There's a God Under My Bed

Darcy rubbed sleep out of her eyes, aware of the heavy weight of someone’s head on her chest. There was a little wet spot of drool on her collarbone and she felt smothered.

“Grace,” Darcy grunted, trying to push off her friend. “Get your face out of my boobs.”

Grace didn’t even budge, emitting a loud snore in response.

Darcy persevered for a good moment, wiggling around a bit and attempting to shove herself away, but she gave up after a while, instead choosing to stare at the ceiling and wait for Grace to turn in her sleep.

Grace had called her up on a Wednesday night, claiming that she was bored, alone, and entirely disillusioned from the idea that homework could do anyone any good and she demanded that Darcy spend the night at her house while her mom was out of town.

Originally, Darcy had no intentions of staying up late with Grace on a school night. She and Loki were going to magically break into college libraries and borrow books. For science.

Their assessment of the Aether had been going horribly. Loki had brought up several times that the Aether’s original form had not been liquid. This was significant somehow, but they weren’t sure why.

The stone had been like nothing they’d ever seen before. It was incomparable to any theoretical magical components, it contradicted Midgardian science and it left Darcy feeling like she had to re-learn everything she’d ever come to know about life.

It was a mess.

Not only that, but she’d also started having nightmares, dreams where the world was black and she was failing all of her classes while Loki died, her friends and family abandoned her, America voted in another conservative president, and Asgard burned. They didn't start directly after their encounter with the Aether. Instead, they popped up sometime in the spring. Right before her final exams the Aether's reality because the stuff of her nightmares. 

Her nights were miserable. They left her heart pounding, constricting with fear and throbbing with concern. She woke up in cold sweat, grappling at the sheets next to her for Loki. They always fell asleep beside each other, but Darcy moved around so much that Loki tended to migrate to the other side of the bed and huddle near the wall. Frank and Fenrir would snuggle up between them or at the foot of the bed.

She could not bring herself to tell him about her nightmares. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell him, she did. But, to some extent, her frightening dreams embarrassed her. Scary nighttime concoctions of the mind were a child’s fear and Darcy was fifteen now. Her childish ardency during stolen moments with Loki and secret jokes with Sif and Sigyn were incomparable to her current pain.

Her passions were not weaknesses; rather it was her fears that made her so. The powerless feeling she got from being around the Aether refused to fade and though Loki found no residual magic from the stone on either of them, Darcy believed that the memory of it alone was enough to make her sick with self doubt.

When she inevitably awoke, panting and listening for the steady thrum of Loki’s heart, she would substitute her sleep for study by bringing books into bed with her, beginning homework due months away, writing letters to distant lands, assembling financial reports on the areas that Asgard’s treasurer didn’t have time to cover, memorizing the name of every convicted Asgardian criminal in the past year…she never ran out of things to do.

She liked being in Loki’s room on these nights. It was big and comfier than he liked to believe and it was easier to get up and walk around in without waking anyone.

Last night after Grace proposed their uncharacteristically risky sleepover, Loki made the executive decision to cancel their plans. He proclaimed that Darcy needed to spend time with her Midgardian friends with whom she could not tempt herself with the call of never-ending work.

Darcy didn’t want to. She had things to do and gods to watch over. But Loki had persisted, getting down on his knees before her, pleading that she do something to alleviate the workload she was putting herself through. That’s what got it for Darcy. Loki never begged anyone for anything. Though he was firstly her friend, he could not help but be a prince as well.

He had a tendency to think that he could have something simply because he wanted it or that he could make anything happen if only he willed it to be so. It wasn’t a violent or troublesome propensity, but rather a funny quirk to his attitude. He was proud and Darcy thought he was cute.

His kneeling before her, the ultimate sign of Asgardian submission and respect, touched her so profoundly that she didn’t dare refuse him. She wondered for a moment what had come over Loki that he would resolve his worries for her, not by insisting she that remain by him, but rather by sending her away.

Darcy went to Grace’s house with full intentions of studying for their literature exam (as literature was the only class Grace and Darcy shared) but as soon as she got inside, Grace ripped the books from her hands, dragged her up the stairs, and declared a full on sleepover.

To be honest with herself, Darcy was a tiny bit jealous of Grace. She’d gone into high school looking cute and sporty and now, a little over a year later, she had evolved into a gorgeously athletic hippie while Darcy had gone from quirky and short, to quirky and short with tits the size of Jesus.

Grace twisted her hair into dreadlocks, wore Birkenstocks with her sweatpants, grew marijuana in a rainbow painted pot in her window  (because grow boxes were mainstream) and practiced raw veganism. She went on pride marches, ran 5ks for cancer donations, rode her bike to school, and only used handmade soap.

Why couldn’t Darcy do all that?

Oh, right. She was a politician. On another realm. Damn.

Grace’s mother was a well renowned lawyer and a couple nights ago one of her client’s had called in from California which meant Grace was home alone for the week with her brother, who was back from college for the summer.

So, instead of inviting Ashley and her cheerleading friends, Grace had invited her.

Darcy was friends with Ashley and the, quote-unquote, ‘popular kids’, but she didn’t get a whole lot of time to hang out with them. They called her by her last name and invited her out with them some nights. She declined. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, she just didn’t have time.

She got the feeling that Grace didn’t like that group very much anyways. She hated how they drank near the river and left crushed beer cans on the shore and frothed at the mouth when they crumpled up paper when they’d only used one side. If Grace was ever around when one of them did something stupid like throw away a plastic bottle, she would call them all dirty blasphemers then properly recycle the plastic.

Even though Darcy hated Grace’s diet of vegetables, nuts and fruit, she was secretly pleased with the route she’d taken. Grace was relaxed, funny, and she had a real passion for trying to make the world a better place to live.

She hoped that one day Grace Wilson would change the world.

But, at the moment, she hoped Grace Wilson would move her head.

“Grace,” Darcy tried again, arching her back. “My mammary glands are asleep. I’m not even sure that’s supposed to happen.”

Nothing.

Grumbling to herself, Darcy reached her hand out to Grace’s side table where her phone and glasses sat next to an ashtray.

So, they smoked a bit of pot last night. Grace said she was too stressed and apparently the best way to relieve stress in Grace’s book was to smoke Mary Jane, listen to Bob Marley and The Beatles, and watch The Princess Bride. Darcy had to say, she hadn’t felt so calm in a long while.

Admittedly, Darcy had gotten high with Grace before on a few occasions. But they never took any of it out of Grace’s house and they never had enough to get in trouble with the law. Grace kept her tiny little weed trimmed down enough that it only grew enough for a few joints a season and no one knew about its product but Darcy.

She’d gotten the seeds from some students in Boston when she went to go visit her brother and henceforth the plant was grown.

Mrs. Wilson was a lawyer, and Darcy was pretty sure she knew that Grace exercised the illegal right of recreational drug use, but chose to look the other way.

Darcy’s parents didn’t know and they never would. Hopefully.

Tiredly, Darcy checked the time, surprised that it was already five thirty in the morning. Sure she’d gone to bed at twelve am, but Darcy couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten five dreamless hours of sleep. They had to leave for school at seven thirty which gave Darcy enough time to rifle through Grace’s closet for a clean t-shirt that smelled only vaguely of pot and to locate a set of clean socks.

Happily, she scooted herself away from Grace who made sleepy attempts to keep hold of the breasts she’d been using as pillows. With an air of peace about her, Darcy stumbled from Grace’s room, making her way down the stairs to the kitchen where someone was stumbling about.

Peaking around the corner, she saw that it was Grace’s hot older brother, Sam.

Darcy always did like Sam. Yeah, he was hotter than hellfire, but he was also really nice and whenever she slept over he made breakfast after his run.

Eyes still partially glued together with sleep, Darcy moved slowly to the breakfast bar and sat down on one of the stools. Sam was getting out the Bisquick and pulling a carton of eggs from a paper bag. “Morning Darcy,” he said, affectionately tousling her hair.

“Mhm,” she sighed, watching him get out the frying pan and a pack of bacon from his bag. He always woke up early to go for a run. Dressed in neon colors and tightly laced sneakers, Sam was the only one of the Wilsons known to wake up before noon given the option.

He was in college, finishing up his bachelor’s degree in psychology, but Grace had told her in a hushed whisper the night before, that prior to her mother’s departure, she and Sam had a fallout because he wanted to join the army.

Mr. Wilson had died when Grace was four. He had been a preacher, against violence of all sorts, and he died trying to settle a fight between a few young men.

Darcy could see why Mrs. Wilson would be upset by her son’s decision, but the more she thought about it, the more Sam struck her as a soldier. He was loyal and, like Grace, wanted to make the world a better place to live.

He laughed in a way that made Darcy want to laugh. Darcy spent a lot of time with gods. She knew what beautiful people looked like and Sam Wilson was, in her opinion, a very beautiful person. “It smells like pot in here.”

Darcy sat up to make a horrible attempt at winking. “Mhm.”

Sam shook his head disapprovingly, his cheekbones were almost as fantastic as Loki’s. But Darcy hadn’t really met anyone with better bone structure than Loki. Maybe if she met Angelina Jolie…

“I can’t believe you guys are doing that as sophomores. I mean,” he turned on the stove and began situating bacon strips in a pan, “when I was in high school, I at least waited till senior year to start the partying.”

Darcy snorted. “Sam, think about what you just said. Grace and I? Party animals? You’re talking about a girl who's going to walk down the stairs and scream about how you’re eating pigs that have been pumped full of chemicals. And those eggs had better be free range.”

He pointed his spatula at her. “Hey now, something has to get the weed smell out of this house and Grace’s organic incense isn’t going to cut it.”

Darcy chuckled groggily, rubbing her eyes and watching him stir pancake batter longingly. If she ever had to be subjected to domestic life, she wanted a partner who would cook for her. And she wanted them to have Sam Wilson’s butt.

Darcy quickly dismissed the thought of being romantically involved with anyone. Being a teenager was tedious in regards to romance.

On one hand, she craved it. She wanted someone to woo her and love her unconditionally, taking her through a saga of pained love and endless kisses. She imagined sometimes, a Mr. Darcy-like figure, a lover with traits of a Byronic hero, tormented by their own miseries who favored her over the humdrum of life as it was.

Reality was never far behind, reminding her that no such human existed and that she was being a silly teenage girl.

Instead of love proclamations, she was met with the letters of an annoying amount of suitors.

