After his conversation with Sabellian, Wrathion addresses his champion.

Chapters: 9/? Fandom: Naruto Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara Characters: Senju Tobirama, Uchiha Madara, Senju Butsuma, Senju Hashirama, Senju Itama Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Supernatural Elements, Warring States Period (Naruto), Child Neglect, Child Abandonment, Tobirama doesn't die in this one, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I have other stories I should be working on, Why Did I Write This? Series: Part 3 of Tobirama in Mythology Summary:

Abandoned as a child and left to starve in the streets, Tobirama hadn't expected to live long. But he stubbornly clung to life anyway, and a passing shinobi collected him and named him his ward, and he became an honorary member of the Senju family.

Or: How Tobirama wound up with a family, and found his place in the human world.

OR: I'm terrible at summaries, and have no idea what I'm doing with my life.

Only an hour had passed when a sharp knock interrupted his studies. Without waiting for a response, his father cracked the door open, demanding for his son to meet him in his office.

Madara felt ill at his father’s tone, but followed shortly after him. He passed Izuna in the hallway and didn’t bother hiding the hurt glare he sent him. The betrayal hadn’t been entirely unexpected - Madara might dream big, but he was a realist at heart, and knew it might come to this - but that didn’t lessen the sting of knowing his last surviving brother had just crushed those big dreams without care.

His father had already settled himself onto his desk cushion when his son entered the room. He motioned for him to shut the door, and Madara knelt before him, his heart in his throat.

“You know why I called you here, Madara.”

He did. He knew exactly why he was here, slumping under his father’s tight gaze, his hopes of a better life for his brother shattered before he could even start to build it. Knowing Tajima was expecting a response, he gave a single nod, swallowing his heart back to his chest.

“I expected better of you. You’re clan heir - everything you do reflects the clan. You speak with their voice, you act upon their wishes.” Tajima leaned forward, stern eyes never once leaving his son’s face. “You’ve done more than disappoint me. Your behavior dishonors them.”

“I’m sorry, Otou-san…” Madara didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done; he was sorry it was over, sorry everything ended because his little brother didn’t trust his best friend. It hadn’t felt like betraying his clan, not even at the beginning. Meeting with Hashirama, letting himself trust him, be his friend - it had felt like being honest with himself. Nothing could make him regret that.

“Your lessons are designed to teach you how to lead, how to properly care for your clan. And yet you’ve been sneaking off away from them!” His father tapped his fingers on his desk, volume raising as his anger showed through his voice. “All to meet up with some girl - really, son, I thought better of you!”

Madara felt his brain short circuit, thoughts coming to a screeching halt. Some girl…? His father thought he was meeting with a girl…? What had Izuna told him?

Come to think of it, Izuna had to have followed him for some reason. From whatever lecture his father was giving at the moment, as fuzzy as it sounded to Madara’s admittedly befuddled brain, Izuna had been ordered to do so. So his little brother had to give a report of some sort.

Izuna had lied for him. Relief washed through Madara, though he managed to still look thoroughly scolded as he sat there, doing his best to tune back into his father’s speech. He was going to buy Izuna a dozen helpings of dango for this. Scratch that: two dozen.

“Still,” Tajima sighed heavily, most of the anger draining away from him, “You are that age, I suppose. And we haven’t yet had…that talk.”

“That talk?” He sat up straight, giving his father a puzzled look.

“Yes, well.” His father cleared his throat, putting on the same face he used when discussing politics with the elders. It was a little odd to see it here, which only made Madara more confused. “You’re getting older, Madara. Growing into a man. And as you’ve clearly demonstrated, you’re going to have a man’s…urges.”

Something told Madara he wouldn’t like where this conversation was headed. His father was staring at him with a pinched expression, as if waiting for him to catch on, but Madara had nothing - besides his intuition screaming abort abort abort.

Seeing as his son wasn’t catching on, Tajima apparently decided to cut straight to the point. “When you’re having relations with a woman, and you get an erection, it’s perfectly normal to-”

“Tou-san!” Madara nearly chocked, his face burning. This was not happening. This was absolutely not happening.

