Work Text:
Heimdall had never imagined that he would have another brother, not after Baldur. Despite this, it doesn’t change the fact that The Great Lodge was filled with an infant’s cries more often than not.
Arne was born earlier than expected and should have. Heimdall sits by the belief that any time would be too early for the little terror. Despite that, he has to admit the babe was smaller than he should’ve been.
Skaði, the boy’s mother, would often attempt to get Heimdall to lighten up about his new, so called, ‘brother’. Though her efforts were in vain as he wanted nothing to do with the screaming, often sickly, infant.
*
As Arne eventually learned to stand on his own two feet and put one in front of the other, he was even worse. The child followed everyone everywhere.
If Arne wasn’t following his mother than he was following All-Father, or Thor (though he lost that idea once he was given one too many glares and harsh words, he still follows the brute when nobody else is interesting enough though), or Baldur, or Magni and/or Modi, or even Sif at times. Though there were times, more and more often as time went by, that without his mother around, Arne started to follow behind Heimdall.
It wasn’t the worst, considering the child was too weary of his older half-brother to stay really close, but as the days went by, Heimdall was practically tripping over the child. He has tried to get the toddler to leave him be, but whether it was his words or his glares, they had little to no effect.
Sometimes the child was brave or idiotic enough to follow him outside, to which Heimdall would have to carry the little twerp back inside, to Arne’s both disappointment at being swiftly taken back inside, and enjoyment at Heimdall actually holding him.
As the tiny half-breed god, jötunn, got better at walking and actually had the appropriate clothing for the outdoors, Heimdall gave up on stopping him from venturing outside with him, and he was too good at his newfound skill to do anything about trying to stop him. The child was an escape artist.
Heimdall would still watch him, obviously, he wouldn’t want the tongue lashing from All-Father about losing the toddler, and so he had to deal with a slower pace so that while the child failed to keep up, Heimdall could at least still see him.
So when the small being smacked face first into someone and fell, Heimdall knew he’d have to wait or go back for him, that decision was made when the man roughly grabbed the toddlers harm and yanked him up, shouting something in his face.
Heimdall swiftly made his way over and snatched the man’s arm, ordering him to let go. The man did so swiftly, making Arne fall back onto the cobblestones. Heimdall didn’t listen to what the man had to say, nor did he care either way, he just grasped the arm of the half-breed brother and kept walking.
Arne did manage to keep up for a bit, before promptly tripping and nearly smacking his face into the cobblestones due to Heimdall’s faster pace. Due to the assumption that the child would presumably not be able to keep up and now his safety was shown to be at risk when far behind, Heimdall had to haul up the child and hold him in one arm. The toddler weighed little to nothing in Heimdall’s arms, making him question if it was due to Heimdall’s strength or if the child wasn’t being fed properly.
As Heimdall walked through the streets of Asgard, he received a selection of looks from confused to shocked to awe. Heimdall didn’t care, even as Arne held onto him tightly, pretty much falling asleep in his arms, Heimdall didn’t bat an eye to the half-breed. At least he can’t become a public nuisance this way.
*
The boy was never the same after his mother’s death. The days after, he did nothing but cry. He cried in his room, he couldn’t hold it together and would cry at the table to which a servant would encourage him to go to his room and he would run off. Arne was five winters old now and was a wreck, All-father would check if his youngest was still alive at times but did little else. Sometimes the small child would seek his father out for comfort, the most he would find was the possibility of curling up in his father’s arms and being content to stay there, crying quietly or not at all, Heimdall was half glad All-Father had enough decency to hold his youngest in his time of grief.
The day was quiet yet had barely begun when Arne found Heimdall. The boy was a wreck, looking like one wrong word would set him off again. It had been a week since he boy lost is mother, and the circumstances were not soft enough for the child to be able to sit in his grief for long before he had to get back up. Heimdall was alerted to his presence when the small boy sat next to him, struggling onto the bench before settling there, fidgeting with his hands in his lap while he blankly stared at them.
Heimdall watched the boy for a long moment, eyes narrowed as he watched the boy’s mannerisms. Arne was akin to a piece of glass, breakable with the slightest wind. Heimdall absently placed food on the boy’s plate, knowing logically that the child had no chance of reaching the food effectively by himself. He gave him simple things such as potatoes and carrots, things the boy could easily eat and would eat based on the fact he has had no aversion to these foods in the past. Despite this, the boy wouldn’t even touch the food.
Heimdall watched him for a moment, waiting for him to move to which he stayed dormant. “You need to eat, y’know.” He informed to boy, to which there was no response. Heimdall sighed and nudged the boy. “You have to eat something, lest you want to become weak.” He prodded, trying to get something out of the toddler, though not exactly a toddler anymore.
