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Odin sat silently in his tent, resting his aching head against the chair. Outside, he could hear the faint voices of his men; drunken laughter and the songs of victory. Earlier, his General Tyr had asked Odin if he would like to join the rest of his men in celebration, but the Allfather had declined. It had been a long and brutal war, and while his warriors certainly deserved to revel in the triumph of their hard won victory, all Odin desired was peace and quiet, and wished to return to Asgard as soon as possible; back to his wife and son. Besides, he couldn’t leave his new treasure in the tent all alone.
A small sound, like a mewl, alerted him that the one he was thinking of had awakened. With a sigh Odin got up from his chair, every muscle aching with protest at the abuse it had suffered for such a long time, and made his way slowly towards the small makeshift cot resting on the ground next to his own bed.
The fur blankets were moving gently and the voice coming from inside them was increasing in volume. Before it got loud enough to alert the guards stationed outside his tent, Odin bent down and gently picked up the entire bundle of blankets and adjusted it carefully in his arms. He freed one hand and shifted the blankets aside a little, revealing a tiny face scrunched up in discomfort. The babe looked up at him with enormous green eyes and gave a soft cry, his mouth quivering piteously. The Allfather began to gently rock the infant in his arms.
“What is the matter, little one?” he asked softly. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”
The baby turned his head towards Odin’s chest and began to mouth the fabric of his robe. When that did not produce the desired result, he let out a sharp cry and his tiny legs moved in agitation. Odin couldn’t help smiling slightly.
“Ah, I see,” he said. “You are hungry. Come, let us feed you.”
With the baby carefully held in his arms, the Allfather walked towards the huge table placed in the center of the tent. On it were scattered various maps, scrolls and battle plans, along with food and drink. Odin selected a small bowl of milk (the request of which had caused Tyr to raise his eyebrows but he had wisely said nothing) and some soft bread. He sat back in his chair and firmly held the baby to his chest with one hand, while with his free one he used seidr to conjure a small spoon. He dipped it in the milk and brought it back to the baby’s tiny mouth. Upon feeling the touch of the metal, he immediately opened his mouth and Odin watched with amazement as those small lips clamped upon the spoon with surprising strength and sucked the milk from it. He pulled the spoon away and the baby’s face immediately twisted with displeasure.
Odin hastily brought the milk filled spoon back to the infant’s mouth once more and watched the same extraordinary thing happen again. As he continued to feed the baby in his arms, he couldn’t help but think of his small son Thor, who was back on Asgard with his mother and was surely awaiting his Father’s arrival eagerly. He had never held Thor in his arms like this, or fed him with his own hands; he had never had the chance. The war with Jotunheim had begun soon after his son’s birth. He had been away a lot and had not seen his first born as often as he would have liked to. Thor grew fast; he was an energetic child, always running from one place to another, exhausting the handmaidens trying to catch up with him. He was five summers old now, long past the age of wanting to be held in his parents’ arms for very long. Odin smiled; it would be a relief to go back and spend time with his wife and son that would not be tainted by the shadow of war.
And, he thought, looking down at the baby greedily drinking the milk, there will be a new member to add to the royal family.
Soon, the baby seemed to have had enough; he turned his head away and smacked his lips. Having seen Frigga do the same, Odin picked up the infant and rested his tiny head on his shoulder; he then began to gently pat his back. Soon enough, the baby burped and spat some of the milk back out onto his robe. The Allfather wrinkled his nose slightly at the pungent smell. He waved his hand and the vomit disappeared, although a faint trace of the smell lingered. Odin put the baby back in his arms, somehow feeling reluctant to put him back into his cot. Leaning back in his chair, he looked down at the baby properly, who was quiet and content now and looked up at him with curious eyes, one of his small hands gripping the blanket that covered him while his legs moved lazily.
He was, Odin thought, a beautiful child. His hair was thick and black as the darkest of nights, and eyes a brilliant emerald green. They were big and round, seeming to envelop his whole face, and shining like the stars in the skies of Asgard. The Allfather gently touched one feather soft cheek; the baby leaned into his hand and nuzzled his palm, cooing softly.
The sudden and overwhelming surge of protectiveness that seemed to erupt within his chest took him by surprise.
How could anyone abandon an innocent baby in such freezing cold, suffering and left to die? he wondered. For that was what this baby was: an abandoned infant left to die in the palace temple belonging to Laufey, the king of the Jotuns. And this child was no ordinary infant; he was Laufey’s first born.
The shame of having sired a runt.
Odin knew of the barbaric tradition that the Jotuns practiced. When a deformed baby or a runt was born to any of the Frost Giants, they would usually let the winter elements take the poor creature. And although this may seem cruel, many considered it to be a mercy compared to the alternative. Jotunheim was a harsh land, embedded in eternal winter. Only the strong and ruthless could survive here. If such a child was allowed to live, he would have a short life, and a cruel one, filled with nothing but contempt and scorn from his own people; not to mention the challenge of surviving in a body that was not conducive to the environment it inhabited. No, it was a kindness to let such an infant die, the only kind of kindness the Jotuns seemed capable of.
Despite knowing all of this, Odin could not help but feel bewilderment and not a small amount of anger at the thought of this baby lying in the palace temple, in cold and in pain, left to die by the very people who should love and protect him.