“Don’t you Tou-san me, young man!” His father snapped, embarrassment blooming on his face as well. “Do you think I want to have this conversation? To hear about my son’s sexual conquests?”

It took a bit of sputtering, but Madara finally managed to coherently explain that he had not been having sex with some girl - while still letting his father believe he’d been meeting with one.

“Oh thank god.” Tajima visibly deflated with relief, slumping forward onto his desk. He eyed his son for a minute, chewing over some thought in his head. The dread that spread across his face had Madara’s insides twisting. “Though, I suppose…you’ll have to have that talk eventually…” His father groaned, reaching for a bottle that had been previously hidden from sight. Madara recognized it as shouchu, and his father took a long drag from it before pinning him with another stern look.

“You’ll be polishing my armor for a week for making me have this talk with you.” Another long drag, then a pause. “Two weeks.”

“I know what sex is, Tou-san.” Madara nearly choked on the word, his pitch raising in his horror. His father gave a disbelieving look, waving his hand.

“Go on, then. Tell me what it is.”

“Well…” He fidgeted on his cushion, looking at the wall, the floor, the bottle of shouchu - anywhere but at the mirrored horror on his father’s face. “I would put my… My, ummm, part inside of a girl’s…different part-see, I get the gist of it!”

He knew from the look alone that his father wasn’t buying it, and the long drag of shouchu cemented his fate.

“Can’t we make it three weeks of polishing and not have this talk?” He had to try, at least, even if he knew bribery wouldn’t work.

“Three weeks, and we’re having the talk.”

Madara groaned loudly, hiding his face in his hands, wishing to be anywhere else at the moment. He’d rather be a traitor than listen to his father discuss sex with him.

Heimdall knew of every creature who came and went through Asgard. He could see and hear almost anything, at any distance, but sometimes he almost didn’t need to. The intent from some people was louder than their heartbeat, and more vile than any filth they could track into the Great Lodge.

And for everyone else, it really was their heartbeat. This time, he simply reached out and plucked the invisible girl out by her belt.

He only saw a glimpse. And– oh, if he were anyone else, she’d hate him right now.

She was tall and dark. He wondered how that color was described– sable? And her body! Nothing there, almost. She could’ve been a boy, not a woman.

And then she was gone again. “Huh? Where’d she go?”

Her steps were awfully quiet. Her heart was not. He snatched her out of the air again, and clucked his tongue. “Does that usually work?”

Oh yes, it did. That, and a swift bop on the head. “Tell me where you’re from,” he asked. No chance she was an Aesir. She didn’t have the malice of the Jotnar.

“Azeroth,” she said plainly.

He laughed. His grip tightened: he had her arm this time. “All the nine realms to pick, and you pick one that doesn’t exist. Try again.”

He almost felt bad. Her voice was so soft, such a… murmur. “Azeroth.”

Heimdall gave her a tight-lipped smile, and a good look into his eyes. No malice, in hers. But she could kill. Hers was the sort of freedom most sentient beings only dreamed of. Roam, wander, enjoy the world as if it were a still-squealing rabbit beneath your claws.

“You’re not lying, are you?” He patted her shoulder. “You’re sorely mistaken, but you’re not lying.” At her silent confusion, he went on: “See, you’ve stumbled into a place that isn’t yours for the taking. And you’re shy. Hiding, sneaking about, like that isn’t more suspicious than swaggering in like the All-Father himself.”

He let his hands slip down to her own, and held them there. Now she wasn’t curious, or waiting for another chance to vanish… now, she was intrigued. “What do you want here, wallflower? Besides the scenery?”

No response. “Come on, you can talk to me. You’ve taken down bigger than me, haven’t you? Can’t I hear that mumble again?”

Intrigued by him. “I have to remind myself,” she said, knowing fully well how ridiculous it sounded. “There are places outside Azeroth.”