He rolled his eyes and broke the carrot into bite sized pieces, testing if that would convince the boy. “There, eat.” Heimdall grumbled, though Arne still would not move, only glancing at his plate before looking back down. Heimdall grasped a few pieces of carrot and put them in Arne’s tiny hands. “If you’re going to stare at those all day then at least make them useful and eat.” Heimdall told the boy sternly.
Arne glanced up at Heimdall, then at the crudely broken up pieces of carrot in his hands, not even the palm size of an orange yet, and ate a few, slowly but successfully. Heimdall took the win. After the agonising process of eating the carrot bites, Arne stared at the potato like it was an obstacle to get over, an obstacle the size of a mountain. The boy shakily grabbed the potato and held it, confused at what to do with it. When he inevitably looked up at his (half) brother to help, Heimdall was trying not to be too amused at the child.
“What? You need that cut up as well?” Heimdall teased, it didn’t land though as Arne just nodded and mumbled a tiny “please…” that was almost inaudible. Heimdall sighed as he took the potato off the child and made quick work of peeling and cutting it crudely before putting it on the boy’s plate. “There, eat.” He told to boy, leaving no arguments. Ridiculous. Heimdall, watchman of the Aesir, peeling a cutting a small child’s potato.
“Thank you…” The child mumbled, grasping a few pieces in his tiny fists and eating them. At least the boy was eating.
After a few minutes, Heimdall noticed the boy had stopped eating the potatoes, staring at the pieces in his hand blankly with tear filled eyes. Heimdall sighed, almost rolling his eyes at what he decided was the best plan of action. He grasped the boy under his arms and placed him onto his lap, holding the boy by his midsection to keep him there as he took a piece of potato. “Eat. I won’t ask again.”
The boy looked up at him, tears momentarily forgotten as he stared curiously at his brother, and then the piece of potato, then eventually taking the piece and eating it. Heimdall won’t let the boy waste food. That was probably it. He definitely didn’t sit at the table even after the boy was finished for the fact that the child had fallen asleep without a problem for the first time in a week, even if Baldur would beg to differ. Heimdall didn’t care for his opinion either way.
*
The boy was eight winters old when he started getting bolder. Heimdall blames the fact he’d been getting better at archery since he started learning at seven and a half. Either way, the boy had been giving lip to everyone, minus a few such as All-Father and Sif, All-Father due to respect and fear, Sif for the same reasons though she was nicer to the boy.
It was an autumn afternoon when Arne had decided to push Thor’s buttons.
Heimdall watched form the side lines, amused as the boy poked and prodded at his older half-brother. Thor was getting visibly agitated and Arne either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, as he kept going, teasing alike to how Heimdall does and trying to elicit a reaction.
And boy, did he get one.
It was so fast, Heimdall could barely foresee it as it went in slow motion, Thor standing up abruptly and grasping a chair, hurling it at his younger brother as it narrowly misses and hits the wall behind Arne. Arne, stands stunned, eyes wide in fear at the fact he’d nearly just had his life cut short by a man five times his size.
Thor stands there, glaring widely at the boy, who appears traumatised. It takes a few moments before the man just walks out, Arne backs away from the side of the table Thor could’ve potentially turned to approach him. Heimdall shoots Thor a deathly glare that he either doesn’t see, or choses to ignore. When Heimdall looks back at his younger brother, the boy looks shell shocked, trying to process the situation that occurred faster than he could even do that. Heimdall can’t even read him lest he gain a headache as big as Midgard.
Before Heimdall can say anything, Arne makes quick work of running to his room, the door audibly slamming and vibrating the walls of the great lodge. Not long passes before All-Father walks in, exasperated and annoyed. “What the Hel happened in here?” He questions Heimdall, staring directly at him.
“That brute you call Thor threw a perfectly fine chair at the little one you named Arne.” Heimdall explains, keeping his usual hint of snark but not enough to get in trouble or be classed at innately disrespectful.
All-Father sighs, shaking his head and groaning. “Right… Just- go after him, would you, before he destroys that room and the door.” And Heimdall can’t exactly say no, so he just goes after the boy.
*
The boy is eleven when Baldur dies, and he doesn’t seem all that effected. A small part of Arne misses him, Heimdall can tell, but the child isn’t all that bothered as he engraves runes into his bow. Runes Heimdall isn’t that interested in checking, it’s not his weapon.