When Odin had first heard the faint cries of an infant as he’d entered the temple, Tyr had looked at him incredulously, unable to believe his ears. Hidden in a small nook in one of the temple walls had been a tiny blue skinned baby crying pathetically, and covered with only a small tattered loincloth. Tyr had sworn viciously at the sight. Children were precious on Asgard because they were born so infrequently due to the Asgardians’ long lives. To see one, an infant at that, in such a terrible condition was bound to arouse emotions (even if the infant was a Jotun). Odin had asked Try to make sure no one else entered the temple and then made his way towards those pitiful sounds. He had picked up the baby and put him in his arms. The infant had been small even by Asgardian standard; while blue skinned and red eyed like all Jotuns, he had a patch of thick black hair, something unseen in any Jotun before. He had recognized the upraised markings on the baby’s skin. He was of royal blood; Laufey’s first born.
The moment he had taken the baby in his arms, his cries had quietened. Laufey’s son had looked up at him with wide and frightened eyes wet with tears. The sight of them had tugged at his heartstrings, something he had not expected. Without thinking too much about what he was about to do next, Odin had wrapped the infant in his cloak to hide him from the rest of his men and made his way back to his tent, ordering Tyr to bring warm blankets, healing potions, and milk and honey for the baby. To his credit, his General had not said anything and done as he was told. Once they were inside, the Allfather had taken one of the weapons chests and made a makeshift cot out of it. Padding it with fur blankets and small cushions, he had placed the baby inside and covered him with another warm blanket. The infant had completely calmed down by then, his eyes turning curious instead of scared. Odin had reached down and placed his index finger on one tiny hand, and something remarkable had happened.
The moment his naked skin had come in contact with the baby’s, the blue had begun to fade. It had given way to the pale pink skin typical of an Asgardian child, and his red eyes had turned a bright and brilliant emerald green.
Odin had been shocked; while it was well known that seidr was not all that uncommon among the Frost Giants, to see such a powerful manifestation of it in one so young was unheard of. This babe had just shown a tremendous natural talent for seidr, and shapeshifting – having instinctively adapted his skin to that of an Asgardian upon just a single touch. The baby had started to shiver then, the freezing cold hitting his new skin for the first time. Odin had quickly warmed him up by swaddling him in more blankets until only the baby’s head was visible. Soon enough, the babe had fallen into an exhausted sleep, cocooned safely within the fur, and the Allfather had been left to his troubling thoughts.
For all intent and purposes, he had just kidnapped the royal heir of Jotunheim, abandoned or not. If this became public knowledge, the repercussions of his admittedly impulsive action would be felt throughout the Nine Realms. The war, which had finally ended with Laufey’s reluctant surrender, would erupt once more. And this time, the Jotuns would have legitimate cause to take up arms against Asgard. In such a situation, Odin knew that not everyone would see his actions for what they really were – that he was trying to save an innocent babe from a cruel death – instead, popular opinion would dictate that he should have let the heir of the enemy die, in order to save the lives of his own people. After all, what was one life of an unwanted and abandoned Jotun runt, compared to the valuable lives of the valiant and brave Asgardian warriors? His credibility as king would come into question and would sow seeds of dissent among his people. The Jotuns may try to retaliate by copying his actions and Thor would be in grave danger. Or they may try to take Laufey’s son back to their frozen wasteland, and who knows what would become of the babe then? Furthermore, the baby would face danger even within Asgard; within the very walls of his palace. Angry, full of hate and prejudice, the Asgardians would not be kind to someone whom they saw as the cause of their dark times.
Even if it was an innocent baby with no knowledge and understanding of the world around him.
As sentiment stood today, Jotuns were distrusted by most of the Nine Realms, and hated by the Asgardians, who had gone to war with them and lost thousands of their men at the hands of the Frost Giants.
The logical thing to do, Odin knew, would be to quietly go back to the temple and leave the child where he had found him. The baby would die soon enough, and the whole matter would be resolved there and then. If he took the infant with him, both their lives would be irrevocably changed. Secrets, lies, and caution. This is what the future would hold for him. But when he looked down at the now sleeping bundle in his arms, Odin sighed.
Logic, he thought exasperatedly, had abandoned him the moment he had heard those heart breaking cries echoing in the temple walls. He knew that no matter how uncertain the future, he would not, could not shy away from what he had already decided to do...or rather, what his heart had already decided to do. Strangely enough (or not), he could not bring himself to regret it.
Is this how Frigga had felt when she’d held Thor in her arms for the very first time? Or when she had first felt the babe kick in her womb? This all encompassing feeling which had no name? It felt like a supernova was taking place in his chest, and it seemed to spread to every part of his body, taking residence in his heart and soul, and making itself permanently at home there. It wasn’t an entirely pleasant feeling.
The baby snuffled in his sleep, and Odin unconsciously tightened his arms around him.
“Well,” he spoke softly, “If you are going to insist on stealing my much needed sleep, and making my good sense disappear, I’m going to have to give you a worthy name. I can’t go around calling you ‘baby’ now, can I?”
The infant hummed in his sleep, as if in agreement.
Smiling, Odin gently took hold of one tiny hand. “All of Asgard is going to fall in love with you when they see you. Maidens, young and old, will be enchanted by your beautiful eyes; fathers will clutch their white hairs in worry for the virtue of their daughters, and mothers will no doubt want to clasp you to their bosom. What chaos you and your brother will reign.”
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on the baby’s forehead; his nose scrunched up adorably when the Allfather’s beard tickled his skin. Odin stood up carefully, without disturbing the babe, and laid him back down gently into the make-shift cot. He settled blankets around the sleeping infant, and then sat down on his own bed, facing the cot.
Loki, he thought suddenly. Loki would be a good name. Loki – the little lord of chaos.
“Loki,” he said out loud, testing the name on his tongue.
The baby let out a soft hiccup.
The Allfather’s face softened with affection. “You approve, I take it.”
Bending forward, he stroked the fine hairs on Loki’s forehead. “Sleep well, my son. Tomorrow is going to be a very special day. For, tomorrow, we are both going home.”