“Oh, a runaway!” He grinned. “Lovely. At least you’re not claiming you were invited.”

The bright noon of Asgard seemed to dim between the two of them. A coolness prickled the back of his neck. He wondered if it was his conscience.

“Now tell me your name. Something pretty and vaguely foreign, I assume?”

“Midha.”

“Ooh.” He looked into her eyes– and let go. “Heimdall,” he said, hand over his heart. “Don’t worry too much. I think—” and with this, his voice dropped to a whisper– “I think I might keep you a secret.”

Intrigued by him! He didn’t mind this one at all. He turned away, off to go about the rest of his day, with his new toy in his back pocket…

“You should vanish again, wallflower.” He gave her one last smirk. “Let’s see where you end up next.”

Heimdall tossed a pointed glance at the Great Lodge, and the chill breeze turned Midha back into nothing.

Wrathion cracks under the pressure.

“Listen, you care more than I do. All I ask is that you find out how she got here, and the way’s stopped up. Besides that– by all means. Go. Go to her. Do what you want.”

“All-Father, what if there’s more of her?”

“What did I just say? It’s your job to make sure there isn’t. I’m dealing with quite enough trying to keep the world from ending, if you hadn’t noticed!”

“...Very well.”

“Come back when you’ve gotten it out of your system.”

Heimdall wanted to rip off every inch of his skin. He stopped two steps outside the Lodge, an icy breeze on his hot skin, and stood perfectly still– breathing in and out, in and out.

Would Odin ever believe him as much as he believed those who lacked his insight? If he lost his perception, grew stupid, maybe then the All-Father would listen!

It didn’t matter. He was dealing with a second offense: apparently, he had known. It was one of Odin’s ravens that perched and looked at him, that night. That saw him neglecting his duties. The watchman of the Aesir. His most reliable! He couldn’t even get a damn answer.

All-Father was right. He needed someplace to put the tension before it killed him. It wouldn’t be a sword or a spear, no. He would just explode eventually.

“You,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Are never going to get that. Out of me.”

What, like Thor? Like Baldur? Every soul in Asgard knew how hard Baldur had tried to feel. Every woman in Asgard was probably counting their blessings that Sif had sacrificed herself for their lives. All-Father, he wanted to say: I have been so normal, so well-balanced, that if you ruin this for me, I will present the parts of me that fall off from overuse wrapped in ribbon at your feet.

He was cold as death and hot as shame. His hands clenched down on his arms, crossed over his chest like a swaddled babe, and he could imagine his brows cast a fierce shadow down over his face.

“Something wrong, Heimdall?”

It rose like bile. He swallowed down the murder, the massacre, and opened his eyes to meet… Thrud.

“Is something wrong?” he repeated, and craned his stiff neck to take in the sky. “I don’t see why there would be. It’s as good a day as any. Better than we’re likely to get for… quite a while, really. Why do you ask?”

“I figured you were just talking to Grandfather. Alone. You don’t do a lot of thinking here in the middle of town.”

He looked deep into her eyes. Smug, as usual. She figured she could bother him here, in front of the Lodge.

“I was, actually. Talking to the All-father… alone. And I’m sure you can guess, given that it was a private discussion, that the matter we discussed was also private.”

“Are you finally getting fixed?”

Oh, he did not want to deal with this now.

“Hm. Why don’t you try and spot what’s different about Asgard? Consider it… Valkyrie training.”

Thrud’s eyebrows raised… then she sensed the opportunity to blame him for something, and she smiled. “Gladly.” Off she went on her little half-march.

Now: where was the wallflower?

He stood very, very still again, and barely breathed. He closed his eyes and focused his hearing, listening for the double-thump that called back the memory of two syllables forming his name.

The scuffling of the Einherjar he could filter out. The gods were usually doing something besides… well, standing there. But he didn’t have to listen to find from what direction he heard a lonely heartbeat: no, he could smell it.