As Advisor to Prince Loki and an active member in the Asgardian court, Darcy was prime courting material. By all her Asgardian standards, she was rich. Her Asgardian account was brimming with gold and Darcy was loaded from her salary received as an advisor. Being that she was wealthy and eligible, with no titles but her worthy position as Advisor, she was constantly pursued by young lords from all around the world.

They knew of her only by her title and visited the palace in search of a dance. Darcy had very few to give lest they be for conversing about professional matters.

The truth was, Darcy couldn’t bring herself to like any of them. She knew that in the end, she couldn’t be with them. Any relationship they had would be a lie and keeping up the pretense of her Asgardian nativity would weigh upon her conscience too heavily for anyone’s good. No matter how many golden apples she ate and no matter how much effort she put into being Loki’s advisor, she was not an Asgardian.

And she didn’t think that was a bad thing either.

Bringing her attention back to Sam, Darcy watched, beguiled, as his finely shaped arms set to work on making breakfast.

“So, how’s school?” he asked and Darcy told him it was fine. They chatted for a while. He teased about how she was stressing herself out over nothing when it came to the history exam and she retaliated by telling him at he wasn’t as good at running as he thought he was.

The sun was starting to come up as Sam served her a piping-hot stack of pancakes topped with whipped cream and drowning in maple syrup with a side of eggs and bacon accompanied by a steaming mug of coffee. Darcy moaned in ecstasy at her first forkful of egg. Neither of her parents were great cooks, but all of the Wilsons were. Sam made breakfast and baked like nobody's business, Mrs. Wilson made everything from fried chicken to fondue, and Grace managed to make her raw vegan meals taste delicious.

Sam served himself, leaning on the counter as he ate. “So,” he began again after a few bites of pancake. “Grace tells me you tutored the senior class president in chemistry last year.”

Darcy shrugged modestly, not making eye contact as she broke her bacon into bits to eat with her eggs. It was true. Her lab partner, Susan Storm, otherwise known as the cool bookstore clerk, had been one letter grade away from failing chemistry and Darcy, being the sympathetic person that she was, offered to tutor her.

Ultimately, Darcy hated herself for adding another task to her endless list of responsibilities. But she was also glad that she could help Susan. She was hardworking and didn’t discriminate against Darcy for being a ninth grader in a twelfth grade class. In the end, Susan Storm passed her exams with flying colors and Darcy got good discounts on books for the entire summer.

“I guess,” she said around a mouthful of pancakes.

She didn’t want to come off as humble because she was, in truth, very proud of herself for being able to pick up information so quickly. But, at the same time, she didn’t ever believe that she deserved credit for all of her achievements. Loki was the one who taught her so much. He explained things like no one else could. Through his lips flowed clarity of the universe, a direct stream of understanding that swelled in her mind like a wave of solace.

So, in part, Darcy could never fully acclaim herself for knowing everything that she did when it came to the sciences unless it had something to do with politics. In that, she was completely free to be well esteemed for her understanding.

Sam seemed to get that she was uncomfortable with the subject matter and offered her a kind smile. “Hey, Darce, you’re a smart girl. It’s okay to say so.” He took a sip of his orange juice, smiling around the rim. “But what I really want to know is why you and Grace are sleeping over on a school night! I thought you would keep her out of trouble, not encourage her.”

Darcy pretended to look offended, placing a fist over her heart, perhaps by habit as it was an Asgardian trait to do so. “Sam, I’m hurt. Obviously, I am, like, the most negative influence of the last…billion years or something. Really. Grace made the best choice by becoming friends with me. I'm so bad that I’m great.”

He laughed, looking like he was going to say something before an angry flurry of steps echoed through the house as Grace rushed down the stairs.

She appeared before them, fully dressed and her hair tied back with a green strip of cloth that Loki would probably steal if he ever saw it. Her face was contorted with nothing short of vile rage.

“Is that bacon?”

After Darcy and Sam received the full lecture on why it was bad to support factory farms by purchasing their steroid infused products, the two girls headed for school. Grace lived four miles away which she claimed was the perfect distance for walking.

It was easy for Grace to say because she had long legs. She strode like a bohemian model on the leaf-littered sidewalk, showcasing the latest fall fashions while Darcy trailed closely behind like the dwarven lackey hired to sweep up the fairy dust that sprinkled from her friend’s skin while she walked.

Before first hour, Darcy called her mom to let her know that she and Grace were fully prepared for the day of school and that she hadn’t spent the entire night goofing off.

It was almost a lie.

School was fine, or as fine as school could ever be, and when she arrived home that Thursday night after soccer practice, Loki was waiting on her bed with Fenrir splayed across his lap. They greeted each other warmly, Loki kissing her forehead, as he had begun to do when seeing her, and squeezing her hand. Frank and Fenrir said hello as well, throwing themselves at her as if she’d been gone for decades. Together, they all departed for Asgard.

                                                                           ***

Darcy was distracted as she stared into Queen Frigga’s scrying pool.

She was supposed to be learning about hypnotic rituals that Vanir tribal chiefs used on their warriors before battle to instill a sense of unity. But Darcy found that she could not focus on such a study. Her mind kept wandering off to Lord Bjarte and the proverbial war that was to come.

Her fifteenth birthday had just passed and the war with Vanaheim was soon approaching if Frigga’s words in Odin’s study those few years ago held any truth.

Darcy did not see how, or why, there would ever be a war on Vanaheim. It made no sense.

Lord Bjarte was not lacking power. This much was obvious. As High Lord of Nornheim, he had control over some of Asgard’s toughest warriors. And, as troublesome and as conservative as the Norns were, they were extremely wealthy.

Originally, Nornheim’s rebellion had made sense to Darcy. She had understood that the Norns wanted glory and power and they would rebel against the capital in order to gain use of the bifrost that would take them to Vanaheim. There, they would fight a tribe of Vanir for control over their land.

This is the part Darcy had not entirely understood until after she became Advisor.

Vanaheim was what Asgard called its ‘sister realm’. It was a realm all its own that was originally populated by its own means then colonized by Asgard. After a few hundred years, the natives rebelled and Asgard had a treaty made that declared Vanaheim’s independence, but with minimal control from Asgard. Odin had power there, as did the royal family. Any other Asgardian diplomat did not.

That treaty had stuck for millennia. It was such an old agreement that no one really knew the date it was decided.

But it had set a new culture on Vanaheim.

There was the realm’s capital and surrounding area which was reminiscent of Asgard. Aesir-style magic was practiced, there was an established government and there was a social hierarchy. None of it was as severe as Asgard, but the similarities existed nonetheless.

Then, outside of this Asgardian influence, was what the Vanir called ‘free land’ because it’s where all of the tribal people hung out.

As far as Darcy knew, the tribes flourished. There were thousands of them, some smaller than others, some had different beliefs, and others had similar ones. Some were nomadic, others had established territory. Sometimes the tribes fought with each other, but mostly they liked to keep the peace.

And, surprisingly, this system worked.

Living in a tribe was totally optional. No one was looked down on for their choice of lifestyle. Often times, injured warriors might decide to live out their days as a merchant, or a nobleman’s daughter might chose to join the Meiri, an all women’s tribe that Darcy thought was kind of like the Amazons. They were a fierce bunch and it was a known fact that no one messed with the Meiri unless they wanted to die a very painful death.

This all led Darcy to the confused state she was currently in.

Asgard had no control over the tribes and gaining control over them would upset a harmony between the realms that has existed for thousands of years.

Lord Bjarte had so much power he could probably light up New York City if she plugged him into their power grid.

And as a High Lord, Bjarte didn’t have any say in what to do with the conquered land because it was on a different realm. Even if Asgard did go to war with the tribes and won, Odin would be the one to decide what was to be done with the land.

Therefore, Darcy was at a complete loss. Why was there going to be a war on Vanaheim if nothing was going to come of it?

And furthermore, why did Frigga know about it and wasn’t doing anything to prevent it?

Darcy frowned at the scrying pool, making a vague mental note about the tribal chiefs. Amongst the war-cultured tribes, the leaders would get together and cast a spell on their soldiers to inspire them. It was described by one of Frigga’s accomplices on Vanaheim, who Darcy preferred to think of as an undercover anthropologist, as a way of tying the tribe's energy together.

It was like heat in a beehive. The bee-like warriors would hum about, magical energies brushing against one another to create a warm strength amongst them. The combined force of their energy made them lethal and ruthless opponents. Victory in the form of blood dribbled off their blades, the taste sweeter than honey.

How was Darcy supposed to prevent a war when it was so insanely convoluted?

What was worse is that Frigga had something to do with it.

Frigga had tipped her off about the war which meant there was more to it that meets the eye.

If Frigga was involved, then Darcy was missing the key element to figuring out this wretched puzzle that the Queen and Lord Bjarte had set up especially for her.

“Darcy?” Frigga chided from her place by the window where she was sewing an elaborate tapestry, bringing Darcy from her troubled musings. “Are you well, Darling?”

Darcy nodded, trying to ease the tension that had built in her brow. She had learned by now that questioning the Queen on her methods was hardly worth her time. Frigga made everything a lesson to be learned, even if she did not know the answers to her own questions. She claimed that most times, the best things learned are mysteries even to one’s self. Darcy tried not to dwell too hard on the complexity of that idea.

“I’m fine, just thinking.”

The Queen gave her a knowing look, holding out her hand. “Sit with me for a moment.”

Smiling, Darcy hurried to the window seat and plopped down beside the Queen. Frigga, while confusing and a teacher of difficult lessons, was almost like a second mom to Darcy. Not that Frigga could ever replace Darcy’s own mother, not in a million years.

Frigga was just a particularly nurturing person and her affection towards Darcy came off in a very maternalistic way.

The Queen cupped Darcy’s cheek, running her thumb over the dark circles under her eyes. She didn’t say anything about it, but Loki and his mother shared the same worried expression that neither, no matter how hard they tried, could disguise.

The two of them shared a lot of traits actually. When they were thinking really hard, they played with their palms. They even had similar magic styles, but Darcy figured that was because Frigga was Loki’s instructor.

Despite the fact Loki looked nothing like either of his parents, Darcy would never argue that he wasn’t Frigga’s son.

“Hypnotic practices are fascinating, though perhaps today is not the day to appreciate them,” Frigga said thoughtfully, turning her attention out the window.

Darcy shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

The Allmother smiled, “Do not be. There are plenty of other things to be thinking about.”

The two were silent for a long moment as Frank lazily slid onto Darcy’s lap. Really, he was too big to sit on her lap, so was Fenrir, but Darcy didn’t tell them that. He rolled onto his back, the pale scales of his underside glinting up at her. The corners of her mouth tugged up as she rubbed his belly.

