#he can sit anywhere he likea

[stark-alchemy]

Made specifically for me hell yesss! @kami-needs-sleep @lucario335 @divergentdreams @clairauswolfus

can he sit on your dash for a minute?? he'll be very polite :]

[daemonoferror]

Asgard's Bard- Part 1

Heimdall x gn! Reader

TW: Death, pain, blood, heimdall glaring at you being your only interaction.

Summary: Congrats! You died. And you got a promotion.

---

The last you remember, a sense of true powerlessness fell over you, before a sharp, stinging pain rippled through your back. The world came to a halt, and your vision goes black.

What feels like only a moment later, your eyes snap open and you suck in a deep breath, like a drowned man taking in air for the first time in months. The pain in your back is replaced by an almost unbearable soreness, helped tremendously by the soft bed below you. You lay completely still, every bone in your body frozen, muscles tense in a state of flight or fight. Where are you? You don't recongize this bedroom. You rack your brain for an explanation that won't come, until a voice interrupts.

"Ah, you're back. Good." Too quickly, you sit up in bed, your back protesting. In the doorway of the room is a man. He's old with grey hair and an eyepatch. He's familiar, you think. From portraits and statues, but you don't want to make assumptions, and his build looks smaller- frailer than you imagined. "You have talent, it would've been a shame to lose something like this so soon." He brings your attention to a worn leather journal he was reading. Your journal. Your most valued possession, in the hands of someone else. Before you can act on the new found panic, the man chuckles and tosses the book to you. The short lived fear evaporates and you flip through it to make sure nothing was messed with.

"What's going on? Where am I?" You ask with shakey breath, looking back up at the man.

He shrugs, "Well, you died." He answers in a matter-of-fact tone. "But I brought you back. You're welcome."

"But... how?" The words don't settle as they should. You're too tired, too stunned to really understand. What does resonate is that the power the man possess if he's telling the truth comfirms your earlier suspicion is correct, "All-Father?"

"Yes, that is what they call me." The god says with a smile. It must be obvious after a short silence that you're not in a clear state of mind, so he continues, "Look, I know it's a lot to take in. Not every day you're brought back to life and meet a god, eh? Why don't you take some time. There's a water basin to wash your face, and a wardrobe full of clean clothes. Nicer than anything ya got in midgard, I promise. Once you're ready, come talk to me in my study. Just down the stairs, you can't miss it. Sound good?" You respond with a small nod. Being in the presence of a god has rendered you speechless, it seems. He claps his hands together, "Good" he hums, and walks away from the room.

You take a deep breath to ground yourself. You're really in Asgard. You just met a god. It seemed unbelievable, more likea dream than reality. At any moment you could wake up back in Midgard, in some rundown tavern with a pissed-off barkeeper tending to you because you drank too much. That sounds far more realistic than any of this. With a pained groan you slowly drop your legs off the side of the bed and stand up. You stretch as much as you can bare, slightly relieving your injured back. If this is a dream, this pain could've fooled you.

You have in mind to head to the wardrobe, but you pause to take the rest of the room . It's small, but you don't figure you'd need a big space. On the wall by the door, there's an array of instruments lined up, mostly string instruments you're familiar with, like a tagelharpa and rebec. A flute laid ontop of an overturned crate- which there were a lot of in the room, making it seem only half decorated. Some drums sat on the floor, though you had never played them as much as a lyre, which was the only instrument you couldn't be seen anywhere in the room. There's a desk pushed up against the wall opposite of the instruments, with a blank scroll open on it, and a crate full of more on the floor nearby. It's odd how the room seems almost designed for you.

You make your way to the wardrobe at the end of the room, in the middie of the wall. Throwing open the doors, you're met with an array of tunics, cloaks, fur coats, belts, gold jewelry, and more. You peel off your brown tunic, shoulders aching as your arms raise to lift it over your head. "What in Hel!" You yell, dropping the garment and stepping away. The entire back of the shirt is drenched in dark red, old blood. You reach behind you, clawing at what you can reach for an injury, or blood, or a scab. Besides the soreness you're already accustomed with, there's no other evidence of a wound. Odin's words repeat- you died. "How could I have-" your voice fades out. You died. You hear it in All-Father's nonchalant tone, and you feel like you're hearing it- actually understanding it for the first time. Things don't feel like a dream anymore, not even a nightmare. All at once everything feels too real. Your breath quickens, you sink to the floor and clutch your heart. Does it even beat anymore? Are you really alive? What does it mean to be brought back to life? You grapple with hundreds of questions, your mind spiraling.