Black feathers gathered around him. In a storm of wings, Heimdall was gone from the Lodge and here at the hiding-place.

“There it is,” he announced.

And so there it was. Midha’s secret stash. A cloth pouch, paper inside it, and inside that, what he could only assume was some type of dried fruit. Traveling food. And was what he tasted before part of that, he wondered, or really just part of her?

One roll of it stuck out from the side of her mouth like a short, fat pipe. She watched him with blank eyes.

Did he have an apple with him? He patted his side, where his pouch was, and felt it there. So he took it out and offered: “Wanna trade?”

Midha blinked, then nodded. Heimdall knelt and handed her the apple, taking one of those rolls, and slipped it back in his pouch.

He rolled back off his feet and sat next to her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Good morning, Midha.”

His head rested on hers. He looked over Gladsheim: they were on a hill, backs to the ledges that built up to the wall. “All-Father and I spoke,” he said.

“About me?”

“Yes, about you. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so…” He sighed. “Livid. The boundaries of the realms are being torn asunder– did you know we’re preparing for war? Preparing for Ragnarok? And that would be enough, but I don’t think you came from that. I don’t know where you came from.”

“Azeroth’s timelines are full of holes, too,” she said. “It’s easy to get lost in time.”

So it was like blood flowing between two open wounds. The contagion wept from her broken world, and soaked into his.

“Look at me,” he asked. And she did… but, being who she was, it was only a glimpse.

He set his hand to her cheek– and wrenched her neck sideways. “Look at me!” As if probing the wound, he stared deep into her eyes, deep into the dark. What was it he’d seen before? Freedom?

It could have been. Now it seemed more like carelessness… or something worse. Unendingly deep, bone-pale doubt. Fear so strong as to rival a lover’s obsession. An… agnosticism that colored everything. Nothing was wrong, one might reason, when nothing was true.

He patted the side of her face. “You should try that apple. You’ll feel better.”

As soon as he pulled back, Midha sank her teeth into Idunn’s gift. Heimdall watched her face– he couldn’t see the bloom of color he’d expected, but he held one of her hands, and felt the warmth catch and bleed through her fingers.

There was a breath like she’d come out of water. The beat of the pulse in her wrist seemed a little jauntier with every bite, seemed to lilt.

“You’ll need the strength.” He chuckled.

She just barely turned her head to look at him from the corner of her eye. He acknowledged it: “Take your time, really. Savor it. I am about to take you to have a proper introduction with all the Aesir’s finest.”

Midha knew what would happen. She was without will, not without a brain. Plans to vanish flickered behind her eyes. Plans to sap, blind, move as silent as ink on a canvas.

What must it be like, to be a flesh-and-blood woman, and strive so hard to be anything else? How deep must those wants have been buried? All he could sense was that frail, frail guess at a world outside the promises she made: and the promises made to her.

He refocused his gaze, and saw her holding the core of the apple. Without a warning and without ceremony, he scooped her up and stood.

“No fight?” He scoffed. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

And no more ravens. He shifted her in his arms, securing his grip, and then he went on a scenic walk back into Gladsheim.

Poor, poor wallflower. Even in the outskirts, everyone he saw was staring. It would be one thing if he brought in a corpse, but this was a living, breathing, hopelessly passive intruder.

He heard whispers. One of the Einherjar to another, “she’s still alive.” He grinned at them, and they fell silent.

Head after head turned to watch the parade of two. Not that he made much spectacle, but he did make it back into the heart of Gladsheim, within moments of presenting her to Sif or Forseti…

“Hm.” He bounced her in his arms, leaning on one foot. “I said ‘the Aesir’s finest,’ didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Instead, bearing his prize, he made his way to the Black Thunder. He checked the door open with a hip, and left his sword by the entrance, only to slam Midha down on the nearest table and call out:

Nothing had come of the incident with the raven. Except that Heimdall didn’t sleep so easy. He’d thought he had sharp ears before, but now… now, he could hear a sparrow’s wing-beats in Midgard.

