{Glorious Purpose}

Ásgarðr was warm. That was the first thing Loki noticed as the Bifrost closed behind them. Humidity prickled against their skin. Sticky. They looked about the golden sphere, the intricate Aesir work that tried to disguise the truth of the technology, but Loki could feel the ancient Jötnar seiðr. It hummed within the worked metal, vibrated within the very air. It was subtle, unnoticeable to most, but Loki could feel it, could see it when they lifted their eyes to the ceiling—the seiðr collected there, a swirl of cosmic colours floating lazily above them.

“Welcome to Ásgarðr, Loki, Laufeyjarson, Prince of Clan Fárbauti of Jötunheim.”

Loki lowered their eyes to the Aesir Watcher, Heimdall, and their eyebrows first rose and then crinkled as they took in the words: Son. Prince. Asgardian genders. Male. Mamma had told them about such things. So, they were to be perceived as a male here. Loki’s shoulders marginally sagged. Very well.

It didn’t matter to Loki. Not really. He knew what he was—what she was—what they were. The Jötnar did not have males and females, they had sires and bearers, and they moved fluidly between the two. Laufey had born Loki, but sired Helblindi and Býleistr, which was why Loki was the Child of Laufey and his siblings were the Children of Fárbauti. The Jötnar followed the line of Bearer.

However, Loki was more than that, more than Jötun. Loki was all genders, all sexes, and simultaneously none at all—a born shapeshifter. So, he really didn’t mind what pronoun was used, but it would have been nice to be asked. Though, he supposed male was optimal here in Ásgarðr since they followed the patriarchal line.

Loki sighed inwardly. Why couldn’t Mamma have sent him to be a ward of a relative in Vanaheim where the matriarchal line ruled supreme? He didn’t mind a masculine form, but the expectations of the female one suited him better.

“Prince Loki?”

“Good morning, Watcher,” he said as his attention returned to Heimdall and nodded respectfully. His silence, apparently, had lasted too long for the Aesir Watcher. He would have to take note of that. Back home, his clansmen were accustomed to his wandering mind and were patient with his silence. “Would you please give me directions to the palace?”

“Your command of our tongue is impressive,” Heimdall praised. “The Queen is on her way to fetch you.”

“Is it unusual for a Jötun to know the language of Ásgarðr?” Loki asked. He knew he was young, not yet three centuries, but Mamma had been firm in his linguistic education. He and his siblings were all well versed in the tongues of the Nine Realms—well, Býleistr still struggled with the harsh consonants of Niðavellir, but he was only a hundred and fifty.

“No,” Heimdall said, “merely a child so young.”

“Do the Óðinnsons not learn languages? Mamma has taught me all the Nine.”

“All?” Heimdall’s stoic expression morphed into raised brows and wide, golden eyes.

“My sister was always a talented wordsmith.”

“My Queen.” Heimdall bowed.

Loki turned and bowed respectfully to the Vanir-born, Queen of Ásgarðr, Frigga. She looked different than his Mamma’s Vanir-form. Queen Frigga was golden spun hair and sun-kissed skin, with eyes as deep and blue as the skies of Jötunheim. Nál—the name Mamma went by in Vanir-form—was snow white skin and obsidian hair, and her eyes were a pale, leafy green—an earthy colour exotic to the snow and ice and rock of Jötunheim.

“You need not bow to me, Loki, Nálbarn,” the queen said in the ways of Jötunheim; though, back home Loki had been referred to as Laufeyjarbarn—Child of Laufey. She approached slowly and knelt before him so that they were eye-to-eye. “Though, I wish it was under better circumstances, it is good to finally meet you.”

Loki bit his bottom lip, uncertain. Mamma had said the customs of Ásgarðr were different, physicality distant and rougher at the same time. Yet, the woman before him exuded a tender warmth similar to Mamma, and he could feel the comfort of her seiðr. Quietly, he said, “In Jötunheim, we embrace our clanmates—our family. I don’t—here in Ásgarðr, do you…”

With a large smile, Frigga opened her arms and Loki hugged her tightly. She smelled of earth and foliage, and her seiðr was soothing as it wrapped around him. It was so much like Mamma that he couldn’t help but nuzzle her neck and shoulder. Her skin was so warm against his, but it was a warmth he craved. Jötunheim was a frigid realm and its people were hardly warmer. His sire’s touch was similar to that of his siblings, but Mamma’s touch, even in her Jötun-form, was always warmer.

“I will never disrespect your ways, Loki,” Frigga whispered in his ear. “With me, you are free to be whomever you please.”

His heart sored to hear that, to know that there was at least one person here who would accept him—her—them.

Pulling from the hug enough so that she could look upon him, Frigga asked, “I know the Ásgarðr tongue is restrictive for the Jötnar, but what do you wish for me to call you?”

Loki smiled brightly at the question, ruby eyes glittering with pleasure. “Because of what I am, even my clanmates stumbled a little at first, but as fluid as my form is, so too should my pronouns be.”

“Very well,” Frigga said with an understanding nod and took in their Jötun-form. Loki was small for a Jötun, their bearer’s Vanir blood being equally strong, making them appear several centuries younger than they were in this form. They were slim too and doubted they would ever fill out with the broad shoulders and heavy muscle of their sire without the use of seiðr. They didn’t mind, though—Mamma was slim and lithe and no less fearsome than their sire.

Unlike the two Aesir in the room, who were fully covered from neck to toe, Loki wore the customary clothes of their home: furs and leathers adorned with the gems and metals of their craft, that left most of their Markings visible. Though Loki knew that the Aesir saw the Markings as a sign of savagery, they were proud of them—of the thin, white, heritage marks that glittered like ice in the sun; of the thicker, black seiðr marks they had gained through mastery; and the few, raised, warrior marks they had desperately struggled to earn.

“What shall I call you in this form?” Frigga asked, and Loki was pleased to see no judgement in her eyes.

“The Svartálfr refer to us as ‘they,’” Loki informed.

“Then I shall do so as well.”

“As will I,” Heimdall chimed in. When Loki gave him a surprised look, he returned it with a warm smile and said, “I was born of Nine Mothers, each of the Nine Realms, to disregard your Jötun blood would be to disregard my own.”

Loki frowned at that. “You called me Laufeyjarson and a prince of Jötunheim.”

“Heimdall,” Frigga chided, her tone saturated with disappointment, though her voice never raised, “I instructed you on Jötun etiquette just the other day.”

“Your words were overwritten,” he said simply.  

Frigga sighed and returned her attention to Loki. “I fear Oðinn will make things difficult for you.”

Loki firmed their shoulders. “I expect nothing less from the King of Ásgarðr. Though, he is an enemy of Clan Fárbauti in particular and Jötunheim in general, Mamma says that it is still safer in your custody than back home. I am prepared to do what I must.”

Frigga frowned at that and ran her gentle fingers through their hair—it was long and black and ran in waves down their back, just like Mamma’s. “I am sorry for that.”

“It will be all right,” Loki assured her. “The Norns came to me last night and have given me hope. I have seen a glimmer of the future they wish to weave, and it is filled with the most glorious purpose.”

“Oh? And what purpose is that?”

“A house filled with the laughter of my children.”

Frigga’s smile softened. “Aye, that is a glorious purpose indeed.”