Idle Time Makes Ill Minds
Vincent had flown himself up to one of the towers, looking out on Asgard as celebrations still rang out. His wounds hadn't fully healed yet, but they were hardly of concern to him. Even if his body was not, the place of his birth was timeless. Every street, nearly every stone and bit of mortar, was still unchanged from his childhood. Only he had changed.

Or had he?

Had he made the right decision? Was there a right decision to be made? With Bifrost still in ruin, there was no way back... back home.

His stomach twisted as he contemplated what he had done. All his life he had dreamed of being born again under the banner of Asgard, but he had built a life on Earth nonetheless. He had family, a lover, and friends. And he had stood with others.

But they had needed him. Hadn't they?

Kristoff was the head of the family. There was no-one to be trusted more with their lives. The shade of his true self that Vincent had been... what could he have done? Here, in Asgard, he had helped win the day.

They'd won.

He hadn't.

He drew his knees up to his chest, burying his face in them.

If he was truly to live to see Ragnarok, for it had not been this day, then he would have a very very long time to think about what he had done.