Chapter Text
Long, slender fingers -- pale, perfect, like they belonged to a lovingly crafted marble statue. Sea green eyes that were always so stormy, but in their clarity, a hauntingly beautiful shade of azure. Those lips. . . curled in a perpetual smirk, glinting a mercilessly detached nature. Where the most biting insults, reprimands, and callous hatred originated . . . but you adored them all the same, every single bit of it.
“You’re not going to make me wait all day are you?”
Loki’s sneering chuckle broke you out of your reverie, finally glancing at the chessboard between the two of you. You couldn’t exactly remember what piece he moved exactly, so you moved one of your knights hastily. The prince chuckled again.
“You think after all these years, you would at least be able to make a decent play against me,” he overtook your knight, putting him in the position of checkmate. “Yet, here we are,” he drawled with a curl of his tongue.
“Always so cocky,” you chuckled with an arch of your brow, already resetting the pieces to the starting positions on the board. Loki smirked at the gentle jibe, you continuing, “Perhaps this next game you will meet you match?”
He scoffed, “Hardly-- it’s quite the joke to play with you, “ and yet he always was up for another game, never standing down from your challenge. His eyes gazed over the board, focused, hand already moving out to make the first move -- like you always let him. “But since I find this mildly stimulating, I’ll entertain your whims. . .”
And the two of you were back in your silent mental battle, Loki always attacking so ruthlessly with his black pieces and you always on the defensive with your white. You comfortingly rubbed an engraved inscription at the side of the board with your fingers -- it was the name of your father. This game “Chess” was a present to him from Midgard ages ago; you had grown up playing with it -- in turn, Loki had grown alongside you as your staunchest rival in the game. When you first introduced the game to him when you were both children, he was appalled to even consider playing a game created by “inferior” beings, but he quickly changed his tune once he watched a round between you and Thor.
Pieces moved back and forth in silence. The two of you were never that talkative to begin with -- a rare trait among the natural boisterous nature of Asgardians -- and when you did speak, it was with purpose. The gentle morning light streamed in through Loki’s bedroom window, the two of you comfortably seated upon his lush emerald bedsheets. This had become a routine between you two since childhood -- a morning game of chess in his chambers. Thor used to actually come too, but he quickly grew out of it since it was “way too damn boring” for him. But that was fine -- in these moments, it truly felt like you had the prince all to yourself.
Maybe I’ll toy with him, just a little bit. . .
“. . .?” Loki’s brow furrowed at your last move, obviously confused about its nature. It looked so random -- so out of place. He looked up at you, with a did you seriously make such a stupid move just now kind of look. He puffed with confidence, making his next move, moving the exact piece you expected him to. He was puzzled at your unfazed countenance-- that is, until you moved your bishop. Those dark brows furrowed once more, this time in aghast. “You. . .” he muttered angrily, eyes glued to the board.
“Hm?” You coyly leaned back, his eyes finally coming up to your’s -- oh yes, he seemed distraught alright. “Is something the matter, Loki?”
The man really had been such a bad influence -- your brow arched just as he did, a copy of his own smug expression on your features. You saw a nice shade of red grace his neck, but you knew that was probably just from anger. But before you could register any emotion on his face, he pulled back down to the game at hand. He stretched his neck, as if the movement could actually offer him a new perspective
“No of course not, what a ridiculous notion . . .” he mumbled. A hand shot out and made their move, and you could already see the course of his actions. You giggled beneath your breath, hoping he wouldn't notice -- but, of course, he did. He always did. “You find your impending loss amusing, my dear? Fitting, seeing as though the losing place has become like a home to you.”
Loki sneered, glaring at you with subdued fire. He wanted to get a rile out of you, just as he did with every other person he encountered -- but he knows that with you , it simply was not that simple. You giggled again, seeing the straining vein on his forehead, knowing that the man was already getting frustrated. Fine, have it your way you big baby. . .
