The hall reeks of sweat, ale, and burnt meat.

You sit beside, your now husband, Heimdall at the long table, gold and firelight reflecting off armor and spilled drink, while Odin’s soldiers howl with laughter and slam fists into one another like animals. Someone is bleeding on the floor. No one cares.

They eat with their hands, grease streaking their beards, shouting over one another as if this is a victory feast instead of a wedding.

Your wedding.

Heimdall leans back in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the back of the bench behind you, posture loose and arrogant, like this whole thing bores him. His grin is sharp, pleased… not with the celebration, but with the fact that you’re here at all.