Homecoming
I am unsure of what I thought I would return to—I’d heard utterings of Asgard’s emergence into a new era of peace and enlightenment. We’d always been a keen people but now, it seemed the people were thriving, conjuring new ideas faster than ever; evolving, innovating. However, nothing could prepare me for the unnerving dread that overcame me upon entering the residence of my birth after centuries of absence.
I had spent much of my life here—a prisoner within the glimmering walls of the court, shrouded under the skeptical eye of the All-Father and his cohorts. I was loyal then, trusted, nestled within the hearth of Asgard alongside my elder sister. Ironic how the tables have turned. I roll my eyes at the guards that jostle me through the looming vestibule, hauling me forth into the refurbished grandeur of the throne room. We embark upon the aisle determinedly, the spectators on either side gawking at our ascension.
No fright nor intimidation befalls me as I am shoved upon my knees before the God of Thunder—the presiding King of Asgard. His chiseled chin bores down suspiciously at me, taunt. Such a chin makes a bold impression when paired with the icy, crystalline intensity of his eyes. So soulful—I once saw them. Now? They hold nothing but contempt for me, disdain.
Or, rather not me but the disguise I toggle.
To the eye I am a youthful male; malnourished, disorderly. My limbs quiver through the manipulation of my magic, projecting a figure that is terrified and panicked. Such a frenzy is justified, perhaps, since I do take the form of the Assassin I encountered in Vanaheim. Countless villages were slaughtered under his tyranny and I, naturally, had brought him to his demise. In doing so—as fate would deem me so misfortunate—I was captured under the jurisdiction of the Asgardian army, seeking quickly to adapt the form of the villain I had just laid to waste.
Not my finest moment.
Yet, most certainly not my worst.
If I knew anything of Thor, the punishment would be minimal. I would be incriminated, judged, and tossed into a cell that I would only too easily free myself from. Feign death, I would, and materialize into the dawn to resume my shadowing through the realms. Free of obligation.
Thor’s fingers interwove with a figure to his right, drawing my eyes to the source of his affections. My throat constricted at the sight. Sif had aged dexterously, marvelously. Her russet locks swayed about her waist, a length I never gathered she’d reach. It was too innocent; gentle. Certainly not befitting of the fiercest warrior of Asgard. Her armor had improved over the centuries; more gold, flair and flexibility. Her armor fishtailed into a lovely skirt, red, of course, to enhance her lover’s claim to her prowess.
Sif had shackled herself to Thor, had she? My eyes pursued the bulge that lay claim in her abdomen and a smile slithered across my lips. She was a mother to be?
I’m an Aunt. A shrill voice bubbled up within me, overjoyed at the proposition of beholding a niece or nephew. I coerced my excitement into steely reserve immediately, drawing closed the feelings I once clung so fondly to.
You do not live this life anymore. You shall never do so again.
If only the heart were so effortlessly convinced.
“You dare stare upon the Queen, murderer?” My head bobbled from Sif’s belligerent face to the boisterous voice that boomed at her side. Her Husband regarded me callously. “You will advert your gaze, peasant.” I fought the urge to scoff at such pomp and ceremony but obliged anyways.
“This is the criminal for which Vanaheim lays claim?” Thor demands of the guard, arrogant as ever.
“Aye, my King. They have submitted the peasant to your jurisdiction for they know you and His Highness will reap justice where it is due.” The guard replied, complied to bow despite the stronghold he maintained on me.
His Highness? In spite of myself I settle upon Sif once more, knowing that it could not be she of which this guard speaks. Two rulers? I had heard such rumors but thought them to be myths; never daring to lay gaze upon the phenomenon myself. Who would the All-Father deem to rule the throne other than his trusted son? Certainly not… My heart lurches at the prospect—the image of a man I once admired coalescing in my mind’s eye.
“They have chosen wisely.” Thor shifts in his lavish Throne, the same as the noble who occupied it afore him, if not extended to accommodate his wife, should she choose to linger beside him. “Brother, what say you?”
Outwardly, I knew the eyebrows within my disguise meshed together, an outward representation of the angst that overcomes my being. My gaze seethes the throne that lays to the left of throne, theatrical in it’s occupation.
The throne maintains it’s golden grandeur, but has been crafted upwards, rather whimsically. The edges are flourished with intertwining serpents, weaving in and out of one another to illustrate the clashing of ovals; an eternal end. The eyes of the serpent glow above the headpiece of the throne, glimmering a rich emerald.