You moved a small alabaster piece, and you could immediately see the way Loki’s eyes lit up at the sight of another win. A genuine look of joy graced his features, if so minute it was imperceptible by anyone else -- but you saw it. You saw it all. And even if you had to lose once, or a hundred, or a million times -- his smile was all worth it.
“Ah, and I was so sure about it this time,” you stretched your arms above you, playfully whining. The simple fabric of your dress bunched at your shoulders, the simple nude-colored material hanging lightly around your figure. “You are always quite the beast, Loki. It is your win again!”
A beat of quiet. Strange. . . You look over at him, and he’s leaned back on his arms, some emotion written in his features. His lips are tight, but you see the way his lip darted out to lick them. Norns, I wish I could own that tongue. . . The way he’s looking at you, like something he’s analyzing. . . something he’s committing to memory. . . something he’s admiring . . . ? Your face suddenly burned, and you awkwardly chuckled to hide it.
“Loki? Is something the matter. . .?” You wave your hand in front of his face nonchalantly -- he snatched your wrist, forcefully pulling you closer. Chess pieces scattered beneath the two of you, your legs digging into pieces and the board. Loki’s face closed in on you, and you prayed to Valhalla above that he couldn’t feel the way your heartbeat hammered in your pulse. He was so close -- you could smell him deeply, the scent of pine and mint and water, and even make out the gold flecks in his eyes. His face was unreadable, perfectly stoic. “. . . Loki?” you feebly questioned.
“It’s curious. . . ” he muttered, feeling his breath on your face and sending a chill down your spine. “. . . how someone could possibly still be so bad at a game despite years of practice?” He crassly laughed, and that finally broke the spell -- you shoved him back, laughing yourself, if only to hide your flushed face and sweaty palms. You subtly tried to wipe your hands on your dress to achieve some sort of relief.
“You’ll see, Loki, one day I will truly wipe that smirk off your face when I take your queen,” you laughed, cleaning up the pieces and returning them to the game’s case beside the bed.
“Ha! What a day that will be!” He snickered, reclining back onto his bed fully and folding his arms behind his head. “That must be the same day Thor will get through a diplomatic conference without breaking down into a fit of exasperated boredom.”
You laughed out loud at that, finishing returning all the pieces to the chess case and setting it back down on his bed-side table. You plopped down on the bed beside him, folding your hands over your middle. “As if you are so innocent!” you joked, elbowing his side with a laugh. “Remember that nasty trick you played on that dignitary from Alfheim?”
“Which one?”
“Loki!” you laughed again at his incredulousness, turning to elbow him again -- but he caught it, intertwining his arm with yours and leaving it. The two of you were locked arm in arm now; you could feel his cooling aura touch all over you, even if it was only his arm you were touching.
“Ah, yes, that old stuffy man,” he quipped, “Well, the weasels did make for a charming dinner show, did they not? The man seemed to enjoy it, hm?”
“Not when he is turned into one,” you scolded with a laugh, tugging his arm. “You’re lucky you never saw the rear end of such ploys; Odin had to coax the man to not start another war!”
You felt his arm go slightly rigid. Oops. You broke one of the most classic “do not bring up with Loki”-isms: his ever-so-loving father.
“Odin, ever the diplomat. . .”
You looked over at him, seeing his eyes bore holes into his ceiling, the way his mind was already wandering into dark expanses too depressing for such a beautiful Asgardian morning. Ugh, nice going idiot.
“Loki,” you cleared your throat, softly stroking his arm in a comforting motion that you knew always soothed him. “Are you excited to see Vanaheim again? Have you planned anything?”
“Woman, I can see Vanaheim whenever I wish -- besides, I have no such expectations for a realm so inferior to Asgard--”
“Ah, always such extremes with you!” you sighed, shaking your head. “I am simply asking if you have any plans for fun outside political meetings, Loki.”
