Chapter Text
1992
“You are hereby banished from the realm of Asgard.”
She had not suspected a thing, when she had been summoned in front of the Allfather in the darkest hour of the night, though it had been a rather peculiar occurrence.
Such things did not merely happen, if the situation at hand was not extremely dire. But she had done not a thing, reason why she had expected many different outcomes and none quite similar to what had been forced upon her.
In the beginning, she had been uncertain she had heard correctly, as it had seemed something so preposterous to speak, with such little warning, for such a small reason.
She had no idea how she had even been discovered, in considering that she had not spoken of it with anyone and the situation was still a well-kept secret.
Furthermore, she had not seen the same gravity in what had happened that the Allfather seemed to see. And she certainly could not deny that his words had filled her with an irrepressible rage, because she had never had much respect for him, caring little that he was her king. He had always been merciless and covertly cruel, hiding behind his gilded exterior and steadfast words.
When the meaning of his words had caught up to her, she had not pleaded, she had screamed, she had asked for the reason, which had yet to be given to her, and everything he had answered was that she knew her wrong-doings. But she did not, because there were none.
She had fought with every fragment of her strength, with her nails and teeth, but it had been a losing battle from the very first moment. It was not fair. And, worst of all, things hardly ever were, when it came to him.
The thought of leaving him alone drove her to insanity (the thought of him believing she had abandoned him made her feel like she was already far gone), but there wasn’t much she could have done. The decision had been taken and she had no say in the matter, unless she wanted more horrible consequences. In the end, she had to comply.
She should have been glad, truly, that she had not been cast away right when she had first come there, that her ancestry had been well-enough hidden until that moment.
She should have been glad a God had seen her, years before, a trembling infant in the cold of winter and had taken pity on her, saving her from certain death. She should have been glad for the life she had been given. Yet, it was being heartlessly ripped away from her, for futile motives; how could she be glad for that?
Nevertheless, she found herself following the guards as they escorted her towards the Bifröst, under the cover of darkness. Not a soul would suspect a thing. By morning, she’d simply be gone and everyone would believe she had fled, without finding a reason. There could not have been a reason. There was no reason.
Or, perhaps, they would have assumed she had fled from him. That she had accepted he was different and did not deserve any kind of respect, any kind of love, like they seemed to believe.
She loathed the mere thought. She loathed the thought that he’d conclude that she had simply fooled him, tricked him into thinking she cared about him, but she did not. Not one soul was going to explain that she had not left him, that she would have never, ever, willingly left him; that she had been heartlessly coerced without a way to escape.
Was her wrong-doing falling in love with him? Falling for the wrong brother, the one who had been cast in the shadows, who seemed to have no right to anything at all. Not even love. Not someone who cared. And, now, he’d believe she had lied to him. Her, whom he had once told was all he cared about. It was not fair.
She hoped he knew. She hoped she had earnestly enough demonstrated that she loved him. Because she was fearful he’d fall overly deeply into his own mind, she was fearful he’d drown, with no one keeping him ashore. It was what she most dreaded; and what she’d never come to know.
She looked back, towards the palace, as she crossed the rainbow bridge towards the abode of the Guardian who had once saved her from certain death, and she attempted to send her thoughts towards him, her heart beating against her ribcage like nothing but a caged bird desperately searching for a way to run. She did not feel much different.
Whatever happens, remember that I love you. I love you.
It was all in vain, but every fibre of her being hoped he’d catch those words, fluctuating into the cosmic air; he deserved to know, that someone did see him, that someone did care. That, perhaps, one day, she’d try to make her way back to him, had she to crawl through the whole of the Nine Realms.
Because she despised that injustice, that inadequately explained injustice. Had there been a reason, she would not have been so strongly against it, but she knew there was not. There had never been.
When the guards abandoned her to her own destiny, she stood still for a twinkling of time, staring at the man in front of her, immovable, unreadable, wondering what was running through his head, wondering whether he regretted saving her all those years ago, seeing the outcome.
She hoped he would not be punished for rescuing a mere human and bringing her in the land of gold and lies; she hoped he would not be punished for demonstrating more compassion than anyone else there.
Eventually, Heimdall moved away from his post, slowly descending the stairs towards her, and she found herself unable to speak, throat closing in, tears thickly stuck behind her eyes. She refused to cry; she refused to show weakness in such a moment.
But when the man placed his hands on her shoulders, with great softness, she felt one step away from falling into the darkest void. She wanted to confess everything, explain what had happened, though she was quite aware he’d probably seen it all, but did not know what to say.
Instead, he spoke, saving her from a torrent of broken sobs and breathless words. Moving her hair away from her shoulders, he tied a leather strand around her neck, the pendant falling against her chest. He had no need to tell her what it represented, because she knew it well and knew how much it meant, when someone was as lost as her.
Then, in a rather covert way, he whispered something that filled her heart with faith, with the prospect that there would come better days:
“If ever you might find yourself in need to come back, this medallion will reveal the way,” she appreciated the gesture, though knowing she could never come back. Not in a long time.