It’s windy up on the wall of Asgard, Heimdall is aware of this after having been watching over Asgard up where for thousands of years. Arne, however, has only been allowed up here the past three winters, and despite the time spent up here, he still shivers after every new breeze passes his face and ruffles the small amount of hair he has, the small bits long enough to be braided carrying small braids either done himself, or given by Thrud or Heimdall. In all fairness, there’s only three braids in and one Heimdall can distinctly recognise as Thrud’s charm in it while another was made by him and the other seems to have no confirmed origin, presumably the child himself made it, considering one of Skaði’s charms was placed in it.
“Is your intention with this time to spend it carving away at a perfectly good bow?” Heimdall questions his brother, smirking at the exasperated look he gets given in return.
“I’m blessing it, runes of good luck. Y’know, like the tattoos I have?” Arne explains simply, returning to his bow. Arne had been given tattoos when he was young, ones of runes that the Jötnar would use, given by the boy’s mother before her passing and they never faded. Whether it was the most ethical choice to give a small child tattoos was debatable, but Arne doesn’t seem to care much. They said things like steady mind, skilled arm, and all that. Heimdall only knows due to the boy rambling on about them.
Atop these runes and blessings were the typical Aesir tattoos, intricate patterns that glowed blue when Aesir magic was used, for Arne that was usually when using his bow and a charge shot, other than that he rarely used magic alone.
As the boy grew older, he seemed less afraid of the height of the wall, which made Heimdall more cautious to him falling. Not out of care or concern of course, but out of not wanting to get yelled at by the All-Father.
“It’s odd not having Baldur around.” Arne speaks up, glancing at Heimdall, presumably finished with his bow. “Like, the air feels different, like the wind knows something is missing and can’t find it.”
Whatever the fuck the kid just said, Heimdall doesn’t have a clue what to say to that. “What? You miss him or something?”
“No. Not exactly… It just seems like everything feels off. That feels different more than his absence.”
Heimdall isn’t sure what to say to this kid anymore.
*
The boy is thirteen when he comes back with a few new bruises, not from All-Father, they’re not in the same pattern that would be caused by him and there’s no lashes either. Not to mention there’s a few on his neck. Arne thought if he slipped by nobody would notice, but Heimdall noticed.
The boy must get the fright of his life when his bedroom door is slammed open and shut as his older brother rudely walks in without warning. Heimdall doesn’t really care, he wants to know where the child has been and wants to know if his brother will tell him without the need for being read. “Show me.”
Arne stares, dumbfounded at the rude interruption. “What?”
“The bruises, I’m not that blind, show me.”
Arne huffs, rolling up his sleeves and moving his collar back down to its usual position. They’re not serious, but Heimdall wants to know where they came from and how his brother got them.
Heimdall pushes his brother in the general direction of the desk to which Arne just sits on it, earning a strange look from Heimdall. Heimdall grasps the boys arm, checking over the bruises on each and then the boy’s neck. After confirming his brother will survive, he stares him in the eyes. “Where have you been, and how did you get these. Don’t lie to me, I know you’ve been gone for hours.”
Arne’s mouth opens and closes, like a floundering fish, before eventually deciding on. “Midgard.”
“And how did you get these?”
“Don’t get mad-“
“Spill it.”
“Freya.”
Heimdall is at a loss for words. Freya, the Vanir goddess, All-Father’s ex-wife, did this? “Why were you anywhere near her?”
“I wasn’t! Well, I was, but I had good reason- I mean I think it’s a good reason. Well I was only exploring Midgard and then stumbled across her and she noticed me and thought I was sent by Odin- All-Father…” The boy hesitates, realising his mistake. “Anyways, she let off the vines when I started coughing- Oh yeah, did I tell you I’ve been coughing for days.”
“No. I heard it through the walls.” Heimdall replies dryly. The child, well teen, had been coughing hard for days, straight from his chest. It didn’t worry Heimdall. Definitely.
“Oh.” Arne pauses. “Anyways, she seemed almost kinda worried and let off on the vines and made me sit down and drink some weird potion thing that-”
“You drank something she gave you?” Heimdall questioned harshly, maybe too harshly but considering the woman could’ve fed his brother anything, Heimdall felt he had the right to.
Arne flinched a little but seemed mainly surprised than afraid. “Well- yeah- but it smelt like the medicine my mother-” he pauses, rarely ever bringing up his mother since the days after she died. “My mother used to give me…” The teen mumbles. “So I guess it was safe, I’m not coughing anymore.”
Heimdall pinches the bridge of his nose. This child was going to be the death of him. “Right. And you were in Midgard, why?”
“Because I like it there.”
Heimdall would’ve never in a thousand years believed that that would’ve been the answer he was given. Despite that, this was the reality he lives in. “Because. You. Like it there.”
Arne just shrugs at that. Heimdall has little else to say to the boy, who was indeed cured of his ailment.
*
Arne was fourteen when Loki showed up.