On night like any other, the Warriors Three, Lady Sif, the royal family, and many dear friends of them gathered for a feast. The occasion was a successful hunt, one that saw Thor and his closest friends return with a beast of generous size, a bear, cleanly and confidently killed, as is typical with their hunts.
Fandral found himself distracted from the festivities; one member of their party had been absent from their most recent hunt. The little prince Loki was kept away for unknown royal duties, a disappointment to Fandral for a reason for which he was only just beginning to come to terms.
Across from Fandral, and one seat over, sat Loki. A crease was developing between his brows while his brother loudly recounted the triumph of his kill with the rest of the partygoers. That crease grew deeper and deeper the longer the story went on, threatening to become a permanent mark on his otherwise blemish-free face.
As Thor’s story droned on, Loki decided it was worth conjuring a tiny, hand-sized illusion of Thor, who boasted and strutted across the table in time with the real Thor’s story, pausing occasionally to flex his muscles in whatever chalice he passed.
“Don’t let your brother see that.” Fandral murmured, picking up his own cup to end the parade in front of him, leaving a hand-sized Thor to disappointedly kick at the spot where he lost his reflection.
“Oh, please. Like he could ever notice anything that’s not a thirty-foot monster or overflowing with tits.” Loki replied, directing his tiny Thor back down towards the other end of the table, where he tried to wield Sif’s knife as a sword. Sif took the attempt as a challenge, and idly poked back with her fork at the illusion, frowning when her prodding revealed green magic animating the tiny, confused Thor.
“He’s exaggerating.” Fandral leaned in to tell Loki. “We were all there-he almost pissed himself when the beast lunged at him.”
“Like this?” Loki asked, mischief stirring as he conjured illusions of dancing bears to chase his tiny-Thor across the table, knocking over Volstagg’s drink, and leaping through Hogan’s lamb. Hogan let the bears dance on his plate, before poking tiny Thor back towards Sif. Anyone else who noticed the illusions, decided to ignore them, not playing fun with Loki while he brother’s far more interesting story was being told.
“Obviously he’s exaggerating.” Loki let the illusion of Thor run back up the table past his brother, clambering into Odin’s cup, and peeking out the sides.
Loki’s fork stabbed down on the plate, impaling the meat he hadn’t touched. “And yet they all let him do it.”
“Is that what this is about? They call you on your lies and not him?” Fandral watched as Loki began to cut the meat into pieces far smaller than bitesize. Long strips of near parchment-thin flesh multiplied on his dinner plate. Fandral felt some slow wave of nausea begin to rise at the sight. The dancing bears on Hogan’s plate began to turn feral, and growl amongst themselves.
“It’s just not fair.” The fork in his hand then pressed the meat flat, and he began to cut the other direction, dicing the cooked meat until it was unrecognizable in small, uneven pieces too processed for anyone to want to eat, something they would hesitate to even feed the pigs.
Fandral never thought about how well sharpened the dinner knives were, until this moment. Any of them could skin a bear if need be.
“We call him out too, sometimes.” Fandral said, watching tiny-Thor slip as he tried to leave Odin’s drink.
“Not enough.”
Fandral opened his mouth to reply but a round of laughter and cheers drowned out any sound he could have made.
“To my eldest son!” The king lifted his cup at the smiling Thor, oblivious to the tiny blonde doppelgänger in his ale. “May you always be this blessed.”
The cheer went up, and Fandral lifted his cup out of habit more than respect at this point.
Odin paused mid-sip, glancing down into his drink, finally spying Loki’s handiwork.
Loki paused the dissection of his meal to contemplate the toast with his eyebrows raised, and mouth twisted up in confusion. He mouthed, “Be blessed?” To no one in particular.
“And to my second son,” Odin continued, dismissing Loki’s illusions, “Always up to something. May you forever be within my sight.”
At that, Loki joined the toast, raising his glass high, “And to our father: If I were half the man you are, I’d be a fraction of the man I am now, which might be twice as much or half as little, though maybe less than half, depending on how you calculate.”
Before Odin could interpret his words, a voice further down called back, “Are we even sure Loki’s that much of a man?”
Then another chimed in, “Are we even sure Loki’s a man at all?”
“Norns, just drink your ale!” Thor yelled back at the hecklers, ending that discussion before it began.
A wave of cheers drowns out someone’s protests as his ale turned back into barely in his cup.
The chattering continued, Fandral returns to his food, leaning towards the other prince to listen to his plan of next month’s hunt.
Odin interrupted, leaning forward in his seat again. “There will be no hunt for a while, my son. For we are hosting an envoy from Alfheim at the end of next month.”
Before Thor could respond, an already miserable voice from the other side of the table spoke up.
“That’s next month?” Loki’s big blue eyes grew even bigger when he asked.
“Don’t be dull. You were told of this two weeks ago.” Odin didn’t even look at the boy. He just took another bite off the bone of some animal.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Loki, it’s fine.” Thor interjected, waving around his own half-eaten leg of meat.
Where the youngest prince would have normally called Thor out on his manners-or lack thereof-he instead slumped lower. “We’re supposed to go to the lake next month.”
“What-that silly thing?” The king laughed at his son. “It has been postponed. The whole thing will be frozen over anyway. Why you even want to go is a mystery.”
“Do you even know what happens next month?”
“Yes, child, the elves come to visit.”
Loki gritted teeth and set down his fork. “Next month is my birthday.”
Though it was more of a ceremonial birthday, Loki would be turning the age that traditionally marks a coming-of-age. Nowadays, adulthood had been decreed to come a bit later. Regardless, it was an important day. One for which Thor received a month-long celebration and a trip to their lake, Fandral noted.