Soon you remember the basin, and all you can think is how good the cold water would feel on your skin. You scramble to it and splash your face with water. It's refreshing and grounding, helps remind you to breathe. You stare into your reflection, hands on either side of the basin supporting your weight as you lean over it.

There's some small scars litter your face and upper neck, nothing bigger than a nick or a cat scratch, and they're hardily noticeable. The same scars are scattered across your hands too, if you look closely. You're relieved to see you don't look bad. Your skin isn't a different color, your eyes are the same. The scars are the only new addition. You don't remember how you got them, though. If you think about it, you realize you can't remember much of the weeks leading up to now. Maybe even months of your memory are gone. You know the important things- your name, your home, family and friends. You know you traveled a lot, reciting poetry and playing music anywhere that would pay you. But besides that blurry flash of pain, you can't remember much.

You stand up again and return to the dresser. The All-Father has requested to meet with you, and it's not something to take lightly. You know he would have an explanation and answers to your questions. You need to keep composure and stay focused to speak with him. You slip on a simple white tunic and pants- as simple as clothes get in Asgard, anyways, each garment adorned with golden embroidery. The clothes fit perfectly, and you try not to wonder how or why.

You shake off the nerves one last time before pushing open the door. Even though the lodge looks homey, it still makes you feel small. You're glad the hall is empty, keeping your focus on getting to the study without distractions. At the bottom of the stairs, the door is ajar, and you can hear Odin talking to someone inside. You knock on the door, with no response. You decided against waiting outside, anxious to get answers to your death and resurrection, and figuring if it were something important they could've shut the door properly. So you slip in, and await patiently by the entrance.

There's a man talking to Odin. You try not to eavesdrop but you pick up bits about an object Odin wants the man to get, and the man being reluctant to do so though he doesn't out right refuse. His dialect sounds much more sophisticated than most you meet, even Odin. He's facing away from you, but you still draw inspiration from his beauty. His golden hair woven in neat braids, the confidence in his posture, and the wit in his voice. You come to a simple conclusion that he seems nice, and would be a good subject for a poem.

Odin seems quickly annoyed with the boy though, and his expression brightens when he sees you. "Ah! There's my poet!" He stands from his desk, raising his arms to gesture to you. "Come in, please! Heimdall, you're dismissed, we'll continue this discussion later." He lowers his voice to address the man.

"But All-Father, I-" Heimdall starts, cut off by Odin, louder this time.

"Dismissed!" Heimdall doesn't protest this time, but it's clear he wants to. He turns on his heels and starts towards the door, his gaze locking with your's as he leaves. Even though he was clearly glaring at you with an unparalleled hatred, your mind sparks with analogies for the prettiest eyes you've ever witnessed. Like shimmering amythests in an otherwise baren cave.

"Ignore him. He doesn't do well with strangers." Odin says with an eyeroll, "he sees things for me, ya know." He mentions like a bad pun you're supposed to understand. Heimdall is familiar, though. You've heard stories of him- the keeper of Ghallerhorn and a protector of Asgard- but you never imagined he'd be like that. "Come, sit! We've got losts to talk about. You've had an eventful day afterall." You listen to All-Father, walking up to the desk and taking a seat. "I'm sure you've got questions. Hit me!" All-Father says confidently, and the way he talks both perplexes and comforts you. He acts too casual to be a god.

There's no better way to phrase it, you think after a moment of quiet as you try. "Am I really dead?" You finally ask.

The AllFather answers, "Don't sound so sad about it. You've been resurrected! A new lease on life." He tacks on, "And I assure you, there's no long lasting side effects. Some scars, yeah, and I'm sure you've noticed some soreness, but that'll heal as normal. Probably." All-Father thinks for a minute before adding, "Though immortality can be considered a side effect, I suppose I should mention that." He sounds like he's bragging to you. You've accepted a great offer, it sounds. Too bad you weren't conscious during the decision making.

"Immortality?" You repeat. It's so hard to speak to Odin. You would've expected his mannerisms to be so much different than he acts. He seems eccentric, he could talk to himself for hours if he wanted. He knows what people want to hear- or at least tries to guess- staying in a constant neutral zone so he appears likeable to a wider audience.

"Yeah, well. We all die someday." Odin says with a sigh and a shrug, "What's a few extra years, huh?" He chuckles, you force a smile. He must do this kind of thing often. It's strange to have someone so postive and confident in front of you while you're so uneasy about it all.

"May I ask, why did you bring me back?" You decide to ask, shifting in your chair. You trusted All-Father to do what's best for everyone- but you couldn't see how revising you could affect anyone but yourself.

