#maybe suspecting his true nature but too drunk on his sweetness and silver tongue and golden promises to do anything about it

[merilles]

La Belle Dame Sans Merci~💍✨

[mythologyfolklore]

Trusting the enemy - Pt. 01

(A/N: Loki’s relationship with his wife and his enemies from both sides’ POV; respectively from the POV of Heimdallr, Baldr, Óðinn and Sigyn.)

Heimdallr – Understanding

(Set after Baldr’s and Höðr’s deaths, but before the Lokasenna and Loki’s punishment)

.

He doesn't trust Loki.

No one should, so it used to baffle him, that the inhabitants of Asgard do.

But it doesn't surprise him anymore.

Loki is beguiling, a handsome charmer with a silver tongue, a sweet voice and a captivating smile. His lies are beautiful, so beautiful, that it's hard for most people to believe the truth from his mouth. Not that Loki tells the truth often. Either he lies, or he withholds the truths he knows and keeps silent.

Heimdallr finds it funny. He can't help it.

It's funny how Laufeyjarsón can risk his own skin with his big mouth, hot temper and rash acts, but manages to keep certain things to himself. He gets himself into trouble, when he slanders and insults everyone and yet there are things he would never say, not even when he's completely drunk.

Heimdallr sees and hears everything.

He knows what the fire giant really has done, he knows the wicked schemes going on inside that red-haired head of his, he knows of the grief and hurt, that fuel Loki's bitter hatred.

Óðinn too knows almost all of it and what he doesn't, Heimdallr knows.

That's why Heimdallr doesn't trust Loki.

And yet … in a certain, inexplicable way he does.

He trusts in not trusting the other.

He trusts in their mutual animosity, which will lead to their demise at each other's hands during Ragnarök.

He trusts in Loki's silence about certain things.

.

It is the same for Loki.

He doesn't trust the guardian of Bifröst, his adversary, his nemesis.

He hates Heimdallr.

Despises him with a passion more scorching than Múspellsheimr, where he was born.

The Son of Nine Mothers knows him, he understands him.

He is reliable, unlike Loki himself and yet, he is just as unpredictable.

Their unpredictability is something they have in common.

That, and a few other things, things neither of them ever brings up.

Loki is cunning, but he will freely admit, that he isn't wise.

He will not admit, that he acknowledges Heimdallr's wisdom, envies it even.

He will never say just how much he knows about the other.

It's not necessary anyways; Heimdallr knows everything.

He knows of the terrible things Loki has done without the slightest hint of remorse.

He knows the truth behind his skilfully woven lies.

He knows, what Loki will never say.

That is why Loki hates him.

Why he doesn't trusts him.

And yet, in his own twisted way he does.

Because Heimdallr knows everything and says nothing.

The guardian is silent and that is the only thing Loki trusts about him.

He trusts in Heimdallr's understanding nature, as much as he despises it.

.

It is rare that Loki actually gives him company, other than during feasts and assemblies, yet he is currently sitting next to him, oddly silent.

Not that Heimdallr minds – it's night and he has always preferred the dark and quiet night over the noisy, bright day.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

It's Heimdallr, who breaks the silence: “You haven't said anything in three hours, Laufeyjarsón. Should I be concerned?”

Loki raises an eyebrow. “You're always concerned, Bifröst's Guardian. Besides, until now you haven't said a word either.”

Heimdallr shrugs: “I don't talk, unless it's necessary. You know that, Loki.”

The other is playing with his thick, flaming red braid.

The guardian finds it funny, that Loki, who is a shapeshifter and can look however he wants, chooses the cliché appearance of red hair, freckles and green eyes as his regular shape. At least he doesn't sport a goatee; Loki doesn't like having a beard. The thought of someone as androgynous as Loki having one makes Heimdallr chuckle.

Finally Loki stops toying with his hair to look back at him.

“Yes … I know”, he says and Heimdallr knows that he means his statement from earlier.

The fire giant's green eyes wander over the watcher, as they often do.

Heimdallr is the whitest of the gods, even more so than Baldr (Baldr, who is dead, who dwells with Loki's daughter now, who will never come back). Baldr's cheeks were rosy, Heimdallr's are a deathly white, like sea foam. Heimdallr's hair is so white, it almost looks blueish, especially now in the moonlight. The only not-white thing about him are his polychrome irises (and his golden teeth, which the redhead finds kinda freaky).