“Darcy, how do you feel about High Lord Tyr?” Frigga asked curiously, watched Frank make sounds of contentment, tongue lolling out in happiness.

Darcy thought back on her meeting with him and the Thryheim representatives, along with their encounter in the hall as well as several other messages they had exchanged. In the past year, whenever Darcy communicated with Thryheim, Tyr was always involved and his letters were all quite informal, always asking how she was and how her prince was faring. “He seems capable, if not a bit young.”

The Queen smiled, the tiniest bit of melancholy in her eyes. “He is sweet. Become his friend and trust him wholeheartedly, he will respond in kind.”

This comforted Darcy. She wanted very much to trust Tyr and was pleased to know that she could. “I will.”

“Good. You and Loki were invited to stay with him in Thryheim for a time. How is your schedule for the next two days?” Frigga stated, her inquiry coming off as teasing.

Frigga, of all people, knew that Darcy was busy. Keeping most of her advisor work for the weekend was miserable, so that, on the worst occasions, she would have to travel out to some province in the evening and debate with Lords at three in the morning. And most Asgardians were not appreciative of being kept up past their godly bedtimes.

It was a Thursday night. Her double that Loki so frequently cast was probably asleep by now. Loki had gotten so good at it, that he could keep the double sustained from the energy around it. Even if he were to fall unconscious, the double would still maintain its place. Her conjured doppelganger didn’t do a lot; mainly it just sat in her room with a book in its lap, answering her mother or father whenever they asked a question.

Darcy didn’t let Loki send her double to school or soccer practice. It was too risky and Darcy had made obligations, willingly or not, to go through with her circulars, both academic and extraneous, as well as her social life.

Darcy rubbed her temple. “I don’t really want to skip school tomorrow, but I can call in sick.”

Frigga looked to her seriously. “You know I would not ask you to do that unless it was vital that you visit him.”

“Is it?” she inquired, stunned. Frigga never asked her to skip school for Asgard. It just didn’t happen. Loki didn’t even ask her to skip school for Asgard.

He did however, ask her to skip school for him, but usually he was joking.

The Allmother nodded, a gleam of humor in her eye. “It is indeed. I believe that it may offer you some clarity to that which has distracted you from the fascinating detail of tribal magic.”

Darcy chuckled, standing up and stretching. “Alright, I’ll go ask Hilda to get some of my things together and then I’ll pry Loki away from whatever his brain’s working on.” She sighed, looking out the window. It was already dark, likely past ten. Thryheim was about six hours away from the palace by longship. Loki could teleport them, but she didn’t like him to. Many would consider it rude to just pop up magically at their front doors.

Frigga stood up as well, kissing Frank on the head before letting him slither down. “Tyr has assured me that since his invitation was on such short notice, he will provide all the attire you could possible wear. Also, Thryheim is quite cold this time of year and I’m afraid your wardrobe is inapt for the weather. As for Loki—“ her speech was cut short by a light rap on the door. “Enter.”

Loki entered the room, a leather book-bag slung over his shoulder and Fenrir at his side.

Darcy knew there was a reason she loved the Queen.

“Mother,” Loki greeted Frigga, kissing her cheek. It was terrifying how much he’d grown. Of course he’d always been taller than her, but now it was like standing next to a sky scraper. He was nearing six feet tall and Darcy was a little embarrassed to say that she liked it.

His height, plus his face meant that Darcy was being left behind in the looks department. He’d somehow become prettier than a seventy-five percent discount on all her favorite shoe brands. It was kind of annoying, especially since he didn’t appreciate it. Darcy appreciated it, and it wasn’t even her face.

He offered her his hand, giving her the same worried look Frigga had. “Thryheim?”

She took his hand, tempted to lean into his side. “Yep. We’re special. We got exclusive invites from the High Lord himself.”

Smirking, he bid goodbye to his mother and led them from the room. “Actually, it was you who received the invitation. According to the script…” he conjured a thick piece of parchment and handed it to her. “…you are welcome to bring along 'your prince'. It is an informal invitation.”

She took the paper, reading over Tyr’s familiarly angled script. “Most of his letters are. He talks about politics like we’re discussing the weather.”

Loki chuckled, tugging her closer to him.

Darcy wanted to ask him to do ‘the thing' as she called it. In actuality, she knew that 'the thing' was a magical projection of himself onto her, as most magic entailed this. What made this projection different was that Loki didn't let the energy take form, it just went to her, overwhelming her magical senses until she and Loki were the only two souls in Yggdrasil.

It was like nothing she'd ever felt.

To feel someone so completely was addicting. She knew Loki better than anyone, but when he did this, she felt him in all that he was. Indeterminable feelings washed through her and that was how Darcy learned that one's emotions could not ever be summed up in mere words. Somethings had no explanation and she let this be one of them. They didn't make sense and she didn't have the ability to describe what they meant. The magic was Loki and that was all that mattered to her. He was her mystery and her clarity, her friend and her prince,  the most annoying person she knew and also the most cuddly. She wouldn't have him any other way.

She decided that she would ask him later as he leaned over to smell her hair, humming appreciatively.

“What?” Darcy asked, glancing at him skeptically.

He grinned, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You went back to the floral soap rather than the strange Midgardian herb concoction. I much prefer the former.”

Darcy grimaced in memory of the sticky, homemade plant-soaps Grace gave her. She loved the environment, but Loki was right. Herbal shampoo didn’t settle well on her at all. Shaking her head in memory, she walked a little faster. “Come on, let’s get to Thryheim before the sun comes up. I need to gather some energy if I’m going to keep up with Tyr’s enthusiasm.”

With Frank and Fenrir tottering close behind, Loki and Darcy made their way to the young prince’s longship.

                                                                      ***

Thor ‘s head throbbed with every step he took.

Ale was a wonderful thing, though he was learning that it lost its charm when morning came around.

He’d no sooner arrived back at the palace that morning, dressed in peasant attire and smelling of drink and woman, than some lowly servant brought him a message from his father, demanding that he go to his study immediately.

Thor debated whether or not to go clean up first. He was a mess and while he was far from clandestine about his nightly endeavors, he liked to keep up the pretense that he did not heinously disgrace his title every night. After all, he was young and it was almost expected that a prince take his liberties to explore his realm a bit before ruling it.

He was just outside his quarters, preparing to change his attire and bathe before seeing the Allfather when, in a flash of brilliant blue light, his mother appeared before him.

“Mother!” he gasped, stepping away from his door.

She smiled kindly at him and he went to kiss her cheek, then thought better of it considering where his mouth had been the night prior. Frigga nodded as if to tell him that his choice was a wise one. “You cannot go to see your father looking like that and you do not have time to bathe lest you wish his rage to heighten.”

Thor crossed his arms, biting the inside of his cheek. Talking back to his mother was not a wise decision, as she tended to be right on all occasions. But her statement of his circumstances was infuriating. “Yes, Mother. If this is indeed my misfortune, what do you suggest I do? He wishes for me to be humiliated, does he not? Should I grant him his wish and appear to him as I am?”

She gave him a look so sharp, Thor’s aching head feared that he might’ve been cut. “I do not know what you are speaking of, my son. You are as fresh as ever you were.”

He opened his mouth to argue when a cool sensation tingled over his body and instantly he felt refreshed. His clothes were once again regal and his hair was clean and combed. Though he was now unsoiled and golden, his mind continued to throb painfully, he suspected, as a personal reminder of his stupidity from his mother.

“Now,” she said, beginning to stride away. “Consider this an apology for not alerting you of this development. I am sorry to say that I was unaware of your father’s plans until just recently.”

Thor stood there dazed by the magic she used on him, far too distracted to comprehend her words until she was already gone. “What?” he muttered to himself, decidedly clueless as to what his mother had told him.

With heavy steps and deep breaths, he made his way to his father’s study. He must have drunk at least four barrels of mead with Volstagg before he’d even begun to feel the effects. Then there were the several casks of ale that he and Hogun bought. They drank all straight faced in a competition to see who could stomach the most without losing their evening meal.

Then, with a few bottles of wine, he and Fandrall retired to the brothel which had been marvelous. Such profession should be worthy of titles.

Thor didn’t spend all his time drinking. That night had been special. Thor won a fight in the street that some peasant had challenged him to. Winning had been easy, the glory of such feat, however, was much greater. The peasant who had challenged him was said to be the most brutal in that area of the city. Thor had taken him in no more than a few minutes.

Empowered by his victory, Thor bought everyone drinks.

The only way it would have been more fun was if Sif was there. She was great fun in merriment, always quick with a joke and willing to accept a challenge. She could almost handle her drink better than him.

But she had been with Sigyn.

Thor did not very much like Sigyn as he suspected Sigyn did not very much like him. They did not have a great deal in common. She was soft spoken and refined, reminding him all too strongly of the delicate flowers he’d grown up watching men pine over. She was kind and beautiful and Thor oft felt as though she was taking his place in Sif’s life.

He befriended Sif before Sigyn even knew she existed. Why was it that now, after all they had been through, Sif was so willing to trade his company for Sigyn’s?

He respected her decision, or course. Sif was his friend and he would stand by her no matter what, but he did miss her sometimes. He wondered if it was because she felt she had to choose between him and Sigyn. Perhaps the next time he saw her, he would make it clear that Sigyn could come out with them if she so desired.

He approached the Allfather’s study, letting his thoughts drift away from Sigyn and onto the task at hand.

The guards opened the doors to him without hesitation and Thor stalked in, prepared for the worst of reprimands. He was well aware of the debauchery he was instilling upon his good name, but he was also painfully bored without such entertainment.

Odin sat at his desk, looking like the calm before the storm. His golden patch glimmered with cold menace that contrasted drastically with the sunny morning.

Thor swallowed hard, attempting to look resolute and bold. He was his own man, was he not? This meeting was only his father trying to show that he had power over him. When he took the throne, there would be none of this.

“Father,” he greeted, the pounding in his skull thudding in an especially painful way at the volume of his voice.

Odin stared at him for a long moment, his glare radiating disapproval. That glare alone could have vanquished the Frost Giants. “Sit down.”

Thor sat down.

Odin pulled onto his desk three scrolls and he set them in front of his so he could read all three. “Do you know what these are?”

Leaning over Odin’s desk, Thor struggled to read the scrolls. His vision was blurry and it hurt to focus. Nonetheless, he persevered and identified two of the documents as reports and the third as a collection of pamphlets from popular writers that kept up with the royals.

