attack us, and because of that, we finally feel safe enough to create something lasting."

Harry's heart swelled with a sense of pride and humility. "I only did what anyone would do," he said softly.

"No," Ylva corrected, shaking her head. "You did what no one else could. You and Helena gave us the strength to fight back, to believe that we were worth defending. That's why we built something to honor you." She gestured for them to follow her outside.

As they stepped into the village square, Harry and Hela were stunned to see two life-sized statues standing proudly at the center. One was of Harry, dressed in his battle robes, his sword extended forward, his expression fierce and protective. The other was of Hela, her eyes blazing with power, her swords drawn, and her posture regal and commanding. Around the base of the statues were inscriptions in the runic language of Vanaheim, telling the story of how Haraldin and Helena had protected the village, driven away the invaders, and inspired hope in a people who had known only fear.

Harry stood in silence, staring up at his likeness. "I… I didn't do this to be honored," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"We know," Ylva replied gently. "And that's why we wanted to honor you. Because you never asked for it, but you gave us everything."

Hela's gaze flickered over to Harry, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's well-deserved," she said. "You've always been too modest for your own good."

Harry's eyes turned toward the statue of Hela. "And you," he said, "you're just as much a part of this as I am."

Ylva nodded in agreement. "The magical community of Vanaheim insisted on building these statues," she explained. "They are the ones who have traveled across the realm, setting wards and protective spells around every village and settlement. They say it is because of your guidance that they were able to do so, that your magic inspired them to protect their homes. This is their way of thanking you."

Hela's face softened, and she placed a hand on the base of her statue. "I never imagined I'd be seen this way," she admitted. "Not after everything."

"People change," Harry replied, squeezing her hand. "And you've more than proven yourself to them."

As they continued to walk through the village, they saw more signs of their influence. Villagers approached them with smiles, offering them food, drinks, and gifts—small tokens of appreciation for the protection they had provided. There were children practicing simple spells, teenagers working together to build new homes, and elders who spoke of a brighter future for Vanaheim, one that Harry and Hela had made possible.

Eventually, they made their way back to their cottage, the place they had first called home in this realm. It was still as simple as they had left it, but now, it was surrounded by a flourishing garden, filled with flowers and herbs that the villagers had planted. A symbol of life, growth, and hope.

As they sat together on the steps of their cottage, Hela leaned her head against Harry's shoulder. "You've done so much for them," she said softly. "For me."

"We did it together," Harry replied, wrapping an arm around her. "And we'll keep doing it. No matter where we go, no matter what we face, we'll always find a way to make things better."

Hela smiled, closing her eyes and letting the warmth of his words wash over her. "Together," she agreed.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the village in a warm, golden light, Harry and Hela sat there, watching over the world they had helped create, a world that was finally at peace.

The news of Haraldin and Helena's return spread swiftly across Vanaheim. It began as a whisper, moving from house to house, until it transformed into a wave of excitement that swept through the villages. Soon, families packed their baskets with fruits, fresh-baked bread, honey, and handcrafted items, making their way toward the secluded cottage on the outskirts where the two legends resided.

By the time Harry and Hela stepped outside to inspect the commotion, they found themselves surrounded by smiling faces, each villager eager to offer a gift. Harry, ever gracious, accepted each one with heartfelt thanks, bowing to the older villagers and exchanging handshakes with the younger ones. Helena, towering and regal as she stood beside him, nodded politely, her stern demeanor softened by the warmth of the crowd.

Soon, the magical community arrived. The Seidr of Vanaheim, dressed in robes woven from the enchanted fabrics of their realm, made their way to the cottage. They were the most anticipated guests, for it was they who had maintained the cottage during Harry and Hela's absence. Their leader, an elderly seidr named Lysandra, stepped forward, a serene smile on her face. "We kept your home as you left it," she said, bowing her head slightly. "And in your absence, we continued to experiment, to learn. Your teachings left us with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, Haraldin."

Harry returned her bow. "You have my deepest gratitude, Lysandra. It is a comfort to know our home was in good hands."

"We have developed many new forms of magic in our studies," Lysandra continued, her eyes bright with excitement. "We would be honored to share what we have learned with you, Haraldin."

The other Seidr nodded enthusiastically, and Harry could see the eagerness in their eyes. These were people dedicated to magic, who craved the opportunity to share and exchange knowledge. He had always admired that about the people of Vanaheim. "I would be honored to learn from you as well," Harry said. "And, in return, I will teach you what I have learned from the Nine Realms."