He sighed and shook his head, as if talking about such things were beneath him, but he continued on nonetheless. “Thor is pulling me into some sort of traditional jousting festival there, but I am in no mood to entertain such trivialities. . . “ and he rambled on and on. Loki loved the sound of his own voice, and admittedly, you loved its velvet timbre even more so. His words and thoughts meandered aimlessly, letting him fall into his own mind once more. If you could, you would just sit at his feet all day and listen to him talk.
A knock at his bedchamber’s door broke the peace.
“My prince,” a servant girl spoke from outside. “Breakfast is ready in the food hall. My queen Frigga is requesting your presence.”
“Tell her I’m coming,” he called back, pinching the bridge of his nose annoyedly. He lowered his voice, turning his head to look at you. You greedily swallowed up the sight of his eyes, hopefully hiding your sudden intake of breath. He smiled, a real gentle smile, “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”
You nodded your head, your eyes undoubtedly full of your adoration for this man.
“Until the next sunrise, Loki."
---
“Safe Travels!”
“Farewell!!”
The small crowd cheered at the departing royal fleet. Your hand waved at the back of the crowd, albeit a bit disheartened.
You could only catch the retreating image of Loki’s ship as they took off from the Bifrost. The meeting at Vanaheim had been pushed forward unexpectedly to that same day; so quickly, in fact, that you never even had the chance to send your best friend off with a proper goodbye. Strangely enough, it seemed the political trip was only undertaken by the royal family and a handful of close viziers -- you wondered what kind of topics they had to be discussing. You tried cracking Loki from some information before, but even he seemed to be uninformed -- at least, that’s what he always said. But you knew it wasn’t a lie. Knowing him for as long as you did, you could easily shift out his lies from his truths now.
After the crowd cleared from the Bifrost and made sure you were left alone on that rainbow bridge, your feet quickly made a mad dash toward the gate. Hastily picking up your simple dress, the impact of your equally simple sandals lit up the Bifrost beneath you with each running step. Finally at the gate, you saw the solitary steadfast guardian, ever at his post.
“Heimdall!” you excitedly called, going over to his side. Stretching out on your toes, you struggled to place a sweet kiss on his cheek. The man smiled gently in reply, sparing you a side glance.
“My lady,” he raised a brow. “Here to pray for fortune for your prince?”
You blushed at his brazenness. “Heimdall, please, he -- he is not my prince --”
“Is that so? Then where is the star you’ve dedicated to Thor--?”
“ Heimdall !” you laughed embarrassedly. This man always loved to tease you since you’ve known him. “Please, just--” you stuttered, recollecting your composure. “Please, tell me what you see.”
The two of you focused your eyes to the stars beyond the gate, seeing the guardian’s shoulders stiffen and relax. “Prince Loki is aboard the royal carrier, reading a book, obviously bored. . .ah,” he chuckled. “It seems he is now arguing with his brother for some fun.”
You smiled and giggled at that, knowing how much his boredom spelled for chaos for others. You could already see it now in your own mind; Loki probably turned Thor’s wine into snakes and scared his bear of a brother witless. “And what of ‘Sygin’, Heimdall?”
“You star. . .” his eyes softened. “Your star is as bright as ever, my lady. Ever a twinkling light at the edge of the universe.”
You nodded your head resolutely; you stepped forward toward the edge of the gate, peering out into the expanse of the universe. Among those intricate webs of galaxies, a star you had helped discover as a child with Heimdall lay somewhere lightyears away -- “Sigyn” is what you had named it. You had read it in a book your father had brought from Nidevaleir.
“Victory.”
Heimdall’s voice echoed your thoughts behind you. You nodded again, continuing to look at the endless blanket of stars. You clasped your hands together, closing your eyes, bowing your head as you always did when Loki went off on whatever manner of a trip.
Dearest Sigyn, with your undying light, please shine on Loki. Light his way in darkness. Give him strength in all things, victory in all endeavors. May his cup never empty, his plate never wanting. Let his eyes know peace and his cheeks tire with rosiness. Let his heart be light. Keep him safe, keep him safe, keep him safe. . .