“They are…reports…?” Thor suggested softly, squinting to shield his eyes from the rising sun.

“About?” Odin probed further, a vein on his temple beginning to pulse with restrained anger.

The golden prince blinked, secretly fearing the inevitable yelling. “Me?”

The Allfather looked as though he could have razed an entire realm, yet he continued speaking in a subdued way that seeped malcontent. Suddenly, he brought his hand down upon the desk in a loud, near violent indication of the first scroll. “This one…” he started, waiting for Thor to uncoil from his fetal position. “…is a report of this past season’s royal spending.”

Thor got a sick feeling when he thought of all that he had bought in drinks the night before.

“This next one…” Odin slapped open the scroll with equal, if not more ferocity. Thor flinched, his ears ringing and his mind begging him for sleep and solitude…and perhaps a woman as well.

“…is a report of all the essential meetings you have neglected to attend as well as several theory papers as to what your actions imply politically, socially, and futuristically!” Odin ended his statement loudly enough for Thor’s vision to white out for a few seconds.

“Need I even say what the third one is?” Odin continued, standing up and taking the third scroll with him.

Thor opened his mouth to say something, but his father was already talking.

“It is a collection of writings published to the entirety of the realm about your evening, now daily, escapades! Each one depicting, in increasingly great detail, the essence of your endeavors while insulting the royal family and all that we do for our people!”

Thor didn’t know if he was flinching so forcefully because of the volume of his father’s words or the meaning of them.

“At first I believed,” Odin continued, minimally subdued, “that this could be useful and that you may learn something. I thought that you might take advantage of your newfound freedoms to discover ways to help your people. Instead, I have received endless documents of your exploits and the destruction you have caused within the city!”

Once he was sure that his brain was, in fact, not dripping out his ears, he addressed his father in a pained tone. “Is that all you called me for then? To tell me to stop? So be it, just…” he held out his hands, “be silent.”

In an instant, Gungnir was in his father’s hands and he glowered with rage. “Thor Odinson! If you truly claim to be a prince, then act as one! This realm demands more from you, as do I! You will rectify this behavior, for if I have to read through another one of these blasted reports from some hard-headed lady who believes she knows this realm better than it’s king, my wrath shall strike down upon this place and you had best be in my good graces if it does!”

Thor gave up on his attempt to preserve his mind. Let it melt. Perhaps if it was gone from him, it would not pain him so intensely. “Will you have me vow to be all that I can? Or would you take my word now as I am?”

The Allfather barked a humorless laugh, sneering out his window, a knowing look in his eye. “I acted similarly to you in my youth and there was but one thing that matured me to what I am today.”

“Becoming King?” Thor inquired daringly.

At this, Odin turned to him, his gaze solid and unyielding. “A woman.”

Thor simply stared at his father for a long moment before his words sunk in. So struck with shock, he nearly fell from his chair, gasping for clarification. “You wish me to be wed?”

His own voice hurt made his head throb, but he could not be bothered to care when the Allfather’s reply arrived. “Yes. Having duty towards your family will drive you from this mess of a life you’ve lived.”

Thor was still caught up on the part where he was to be married. His days as a bachelor would be over before they had truly begun. “You wish that I find a bride?”

Odin chuckled, returning to his chair and shaking his head. “Of course not.”

Thor breathed a sigh of relief.

“I have already chosen for you.”

The breath got caught in his throat and he coughed out his next question. “Who?”

The answer he received was so devastating and so unexpected that the golden prince stood from his seat in rage, legs carrying him as swiftly as possible from his father’s study to the nearest desk where he scrawled a note, marked with a seal of emergency and addressed to the only one who could ever help him now.

His brother.

                                                                           ***

Thryheim smelt of pine.

The bouquets that decorated the halls and tables were garbed with tufts of needles, the large, soft cushioned furniture was carved from pine wood, and the bed sheets were fresh with the bright scent of evergreens.

When Loki and Thor were younger, Frigga and Odin took them to Thryheim on a diplomatic visit. It was a time before either boy had any idea of politics or formalities. They had been entranced by the snow that was thicker upon the ground than they had ever seen before. Loki remembered playing in it all day, he and Thor fighting to bury each other under the frozen heaps.

Loki and Darcy had arrived in Tyr’s province in the early morning and were greeted by a few reluctant Lords who had been dragged from their beds by servants to receive their guests. They seemed disgruntled upon Darcy’s appearance, as they had no doubt heard word of her early morning meetings that lasted as long as need be.

Their relief was palpable when Darcy admitted to her tiredness and they gratefully bid a few hand maidens to usher her away to a room in the great stone castle.

Loki was led to his own room as well and offered clothes. He denied them as he much preferred to conjure his own attire. He liked the ability to create fashions of his own imagination. They were a design, made from his own magic, that he felt defined him personally. He was a firm believer that the individuality formed through the making of his own clothes could not be mimicked by anyone.

The stay in his own room lasted only a few minutes before he was in Darcy’s room, collapsing onto her bed as she struggled to maneuver herself under the sheets with the several layers of clothing the Thryians gave her to wear.

Loki fell asleep almost immediately; the chill of Thryheim soothed his breathing and gave him comfort he sometimes found in colder environments.

But his easy slumber did not last. He awoke not an hour later to Darcy’s chattering teeth and frozen hands.

Tiredly he considered a warming spell, but he had learned that they were far from practical. If they were in harsh, freezing lands such as Jotunheim’s endless tundra, a warming spell was useful because it produced heat within a person’s body, causing their core temperature to rise when it began to drop.

The chill of Thryheim was not nearly severe enough for a warming spell. He could always cast the illusion of heat which would soothe her well enough. But he did not wish for her to remain cold, even if she did not feel that she was.

He came upon his final solution with hesitation and a shade of reluctance.

The most ancient and effective key to warming one’s self as well as another had nothing to do with magic at all. His and Darcy’s combined body heat would be enough to stop her shivering.

He sat up and she watched as he grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

Loki could only admit to himself the hint of shame he felt about his own appearance.  Thor was considered, at least by the ladies of the court, the more desirable brother. Blonde hair and bulging muscles were beloved qualities of a man and Loki had neither.

Some might argue that Loki could at least change his body. He could train with Thor or Hogun, Volstagg and Fandral or maybe even Sif who had a newfound tolerance for him.

Yet, training with them without the use of magic, relying on physical strength alone, would be an even larger display of his weakness and he did not wish for anyone to see that either.

Because of this, he was stuck with his lankiness. He’d grown a great deal in the past year and he looked now like someone had stretched out his limbs and shoulders, leaving him skinny and angular.

But Darcy was cold and he trusted her more than anyone. He did not even want to begin to think that his body of all things would change her opinion of him.

She caught onto his thinking and grasped at the end of her many nightgowns with trembling hands. Loki’s heart ached as she did so. He often tried to defend his pride by disguising his worry for her, but he always found himself slipping up. It had become almost instinctual to look after her as he did.

He worried for her in the mornings when he woke up and she was already dressed and reading like she’d been up the entire night, and when they sat in the library, absorbed in their own projects and she would suddenly clasp a hand over her heart and reach for him like the universe was falling to pieces.

He knew something was wrong, but she would not tell him what it was and he was at a loss on how to help her.

In some strange way, he liked it that she was cold. He could fix her discomfort if not the other hardships she insisted on facing alone.

Darcy was shaking so violently that it was difficult for her to take the hem of gown. Gently, he took it for her, and she sat up allowing him to lift the garments over her head so she was left in two shifts made of thinner material. Quickly, so that she would not have time to adhere to the cold, he threw the many furs and sheets of the bed over top of them, pulling her to him. She huddled closer, pressing her chilled face against his chest and her frigid fingers to his sides.

Loki forced himself to stay awake until her breathing settled and her body relaxed. Only then did he let himself sleep.

Hours later, he awoke to that telltale smell of pine.

He inhaled deeply, reveling in the scent before opening his eyes to his friend. She was radiant, her dark hair tousled and eyes so bright that the skin below them was shadowed and dark. In her lap was a stack of Loki’s notes that focused on his theories about transporting one’s self to the galaxies outside of Yggdrasil.

These theories were quite vague for he had no scientific proof that any of them would work. Ideally, if he could find some way to travel through the vast space that separated the Nine Realms and the Other Worlds, he could get them there easily. But thus far, he’d only come up with a couple ideas that both involved speed rather than portals. It was a necessary component to space travel.

Rolling onto his back, Loki watched her for a moment, admiring the way her bottom lip stuck out while she thought and how at calm she seemed with her back against the great polished headboard, her body all wrapped up in furs.

Her eyes drifted from her reading to rest their gaze upon him. She smiled, setting the notes aside.

“Do not say it,” he grumbled, knowing what words came with that charming smile of hers.

“Your hair’s messy,” she told him anyways, running her fingers through a few strands, her short nails lightly scraping against his scalp.

She laughed and he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “You are a cruel woman.”

Darcy hummed in agreement, adjusting her position so she was lying beside him, her head on his shoulder. The arm that previously covered his eyes, wrapped around her shoulders holding her to him. They linked fingers, their joined hands sitting on his chest.

“Frank and Fenrir aren’t here.” Darcy commented, her voice still riddled with grogginess though Loki could tell it was already quite late in the morning.

He pressed his lips together, debating if the trouble their pets could cause was worth getting out of bed yet. “They will be fine, I am sure. The citizens of Thryheim on the other hand…”

Darcy giggled, the side of her mouth brushed against his skin and Loki acknowledged that he was still in a state of undress. He caught her eye as she looked up at him. He considered for a moment if it made her uncomfortable. As far as he knew, Darcy did not have a great deal of experience with shirtless men, but it was possible that his appearance was unappealing or repulsive to her. And he would not want that to hinder her opinion of him.

She was no longer cold, yet he remained what Asgardians considered indecent.

Then again, Darcy was not Asgardian and he spent every night in her bed, which was perhaps the most indecent thing he could ever do. He thought it best just to ask her. “Does it bother you?”

She quirked a grin. “Does what bother me?”

He swallowed, suddenly unsure if he wished to know the answer. He’d been rejected by Asgardian standards and he was not prepared for the same sentiment from Darcy. But the question had already been asked and he was not petty enough to revoke his inquiry now.

He nodded, almost timidly, to the front-side of his body. “This.”

Darcy took a second to understand his gesture, smirking a bit once she deciphered his question. She looked up to him, preparing to respond smartly. But when her blue eyes met his green ones, she stopped.