"I heard of you. A talented poet and musician from Midgard, some even described you as a god. I wanted to see it for myself. I thought it was a real shame when I heard of your passing." Allfather explains with a shrug. While you knew people enjoyed your works- nothing could match the honor you felt walking into a tavern and hearing someone recite one of your poems- but you had never heard anyone refer to you as a god. You didn't think you were worthy of that title at all. The All-Father slowly stands up, and starts to pace behind the desk. "And I figured, entertainment is an important part of any society, wouldn't you think? Well Asgard may be lacking in that department. Fighting, training, drinking, and so on can only be fun for so long." He turns back and raises a hand to you. "Someone with your talent could really lighten up the place. I was hoping, maybe, you'd be interested in being a bard- the bard- of Asgard."

"What?" Was all you could say, completely stunned. You were a starving artist in midgard, no where near being Asgard matieral. You wondered if maybe during the gap in your memory you had improved drastically- if the height of your poetic talent died when you did.

"Well, it's just like you did in Midgard. Write your poems, sing your songs- inspire the people of Asgard. Though you might have to pander to your audience a bit, write about the gods, maybe help me with a few studies-" He nearly mumbles it, glossing over things that might be unsavory for you. He continues, "In return you can live here in the lodge." He shrugs, "I could pay you, but money won't have much value while you're here." He chuckles.

"And if I refuse?" You ask. You didn't think you could. You knew you couldn't. This just felt too good to be true. Odin resurrected the wrong poet or something. But you didn't think All-Father was capable of making such mistakes, was he?

"Then you can go back to Midgard and do whatever is you want to do there." Odin dismissively waves a hand at you. His tone is somewhere between indifference and disappointment. "Though I can't see much there for you now." He says it like it's a jab at you. You suppose he's right. Midgard is no place to live right now. Your job barely made ends meet no matter how good you were. And what would your friends and family think of all this? Did they know you died?

Even if you don't feel worthy, the cushy lifestyle is something that's impossible to give up once it's offered. You nod sagely and stand up, outstretching an arm to Odin. "Yeah. I accept." You smile softly and nervously.

Odin's mood is instantly lifted as he shakes your forearm, "Wonderful!" He laughs and walks around the desk to you. "Say, why don't I bring you on a tour of Asgard, show you around?"

"That'd be great." You say, following him to the door. You'd hate to get lost in the new realm, and you're eager to see what inspiration you can pull from Asgard. A series of panicked squawks From behind startles you and makes you jump. One of Odin's ravens sits on a wooden stand nearby, flapping its wings. You glare at the creature, and All-Father seems equally annoyed.

"Huginn, what have I told you about sneaking up on me like that!" The bird answers with more squawks, "What? What do you want! What is it you blasted bird!" Odin huffs in annoyance, seemingly letting the bird talk for a while, "Uh huh. Uh huh. I understand." He says half heartedly, and you wonder if he actually understands what it's saying or is just responding to comfort the animal. "Yes, I get it. I said I know!" He turns back to you with a heavy sigh, "I'm truly sorry, something's just come up that I gotta sort out."

"I understand. I can wait for you to get back-" You suggest, though you really don't want to, and would probably sneak off within minutes due to boredom anyways.

"No, no, I'm sure you'll make do on you're own. Explore a bit, make friends. Just don't wander to far alright? And try not to die again, eh?" Odin chuckles, though the words catch you off guard. You're almost offended by joke.

"Allfather, do you know how I died?" You blurt while you're on the subject, realizing you meant to ask earlier.

Odin hums and answers, "It's better not to think about thar, child." His tone is sympathetic, and with a sigh you realize he's probably right. Nothing would change by knowing. A flock of ravens surround Odin, and when they disappear, so does he.

You sigh and leave the room feeling defeated. You quickly find a room upstairs similar to a cafeteria. A few people are scattered around the long tables, talking, eating, and drinking. The murmurs are familiar to you, and you set your journal down at an empty corner of the table. You're used to writing in noisy taverns, but you don't feel like walking far and getting lost.

Your thoughts returned to Heimdall as you prepare to write. You know with your new position you'll have to write in a more formal structure soon, but for now you focus on scribbling down whatever comes to mind.

"He is crafted from wealth

His brilliant eyes were carved from shimmering amythests

And gifted to show one's truest intent

The one with golden teeth speaks

With a tone of eloquence

His blonde hair in intricately woven braids

Similar to engravings on a well-loved bow

A protector of Asgard,

He is truly priceless."