There was no rhyme or reason to your wishing; you simply spoke from the heart, pouring out every ounce of affection you could never dream to outwardly show.
. . . and please, bring him back to me.
You turned back around, smiling satisfied with your prayer, but were taken aback by Heimdall’s strangely serious countenance at his post. “Heimdall,” you questioned, stepping closer. “Heimdall, what’s wrong? What do you see?”
His eyes analyzed your’s for a moment, as if contemplating what to say. “The anniversary of your parents’ death is coming soon upon us,” he at last commented with a quiet voice. “It marks a millenia to the day.”
You nodded, turning back around to peer out at the sparkling universe, instinctively beginning to wring your hands for comfort. “Yes, a thousand have already passed, haven’t they. . .” you muttered. “And yet-- yet, it still feels like only yesterday--”
“They fought bravely for the sake of Asgard, my lady,” the guardian interrupted from behind you, already sensing the weakness in your voice. “They are undoubtedly watching you from Valhalla -- and I should know.”
You laughed at that, quickly wiping away a wetness at the corner of your eye. Heimdall had always been there for you since you were a child -- ever since your parents gave their lives in battle. The royal family had graciously allowed you to live on as a minor noble within the palace in repayment of your family’s service. You quickly became an established scholar and lady, but the social charisma a noble needed to survive was seemingly lost on you; besides Loki, that loneliness could always be helped by Heimdall’s company. When you were younger, he was expectedly averse to having a small child pester him with questions about the universe -- but that quickly gave way to him answering any and all curiosity, providing his own explanations, giving you guidance, and building your relationship to what it is now.
You turned back to look at him; his golden eyes had softened once more, but you could still sense something behind them.
“Heimdall?”
He shook his head, his golden armor gently clanking. “I see something on the horizon,” Heimdall squinted at the expanse behind you. “And I fear. . . I have a feeling. I fear for you , my lady.”
You scoffed, expecting it to be some joke, but Heimdall’s continued seriousness shook the mirth from you. “Your fears are likely paranoia, dear Heimdall. As you can see, I am perfectly fine!”
“I see what may lie ahead of you, child, and I--” he caught himself, shifting on his feet. “I simply ask that you be careful going forward.”
“Always so cryptic. . .” you sighed, shaking your head teasingly. “If it will give you comfort, my friend, I will be careful.”
He finally nodded, a tight smile on his face. “You should return to the palace now, child,” he spoke, fixing his posture back to that of a stoic guardian. “It seems as though some of the eunuchs have already noticed you missing.”
“ Oh shit--! ” you hiked your skirt up to your knees hastily, running out of the gate and back on the bifrost. You tossed a garbled goodbye over your shoulder, waving wildly behind you. You didn’t see it, but Heimdall offered a quiet ‘see you later’ under a chuckling breath as well.
---
You held a unique position within the palace.
“My lord, I’m having trouble transcribing this tome. . .” you overheard a young apprentice approaching an older scholar at his desk. The older man, a senior scholar named Lord Torsten, looked up from his work at his desk. Your curiosity tuned in your ears from your own desk at your corner of the royal library’s study. The young man continued, “. . .I do not understand this language or its origin.”
Torsten looked over the book’s pages; his eyes sharply noticed your gaze, and you quickly shifted your stare back to your work. Your ears continued to listen.
“Hm, this seems to be an old Midgardian script. . .”
Damnit. You bit your tongue, knowing what the old man was going to do next. You looked up from your work, already seeing Torsten looking over at you and motioning in your direction. He had an amiable glint in his eyes.
“. . . the lady scholar there is our chief master in all things Midgardian.”
Your eyes flicked to the young apprentice’s face, seeing that trademark look of concern, surprise, and disgust. A woman? Scholar? Teaching a man? Preposterous!