Loki suddenly feared that this was the dreadful moment of refusal he’d anticipated. She broke from their embrace, propping herself up on an elbow to scrutinize his face. It was frightening how well Darcy could read him. He could hide from her neither his insecurity nor his curiosity. Shaking her head at him, she cupped his cheek in her hand. “Loki, you’re so stupid.”

Relief washed over him followed by a wave of humility. Was he really so thick that he could not get past something as superficial as his appearance?

Darcy’s fingers slipped into his hair again, eyes soft and lips curved into a thoughtful pout. “You’re beautiful.”

Warmth passed through him so strongly that he feared his insides might melt. Darcy’s cheeks were blushed pink and Loki felt that he should say something. He was tempted not to believe her compliment, but it sounded so true coming from her mouth that the Asgardian scholars might consider it fact.

Carefully, he touched the hand cradling his head, smoothing his fingertips over the exposed skin of her forearm, and letting his magic flow through her. She closed her eyes as he gave her his silent thanks. The gift of friendship she had bestowed upon him was worth nothing less than all of himself.

He parted his lips to tell her that she was the most beautiful person he’d ever known. But his speech was interrupted by the door to Darcy’s chambers opening with an enthusiastic bang and the eager voice of High Lord Tyr reverberating about the room.

“Good Morning, Darcy! I must say, while your pets are charming company I thought I might rouse you from…”

He trailed off as his eyes fell upon the two of them curled up together in the center of Darcy’s bed with spare articles of clothing scattered around the floor.

Loki retracted his magic and Darcy sat up, her hands held out before her defensively. “Tyr, it’s not what it looks like.”

                                                               ***

“Lady Sigyn is a good friend of mine as well as Sif’s,” Darcy said lightly, her grin glowing in the warm firelight of Tyr’s hearth. “You would like her. She speaks in riddles more often than not.”

Loki smiled; poking Darcy in the ribs as she leaned back against his chest, stretching her legs out between his and sipping hot tea. She elbowed him in the belly, getting comfortable once more.

Lord Tyr was, Loki had to admit, an okay person. 

He was charming company and he also thought nothing of the fact that Loki and Darcy had shared a bed. They had, of course, explained that their arrangement was completely chaste and that their relationship was purely platonic. But Tyr didn’t seem to care about that either, mostly because he refused to believe that they did not have a secret passion for one another.

It was a funny sort of idea to romanticize and Darcy teased him about reading too many gossip articles that held occasional features on the potential clandestine courtship between him and Darcy. No matter, it soothed Loki to know that Tyr had only interest in being Darcy’s friend. He was apprehensive upon hearing of her personal invitation to visit him in Thryheim that he might be looking to court her. And Loki did not know if he was ready for another idiot boy in their lives. The first time had been difficult enough.

Being that Lord Tyr did not have it out to make Loki’s life more complicated than it needed to be, the prince felt it was perfectly acceptable to be sociable with him.

What Loki did not expect was to like Tyr so much. He was begrudging to accept the fact that there was a High Lord anywhere on Asgard that he could even remotely tolerate, but Tyr was utterly ridiculous and reminded him a bit of Darcy. It was his nonsensicality that Loki liked. So rare was it to find any official that could act simultaneously common and noble. While his attitude and enthusiasm would have Loki believe him to be of peasant origin, his wealth and education was astounding, as were his skills in leading a province. Darcy had much more to say on that, but Loki could appreciate that it was difficult to keep such a large province neutral.

Their day was going splendidly thus far.

Lord Tyr bubbled over their presence and told no one of their sleeping predicament. He showed them around Thryheim all morning, taking them through the snowy gardens and introducing them to a few of his favorite trees which he had named. He even knew the parentage of said trees, and claimed that they were all women.

The Lord was infatuated with Jörmungandr and Fenrir and continuously tossed sticks for them to go retrieve as they toured his castle grounds.

They were introduced to the members of his small court and his advisor, Verig, who had the thick accent of a Norn. Loki tried not to let that influence his opinion of him. No one could help where they were raised. Yet there was something that he truly did not like about the man. Darcy exchanged a few words with him and Loki watched her eyes search him thoroughly. Perhaps she found nothing, for she did not bring him up after they departed from the court members.

They sat now, in the mid afternoon, inside a snug pit beside the fireplace. Each room had a space set before the hearth, a small set of stairs leading to a cozy place where cushions and furs were strewn about so that small groups of people could lay beside the heat and enjoy each other’s company. Darcy was doing a fine job entertaining them with stories of his and Sigyn’s relationship.

Tyr had nearly pushed Loki and Darcy together in his insistence that they cease all restraint. He went on a tirade about how ridiculous it was that Asgardians associated the limitation of passion with class.

Loki had no argument for that, especially since his agreement meant he could hold Darcy closer, which was always nice. She smelled comforting and having her entrapped by his presence meant that he could both annoy her and make her laugh.

Tyr sat across from them with his ankles propped up on a cushion, laughing merrily. “I know of Lady Sigyn’s parents! High Lord and Lady of Jolena! They are much like my parents were.” He made a face. “Unfortunately for her and I both.” He sighed shortly, melancholy switching quickly to merriment. "I still cannot believe that the two of you insist on not being together. It is almost too odd for me to comprehend when you seem so…” he trailed off, gesturing to them as if their very existence explained it all.

Loki smirked. “Truth is strange; stranger than fiction.”

Lord Tyr’s eyes widened for a moment in shock, or perhaps recognition, before brushing off the look and gushing on with his questions on their friendship. “Tell me, for I am one of those dull breeds of the gods, how is it that you two met?” He settled his chin in his palm with a dopey smile on his face, “I must know.”

Loki chuckled, knowing that he and Darcy had always left this part ambiguous to most. They had never lied, it was always just assumed that Darcy was of lower class originally and they did not speak of her heritage for fear of shame.

But they would have to lie to Tyr.

He prepared to let his Silvertongue fly with a story when a deafening screech emanated from outside a window.

The noise caused Darcy to jump, spilling steamy tea all over her hand. She yelped in pain and Loki worked to make sense of the small bout of chaos.

A raven beat its wings against one of the windows, a message sealed with the royal crest in its claws.

Loki knew a royal summons when he saw one and knew that this must be a time of great emergency for one to call on him when he was fulfilling a duty given to him by his mother.

Using magic, he opened the window, allowing the raven to land beside him. Darcy scowled at it and nursed her fresh burn. Loki glowered at the red splotch on her pale skin, bringing the back of her hand to his lips, kissing away the wound.

Tyr slapped his hands over his chest. “You both will be the death of me. I swear it, you are far too perfect.” He sighed as lovers often do, falling back against his furs. “Just continue to exist as you do and I shall be content.”

Loki rolled his eyes in good humor at Tyr, receiving the note from the raven’s talons. He read it in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” Darcy asked, tilting her head to read the message as well.

“Thor demands my presence and my presence only,” Loki said dryly. “Apparently there has been an emergency.” He read through the note again, worry nipping at him as he saw the rushed smear his brother had left on the parchment. “Will you come?”

She squeezed his hand. “If you need me too.” She squinted at the letter. “Although, it is marked with the royal stamp; I don’t know if I’m supposed to be there.”

Loki ground his teeth. The ‘royal stamp’ declared any message delivered a personal matter of the royal family. If Thor requested only his company, it was probably a subtle way of saying that he did not want anyone else, including Darcy, to know of his dilemma. “Very well. I shall take myself to the palace magically and I will try to be back as soon as possible.”

Darcy nodded, standing up with him. He turned his attention to Lord Tyr who was smiling respectfully. “I am sorry to say that I must cut our meeting short, Tyr. I hope I will not be detained for long.”

The High Lord waved him off. “Is no matter, Loki! Another time! We have plenty of that, don’t we?  I’m sure Darcy and I will find something to talk of in your absence.”

A twinge of annoyance bit into his heart. Whatever was happening had better be important. He was leaving Darcy in Thryheim. Alone. With Tyr. Without him.

He pushed these feelings away and bowed his head to give Darcy his attention. Her eyebrows came together in apprehension. “If it’s anything too bad, come and get me, okay?”

“Of course,” he said, pressing his thumb to the wrinkle between her brows. “When you gossip of me this evening, remain sympathetic to my memory, would you?”

“Of course,” she swore, linking their pinkies for a second before he disappeared in a flash of golden light.

                                                               ***

“I am betrothed.”

The dark haired prince stared at his brother who had delivered this news so somberly; one might have thought that someone had died with the amount of anguish he stated his engagement. It dawned upon Loki that Thor had messaged him, claiming a royal crisis because the Allfather had made the decision to sign off his eldest son’s bachelor years.

The whole ordeal was too much for Loki to take. He threw his head back in laughter, nearly choking on his Silvertongue in attempt to breathe through the spectacular hysterias.

Nostrils flared and hands gesturing wildly towards the palace, Thor angrily addressed his brother. “Loki! There is no humor in this!”

Loki wrapped an arm around his middle, trying to find enough air to respond. “You are to be wed?”

“Obviously!” Thor shouted, his hands going to his hair. “I cannot be married, especially not to her…”

“To whom?” Loki managed, still chortling a bit.

Thor threw head back. “To Sigyn, who else?!”

This brought Loki’s amusement to an end. “I am courting Sigyn. We did not end our courtship.”

The blonde prince took his brother by the shoulders and shook him hard. “Did you not hear anything that I said?!”

Loki pushed him off, contemplating his circumstances. His and Sigyn’s relationship had not been going well. At one time, Loki felt that he and Sigyn had felt for one another romantically. But as time went on, Loki found himself considering Sigyn more a friend than anything. He still enjoyed her company and appreciated her council, yet he did not wish to kiss her or tell her loving things. He’d supposed that for the sake of Asgard he would continue their courtship.

Often times he imagined that he should be more like Thor and Fandrall and flirt with women rather than dedicating himself to only one. The idea of being adored by women, or anyone really, who desired him as he desired  them, was appealing. Though Loki was not sure if he wanted into the sport as much as his brother.

As much as he loved tricks, going to bed with a woman who was under the illusion that she might lie with someone who wished to have her forever was disagreeable to him.

Originally Thor had wooed barmaids and tavern wenches, but Loki had read Darcy’s reports and found that a great deal of money had been spent at the brothel. So perhaps Thor had quit flirting entirely and moved onto less artful ways of which to be with women.

Either way, Loki could not see why anyone would want to lie with his brother.

