Pushing Buttons

Second Chances

That damned stick.

He was beginning to think that he underestimated his opponent, though his confidence in beating this supposed God of War hadn't wavered yet.

The lengths he was willing to go just to protect that miserable runt was almost...admirable. With an emphasis on almost. A big brute with a hot-headed temper, this fight should've been textbook with an obvious outcome. Then again, anything that seemed to involve this stocky pile of beef derailed prophecy and put a dent in supposed "fate".

Heimdall's head was spinning. Every time he tried to get a read on his opponent, he either drew a blank or was bombarded with a monstrous headache that clouded his senses. It had to be the spear, there was really no other explanation. So he fought—relishing in the bloodlust of an actual battle where he was truly in danger.

No matter how many times he used the bifrost, slowed time, or charged at that ghostly figure, the big brute wouldn't go down. But he refused to give up. He would never surrender to the likes of him.

Even when he was pinned to the wall and had his arm blown off due to his running mouth, he refused to accept the mercy presented to him. No, this was a fight to the death. "Only one of us is going to see Ragnarök, and it sure as shit will not be you!" 

He was running off adrenaline, charging, punching—anything to bring Kratos to his knees. It was easy to throw all of his frustrations into his actions. Speed was on his side, but he couldn't keep it up forever. His strength was waning, and all it took was for the Ghost of Sparta to get a good hold on him.

He was hit once—twice—each blow of the fist had him stumbling in his footing, and he was tackled to the ground. The Aesir tried to get up, but pain exploded from his face as his head was driven repeatedly into the ground. Blood was everywhere, hands were clasped tightly around his throat—squeezing, squeezing...

Blackspots danced in his vision as he struggled to breathe, clawing at the furious face boring down at him. Damn him...damn him! Damn them all! It was only then that the fear truly started to set in. He had failed. He would never fulfill his role as the Herald of Ragnarök that the All-Father had groomed him to be, never again breathe in Asgard's fresh air in his solitude atop the wall, never confront her again or smile in satisfaction as Freyr took his very last breath beneath his crushing heel. "Monster." The word was spat through clenched golden teeth. He was slipping away and teetering on the edge between life and death. His magic was waning, sizzling away into nothingness as his throat collapsed beneath constricting fingers. 

There was an angry scream, and suddenly, the crushing hands around his neck were gone, his opponent shoved crudely out of the way. Blessed air filled Heimdall's lungs, and he rolled onto his side, clawing at his throat that still felt like they were being squeezed. He rolled onto his side, eyes searching and getting a good look at just who had intervened.

"What are you doing, woman?!" Kratos demanded. The brute had thrown the attacker off of him,  pulling a knife that had been embedded into his shoulder.

Fiery eyes glared through strands of stringy hair. Dirt and grunge clung to nearly every inch of her, though the whites of her knuckles were visible even beneath the filth.

She didn't speak, but her chest heaved as if she had been running for miles. It was as surprising as it was alarming. A mere mortal determined to wedge herself between two gods? It was a foolish, even for her, and a suicide attempt.

Despite the absolute monstrous form of the God of War, she didn't falter or hesitate. Even when he was standing directly in front of her, casting a long shadow over her exhausted and weakened form, she stood her ground. "Move." The word rumbled in his chest, a serious warning that Kratos expected her to heed.