Pushing Buttons

Wedge

"You're going with Loki and Thrúd to find the next mask piece."

The order had briefly caught Heimdall off guard upon entering his father's study. His brow furrowed in confusion. "The mask? But what about—"

"Ah-ah, would you just relax for two seconds?" Odin asked, holding up his hand, "So impatient, I'm getting to that." He rolled his shoulders, and closed the book on his desk, walking over to return it to one of the various shelves lined with similar texts. "Don't worry, I still need you in Vanaheim. You can be on your merry way as soon as those two are dropped off."

His brow furrowed. He tried to piece together just what the All-Father was thinking. Was he finally losing faith in his new pupil? As unlikely as it was, a part of him was hoping that his father was starting to see just what the little monstrosity was capable of.

With a nod, he was fully prepared to leave, only to be stopped once he reached the two wooden doors.

"Oh, I almost forgot," His father's voice lifted above the sound of the crackling torches, his words making Heimdall's stomach twist and his heart increasing its tempo. But he glanced over his shoulder, his glowing eyed locking onto a small scroll that had been extended towards him. "I trust you'll ensure that this gets to our favorite dwarf. Make sure that no...delays or problems arise?"

"Of course, All-Father," There was a sense of relief that washed over him at the simple request. Huginn had already abandoned his perch atop his father's desk, enveloping him in a swirling vortex of feathers and flapping wings.

Svartalfheim was warm and wet, though arguably less suffocating than the humidity in Vanaheim. The smell of belching mines and tempered metal was overwhelming and left a bitter taste in the Aesir's mouth.

Of course he had been transported directly in the center of the dwarves camp. The sound of conversation and hammers assaulted his eardrums, enough to turn his mood from impassive to slightly annoyed.

They parted and cowered at the mere sight of him as he stormed through. And despite their hushed whispers, he heard every single one of them. The fear, the hatred—both made his anger simmer as much as they made him grin in satisfaction. His reputation still preceded him, even after so many years since their quelled rebellion.

The Aesir's sights were set on one dwarf in particular, probably one of the very few he knew by name and who he had interacted with personally before. There was no need to announce his presence, the gossiping whispers and cowering individuals were certainly enough to alert him, but it was only once Heimdall had stopped directly in front of him that the old ward reacted.

"What now, Norðri?" He sighed, "Think asking for a break for the fifteenth time is really going to make much of a differe—" But he stopped short, freezing on the spot once his eyes trailed upwards.

"Hello, Doorknob," The god greeted, lips pulled into a malicious smirk. Hands propped on the lowered table in front of him, he leered close, peering into those wide eyes staring back at him. "Been a while."

"Durlin." The dwarf corrected. Despite the brave face staring him down, the fear was practically oozing in those eyes.

Heimdall ticked his head to one side, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. "What no heartfelt greeting?" He asked lightly, only to be met with a silent glare. "Tatzelwurm got your tongue?"

The dwarf grunted. His guard was up, fully prepared to spring out of the way at the first sign of a physical threat.

The god rolled his eyes, granting the terrified blacksmith back his personal space. "Don't worry, Scarface, I'm merely here on behalf of the All-Father." He reached for the scroll, wordlessly extending it towards the designated man in charge.