Loki: Repairing the Bridge

[moonshadows]

From his self-imposed position at the broken end of the Rainbow Bridge, Heimdall watched. He watched the lost Son of Odin pick a twisted path through the chaos between the realms, a path with no goal that Heimdall could see but that Loki apparently could. He watched for days as the half-Jotun fought the eddies between worlds for no visible reason until he was exhausted, retreat, then come back and do it again. And because no one asked, he said nothing.

Heimdall watched Odin’s wayward son as he picked a laborious path through the chaos, coming closer and closer until with a tired sigh, he emerged and Heimdall was no longer alone on the Rainbow Bridge. He considered striking the traitor down, but the Allfather, in his wisdom, had asked Heimdall to stay his hand should Loki ever return. So he watched coldly as Loki caught his breath, hands tightening on his sword as the sorcerer gestured, and his unique eyes widened as crystalline fragments of the broken bridge poured out of nowhere to return to their places. It was not nearly all of them, and the bifrost was still gone, but it was a start.

“Do not think this has bought you my forgiveness,” he said steadily.

Loki met his eyes, and the haunted look they bore shook Heimdall just slightly.

“I don’t,” he said, his voice like the rustle of fine satin. “There’s still so much more that I need to find.” He glanced out over the edge, regret etched into the corners of his eyes.

Heimdall held his silence, unsure of what to say.

“Well,” the Son of Odin sighed, “it’s not going to find itself.”

With that, he closed his eyes in restrained terror and toppled off the end of the Bridge, back into the depths of the chaos that churned below.

 ~*~*~*~*~

It was months before the Son of Odin returned. Heimdall had watched his laborious trek through the swirling void, hoping despite his cold rage that he would be successful. Now he watched as Loki stood at the broken edge, staring wordlessly at it as though about to plunge back into that dark sea, and raised his hands. There were no broken pieces this time, no stream of glittering fragments pouring from his hands. Instead, the entire missing length appeared, complete with the broken mounting of the bifrost. Sweat dripped from his pale skin as he repositioned it, and when the Bridge repaired itself with a resonant shock, he dropped to his knees and swayed, breathing heavily.

“You have still not bought my forgiveness,” Heimdall said coldly, “but you have earned back some of my respect. If you would remain undiscovered, you have three minutes before the Allfather arrives.”

Loki laughed tiredly. “Best horse in the nine realms,” he panted. Slowly, he climbed back to his feet. “He will know it was me, but I am not ready to discuss it. There is still much more to be done before the bifrost is repaired.”

Because he did not seem ready to leave, Heimdall asked, “Why are you doing this?”

The half-Jotun gave him a soul-deep look of resignation and acceptance, the kind of expression seen on a man who knows he’s going to die. “Because it is my fault it was broken.”

“But Thor was the one to break the Bridge,” he prodded warily.

“Because he didn’t think to just break the ice, yes. But it was my actions that forced him to think under pressure.” A ghost of his old, charming smile flitted across his mouth, but his eyes remained sad. “Not his strongest skill.”

Heimdall stared for several breaths, expression as cool and distant as it ever was. “You had the spear. You could have killed me.”

Loki laughed, a weak, breathy thing. “But then you wouldn’t have been able to hear my brother’s cry and bring him home in time to save Father from Laufey.” He frowned, again looking haunted. “He was seconds too late, of course.”

The taciturn Gatekeeper kept his face the same blank mask, but behind it, his thoughts churned. He had watched, of course, from within the ice as Laufey was led to the heart of Asgard. What had actually transpired after that, once Thor had returned, he had been unable to see through the fog of pain. By the time he had recovered, so had the Allfather, and no details were forthcoming from him, or from Thor. It had not taken much to piece together that Loki had planned for Laufey to kill Odin, but the Allfather’s younger son had never shied away from admitting his deceptions after the fact – indeed, he usually bragged about them so that the intricate details of his cunning plans could be appreciated, and secretly Heimdall had thought his last plan had been sloppy and crude. This admission, however, brought it neatly up to the standard Asgard had come to expect from Loki, and Heimdall felt the wrench of doubt. Was this why the Allfather had allowed his son to escape, and asked Heimdall to stay his hand?

“One minute,” was all he said.

The Son of Odin nodded and strode away, to the broken bifrost. A few gestures, and he vanished, slipping back through the chaos between realms like a salmon swimming upstream.

Half a minute later, Sleipnir clattered to a stop and Odin dismounted.

“He said he was not yet ready to discuss it,” Heimdall said, reading the question in the Allfather’s eye.

Odin sighed. “He still bleeds from the wounds my words and actions caused him. But he is healing.” His eye roved over the ruins of the bifrost. “He is healing.”

They stood in silence for several minutes before Odin sighed again.

“He planned for Thor to be the hero, you know. If he had not cast himself as the villain… There were many who sided with him. Who thought the one who ended the war should have remained my heir, rather than the one who started the war. It would have split the realm apart no matter which way I chose.” One hand gestured at the sea of space that yawned before them. “So he chose this.”

“I see,” Heimdall said neutrally.

“He would have been a fine king,” Odin said sadly as he mounted Sleipnir.

Heimdall stood alone, vigilant, eyes piercing the endless distance to where Thor sat laughing with his mortal companions, unaware of his brother’s actions while some distance away, Loki emerged from his trek and fell, exhausted, to lie on a rich brown couch.