Nevertheless, there was hope that, in a distant future, she might return to a place she had called home for so long she did not know how to belong anywhere else. Did not know how to exist in a place she had never existed in before.
There was hope that he was not to be alone forever; she knew he felt no one in the universe cared about him and, right or wrong as he might have been, nothing could have changed the way he felt. Her forsaking him could not make matters anything but worse.
Unable to speak, overwhelmed by emotions, she merely gave Heimdall a smile, a soft, sorrowful smile and nodded, wanting him to truly know how grateful she was that, once again, he had had mercy on her, when he could have had none, like the rest of that world seemed to have.
She could not help but wonder whether he knew the reason to her banishment, but she feared asking, she feared knowing what the sole friendly person she had seen that night might have thought of her. Some things were better off unknown.
She could not find the courage to ask him how the medallion he had given her could have aided to come back, but it appeared to be an enigma she’d have to decipher alone and she told herself it was better that way, or she’d spend all her living days holding herself back from running back, possibly causing dire complications. It was something she should not use, unless absolutely necessary.
And she had to convince herself that it was not already of the upmost importance. She did not utter a word, and only prepared herself to be swept away from that life she had known, into that world she had come from but had never seen.
She closed her eyes, as she felt the whirring of magic wrapping around her, ripping her away from everything she had known.
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1993
The night was frigid, colder than the previous ones; the coldest of the season, as though wanting to freeze her in time, stop her from doing what she knew must be done.
It was not something she wanted, not something she had wished for, but there was no other way. She did not feel safe. She felt watched. And there was no doubt in her mind she must have been.
After all, she had been banished for a reason and, whether she approved or not, it most definitely did not change that there was.
It was not something she wanted, but that was the only way she had to make sure her son could be free of harm. She was the one who had supposedly sinned but he did not have any blame for her mistake; she could not trust he’d be safe with her.
The Gods sometimes did not seem to hold the same morals that the people of Midgard did, she had quickly learned in the months she had spent there; certainly, being nearly immortal had to change people’s views on life, but it was no excuse to some outdated traditions and punishments.
She had already been banished, and did not want her child to fall victim to their cruel schemes, to the sanctions they would have considered right. He’d be more secure distant from all those matters of a realm most people did not know existed. And she’d be kept under cautious surveillance for as long as she lived, merely to be certain she never tried to return. She did not want that life for her son.
Yet, she felt she had to be grateful that he was alive at all, in consideration of the trials she had been forcefully put through, as she’d had nothing, not even the advantage of knowing the world of her confinement, though she had read on it countless times (it had still appeared dissimilar to any recount she had found).
She had been fortunate than most, she was certain: when she had first appeared in that realm, in the midst of a field in an unknown place she did not know the name of, she had collapsed out of the impact of everything, from having everything stolen from her in the space of a few moments, to the travel across universes and worlds.
She had been rescued and brought to a hospital by a group of researchers, who had looked confused by her appearance and by the reason she had been there in the first place, but had still offered to give her a place to stay in their examination quarter when they had realised, she had none, no home to return to.
She was thankful everyone seemed to be innately merciful to her, whichever was the place she found herself in. They had only asked few questions, and she had rarely answered, knowing she’d appear delirious to them. She knew that, to them, she had seemed an unfortunate young woman whose life had not been kind to, and she dared not overly think about what they must have thought she had been through. They must have genuinely thought something had to be wrong about her, but they had not been overly judgmental about it.
Feeling a shiver run down her spine, she held her baby ever so close, hoping he would not suffer that cold as long as he was safe in her arms. She was making her way towards the hospital, having heard unwanted children often were left there; she despised the idea that he’d think he was unwanted, unimportant, much like his father before him, but she had no choice.
With her unoccupied hand, she was carrying a wicker basket, with a soft blanket and a single sliver of paper where she had written down his name; it might have been rather old-fashioned, but she did not know anything that was not. It had been rather a shock to discover most things that seemed all too common in Asgard had been left centuries behind in the realm of men.
When she finally reached her destination, she settled down on a bench, carefully laying the child inside the basket and immediately wrapping him inside the blanket: there was an uncanny light blue tinge to his small hands, cheeks and nose, which made her fear he was too cold, but, strangely, he did not seem to suffer the iciness of the air.
He was looking up at her, with that trust that was so characteristic of a child, his two starkly different coloured eyes almost boring holes into her, and she felt sick. She did not want to leave him. She did not. But she had to. She did not want the cruelty and hypocrisy of the æsir to reach him; she did not want them to break him like they’d broken her, like they’d broken his father.
With a broken-hearted sigh, she reached over, unlatched the medallion Heimdall had given her from behind her neck and placed it beside her baby, hoping it’d help them find each other again, in the distant future; somewhat to tell him that, whatever happened, she’d always be with him.
Then, holding her once flaming hair back, she kissed his small forehead, whispering a goodbye, before getting up as quickly as she could, fearing she’d change her mind, and walking away, forever, trusting that everything was going to be alright.
And yet, nothing was.