Loki did not particularly need to be courting anyone. Kissing Sigyn was nice enough, but he could go without. What bothered him about her sudden betrothal to Thor is that he did not have any say in the end of their relationship. She said nothing to him about it and no public announcement had been made about the anticipated end. He wondered if he’d done something to upset her that she had ended it prematurely.

Then he realized the truth of the circumstances.

He was a prince.

Sigyn was a lady.

She would not be the one to terminate their courtship. Legally, since she was still under the control of her parents, either they would call an end to it or Loki would have to. Loki had not done it, so it must have been Sigyn’s parents.

But a Lord would not just call an end to their daughter’s courtship with a prince unless there was a more honorable position offered to them.

And that left the one person Loki hadn’t taken into account.

Odin Allfather.

He covered his hurt in a grimace.

Of course it would be his own father that would take one of his closest friends and give them to his brother for marriage.

Thor moaned, collapsing into a chair. They were in Thor’s quarters, holed up in the dark. The drapes were drawn and Thor was nursing a headache. Loki thought his suffering was humorous at first, but his father’s decisions had put a damper on his hilarity. With a wave of his hand, he brought about his brother's sobriety. “Enough of your whining, brother. You called me here for what purpose other than to tell me that you were engaged?”

Thor stared at him, first with thankfulness then with frustration. “Loki, do you not understand the severity of this situation?”

Loki paced the room, reaching a window and tugging aside the embroidered drapes. “I understand that you have been put to an arranged marriage. Such proposals are common amongst royalty.”

“Loki…” he began pleadingly, searching for the right words. “I do not know what to do. I…I cannot be married,” he said, mainly to himself as he slouched in his chair.

The dark prince sighed, willing himself to look past his own woes, putting himself, as the Midgardians say, into Thor’s shoes. He would not wish to be married so soon. He had years left to live free of marital expectation and marriage would only be a hindrance to his plans.

Though, no matter how thoroughly he understood his brother’s pain, he did not know how to help him. The Allfather had already decided the marriage with Sigyn’s parents and unless either Thor or Sigyn renounced their titles, the wedding would go on.

Loki frowned, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “There is not much anyone can do, Thor, unless the Allfather decides otherwise.”

Thor shook his head. “He will not. He sees me as an insult to the throne.”

“Well…” Loki began and Thor scowled.

“I want to have fun, Loki! Merriment! Entertainment! Friends! Are these not the things we live for?” he asked, standing up and throwing his arms about. “I am not ready to relinquish these things in exchange for one woman who I must keep for the rest of my life.” He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Besides, she does not even like me.”

Loki did not like feeling pity for Thor. With his recent actions, he had this marriage coming for him. But Thor was right in a sense. Court life was boring and Loki lived for his time with Darcy. Although, their explorations tended to be a bit more dangerous than Thor’s bar fights.

“Come now, brother,” Loki tried, “I am sure it will not be all that horrible. Your engagement has not officially been announced and it may not be for a few years yet. You have time, perhaps even enough time to right your ways.”

“Or more time to enjoy them,” Thor grumbled, standing up.

Crossing his arms, he glared at the golden prince. Thor wished dearly to be King of Asgard one day, but Loki wondered if that was truly what Thor wanted. He was so obstinate to the monotonous life of the court that Loki felt his brother did not know himself. Perhaps Thor liked only the idea of being King.

“Do you think Sigyn knows of this?” Thor asked. “If so, I think I might like to speak with her.”

“I do not know. You could ask her if she knows, I’m sure that would go over well,” Loki suggested sarcastically, absentmindedly spinning his dagger around his fingers. It was a habit he’d picked up just to have something to do with his hands while he was bored.

Thor nodded, taking his brother seriously. “I agree. Sif is practicing at the moment; we shall go ask her where I can find Sigyn.”

“We?” Loki muttered as Thor ran a hand through his hair, charging out of his quarters with hopeful vigilance.

Loki sighed, storming after him. He stowed his dagger, choosing to be bitter over the fact that he left Darcy on Thryheim simply because Thor was engaged.

The two of them stalked through the palace, hurrying to the training fields where Sif stood, surrounded by a team of twenty men armed with spears. Sif’s sword, double-sided and long, posed as an extension of herself. She spun and kicked, stabbed and blocked, taking down her opponents as if they were flies. Sweat dripped down her face and she growled, her form switching to that of a lioness as she dropped her weapons and pounced on the one remaining warrior that had the misfortune of becoming her prey.

Men groaned in heaps on the ground around her and Loki admired Sif’s proficiency. Darcy often said that Sif could probably defeat an entire army by herself and enjoy it. Victory was an addictive drug and he saw its effects now as Sif’s military brethren stood up, clapping her on the back and shoulders, congratulating her on her good work.

Sif had earned that respect and though they did not get along especially well, Loki was pleased that she was appreciated. She deserved it.

“Sif!” Thor called to her from the landing they stood on. He leapt over the ledge, running to meet his friend. Loki followed, walking at an even pace.

“Thor? What is wrong?” Sif asked as he approached her in his frantic mood. She looked at him skeptically. “You have not gotten Fandrall arrested again, have you?”

This was news to Loki, but Thor brushed off the jibe. “No. Have you seen Sigyn today?”

Sif’s dark brows came together as she glanced curiously at Loki. “Yes…why?”

“Do you know where we could find her?”

Sif blinked, wiping sweat from her face. “She was called in to see the Allfather not a few moments before training began. Thor, what is happening?”

The golden prince swore loudly in his torment and he growled to Sif under his breath. “We are engaged as of this morning.”

Sif gaped at him blankly. “What?”

“Sigyn and I,” Thor clarified darkly, “are to be wed.”

Loki watched Sif’s entire world fall. He could see it in the breath that she lost and the greenish hue her skin had taken. Sweat began to form anew on her brow and she shivered like Darcy had last night. She was ailing and Loki could only imagine why.

Thor talked on of his distress, but Sif had stopped listening. Her mind was far away and Loki feared that she might lose her afternoon meal in the dirt. Finally, she came back to the present moment and she clapped a hand on Thor’s shoulder. “I am sorry…I must go…”

She stumbled away and Loki knew that she would not make it long before her body began sore attempts at purging itself of love.

Loki considered himself an onlooker to a story that he did not quite fit into. He saw his brother’s obliviousness as he went to go after Sif and he heard, in his past, Sigyn’s riddled words of femininity. It made sense to him and, caught up in despicable sympathy, he grabbed Thor’s arm, holding him back.

“Let her be.”

“Loki…”

“Let. Her. Be.” Loki repeated, urging his brother to stand back. “I will keep you company tonight, even if you wish to drink yourself to death in sorrow, but let Sif be.”

Thor looked at Loki as if he did not recognize him. “Is she alright?”

Loki pursed his lips, staring after the dark haired warrior. “She is sick.”

“Should I fetch a healer?” His brother asked him hesitantly.

Shaking his head, Loki gestured for Thor to follow him. “No. The only healer for Sif must come on her own accord. Come now, we’ll begin the celebration of your final bachelor days with an adventure unlike any other.”

Thor smiled half-heartedly at the prospect. “Do you also wish for father to wed you off in attempt to sedate your happiness?”

Loki cocked a brow, a smile growing on his face. “You forget, Thor. I am not careless, and I have the means to make Mischief with less dramatic consequences.”

This inspired Thor to perk up and walk beside his brother as they began their path to sneak into the city. “You would risk your own future for one night?”

At this, Loki laughed. “I have risked my life for much less than that.” He stopped them for a moment, waving a hand and changing their attire to that of middle class citizens. “Now, when was the last time you leapt from a great height?”

                                                               ***

Darcy and Tyr were having a blast.

At first, Darcy didn’t know if she would be okay in Thryheim without Loki. She never really stayed alone in any province on Asgard without him.

But Tyr was fun. As soon as Loki left, he insisted that they play music, which Darcy told him she couldn’t do.

Asgardians instruments were quite similar to Midgardian ones, though their music system was different. They determined notes by frequency and wrote it as such, but with Asgardian terms and symbols. So, it made for a very interesting comparison. Darcy had often wondered if she had been more interested in the arts, if she would have taken up playing the masterful pieces that Aesir musicians composed and performed.

Tyr was a practitioner of many instruments, though mainly he liked a small ukulele sized one with six narrow strings and a sound that resonated through the room like a chorus.

They ate dinner early with Tyr’s advisor, Verig, whom Darcy didn’t like.

It wasn’t just that he spoke like a Norn, but rather the way he looked at her. It was sorely reminiscent of recognition, but also curiosity. She wished she knew the names of all the people who had lost Hnefatafl to Lord Bjarte. He didn’t say much throughout dinner and his somber attitude contrasted greatly with Tyr’s high energy. Apparently, he had been a gift from Tyr’s parents. They thought he needed someone to help him through his position as High Lord and hired Verig. Tyr could not turn him away because his parents employed him and he did not want to disrespect his parents.

The one thing he did mention though, aside from their small talk, was that he held High Lord Bjarte in high esteem and that he disagreed with Darcy’s petition that was eventually passed through the king’s court, to propagate learning of magic in warfare. She hadn’t initially been for it, but war was a part of life on Asgard. It was a thing that people liked and glorified. If magic was successful and useful in battle, then it would be appreciated in everyday life. It had taken a lot of talking on her part, several essays and even more social experiments to prove that this was something that needed to be done.

In the end, Odin’s word declared that her ‘silly petition’ would be passed.

She would have bitten his head off if her mouth had been big enough.

Verig was not her favorite and he made it very clear that he did not like her either. Darcy was ever gracious, not purposefully provoking the advisor in any way. It was a tense meal as Tyr, ever the neutral party, tried to make peace of the situation.

Darcy kept the peace, but Verig challenged her, as one advisor to another, asking if her dedication was to Asgard or its prince. Darcy answered simply enough by saying that she was dedicated to the good of Yggdrasil, and all who lived within. And after that, Verig did not speak to her again.

After their meal, Tyr asked if Darcy would join him for tea in his chambers. Darcy had spent enough time on Asgard that she was skeptical of entering his room. But she relented because Tyr was her friend and tea on Thryheim was sharp and tasted faintly like pine.

They sat before the hearth in his room while he played his six-stringed instrument and sang silly songs about everything and anything. He laughed the entire time and Darcy wondered why it was that Tyr did not court anyone.

As far as Darcy knew from reading through past published media, Tyr had been Asgard’s number one bachelor since after the Great War. And yet he never wed, and he never courted. Darcy thought that Tyr might be gay, but for some reason she suspected that it was more than that. If Tyr did have a male lover, he probably would have already asked Odin if they could get married at the palace.