One question he’d been asked a few nights ago was still rattling around inside of him: do you read memories?

He didn’t think he could. The closest he came was piecing together what happened to someone based on who they were now: he’d never outright seen an event in someone’s past. Of course, she who’d asked this question was so nondescript as to render the answer irrelevant.

He fancied the idea of reaching further with his foresight, though. Beyond momentary attacks. Beyond intent or strategy, even. The All-Father had him there, he would admit.

No, he was not particularly upset that he didn’t know where Midha came from. If anything, he wondered where she was headed. A solid plan was out of the question. If any decision was made, it would be made for her.

Their latest meeting was at the far cliff, far from the Lodge. On a low outcrop, half-shrouded in mist, one could make out a silhouette.

“You,” he said, “are going to get yourself killed.” He offered a hand, which Midha watched for a moment before taking. “I hope you’re ready for that.”

She stood. She felt even lighter than the boy… hell, she looked lighter than the boy, with all the advantage of height she had.

He sighed. “Am I talking to myself? Exactly what are you doing in broad daylight– where the All-Father can see?”

“Has he seen me yet?”

Heimdall snickered. “You’re funny. Almost as funny in the tongue as you are in the skull.” He walked in a slow circle around Midha, once again taking stock. Wasn’t too often he got to compare Aesir with mortals… and visually, when she was standing still, there was nothing to suggest she couldn’t be immortal.

He liked being behind people. Just off to their side. From that position, he put a hand on her back and looked out into the sea of clouds.

And once again, he had to break the silence. He gave her a little smack on the tailbone: “Lighten up a little!” He paused and added, “No offense.”

For a second, it looked like she might truly be offended by that. And then she smiled.

It was better than being a God. He grit his teeth inside a closed mouth. She asked him: “I guess I’m alright, then?”

“Odin hasn’t mentioned you, no. He’s forgiven mischief far worse… but I’m his most reliable. The worst I’ve ever done is see his ideas through after he forgot he came up with them.”

She made a little noise of acknowledgement. She was… quite unbothered, and it didn’t make sense. No reaction, no anger– he barely knew when she was confused, and only because she wasn’t the type to pretend she wasn’t.

“How come,” he asked now, “you know so many specifics about me, and I only know the broad strokes about you?” He turned to face her, and squared her shoulders to make her face him. “Don’t you think I’d like to hear specifics?”

“I don’t know that you’d believe me.”

There was that cold again. “Judging is my job.” He let his own offense roll over him, almost tickle him, and he let out a single breath’s worth of laughter. “In Asgard, everyone has a role. Your role is to appear to me, to nobody else, and to tell me all the things you won’t tell anyone else! Now…”

He put a thumb to the padding of her lower lip. “Use this mouth of yours. Start with… I don’t know. What’s the last thing you killed?”

She sank deep into thought. Possibilities flashed in her eyes: spectacular tales, all of them recollections of real events. “I’m waiting,” he reminded her.

“A manifestation of N’zoth.”

“Ah. And what would N’zoth be?”

Again, she was thinking of how to explain it. Eventually, though, she settled on this: “One of the first gods on Azeroth. It was… corruption embodied. Parts of it would manifest, and I was sent to cut them down.”

“So she’s a mercenary.” He curled his finger and thumb under her chin. “A living weapon.”

“I’m the part of my employer that does what the rest of him can’t.”

“Who’s the employer?”

She blinked at him. He could tell she was pondering whether or not to tell him. The walls of Asgard repeated around the secret. Don’t tell him, he could–

“Wrathion.”

Heimdall grinned. “Who?”

“Wrathion. A dragon in human form. There isn’t enough time in the day for him to do all the things he needs to do.”

He stroked his own chin, too. He’d have to take better care of his stubble. “It’s a shame you have no will of your own. Poor, boring little wallflower. All the freedom you’ve felt and you waste it living other people’s lives for them.”

Whatever they ate back there, she still had a stash. He could smell it on her breath as he leaned in. Almost like apples… but not quite.