Within the seat looms of a lithe figure, one I had memorized all too well as a young maiden of Asgard. Slim, yes, yet behind the garments lay the toned torso of a warrior; littered with scars and blemishes. My flesh ripples in exhilaration, compelled by the memory of childhood passed. My eyes trailed upwards, above the silken, emerald robes and golden bangles; beyond the menacing scepter that balanced within a nimble, calculating grasp. An angular chin and prominent cheekbones wrought taut over an ivory canvas, every bit as aristocratic and noble as any royal. Ever still I seek those shrewd eyes; pinning my movements under the keenness of his emerald scrutiny. Enhanced those eyes are by the tendrils of ebony that claw about his face. Shorter locks—well kempt. I observe this fondly, imaging such a cut on him as a child; the two of us, enraptured by books by the bubbling of the stream.
It suit him well even then.
Anything did.
He traces my disguise thoroughly, his eyes pooling with condescension. “We shall not tolerate tyranny in any ally of Asgard,” He declared, ever sultry in his execution. Such intonation jostled me to the bone, nearly faltering my illusion. His eyes jerk ever so slightly. My confidence will not be shirked, however. If any one’s magic could hold a torch to Loki Laufeyson’s, it would be mine. And I’d been practicing for centuries. “He shall be meet his demise by the hands of the court. Do you so agree?”
Demise?
Sif chuckled to the right of Thor, bemused by the genuine incredulity that shines upon my features. “Asgard no longer trifles with traitors. We have learned well in our years of betrayal.” I am sure—although I can not claim for certain, for I was not able to gaze upon my sister for long—that her eyes shimmied over to Loki’s, a clear “dig” to his ambiguity.
Loki out rightly snorted yet chose to remain silent, brooding. My eyes slithered in his direction once more, taking none too kindly at the scrutiny and depth of his gaze as he sought my presence.
“Aye, Brother. It shall be.” Thor gesticulated to a guard to his side, beckoning forth the man holding a gruesome scythe, blade glistening with a bracken fluid.
Oh, he was serious! Damn the lot of them! I made quick preparations in my head for the manipulation of my spell, hastening my illusion to solidify into flesh upon the execution, willing my presence to leave uncharted.
“Vanir Hanison, I hereby sentence you before the court of Asgard to death for the countless slaughter of innocents. Your soul shall depart to the hallows of Hel and rot with all those who since trifled against the unity of the realms and mother Asgard.” The guard cantered closer, ever ominous in his demeanor. Oh, such theatrics! What happened to sound imprisonment and the delirious ramblings of a criminal hauled to the dungeons?
Odin would be so disappointed.
I closed my eyes and readied the spell, enthralled by the cool wind that reverberated off the impeding blade, swooshing before my throat.
5…4…3… 2…
“Halt!” Loki cried, summoning the court to a jumble of whispered and ecstatic murmurs. “Stay your blade, soldier.” I creaked opened my eyes reluctantly and sought to settle the rambunctious energy that swarmed within me. Oh, what now? Thor and Sif gawked as Loki descended his throne, pausing to stand before my disguise. “We have a liar in our midst.” Loki reached a hand down to clasp my chin, a gasp evoking from my outwardly illusion. I felt such a gesture. It stirred every unrequited feeling within me, every sentiment. Joyous impulses trickled from his fingertips through my bodice, enlivening the revelry that coursed through me veins, uplifting the veil of tragedy and hatred that engorged my heart.
I was young again; blissful.
And I loathed such sentiment.
I sought to wrench back my chin only to be met with the biting coldness of his touch, exhilarating and exhausting as it was. “Do you wish to reveal yourself traitor, or shall I?”
I could feel the court shift around me: anxious, unnerved. Yet, I could not bring myself to abandon the formidable man that towered before me.
“You should not wish for what you cannot undo.” I warn, thwarting the boundaries of his claim in a stranger’s crackling, masculine voice, challenging his accusation before the court. “How boldly you accuse one of lying when you yourself are the embodiment of trickery. Perhaps you are wrong.”
His answer leer cuts deeply into his flawless skin, daring. “Try me.” He hisses, audible to my ears only. Within me boiled that encapsulated rage. It rose and sweltered, amplifying to daring heights.
“As you wish.” Adapting a sneer of my own I snap my fingers from within the confinements of my shackles, willing my apparition to perish.
Loki’s sinful smirk evaporated into anguish upon gazing my face. He stumbled backwards, relinquishing the grapple on my chin. I eradicated myself from my chains and rose, evoking gasps and squeals from the court.
Thor rumbled in astonishment, abruptly stirring from his throne. “It—it cannot be.”
All the while, I remained in a staring contest with the dark King, fanning my arms out before me. Theatrics weren’t typically my forte yet, they did hold some credibility. More up Loki’s ally than mine.
“Rayna!?” Was Sif’s erratic plea before the guards descended upon me, the court erupting into a stream of chaos.