“Darcy,” Tyr began, strumming a few vibrant chords, singing her name like a well known song. “Sing me a tune.”

She shook her head, leaning back against some pillows, wiggling her bare toes before the fire. “Nah. I can’t sing.”

He clicked his tongue, setting his instrument aside and plopping down between Frank and Fenrir, both of whom fell into his lap. They loved Tyr because he spoiled them. He asked that bilgesnipe flanks be finely prepared and seasoned, one for each of the animals. He served them their meals on silver platters and told them to enjoy it.

And enjoy it they did. They did three whole seconds of enjoying.

Tyr thought they were cute. Darcy thought that Loki would be chiding them on manners if he were there.

“Well, tell me a secret then.” He said, scratching Fenrir’s belly.

Darcy smiled coyly at him. “A secret?”

Tyr beamed, nodding vigorously. “Yes! Tell me a secret about you and Loki. I wish to know.”

Darcy giggled at the prospect. Tyr was every stereotypical teenage girl at a sleepover. It was adorable. “Hmm. Loki and I?” she thought about it as the Lord waited in anticipation. “One day, about a year ago, I skipped all of my meetings and studies to sit with him in the gardens. Every hour we spent out there, he created a new breed of flower. By the end of the day, I had six new flowers.”

The Lord waited for her to continue, Frank’s head sitting atop of his and Fenrir sprawled across him like an oversized lapdog. “What happened to the flowers?”

“They died,” Darcy said with a shrug and Tyr looked like she had just told him his best friend had perished in a fire.

“But he created six new breeds of flowers for you!” Tyr insisted, clearly devastated. “How could you let them die?!”

Darcy smiled, thinking of the flowers. “They were unique and beautiful and different from every other living thing. But they had no equal. Such powerful and magnificent flowers could not live on. They were meant to die.”

Tyr shook his head furiously. “That was a ridiculous secret. I hated it. I must request a specific secret in order to evade such absurdity.”

Rolling onto her stomach, Darcy fit her chin in her hand, ready for a challenge. “Alright, hit me.”

He leaned forwards, bowing their heads together as if someone might hear them. “Today, Loki said something that struck me as peculiar. He said ‘truth is strange; stranger than fiction’ and I recognized this! It is from a text of a different realm.”

Darcy bit her lip, trying to hide her humor.

Loki had a bad habit of spitting poetry. He loved Midgardian poetry as well as just about any piece of classical literature he could get his hands on. He absorbed all of it like a sponge and if you poked him in the right spot, he would release it. But it was most unusual that Tyr should be aware of it.

“He is studious of many things, not just magic as many believe,” Darcy responded vaguely.

“So you say…” Tyr trailed off, looking down as if in the midst of a great decision. “I suppose I should tell you a secret. You see Darcy, I am a romantic.”

“Really?” Darcy gasped satirically, “I had no freakin’ idea!”

Tyr laughed, shoving her playfully. “No! You did not let me finish!” he cleared his throat, composing himself with a serious expression once more. “I am a romantic and I have an obsession with Midgardian literature.”

Darcy’s eyebrows pushed into her hairline and Tyr rushed to explain himself.

“They understand and express emotion to an extent that I have come to believe Aesir cannot show! But yet they depict stories much like our own upper class. Where emotion is shunned and yet there are people who cannot hold back their passion! They fall in love! Mortals have written of love deeper than any Asgardian has ever felt! And Darcy…” he stared into her eyes most acutely, his brown irises warm and begging her to understand. “…I adore love.”

Darcy had a strong urge to laugh, not because Tyr was truly a hopeless romantic, but because he spoke such truth. “Asgardians are scared to love,” Darcy agreed and Tyr looked like he could cry with the relief he now felt.

“You understand,” he sighed, laughing breathlessly. “Have you read Midgardian literature then? Love through the eyes of mortals? Has Loki? Consider this your secret.”

Nodding, Darcy did not try to hide her amusement. An Asgardian that actually appreciated mortals was a rare Asgardian indeed. “I’ve read a lot actually. Loki likes the romantic poets. He reads Bécquer, Tennyson, Byron, Dickinson, Poe... I like the novels.”

Tyr moaned, gathering Frank and Fenrir in his arms and holding them close. “Oh Darcy, I have never met anyone who has shared my literary diversity. I must write Loki and beg him for recommendations. I cannot get enough. I find myself reading the same works over and over, entranced with emotion.”

Darcy laughed with him, sharing his happiness. She’d never imagined that one being could ooze passion as Tyr did. It was not misery, just enthusiasm. He was ready for whatever feeling inspired him. It was a dangerous way to live in the position he held, but Darcy thought he handled himself well.

They talked of Mary Shelly and the Brontës, Tolsty and Dostoyevsky, Dickens and Austen. They touched briefly on Li Baojio and other writers of political fiction, which Darcy found most entertaining, but she soon discovered that Tyr' s interests lay only in love stories. He could talk all the way back to Shakespeare and knew of authors that Darcy had never heard of. Darcy realized that Tyr had been picking up Midgardian literature for hundreds of years, the past few centuries he accumulated favorites and loves. He told her that he’d not been down to get new material in the past century.

Finally, Tyr broke from his endless rambling on literature, looking at her like she’d given him the world. “Darcy, thank you. You have no idea how much this talk has meant to me. You are marvelous.”

She winked. “I am pretty great, aren’t I?”

He chuckled, staring into the fire for a moment, idly scratching Frank’s head. “Darcy?”

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat nervously. “I was wondering if I might confide in you a matter most secret.”

She nodded eagerly. “Of course.”

Tyr took her hands. “I mean it Darcy. You cannot tell a soul.”

With great sincerity, she placed her fist over her heart. “I swear it.”

They shared a deep look for a moment before Tyr’s brilliant smile returned. “I must tell you a story about myself first.”

“Alright.” Darcy settled in her furs, getting comfortable and waiting for Tyr to speak.

He stood up, because there was no possible way the High Lord Tyr of Thryheim could dare to stay sitting while telling a story.

“When I was younger, I hated my parents. Till this day, I hold a certain abhorrence to their very existence,” he said bitterly and the tone sounded off when he used it. “They raised me to be proper. They taught me to fight formally and with sword because it was the weapon of a lord. They made me practice piety through restraint. They told me that I must learn to be the best man that I could be to win a wife worthy of my title and that I should give her my children to continue my good name.” He made gestures while speaking, as Tyr was forever the truest of entertainers.

“I hated it. I despised everything I had come to be and I spent the days itching to run. To break free. To live as I wanted. I considered abandoning my title and running away, but I did not have the courage of my dear sister. So I suffered in silence.”

He stopped, staring into the fire. “Then came the war.”

Darcy waited to hear his perspective. She’s read one of his published journals in which he proved to be just as racist against Frost Giants as the rest of Asgard. Though she’d found his writing to be oddly poetic. Now she knew why.

“It was brutal,” he said. “My parents wrote to Odin and asked him if he would make me one of his officers. Me, their son, who had just reached his adolescence nearing the end of the war, they asked if I could be there. If I could fight, and kill, and possibly die.

“Odin, who was running low on soldiers at the last few years of the war, accepted me and I traveled by bifrost to Jotunheim where I froze and fought and nearly died by the hand of Laufey.

“The day the war was meant to end, I was wounded and scared, but Odin came to me. He asked me to fight this last day with him. He asked me to lead his army into the city and lay waste to Laufey’s palace. I accepted because he was my king and I was honored.” Tyr perked up a bit. “And I led us to victory.”

“We returned from the war and I was fresh in my adolescence, about your age I think." He paused, growing somber once again. "This is my secret for you, Darcy. My mother had a child during that year. A beautiful little girl with a little tuft of black hair on her head.” He made an angry noise and when he spoke again he sounded close to tears.

“This is why I hate my parents. I do not wish to, I respect them because they are mine and I have no choice. But I cannot love them as they are because they refused to love their children as they were.

“Sif was born with black hair. They hired a number of sorceresses, sworn to secrecy, to turn her hair blonde. I begged them not to and I was punished for my apparent anguish. They never told Sif she had been born with black hair and I could not bring myself to do it because I wanted her to feel like our parents loved her. I wanted her to have love because when I came home from the war…” he trailed off, smiling to himself, “I knew that she was mine to take care of. I had more love for this tiny child than I ever had for anyone and I vowed that she would never be without someone who cared for her. I did not want her to be lonely as I had been.”

Darcy’s heart ached, but there was also a moment of clarity for her. When Sif’s hair was burned off those years ago and Loki grew it back, there had been no mistake on his part. It was not his fault. She continued to listen assiduously to her host.

“I also wrote Odin after the war. He was the father I never had and I knew that he cared a great deal for me as I did for him. I was happy for a few years. Then came the year before my adulthood began.”

Tyr sneered at the memory and such a look on his kind face frightened Darcy. She wanted to hold him. Tyr was precious and it pained her when he hurt. “My parents planned for me to be wed on the day my adolescence came to a close. And after that, they expected children.

“I was furious because I did not wish to give them this. I wanted, and I still want, love. I want life and happiness and I did not want to conform to their silly rules any longer. I wrote Odin and told him of my predicament and he wrote that he would contact me in a few days with something that might help.

“I could not wait that long. My adolescence ended in but two days and I was desperate. So, I sent a raven to find Idun with my request for an apple. And later that day, the raven returned with a golden letter that asked me for my deepest, darkest secret.” He turned to her, eyes glazed over with emotion.

“I wrote down my secret and sent it to her. The next day, I ate my apple and I never became an adult.”

Darcy was entirely absorbed in his past. And she could see it now. It made sense why he looked so young and why he acted so uninhibited. Darcy waited in earnest for him to continue.

Turning back to her, Tyr grinned. “I didn’t get married. My parents burned with rage and threatened to disown me, but the day of my would-be wedding, I received a letter from Odin declaring that I was the new High Lord of Thryheim and I was to take my new position immediately.

“I wanted to take Sif with me. She was a child, a babe, and I was worried for her, stuck with our parents who did not know how to love. I offered to take her and they refused.” His tone seeped acid. “I visited her as often as I could, which was at least twice a week. I called her my ‘little sun’ and she called me ‘big sun’. I tried to raise her as my own. I told her not to be afraid and to do what she loved to do.