Slowly, the man made his way over, still hesitant to ask you for help; in the fading light of day, the candle light illuminated his features. He looked younger than you, but not by much; shoddily fixed dark brown hair, dark green eyes, and a naturally peevish disposition. You might’ve considered him handsome if not for the look of disdain not-so-discreetly written on his face.
“Here,” he nonchalantly thrust the book in your direction, refusing to even look you in the face. “What language is this?”
Torsten chuckled at the other end of the study, the other seasoned scholars in the hall similarly chuckling at the young man’s behavior. It was always a crowd-pleaser when a greenhorn was put in their place. You shook your head, scoffing. Pushing yourself up from your desk, slowly, hands gripping the sides of your desk, you cleared your throat, refusing to acknowledge the outstretched tome.
“Name.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your name , apprentice. Surely you must have one.”
“I--” he turned to look at you, disgust on his face. “Who are you to ask me--”
“ Name ,” you bit out. “Or those pages will remain a mystery to you.”
The young man clicked his tongue, pausing, weighing his options. Finally, he chewed out a response through clenched teeth, his eyes still not meeting your’s.
“Ingvarr.”
“Well, Ingvarr ,” you coldly chided, taking the book from his hands and quickly flipping through its pages. “Since you are new I will offer you one piece of advice -- never look down on your comrades, whether in battle, in labor, and even here -- in the academic pursuits.” You shut the book with an extra snap, glaring at him with a discerning eye. “We are all here for the same purpose. The pursuit of knowledge . Don’t let your primitive ego get in the way of that.”
You handed the tome back to the astonished Ingvarr, who must’ve been expecting something different from your mouth entirely; he was agape, eyes a bit wide.
“I--”
“And don’t forget that I am your superior within these halls, Ingvarr,” you quickly scribbled something down on a scrap of paper, handing it to him. “Find this book. It will help you with the translations. If you need any more help, I will be right here.”
Ingvarr swallowed a lump in his throat, and he sheepishly bowed in gratitude. “Thank you, my lady,” then he sped off into the maze of bookshelves beyond the library’s study hall.
“Nicely done, my lady,” Torsten strolled over beside your desk, scratching his white scruffy beard leisurely. “Always just cold enough, but still somehow with a motherly touch. You truly are quite the fearsome woman.”
You smiled at him, sinking back down at your desk and resuming your work. “I wish it were not necessary,” you quipped. “It still amazes me how antiquated people’s beliefs still are.”
“Antiquated indeed,” the older man mused, now leaning against your desk casually as you worked. “Say--” Fuck. I know that tone of voice. “-- My daughter tells me that she did not see you at her majesty’s tea yesterday afternoon? Peculiar, considering any and all ladies within the palace were invited.”
You sighed, not bothering to lift your head from your work. “I asked her majesty if I could be excused. I needed time to still translate some Vanaheiman archives for their departure,” you flicked a page particularly roughly. “I don't’ have time for ‘tea’ parties.”
Torsten said nothing, but you could feel his aged gaze on you; you heard the sound of his bristly beard as he continued to stroke it, pondering something in that great mind of his. “Of course, my lady. Work is always a noble cause. . .” he paced back to his desk, flopping down in his chair. “But you are still young. Live young, my lady.”
The study returned to its assured quietness, crackling fire places and turning papyrus the only sounds filling the hall. You tried finding comfort in the inked pages of historical texts and literature, but your mind wandered.
Live young? What does that even mean. . .
---
“My dearest. . .”
Loki’s breathy whisper grazed your naked skin, already gleaming with a thin layer of heated sweat. You ran your fingers through his raven hair, roughly gripping his scalp, forcing his mouth back against yours. He tasted like passion and death and love and war -- you were addicted to him completely.
“Loki. . . please. . .” you sighed as his lips descended, a path of wet kisses trailing down your chest, your stomach, your navel -- your breath hitched when his breath hovered over your aching heat.
“What do you want, my sweet?” he smirked against the skin, so close but not nearly close enough. “You must tell me what you want. . .” he whispered.
