Chapter Text
It was a day like any other in Valhalla.
Unbearably peaceful.
Always the same light. Neither day nor night.
After a while, it felt like it was perpetually tea time.
And speaking of tea, he had been served a pale infusion—lukewarm, vaguely floral.
The kind of brew served when there was nothing left to celebrate.
It tasted like boredom — and like every compromise one accepts for lack of anything better.
A lingering scent hung in the air—sweet, cloying, familiar.
Mead, crushed flowers, golden warmth.
After a while, it became nauseating.
Music was ever-present.
Someone, somewhere, was always playing the lyre.
Not loud enough to complain about.
Just badly enough to make it impossible to ignore.
The first five minutes were tolerable.
After twenty days, it became an ordeal.
An eternal spa—the very idea made him want to commit perfectly unjustified murder.
He clenched his jaw. Released it at once.
He set the cup down.
Didn’t finish it.
Everything was in order.
And yet, he couldn’t get used to it.
Qin straightened slowly, more out of habit than necessity.
His body was not healed.
Not really.
The arm was gone. The shoulder too.
And it wasn’t as though any of it would grow back—
he was not some celestial salamander.
He was being taken care of.
Too much.
Even in life, as emperor, he would have had nothing to complain about.
Which, naturally, irritated him deeply.
Impeccable bandages.
Meticulous care.
Mandatory rest—monitored, enforced, discussed.
The pain was there.
Present, but manageable.
He held onto it.
It wasn’t overwhelming pain—
just sharp enough to remind him that someone had opposed him.
That someone had stood against him.
And that it had mattered.
Enough to remind him he could still feel something.
With every dull pulse, a part of him calmed.
His mind found a kind of peace.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Again.
Someone came in.
Adjusted a cushion.
Checked a bandage.
Asked if he needed anything.
Again.
He said no.
Again.
They stayed anyway.
When he was finally alone, he inhaled slowly, closed his eyes for a moment.
If they bring me one more box of ambrosia chocolates,
I’m leaving for Helheim.
The thought came without anger.
Just a fact.
Another knock.
The door opened.
A box was handed to him, carefully wrapped.
“Ambrosia chocolates,” the voice announced—with the best intentions in the world.
A brief tightening in his lower back.
He ignored it.
He looked at the box.
Then at the person holding it.
And very calmly, he stood up.
That was enough.