#heaimdall

You have to resist from rubbing your eyes. You’ve already lined them and it took so much effort to do so that you don’t think you could do it again. You’re doubtful you’ll even make it through the night you’ve so diligently prepared for. 

Your hand falls away from the necklace and you lean forward to sift through your jewelry chest. You should find a bracelet or ring to go with the gem. Maybe even a pin for your hair. You pluck out a golden band but put it back. You suppose it needs no compliment after all. 

You yawn and roll your eyes back as fatigue burns in your lids. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. It’s such poor timing too. You are to meet the prince tonight and putting it off is not an option. 

There’s a knock at the door. You check your reflection then stand. You go to open it and muster a smile for the figure on the other side. Heimdall is tall and stoic, his eyes as bright and golden as the jewel at your throat, and his shoulder broad and strong. Like all Asgardians, he is formidable. 

“Princess,” he says in his placid tone. “You are nearly due to depart.” 

“Yes, I know it, sir,” you say and take another long blink. “Forgive me, I’m only touching up.” 

His sparkling eyes lower to meet your gaze. A line forms between his brows. He hums, in that way that he does. In the way that speaks doubt. 

“I only need a shawl and we might leave,” you suggest. 

“A shawl. In this weather,” he peers out the tall arched windows. The curtains stir in the breeze. 

“Yes, your Asgardian climate does not agree with me, I think,” you say. 

He looks back to you and tilts his head, “it is not cold.” He raises a hand without pretense and you wince as he touches your forehead. His touch is like fire. “You are alight.” 

“Sir,” you step back at the impropriety of his touch. 

“A fever. No doubt, your travel has weakened you. Made you susceptible to ague.” 

“An ague?” You utter, “but no, I must meet the prince.” 

“The prince. For once in his life, he can wait,” Heimdall insists. 

“But, sir--” 

“And what would he say of me if I allowed his bride-to-be out in such a state. He will understand. If truly he means to be a good suitor,” he argues. “I know these things, princess. I see them as I see all.” 

You look up at him. You are far too weak to argue. Only standing there has you swaying. He gestures you away from the door. 

“You must rest,” he girds. 

“I...” you begin and smother the yawn that rise. “I think you are right.” 

Your shoulders slump as you turn. You’re wobbly on your feet as a shiver crawls over your sweat-beaded flesh. You go to the bed and he follows. You sit and feel yourself leaning forward without meaning to. 

“Princess,” he catches you before you can fall off the mattress. “Oh, your grace,” he takes you by your arms and holds you up. His palms have you sweltering. He looks you in the face with worry. “A living bride is much preferable, I’d say.” 

“Yes, I’d...” you begin but trail off, your head lolling on your neck. “Oh, I feel... rotten.” 

He hushes you and suddenly, you’re sprawled over the bed. Your head is on the pillows as the dark figure works over you. A shadow without features. You blink several times before you see Heimdall clearly. You say his name as he folds the blankets at your waist. 

“The prince is aware of your condition. He sends his well wishes and hopes you will recover soon,” he says. He turns and reaches into the basin at the bedside. Water stirs noisily and trickles as he squeezes out the excess. He lays the cool cloth over your brow. “And you will. You only need to adjust to this place.” 

“Oh I hope,” your eyes close as your daze deepens. 

When you look again, he is there still. In a chair near the bed. He reads a book as if nothing worries him. You watch him for a while before you drift off again. 

The next time you stir, he is sat on edge of the bed once more. He wipes your brow delicately. The soft light suggests the night has passed and morning will soon be there. You moan and lean into his touch. 

“Heimdall, do I worsen?” You croak. 

“You remain as you were,” he affirms. “I have cleaned your face as best I can and you did sweat through your dress.” 

“Oh...” you cringe. 

“It is nothing I haven’t seen, as I’ve seen you before you even came here.” 

Your lashes flutter, “you did?” 

“Yes, certainly, my eye is often drawn to the most shining beacons,” he intones. 

You don’t reply. It is rather sweet of him to say. Norns, you feel utterly ruinous. 

“Do not trouble yourself. It will not aid you,” he brings his hand down to cradle the stone around your neck. “You must reserve your strength.” 

He squeezes for a moment before he lets it rest on your chest. It is hot, burning like red iron. You shiver and close your eyes. When they open again, it is still morning. You frown. 

“Has the day not come?” You ask. 

No answer comes. You peer around at the vacant room. Heimdall appears through the door and replies all the same, “another, yes. You’ve been abed, Princess.” 

“I... have?” You wonder. 

“Time is the best medicine,” he says calmly. Something about the way he speaks is so reassuring. He doesn’t seem as if he could ever tell a falsehood. 

“Will you tell the prince I am most regretful for my absence?” You ask. “I think tomorrow I might feel better.” You try to smile, “I think already I feel myself flourishing.” 

You wipe the sweat from your neck and your hand trails to the necklace. That’s odd. You tug on it. 

“Will you take this off?” You ask. 

“It was a gift from the prince. You shouldn’t...” he peters off. “But if you insist.” 

“Oh, no, no, I suppose it is good to keep him close to my heart.” 

“I will brew some tea, it may help,” he suggests. 

Heimdall goes again and returns with a crystal mug of tea. The brew is so vibrantly purple that it almost seems to change colour. Or perhaps it is the fever causing hallucinations. He helps you sits up and puts the brim to your lips for each cautious sip. 

When you finish, warmth flows through your body, from your fingertips to your crown to your toes. A new sheen of sweat rises and you push the blankets away from your body. The incessant cold that’s plagued you for days dissipates into an equally unbearable heat. 

Heimdall watches you without reaction. You fan yourself as the flames burn an itch into your skin. You wipe your face and the sensation of your own touch makes you shudder. You can’t help but drag your hands down your neck and along your chest. You moan as your mind tickles with a peculiar urge. 

You cup your chest and groan again. You push your thighs tight and bat your lashes at the man perched beside you. His expression is cryptic as he gazes at you as if he were watching the sky. His eyes narrow as yours widen. 

“I feel...” you breathe as a sultry sweetness bleeds onto your tongue. “I feel...” you rub your thighs together. “Everything.” 

“But you feel stronger?” He reaches to pinch the topaz medallion between his fingers. When he lays it back, it feels lighter. “You feel... needy?” 

His hand sits on your leg and you stare at it, teething your lip. Your confusion washes away with the tides of your desire. You nod eagerly. 

“Yes, yes, I am,” you latch onto his hand and whine. “I need... I need something.” 

“Mm, yes, starling, you need delight,” he curls his fingers to caress you, “you need tenderness,” his touch creeps up beneath your skirt, “you need diligence.” 

You hum and shake your head through the fogginess. You clutch the necklace and whimper as a surge rolls over you. You twitch as the rippling force swelling within you. His other hand wraps around yours and draws it away from the stone. 

“You don’t want to break it,” he warns as he puts your hand to his cheek. “You want me, don’t you?” 

You blink. You should say no. He is not the prince, not your betrothed. Yet that coiling inside of you screams otherwise. It is more than desire, it is desperation. 

“Do not fear, starling,” he says. “You will be safe, as I have kept you thus.” He leans in closer, “the prince is much too distracted with the ladies of his court. He does not deserve a princess so precious as you.” 

You cling to him even as your despair rises. What does he mean? You have sworn yourself to the prince, as he has. He is the watcher of the realm, the protector of Asgard, and you are to be its queen. Yet here you are, getting closer and closer, and you cannot not stop. You will not.