Hod had done nothing wrong, hadn’t he? Born blind, yet he could hold the weapon given to his hands, he could shoot that blasphemous bow and its hellish tipped arrow.

He had failed to hear The Gods and their cries, only being told by that of Loki to run. Run for the hills, the fjords, the nine worlds, the blind god did not know where his feet carried him.

He cried, cried tears that held no weight and silence upon his cheeks. He could not beg to the gods for mercy, like mortals did, he could only pray The Norns blest him with life ahead.

Oh, but The Norns were not so kind.

He fell that day, within the thickets of dense wood. A brother, he was, Vali. He did not care of the specifics to his parentage. He failed to enter the halls of Valhalla, he was within the murky darkness of your realm.

Had he cried once more? He hadn’t known. His feet carried him so far, through the bridges of Niflheim, the hatred that shrouded him as “The Killer of Baldur”, and nothing beyond it.

He had resided in your damned realm for months, Baldur did not visit—nor the bride of his brother. Others did, for Baldur, and the god of light alone.

He was within your bedding, blankets covering him, his pale fingers holding tightly as if to hide him away from the sights of the dead and perhaps your own for he was ashamed.

A killer, used and tricked, a son of Odin who had not perished well enough to gain Valhalla. You were the only one to speak to him, not with hatred nor disgust, understanding.