“What is it like? Back on Azeroth?”

Midha watched the cloud-sea ripple. She recalled aloud… “People die as fast as they’re born. They’re born as fast as they die. Every culture is built on the assumption that half or more of us are willing to fight for our living, and so… it enforces itself.”

“That doesn’t sound too unfamiliar,” he said.

“I guess not.”

He tilted his head. “You’re a random, mortal woman. You are… far beyond the reach of any eye or ear of your homeland. And you’re still thinking of doing someone else’s bidding. Why? Why not run away for good?”

A bird chirped somewhere in the distance. All the reasons were swimming around in her head again.

“You know: if you don’t answer me, I might…” He looked at his hand, and watched his fingers walk back up to her lip. “I might just reach in and get those answers myself.”

“To prove not everyone ends up like me.”

Heimdall blinked. “Very noble. It must be awful there, then, but I suppose someone has to get their hands dirty.” He almost turned away then and there: leave her with her thoughts, he surmised, so she might be as hungry for his voice as…

“But you could have been a little more descriptive.” His hand clenched around the sides of her mouth. Her lips splayed in a fishlike pout.

He lunged forward and thumped her head on the stone behind them. He shut his eyes to her, holding her wrists, even as they slid up and down on the rock. Fight, he urged her. Kick like a rabbit.

His mouth ached with how she pressed her teeth. He only let up enough to ask, still halfway down her throat: “What’s that on your breath?”

Some type of fruit, definitely. Rich and dark and dry, but sober. Mortal. Mortal women, at least this one, were decadent: like the cream the cat got.

He wedged his hand between their two faces and pinched her nose. His shoulder pinned her other arm. Their strange dance spun the both of them almost all the way around. It was difficult to dodge like this, when the object was to remain in physical contact, but they ended up roughly where they were before, her skull to the rock, his elbow jabbed into her own, their opposite hands holding above their heads.

She tried to speak. She couldn’t, of course. But somewhere in that muffled, strangled sound, one she had to repeat twice for him to get it, there were two syllables. Heimdall.

His laugh was almost involuntary. He let her breathe: he pulled out and furrowed his eyebrows at the spit-bridge between them.

“It would be so easy.” He wiped his mouth. “Tell Odin myself. Better yet, summon the armies of Asgard down on whatever rift you crawled out of. After all, Midha, I am the watchman. I… am the…”

Heimdall brought his hand to his cheek. There was a tremor in his hand. His cheek was burning. Down his chest, his heart was backflipping, and his gut was twisting. He could read his own intentions too, see himself for what he was.

“Watchman,” he concluded. He stared at her for a long while, but really he was looking backward. Inward. What for, he didn’t know, because whatever it was: he couldn’t find it. Eventually, he had to live in the moment again, and when he focused on her it was as if he’d never seen her before in his life.

Regardless, he crossed his arms and rested his forehead on hers. “Think I should quit while I’m ahead?”

No answer. No thoughts to read. She might as well be his right hand.

He sighed. “You really don’t care whether you live or die, do you?” With a little too much of a shove, he turned away and began to climb back up. “If you don’t hear from me, you’ll hear from the All-Father.”

The canoe lands, with a peacefully sleeping Black Prince and champion aboard.

As it turned out: yes, he could keep Midha to himself.

That ‘toy in his back pocket’ could be a real thrill. Drinking in the hall, excusing himself, exchanging a few– and he did mean few– words with the secret he kept from Odin himself. Threats from him, mostly. He still didn’t hear enough from her. And he wanted to hear her angry! If he was honest, he let himself slip just to annoy her.

Poor Midha, though, must have been used to the buzzed and sloppy back in… wherever.

They must be wondering tonight: how much was Heimdall having, to excuse himself for the third time this evening?

“I want to hear your voice, Midha.”

“Heimdall?”

The buzz richened. He chuckled. “Say it again.”

The moon in her eyes looked like cataracts. He should have been quieter… but he wasn’t. That was on her.