The Seidr beamed with joy, and Harry knew that this exchange would be one of the most fruitful yet. As they began discussing plans, Harry noticed a familiar face among the group—Freya, the daughter of the village leader Bion, stood shyly at the back, listening intently to the conversation. She had grown since he last saw her. No longer the small child who ran around the village, she now wore the robes of a Seidr apprentice, her eyes bright with the same curiosity that had drawn her to Harry all those years ago.

"Freya," Harry called out with a smile. "It's good to see you."

Freya's cheeks flushed, and she bowed her head quickly. "It's good to see you too, Haraldin." Her voice was steadier than he expected, though her excitement was still evident. "I… I started studying magic, just like you."

"I can see that," Harry said, his smile widening. "You've made great progress."

"She's one of our most promising students," Lysandra added, placing a gentle hand on Freya's shoulder. "She has a natural talent, much like you did when you first arrived."

Freya's face lit up with pride, and Harry felt a swell of warmth in his chest. He remembered the small girl who had followed him around, pestering him with questions about magic and power. To see her now, standing among the Seidr with such confidence, was a testament to her determination. "Then I look forward to teaching you," Harry said warmly. "And perhaps, you'll teach me a few things as well."

Freya nodded eagerly, her eyes shining. "I promise I won't disappoint you."

They spent the next several days exchanging spells, potions, and knowledge. The Seidr demonstrated their mastery of nature-based magic, showcasing how they had learned to manipulate the elements and infuse their spells with the life force of the land itself. Harry listened intently, absorbing every detail, while Helena watched from the side, her arms crossed but a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had never been one for the subtleties of magic, but even she could appreciate the beauty in what the Seidr had accomplished.

In return, Harry shared the magic he had learned from the other realms. He demonstrated the shadow manipulation techniques from Svartalfheim, the fire-wielding spells from Muspelheim, and the ancient runes of Jotunheim. The Seidr watched with wide eyes, eagerly taking notes, their fingers twitching with the urge to try the new magic themselves.

Freya, in particular, was captivated by Harry's lessons. She stood by his side, her eyes never leaving his hands as he cast each spell, and when he offered to guide her through the process, she accepted eagerly. "You have a gift," Harry told her one afternoon as they practiced by the river. "You learn quickly."

Freya blushed, but she met his gaze with a newfound confidence. "It's because I have a great teacher."

Harry laughed, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Keep that attitude, and you'll be teaching me before long."

As the days turned into weeks, Harry noticed how much Freya's magic improved. Her spells were more precise, her runes more intricate, and her connection to the magic around her grew stronger with each passing day. One evening, as they sat around a fire with the rest of the Seidr, she turned to Harry with a serious expression. "Will you ever leave us again, Haraldin?" she asked quietly.

The question caught him off guard, and he glanced at Hela, who had been quietly observing the stars. She met his eyes, her expression softening, and he felt an unspoken understanding pass between them. "One day," he said honestly, turning back to Freya. "There are many places left to explore. But no matter where I go, I will always return to Vanaheim. This place is as much a part of me as my magic."

Freya nodded, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I understand," she whispered, though Harry could see the sadness in her eyes. "But… will you teach me everything you know before you go?"

He smiled, reaching out to tilt her chin up. "I will teach you everything I can," he promised. "And when I leave, you'll be ready to carry on what we've started."

Freya's smile returned, and she nodded eagerly. "I'll make you proud, Haraldin."

"I have no doubt you will," Harry said warmly.

As the fire crackled and the stars twinkled overhead, Harry felt a sense of peace settle over him. This was why he had returned to Vanaheim—not just to rest, but to share what he had learned, to help others grow. It was a lesson he had learned from the Nine Realms, a lesson he would carry with him no matter where his journey took him next.

And as Freya leaned closer, eager for the next lesson, Harry felt a warmth in his chest, knowing that his legacy would live on in the magic of Vanaheim, in the hearts of those who would continue to learn and grow long after he was gone.

Hela stood by the window of their cottage, watching as Harry and Freya practiced magic outside. The young woman laughed as Harry corrected her stance, her fingers brushing against his arm just a little longer than necessary. It was subtle, but to Hela, it was painfully obvious. Freya had grown up—no longer the awkward teenager who used to blush at every compliment Harry gave her but now a confident woman who wasn't afraid to show her interest.

Hela gritted her teeth, trying to shake off the sense of irritation that crept over her. She wanted to tell herself it didn't matter, that Freya's flirting was meaningless because Harry was, as always, oblivious to it. He had never been one for subtlety, and even the most obvious attempts to catch his attention often flew right over his head. But that did little to comfort her. Every time Freya laughed a little too loudly at Harry's jokes, or leaned a little too close, Hela's insecurities gnawed at her like an insatiable beast.