“Never, in all my life, would I have believed that she would abide by my teachings so willfully. I never thought that she would abandon her titles to be a warrior. It broke my heart at first that I could not see her. But I knew that one day she would succeed.” He grinned down at Darcy. “And here is this lady that strides into Asgardian politics like she was born to rule and she tells me that my little sister is everything that I knew she would be!”

Tyr got down on his knees and kissed her hands. “And I love you for it, Advisor Darcy. I love you for being my sister’s friend, just as I love Prince Thor and Lady Sigyn for being her friends. I would invite you all to live with me if only that was how things worked. And Loki as well, because I think he is charming and you two are in love. It would be cruel to separate you.” He finished as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Darcy laughed and then stared at this person who she felt like she was just coming to know. And, as usual, she had questions. “Was it really so horrible? Getting married? Are you so opposed to the idea of marriage that you have stayed single all these years?”

Tyr shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “No. Not at all. Darcy, I want to love someone more than anything. I want romance and passion and love. I want a person to love me as fully and as wholly as I love them.”

Darcy shook her head, lost in confusion. “Then why…?”

He gave her a sideways glance, his eyes glowing with shyness in the firelight. His lips twitched just a bit as he spoke, mouth preparing for a timorous betrayal. “No one wants a lover who won’t make love.”

Darcy’s heart gave out. She was going to cry. Scratch that, she was crying. Tears spilled from her eyes, each one for Tyr, because he had so much love to give and no one yet to give it to. She cried because he didn’t believe anyone could ever love him. “Tyr, that isn’t true.”

He chuckled good-naturedly, wiping her tears away with his shirt sleeve. “Darcy, I’m sure that if my life were to be one of those novels I love so much, I would not be either of the lovers I sorely wish to be. I am the wealthy uncle.”

She laughed through her tears, crying even harder. She blamed Tyr and all his love that no one would accept. “You’re not…” she choked, “I’ll love you, you idiot boy.”

“You are already in love, silly girl,” he chided, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Now stop crying or I’ll start as well and we shall both be a mess.”

Darcy didn’t stop and it took them ten minutes to stop sobbing. Eventually it ended because they looked so ridiculous to one another with their eyes swollen and noses wet that they began to snicker and soon became overwhelmed with giggles and laughter.

They spent a great deal of the night in front of the dying fire, Darcy promising with all her heart that she would find someone for Tyr to love.

When she could no longer keep her eyes open, Tyr sent her to bed with Frank and Fenrir trotting along behind her. Crawling into bed in her shift, she waited for Loki. And no sooner had she slid between the sheets and blown out the candles by the bedpost closest to her, Loki appeared.

He removed his boots, snuggling up to her without his shirt as he had the night before. She meant to ask him where he’d been, but she was tired and far too caught up in being glad that he had come back to her that night. She always slept better at home.

                                                               ***

Earlier that day…

Sigyn walked to the Allfather’s study with as much poise as she could muster.

It was rare that anyone besides the princes were ever summoned to Odin’s study. It was considered a place of peace and a royal conference room. It was a place of the royal family and an honor for Sigyn to go there.

Only recently, Sigyn had discovered something:

She truly hated the life of royalty.

She had ceased her attempts to keep up with hers and Loki’s relationship. He was her friend and she felt no romantic pull towards him. But it was more than her feelings towards Loki that was pulling her away from their courtship.

She despised, with all her being, the life of a princess.

Officially courting a prince meant that she was bid to go to all of his public outings, dance with him on all formal events, and was given opportunities to bond with the people and allow them to see her for who she truly was.

Sigyn found very quickly that she did not like this. It was not that she did not like herself and it was not that she did not think people would like her; it was that she did not wish to be their role model.

She did not like the life she lived. She did not like that she was courting a prince for his title and she did not like that she was so subservient to her parents will. She did not like that she tolerated the torture of being described only as ‘beautiful’ because that was the only thing anyone ever took the time to notice about her.

She wanted the people, of Asgard to have a princess who fought for what she thought was right and who could feel more than fear when looking onto a crowd of her future people. She wanted the Princess of Asgard to be Darcy. Not ‘someone like Darcy’, for there was no one like Darcy. There was no one else who understood them and who was so personable and easy for the Aesir to love. Sigyn could not be Asgard’s princess, because she could not be true to them.

Sigyn wanted to be honest, and if she were to marry Loki, swear upon the Nine Realms and herself that she loved him and that she would guard the people of Asgard with her life, it would be a lie.

And the mere thought of Sigyn giving up Sif’s place in her bed, to no longer hold her close, feel her heart beat through the night and wake to the smell of her hair, was heartbreaking. Her body protested that this luxury that she’d felt the past couple of years, of sharing her life and her likes and dislikes, passions and creations with this magnificent warrior would soon be gone.

Her gut wrenched and the thought made her want to vomit. But she bit back her bile, making her way to the Allfather with grave curiosity.

Too soon, she stood before the Allfather’s study doors in an expensive silver dress that complimented her eyes. The guards nodded to her approvingly, opening the doors to allow her inside.

It was a beautiful room and the minute Sigyn saw it, she thought of Darcy and Loki. Thousands of books decked the shelves, the chamber lead off into two different directions, mysteries waiting at either end. Her mystery sat at the desk in the center of the room, facing the door and glaring at her with a sentiment Sigyn could not decipher.

“Please, come in Lady Sigyn,” beckoned the Allfather and Sigyn could not refuse.

“Thank you, your Highness.” She curtsied, approaching his desk and sitting in the chair he gestured to.

Sigyn stared at Odin Allfather and tried not to appear as skeptical as she was. In confidence, Darcy had ranted of Odin’s nature and his reluctance towards her. Sigyn sensed none of this reluctance. On the contrary, Odin seemed almost happy to see her. Only she couldn’t be certain as he wasn’t smiling and he didn’t give any other indication that he was pleased to see her at all.

It was his attention that led her to believe his pleasure at her presence. It was rare that someone other than her closest friends ever gave her their full attention. But Odin had his one blue eye upon her, fully attentive.

“Lady Sigyn, you are a most esteemed lady, a fine member of Asgardian society, and a well known beauty,” The King said, each of his sharp, clipped words paralyzing her with fear. What was his purpose? He did not call her here simply to compliment her.

She swallowed. “Thank you, Allfather.”

He continued on as if she hadn’t spoken and Sigyn understood what Darcy meant about him being a ‘passive ass’ as she called him.

“You have been courting Prince Loki Odinson for two years now and it is no mystery to the realm that your courtship is soon to be over.”

Sigyn waited, unsure of what to do. Her palms were sweating and Odin’s gaze was firm. Did he mean to end her and Loki’s courtship? Did he mean to tell her that she could no longer court Loki or that he did not like her as a Princess? She wished he would get to the point.

“Your courtship with Loki ends today, Lady Sigyn. You will not be Princess of Asgard.”

Sigyn wondered if relief could take a form. If so, she imagined that it would be a butterfly the color of Sif’s eyes that beat its wings against the gust of breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

“You will be Queen of Asgard.”

The butterfly died. It died hard and fast. The butterflies’ wings turned to dust and that dust blew away, never to be assembled again. Sigyn’s entire being froze as she stared disbelievingly at Odin Allfather.

Now he was smiling, the bare hint of a grin tugging at his stiff, miserable line of a mouth. She knew that smile mocked her as it would mock her till the end of her days. Sigyn wanted to scream at him that she could not be Queen. Being Queen would entail that she marry the future King of Asgard and that was…

“Prince Thor has accepted the arrangement most graciously and your parents were happy to give him the honor of taking your hand. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your engagement. I will let the two of you decide when to make a public announcement. You are dismissed.”

He finished as gracelessly as he’d begun; only now he looked as though he had solved an especially trying puzzle and was smug about it.

Sigyn stood, her legs weak as she curtsied and left the study.

Her heart seemed to have stopped beating and her mind was drifting away from her. She could not marry Thor. She could not be wed. Not now. Not to him. She could not be Queen of The Realm Eternal.

Sif’s face appeared in her thoughts, the memory of her touch warmed her face and the smell of the warrior on her skin was intoxicating.

And suddenly, Sigyn knew why she couldn’t marry Thor. Sigyn knew why her insides felt like they were being stirred with a knife and why the tears in her eyes burned hotter than fire.

She was in love.

The revelation turned her blood into air and she felt as though her heart would explode at any moment.

Sigyn turned to the guards outside of Odin’s study and beamed, bursting out into laughter so loud it would echo in that corridor forever.

Then she ran.

She ran down the halls and up the stairs. She tore the hem of her dress tripping on it. She ran into a wall, banging her elbow in the process, but she did not stop. Her legs ached and she was feverishly sick with love. She ran to the training fields, running the length of it in search of Sif. When she didn’t see her, her stomach rebelled and purged itself of everything that was holding her back.

She did not stop running.

Through the gardens she went, tearing her skirts on rose bushes as she plucked a flower in passing. She ate the rose while she ran, swallowing the sweet petals and relishing in its nectar because her body demanded love.

Finally, she came to the library and found Sif there amongst the books, sitting in a window in the tunic that she wore beneath her armor, face wet with tears and pores dripping with the traitorous love that had fooled them both.

“Sigyn…” Sif sniffed abashedly, wiping away her tears and standing up straight.

Sif said her name and Sigyn could not take the time to think about what came next.

She took two powerful steps towards her lady and kissed her with every bit of will she had to give. Sif’s mouth tasted like tears. Her lips were soft and a little wet and moving reverently against her own. It felt like the world had shifted and now she floated in space, connected to Yggdrasil by a single thread that tied around her soul and linked her to this fierce woman who kissed like she fought: hard, unyielding, and with all her heart.

Sif’s hands went to her lady’s hair and she lost her fingers in the silk tendrils. She broke the kiss to stare into Sigyn’s eyes. “You are engaged to Thor.”

“Yes.” Sigyn whispered breathlessly, before they tilted their heads and kissed again. Their lips created a small symphony of sounds that rejoiced in every touch. Sigyn felt lightheaded, but she found that if she kept kissing Sif, she did not need air.

Again, Sif pulled away, her cheeks flushed and her lips parted. “Should we stop?”

Sigyn was repulsed by the very idea of stopping. She was going to make kissing Sif her life. She would never need anything but the taste of her lips and the lines of her body pressed against her own.

Her answer came as surely as her kisses. “Never.”

So they never ceased their passion. Their moment in that corner was an eternity filled with kisses that had no end and no beginning. They just were. And in that eternity, that infinite series of sighs and smiles, Sigyn thanked the stars for Sif and all that was to come of their love.