He snorted out a breath that could clear up a headcold. “Or do you want to call me a title? Watchman of…”

“Heimdall. Why are you doing this?”

He stared. And then, he laughed so hard he nearly sent himself into hiccups. “You’re such a bore,” he cooed. “Go on. Tell me to go back and pretend you’re not here. Say something to make me hate you. If I had free reign, to do whatever I wanted, not to turn you in… oh, what I’d do.”

“Let me fix your braids.”

What?

He was so taken aback, he didn’t bother to stop her. He could feel his hair untwisting… she was right, they’d gone loose, half of what was supposed to loop over top of his head was down in his eyes.

“I’m sitting down,” he said. What else was he supposed to say?

They sat side-by-side, and though the mead warmed him up, heat still passed between them. Warm fingertips undid his roots. Compelled to break the silence, he blurted: “This won’t stop me.”

“I know.”

His hand was on the side of her throat. He squeezed a little… to, again, no reaction. She just kept carding through, like she was petting Gulltoppr. It was far too soothing.

“I am a God,” he muttered. “What are you to me?”

“Mortal,” she said.

“Mortal!” His voice shook. “Mortal! Oh, yes, here we are beneath the stars, having a romantic evening, you brushing out my hair, and I look in your eyes and see a humble mortal.”

“And your judgment’s impaired. That’s why you haven’t told on me yet.”

“It must be.” He felt her fingers working anew, and clapped her hand down to his head. “Don’t,” he cut in, “just… as you were.”

“No braids?”

He nodded. Midha carded through his hair, easing tension in his scalp that he must have ignored. The heat from her fingers soaked through his skin, blooming out and meeting the flush in his face halfway. “You don’t have a very good chest for a pillow.”

“I know.” And somehow, she did. He wasn’t even sure he was making sense, and he certainly wasn’t being polite about it. He glared in mild disappointment at Midha’s chest, and then put his ear to it anyway.

She rocked back. Her heart was too slow for a mortal. She wasn’t terrified in the least. As for intent… did she even have any? Was there any reason she was doing this, or was it just… habit? Instinct?

“When are you going to worship me?” he sighed. “Do I have to frighten you first? Or are you too stupid to be frightened?”

“Do you read memories?”

“Oh.” He laughed. “Desensitized, are you? Horrors of war?”

She smiled. “The most creative crimes are committed in peace.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Thor’s in there.” He gestured half-heartedly back at the Lodge.

Flat, but not horrible. If he could pretend she wouldn’t be executed– that she might very well bring him down with her– this would be… nice.

“I can’t stay out here, wallflower.”

She cupped the back of his head, fingers deep in the greasiest depths of his roots. She said nothing… and he couldn’t fault her for it.

But he could still be frustrated. “You’re going to have to make your move soon enough.”

What was he saying? What in all the nine realms was he saying? “Before I get tired of entertaining a mortal stowaway,” he corrected, and then promptly took a deep inhale from over her heart. “Who gives away these pitiable scenes to anyone willing to tolerate her presence.”

He glanced lazily out of one eye at the back of the Lodge. It really would have been a nice night to spend with anyone else.

The deep, mottled night sky was interrupted. He thought it might be the wyvern that’d been wheeling around somewhere to the east… but no, it landed atop the Lodge’s roof, and looked just wide of him.

A raven.

He shoved Midha off. “Go,” he hissed, staggering to his feet, back where he’d come from, as if she was never there.

He hadn’t bothered to look back, but on the off-chance she hadn’t disappeared yet, the raven was still looking. He cursed under his breath. That was his ass, there, about to be served to him on a flaming boat.

He really thought of throwing a rock, full speed, at the damned bird’s head. Of course, a dead raven was worse than one that could still lie.

He rushed through the doors of the Great Lodge, making sure to shoulder-check a suitably short and red-headed boy on the way in. Odin was somewhere there, looking over at him. He looked back for the instant it took to know: not yet.