It wasn't just Freya's beauty that stoked Hela's doubts. It was everything she represented—youth, softness, and a future untouched by war or bloodshed. Freya had spent her life surrounded by love, her days filled with the promise of tomorrow. In contrast, Hela's past was one of violence, power, and pain. She'd fought wars, faced enemies without fear, and wielded power that could bring entire armies to their knees. But standing here, in this little cottage watching Harry and Freya, she had never felt more powerless.

Her eyes drifted down to her own hands, rough and scarred from years of battle. Freya's hands were smooth and delicate, the kind of hands that Harry might want to hold, to cherish. Hela's were the hands of a warrior, strong enough to crush iron but incapable of offering the kind of tenderness she feared Harry might one day crave.

Why would he ever choose me? she thought bitterly, her gaze returning to the scene outside. I'm nothing compared to her.

She forced herself to look away, ashamed of the jealousy that twisted inside her. It was a weakness, a vulnerability she hated more than anything. Hela wasn't supposed to feel this way—she was the goddess of death, a being of immense power and strength. But here she was, feeling small and inadequate next to a little girl.

Hela clenched her fists, feeling the familiar surge of power thrumming beneath her skin. She could so easily tear this cottage apart, reduce it to rubble, and yet she felt completely defenseless against the insecurities Freya stirred within her. "What am I even doing here?" she muttered to herself, her voice raw with frustration.

"Hela?"

She turned to see Harry standing in the doorway, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Are you all right?" he asked, stepping closer. "You've been quiet all morning."

Hela's heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she wanted to tell him everything—to confess the jealousy, the fear, the crippling doubt that had been eating away at her. But she couldn't. She didn't want to burden him with her insecurities, didn't want him to see how weak she felt. So instead, she forced a smile and shrugged. "I'm fine. Just… lost in thought."

Harry didn't seem convinced. He moved closer, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "You know, you can talk to me about anything, right?" he said softly. "Whatever it is, I'm here."

Hela felt her heart squeeze painfully in her chest. She wanted to believe him, to believe that he would understand, but the image of Freya's delicate features and soft laughter flashed in her mind, and she pulled away before he could get any closer. "It's nothing, really," she insisted, turning her back to him. "You should get back to your lesson."

Harry hesitated, and for a moment, Hela feared he might press the issue. But then, he sighed and nodded. "If you say so," he murmured before walking back outside.

Hela watched him go, feeling an ache settle in her chest. She leaned against the wall, her fingers digging into the wood as she tried to steady herself. The pain, the jealousy, the fear—they were all so overwhelming. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to walk away from it all. Not when it meant leaving Harry behind.

Maybe one day, she thought, I'll be brave enough to tell him. But for now, she would watch from the shadows, battling the insecurities that refused to let her go.

That evening, as they sat together by the fire, Hela kept her distance, pretending to be engrossed in her book while Harry and Freya continued their conversation. She could hear the laughter in Freya's voice, the warmth and affection that seemed to come so easily to her. It was like a knife twisting deeper into Hela's heart, and she couldn't stop the words that slipped from her lips.

"She's quite lovely, isn't she?"

Harry blinked, turning to look at Hela in surprise. "Who?"

"Freya," Hela said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "She's beautiful, talented, kind… the sort of woman any man would be lucky to have."

Harry stared at her for a moment before laughing. "You're joking, right?"

Hela's heart sank, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. "Am I?"

Harry shook his head, still chuckling. "Hela, Freya's a sweet girl, but she's not—she's not you." He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Hela could only stare at him in disbelief.

"You… you're not interested in her?" she asked, unable to keep the hope from creeping into her voice.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. I mean, she's nice, but I don't feel that way about her." He leaned forward, his gaze locking with hers. "And even if I did, it wouldn't matter. Because there's only one woman I care about, and she's sitting right in front of me."

Hela's breath caught in her throat, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on her chest began to lift. "You mean that?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Harry reached out, his hand covering hers. "I mean it," he said softly. "You're the one I want, Hela. You always have been."

Tears welled up in Hela's eyes, and she quickly looked away, not wanting him to see how much his words affected her. But Harry reached out, gently tilting her chin up so that she was forced to meet his gaze. "You're perfect just the way you are," he murmured, his thumb brushing away the tear that slipped down her cheek.

Hela let out a shaky laugh, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into her skin. "I've never been perfect," she whispered.

"Maybe not," Harry agreed with a smile, "but you're perfect for me."

Hela felt the last of her insecurities melt away, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was enough.

Author Note:

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