Loki doesn't like how ghostly Heimdallr looks. Millennia over millennia of sitting out here, guarding the rainbow bridge and Asgard and the grandson of Ægir and Rán hasn't gained any colour, nor has the weather left a mark on him.

Loki would tell him how much he dislikes it, but it's not necessary.

On the other hand he knows that his own colour scheme is funny to Heimdallr. The Watcher doesn't need to say it. And even if he did, Loki would just retort that his shrill disguise befits his nature.

A gust of wind blows around the watch tower and Heimdallr pulls his fur cloak closer around himself.

It's a harsh, deep, endless winter, because Baldr is dead and spring will never come again, as long as this old world still is. And it lacks the beauty of previous, normal winters, the strange warmth and rest that used to reflect the blind god Höðr's inner calm (but he's gone, just like his brother Baldr, and with him the beauty of the season).

Despite his thick fur cloak, Heimdallr shudders.

Loki notices and spontaneously takes the other's hands – a rare gesture of kindness towards his nemesis.

Heimdallr doesn't say thank you, but he doesn't have to, because Loki sees the appreciation in those all-seeing rainbow-coloured eyes.

Heimdallr is a son of the sea. He is rarely cold, but he is never warm either. His body is just cool, like the North Sea and the Atlantic. Feeling the heat radiating from the fire giant is so foreign to him, but it's not necessarily a bad kind of foreign.

Loki is never cold, born from the all-consuming flames of Muspellheimr, like all of his kind. He can hide his true shape, but his body is burning hot. Sometimes it feels like the fire consumes him from within. He doesn't feel the iciness of the winter. Just the more it surprises him, that he feels the coolness of the Watcher's hands, as he takes them to warm them up.

“Your hands are cold”, he notes.

“And yours are burning”, Heimdallr replies. “If I didn't know better, I would think you're trying to make my fingers melt.”

Loki chuckles: “But you do know better, don't you, Guardian.”

It's not a question.

Then the red-haired trickster says something that catches Heimdallr by surprise: “I like that your hands are so cold.”

The Guardian of Bifröst smiles, which in turn surprises Loki: he has never seen Heimdallr smile before.

They fall back into silence, each enjoying the other's temperature.

An outsider who saw them like this, wouldn't suspect, that they're mortal enemies, destined to kill each other.

In a moment like this, no one would guess that Loki and Heimdallr are adversaries, who hate each other.

Their enmity is legendary and ineffable; impossible to comprehend even for Óðinn himself.

The Allfather knows, that they are sitting here and keeping each other company, of course he knows, but he will never know why.

Because Loki and Heimdallr loathe each other and it makes no sense, that they are sitting here in the silence of a winter night, as if they were friends. The fire giant and the son of the sea are opposites in almost every way. They have next to nothing in common.

Except for a handful of things, that – once in a blue moon – allow them to spend time with each other without feeling the urge to kill.

Of course those moments pass quickly and once the sun is up, this night will be forgot.

The silence lingers, until it's broken again, this time by Loki:

“I have to leave soon. If Sigyn wakes up and doesn't find me, she will go nuts.”

Heimdallr suppresses a grin. “And yet, you're in no hurry.”

“The last days were rough for her”, Loki tells him.

“And whose fault is that?”

Loki snorts in response, then continues: “Whatever. She's sleeping in today.”

Now the Guardian actually does grin, as he remembers how the trickster and his spitfire of a wife have argued the evening before: Sigyn almost never actually obeys her husband, which frustrates Loki and amuses Heimdallr. The fights with his wife about her well-being force Loki to be stern, which goes against his nature. But last evening Sigyn has given in a little sooner, probably because of her exhaustion.

“You must be tired too”, Heimdallr states. “You have been sitting here with me all night.”

The fire giant just shrugs. “Not my first all-nighter.”

“I know.”

Loki, in his boundless energy, doesn't need much sleep.

Neither does Heimdallr. Which is good, because the enemy doesn't sleep. The Guardian often wonders how many of the Aesir are aware, that he's already within the walls of Asgard. Maybe it's just Óðinn and himself, although the White God suspects, that Frigg and Sigyn know.

“They know”, Loki confirms his unspoken suspicion. “Our wives both know.”

To anyone else it would seem strange, that the Lie-Smith would admit to not being a friend of the gods.

But trying to deceive Bifröst's Guardian is pointless.