“Please, Loki --” you stuttered, looking down and searching for his eyes in the darkness. You could only make out the crown of his dark head. “Loki, I need it-- I need--”
“What? What do you need?”
“Please, Loki!” you whined, desperately arching your back and lifting your hips, but Loki held you firm in his stone-like grip. “Loki. . .”
“Hm?”
“. . . you.”
“What was that, my lady?”
“You, Loki, I want you !!”
“AH--!” you woke up with a start, chest heaving, skin sticky and hot. A dim candle light flickered on your bedside table, illuminating your simple room: a sturdy oak bed, a desk for studying, some decorations and amenities here and there, and most of all books upon books. Your room practically looked like a library storage room.
When did I fall asleep . . ? The world outside your window was already dark and quiet, the palace already at rest. You were still in your day clothes -- you must’ve dozed off during the afternoon. Laying on your bed, you were surrounded by numerous papers and books that corroborated the assumption. You wiped a hand against the back of your heated neck.
Stars. . . another dream .
You can’t exactly pinpoint when they began, but as you grew into womanhood, those. . . fantasies of a certain prince became relentless. These days, they were practically inescapable -- every night, Loki, Loki, Loki . . . admittedly, you had been avoiding sleeping altogether, resulting in your “power” naps like the one you just had (ie: being knocked out by fatigue). It didn’t help that you woke up at the crack of dawn every morning to play chess with him--
Ah. But you didn’t need to do that tomorrow morning, do you. He was still off at Vanaheim. . .
The pressure between your legs didn’t abate, much to your chagrin. You bit down on your lip, your eyes glancing over to a particular bookshelf next to your bed -- your series of diaries. You quickly got up and pulled out the latest volume, grabbing a nearby pen and began to furiously scribble at the pages.
My dearest prince, do you have any idea what you do to me? Every night, I dream of your tongue on my womanhood--
No. . . No that wasn’t clear enough. Not even close.
-- womanhood Cunt. My dripping, heady cunt, laid out and bare all for your taking. Every part of me aches for you. When will you decide to feast on me, my prince . . .
This erotic catharsis is how you let off steam, your fantasies materialized on paper making your thighs clench on impulse. Your recent volumes were filled to the brim with lustful imagination and dreams. But it wasn’t enough -- it was never enough. At the end of your steamy writing, your hands were shaking -- all that was left was dissatisfaction and the gnawing emptiness at your chest.
You have loved Loki since the two of you were children. Body and soul, Valhalla and Helheim, every single aspect that was furious, resentful, hateful -- you desired it all.
But in desire is where it would remain.
---
You strolled aimlessly through the palace hallways, admiring the beautiful afternoon autumn colors in the courtyards through the massive floor to ceiling windows. It was a rare moment of leisure for you, on an afternoon break from your scholarly studies. The days had passed quietly in the castle -- so unusually quiet without Thor or Loki’s antics -- eagerly fulfilling your duties as a scholar and less enthusiastically as a lady noble. It’s not that you didn’t enjoy her majesty Frigga’s events or other events meant for noble ladies -- Norns, no, you adored the fancy dresses, the lush food, the warm environment of mirth.
It’s just that. . .
“My my -- what a wonderfully unique ensemble you’ve put together today Nessie. Hand me downs, I presume?”
. . . some of the ladies were, for lack of a better word, straight up bitches .
You rounded a corner seeing a vulturous group of noble women hounding on a young girl: sweet Nessie, Torsten’s daughter. She was much too timid, letting the group of ladies trap her against a wall.
“And just what is this ?” One lady picked at a brooch on Nessie’s shoulder strap.
“I-it’s a brooch from my-- my sister--”
“ Really ? Such an eyesore as this--” the other lady pulled it off roughly, throwing the brooch to the ground. “--Is better fit as a decorative pebble on the courtyard pathways.”
How pathetic .
“ Ladies !”