Thus Loki doesn't lie to him when it's just the two of them.

He lies to Óðinn, knowing that the Allfather sees through it, but never to Heimdallr. A rare display of common sense from the most unreasonable person in Asgard.

“Speaking of fatigue though”, Loki starts again, “I know that you don't need much rest physically, but do you ever feel … weary? Just tired of everything? Aren't you ever done with all the bullshit?”

“When it comes to your bullshit, always.”

He gets a snicker in response, but goes on: “As for everything else … no. Not really.”

Loki grins, not quite a sneer, but just as ugly and his scarred lips make it even worse.

“Now look who's lying.”

“…”

“You're a hypocrite.”

“And you're a prodigal arsehole.”

Loki's grin widens. “That I am.”

But he keeps holding Heimdallr's hand; his way of telling the other that he isn't vexed.

He feels a gentle squeeze from the other's larger hand, which startles him at first. But then he chuckles softly, seeing the gesture for what it is: a sign that the Watcher hasn't meant to insult him.

Loki knows, that the jabs weren't meant seriously. When he and Heimdallr fight seriously, they never resort to petty insults (unless Loki is drunk; then he has the tendency to insult everyone).

Suddenly he notices the Watcher's gloomy expression and is once more caught by surprise.

It's not the accustomed serious expression that everyone is so familiar with. It's the not-quite-sad, not-quite-neutral expression that masks world-weariness. Sombreness; that's the word.

And Heimdallr allows Loki to see it, a silent admittance, that he is, indeed, weary.

The Sly God doesn't know why, but it doesn't suit the White God at all. Strange, he should delight in how tired his nemesis is on the inside. Instead, he decides, that he doesn't like it.

And he lets the other know so.

Heimdallr looks a bit startled at the gentle squeeze he receives from Loki's scorching hand. But he relaxes quickly and his face brightens up a little, although he doesn't smile. That's more like it.

Suddenly Loki has an idea and grins again.

Heimdallr's eyes narrow. “What are you plotting now, Laufeyjarsón?”

The trickster snickers: “For once, nothing! I just thought of something funny.”

The Watcher decides to humour him. “Oh? And what would that be?”

“Remember that one time we dressed Þórr up as a bride, so we could get Mjöllnir back?”

Heimdallr chuckles: “Oh yes. He was a beautiful bride indeed.”

“I will never get over the fact, that it was your idea and not mine!” Loki's giggling stops and he smirks: “Then again, it was your fault the hammer got stolen in the first place.”

The memory of his own failure makes the Watcher's blood run colder than it already is.

“But cheer up”, the trickster continues, “As you said, he was a fine bride – until he killed Þrymr and his entire court, of course. A fine bride with a finer bridesmaid. Don't you think so?”

Heimdallr feels no need to stroke the other's ego.

But Loki knows the answer already and giggles coyly, like the cocky prick he is.

However, he doesn't feel like rubbing it in.

Instead he returns his focus on the hands he is warming with his own. Heimdallr's hands are much larger and more calloused than his. And even though by now they have absorbed a lot of his warmth, they are still cool enough for him to feel it, like cold water on a scorching summer day.

Now that Loki thinks about it, the last summer dates quite a while back. But how could he ever regret the reason why?

Heimdallr can tell by the look in Loki's eyes, that he is thinking about the twins. He doesn't comment on it, doesn't point out, that it's all Loki's fault; no need to point out the obvious.

Instead he continues reading the other's thoughts from his face. They are now on his older children, on Fenrir, Jörmungandr and Hel, his monstrous spawn, who are far, far away, because they are frightening and dangerous and the Aesir collectively want them out of reach.

For a moment, Loki lets go of Heimdallr's left hand and his own wanders to his cloaked neck (reflexively, as always, when the trickster is thinking of his brood).

The fire giant notices that the Watcher's eyes are following his hand, grins and opens his cloak to reveal a necklace. It consists of a curl of Hel's yellow and black hair, a tooth from Fenrir and a green scale from Jörmungandr, bordered in gold. Sigyn gave it to her husband, but maybe – just maybe – Heimdallr is just as responsible for its creation.

Loki has never thanked either of them, at least not out loud. He doesn't have to. They know, because they know, that this necklace means all nine worlds to him, just like Baldr once did to the others.

Heimdallr doesn't speak, as he watches the other's long, spidery fingers caress the ornament.

But he blinks in surprise, when Loki's right hand returns to his own left one again.

“Your hands are still cold”, the smaller god says.

They are, although not as freezing as they were, before the fire giant decided to warm them.

“And yours are still hot.”

“Everything is hot, where I come from.”

“I know.”

“Believe it or not, I have never felt cold before in my life. Even now … I can feel the blowing of the wind, but I don't feel how cold it is. I know it is, but … well, you get the idea.”

Loki hesitates, before he goes on: “But now that I'm holding your hands, I actually feel how cold they are.”

Loki doesn't need to say, that he hates and loves it, because it reminds him of a certain lost loved one. He doesn't need to tell the Watcher, that touching Angrboða has felt similar to him (though she was a frost giant and presumably much colder).

“Why am I even telling you this?”, Loki questions with a bitter sigh.

They both know the answer.

The Guardian has never loved, but he is sympathetic and understanding by nature.

They hate each other, but even so, if the shapeshifter wants to pour his heart out, Heimdallr will listen and then never speak of it afterwards.

Heimdallr never pours his heart out, there is nothing to say. The closest thing he comes to doing so is letting Loki see. Let him read between the lines and decipher his silence. And Loki could take advantage of it, rub those moments of weakness into his face. But he never says anything; he sneers and provokes, but he never mentions those moments.

It's not necessary. After all, they will kill each other at the end of days anyway, so why dwell on insignificant moments?

After what seems like an hour, the Guardian speaks again: “This will be the last time we sit together like this.”

“I know.”

Heimdallr doesn't question, why Loki is crying or why he keeps holding hands with him, rather than dry his face. Instead he gives those scorching hands another comforting squeeze.

“Since this is the last time”, the trickster rasps, “I have to ask: why do you never say anything?”

“Because you don't.”

Both know, what the other means.

The trickster cries and laughs bitterly, because he begrudges their fate, because he is tired, sad, angry and hurt that it all came to this and because the only ones he can confide in are his wife and his nemesis.

“I hate you, Heimdallr. I loathe you with a burning passion. I can't wait to kill you at Ragnarök. I hate how cold and pale you are, how you keep foiling some of my plans, while staying silent about the others. I hate your disgusting kindness and sympathy. I hate, that you're honourable and honest to a fault. I hate, that you listen to me and that you see through my charade. I hate how easily my mask slips, when I'm alone with you. I hate that you know me. I hate you.”

In spite of himself, Heimdallr smirks.

“And I hate you, Loki. I despise you with every fibre of my being. Ending your vile existence will be a pleasure. I hate your burning touch and shrill red hair and that you delight in my discomfort, yet keep my secrets to yourself. I hate your malice and your lying, wicked tongue. I hate your mind games and that you, my arch foe, are the one who understands, what I do not say. I hate how you read me like an open book. I hate you.”

Loki giggles.

Then he finally lets go of the Watcher's hands to dry his face. He is feeling better now, and his way of saying thank you is asking: “Are you still cold?”

Heimdallr shakes his head, smiling.

The fire giant can't help but smile back.

“I must go now”, he says with his mouth, as he stands up. Thank you for these quiet hours, he says with his eyes.

“Indeed that would be best”, Heimdallr replies out loud. Thank you for your company, he responds silently.

Loki nods and grins, then he hops off the tower to return to his house inside the walls of Asgard.

Heimdallr is left alone again.

Nothing but the noises of the nine worlds, nearly drowned out by the howling of the icy wind.

But it doesn't bother him as much as before.

He shifts on his bank to sit on the spot his enemy has just vacated and finds the wood still very warm. It's not just there; the Guardian feels the lingering heat of his nemesis down to the bone.

The feeling is foreign, but in a good way. It's strangely comforting in a way that doesn't fit to Loki Laufeyjarsón at all. It warms him to the core of his soul and makes him feel less lonely.

It's ironic, how Loki, whose heart is ice most of the time, who finds delight in causing trouble and sowing strife, has given his worst enemy a warmth he has never known.

Heimdallr laughs at the irony and pulls his fur cloak closer to keep that precious warmth for as long as possible.

He hates Loki.

He doesn't trust him.

But in a strange way he does.

It's truly a peculiar enmity they have.

Almost friendship, but they don't trust each other, they want to kill each other.

They understand each other.

They don't trust each other, yet in a twisted way they do.

There is a strange freedom in trusting the enemy.

----

“Know yourself and know your enemy.”