Your voice cut through their saccharine chatter, all eyes turned toward you. You stepped forward, picking up the discarded brooch. It was a lovely little thing -- a ruby flower encased in bronze. Luckily it didn’t seem to be damaged.
“Such decorum isn’t fit for palace halls, my ladies,” you seethed at the other women who backed away from you as you approached. You brought yourself fully between the small crowd and Nessie. “If you want to squabble, perhaps the stables are more suitable.”
“Lowly wench-- !” the lead girl, Lady Etoile you recognized, lit up like a tomato, baring her teeth like a wild animal. “How dare you speak to someone of superior birth in such a fashion? Do not think for a second that just because we share the same title means that we are in any way equal !”
“My lady,” you snickered, resolute in your stance. “If what you say is true, then why do you degrade yourself at all by reprimanding someone of such lowly birth?”
SLAP!
The sound of Etoile’s hand across your cheek echoed off the hallways. Your cheek burned, but you refused to show any emotion; raising your eyes, you saw the woman’s wild eyes and heaving chest, as if the slap was a thrill. Etoile stalked closer, breathing down your face.
“Remember your place lower-class filth ,” she leaned in closer, murderous intent in her eyes. “One day, his highness Loki will realize where you truly belong. On that day, you’re dead .”
With a whip of her perfect hair, the entourage followed her out of the hall. When it was quiet again, finally turning back around to face Nessie. Her head was still cowered, shaking like a leaf caught in the wind.
“Are you alright . . ?” you muttered, trying to look under her sandy blonde bangs to see her face. You outstretched her brooch in your hand -- she snatched it in a blink, shoving past you before you roughly without a word. Once again you were left alone. You resumed your stroll, as if nothing even happened -- except you were rubbing a sore cheek every few steps or so.
Of course, this was nothing new -- you came from a line that wasn’t noble, basically only living on the Allfather’s good graces. You were in a position of power beyond your birthright in your work as a scholar and advisor. And most of all, you were inexplicably close to the royal princes. You didn’t see yourself as particularly beautiful, talented, or even physically powerful. It was better that Nessie didn’t associate with you.
A raven cawed outside. You stopped and stared at its glistening body perched on a branch. You wondered how Loki was doing.
---
Whispers.
“Did you hear. . .?”
Murmurs.
“In all the Nine Realms, really . . . ?”
Rumors.
“Are you serious. . .?”
The palace was abuzz with something -- it was the day of the Odinson family’s return to Asgard, and there was a rush of news and gossip that made your head spin. From stories about a long lost royal, challenges to the throne, even Odin revealing that his right eye was under his eyepatch this whole time -- the stories ranged on the full spectrum of bizarre and farfetched. What’s got people so riled up?
Finally, the horns sounded -- the royal fleet had arrived. Faster than the wind would have carried you, you hurled yourself through the palace halls, running out onto its golden steps, through city streets, and onto the Bifrost; you were determined to be at the front of the crowd to welcome home the family. Running through the sheaths of people, you could already notice something strange; there was an extra ship, non-Asgardian. . . it was a Vanaheim ship.
A royal Vanaheim ship.
The ships docked, a mix of Asgardian and Vanaheiman soldiers emerging. A rock formed at the pit of your stomach as the passengers disembarked. The Allfather, Queen Frigga, Prince Thor. . .
“. . .Loki.”
The whisper of his name was lost among the roars of the welcoming crowd. He smiled and waved animatedly -- strange . Despite his smiling face, there was something tired and ragged about his features. Some agonizing, dreadful feeling was clawing up your throat -- the cheers of the people soon turned into a nauseating white noise. You weren’t able to get to the front, but you were still able to see the two royal families standing side by side.
Then hands joined together.
Loki’s hand.
And a woman’s.
Your blood runs cold. Icy even. The world goes silent except for a solitary cheer that sneaks its way through your defenses.
“. . . that’s her. . .!”
No.
“. . . That must be her. . .!”
Stop .
“. . . it must be. . . !”
Please .
“. . . Prince Loki’s fiance . . .!”