Odin let nothing show on his face, whether he was aware of it, the table could not read it. “It can wait. We will celebrate later this year, or not at all.”
“It’s nice to know a group of stuffy elves is more important to you than your youngest son.”
“We are not discussing this tonight.” The king spoke with an air of finality to which everyone but the queen would listen. Even Thor seemed to shrink back in his seat.
Loki, on the other hand, was starting to burn in anger. “But you told me we would celebrate my birthday at the lake this year.”
“Loki.” There was a sternness in his voice that was reserved only for his second son. It was his last chance, a way out before facing the king’s wrath.
“No! It’s not fair! All you do is make promises and break them. Thor celebrated at the lake-why can’t I?” He had stood from his seat at the table, one hand leaning against the wood, the other gestured wildly as he whined. “You promised me it would happen. You made a promise. Why does he get to have everything he asks for, and I can’t have this one thing?”
A voice from the other end of the table speaks, Fandral cannot tell who it is, but he speaks for more than just himself. “You’re claiming Thor is spoiled?”
Loki’s face snaps towards the voice, with a look of hatred so deep that Fandral recoiled from it despite not being his target. He stared down the end of the table, his hand flew up, down the length of his arm, to the tip of his finger, with such a precision that Fandral felt foolish for not recognizing the heckler by voice the first time. The intensity of Loki’s fury was felt through the air, but maybe that was just his magic sparking, and it left Fandral feeling unsettled.
“Your words burn, Njöror!” He spat like venom from his mouth. The table turned to watch Njöror at the end, not with fear on his face, but apprehension.
Loki’s curse was not visible as it was cast, lacking the fanfare involved in his more lighthearted spells. They watched Njöror with breath held as they waited for something to happen. Even the king leaned forward in his seat to see.
There was nothing wrong, from the top of his bright red hair to the tips of his stubby fingers.
And then there was.
A thin trail of smoke slowly began to rise from the silver beads braided into his hair. A small bite of flame sparked to life in Njöror’s hair, and he leaped to pat it out, only to find the rings on his fingers glowing red with heat, forcing him to rip them from his fingers while the beads not only caught fire in his hair, but burnt so much that they started to fall straight onto the floor, one after another. Njöror cried out as the ring on his nose glowed red as well, falling from his face and cauterizing the wound as it went.
The suddenness of the scene made Fandral’s heart race. He took a step back, his breath catching in his throat, momentarily mesmerized by the sight. As Loki’s spell ignited Njöror’s hair, Fandral’s gaze followed him with apprehension. There was something captivating in the way Loki’s eyes flared with his anger, making it hard for Fandral to look away. Even amidst the chaos, the determination in Loki’s expression struck something deep within him.
“Coward!” Someone yelled. “Fight like the man you claim to be!”
Another threw their ale towards Loki, who snarled back, but kept his gaze steady.
He barred his teeth, his finger points still down the table, still focusing on his victim. His eyes glinted with unshed tears, ready to burst at the next insult thrown his way, all he had been holding onto cracking apart like a herd of animals soon to be swallowed by a frozen lake.
Loki was shoved hard, concentration breaking on impact, they’ve taken him to the ground, their hands attempting to grapple and restrain the witch, who fought back with his hands, hitting where he could, summoning knives to slash at the attacker.
Then Thor was there, pulling them apart, hoisting his brother up by arms around his waist, Volstagg had the other by the shoulder, turning him away from Loki.
“Enough!” The king’s hands slammed on the table, silencing the hall.
Loki had dropped his hand, ending the spell, but not the pain that Njöror was experiencing. No more fire grew, but the burns remained there in the places he was too slow to stop.
“Get him to a healer.” Odin barked his order, rising from his seat.
The moment Loki’s feet touched the ground, he shoved Thor away, dusting himself off and straightening his shirt as Odin approached.
The king’s eyes locked onto his second son, whose face was as red the burns on poor Njöror. “You are dismissed for the night.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Do not challenge me, boy!” Odin’s voice boomed throughout the hall. “You have done enough damage already tonight. Return to your chambers or face my wrath before my court.”
“You don’t scare me, old man. You can’t hurt me worse than you already have!” Loki snarled.
A sharp crack echoed as Odin’s hand struck Loki, sending him to his knees. Fandral couldn’t help his sharp inhale of breath. The atmosphere in the hall grew heavy, and the room fell into an uneasy silence. No one dared interrupt the king, but even Thor flinched from the impact.
Loki kept his eyes on the floor, fists clenched in his frustration.
Standing above his son, Odin continued his reprimand, “You’ve disrespected our guests, this house, and your father and King. Consider yourself fortunate if you’re allowed to celebrate a birthday a century from now.”
Loki’s cheek was red like his eyes, which burned with the unshed tears he fought back. There was a bruise already forming from the impact. Loki's face flushed as he met his father's gaze, his anger unmistakable despite his efforts to maintain composure.
“What have you to say for yourself?”
Loki’s trembling hands stilled as he pressed them into the floor. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet those of his father, turning his face as he did, exposing his other cheek. Fandral watched from his seat, noting how Loki’s stance seemed to challenge the very space around him.
Odin took a small step back in shock.
That was enough for Loki. In a flash of the same green light that had bears dancing across their feast minutes earlier, he vanished before their eyes.
Loki had fled, hopefully back to his room to wait for his punishment there, but more than likely, away. He could and would disappear for weeks or months at a time, invisible to even Heimdall’s eyes, only to return when he chose. No one could guess when they would see Loki again.
“How could you do that?” Thor’s voice was quiet, he looked defeated at his father.
“No more from you either. You are speaking out of turn, Thor. I am dealing with this matter as I see fit. Loki’s actions tonight have shown a lack of respect.” Odin took a step back towards his seat, turning away from his son.
“That’s not fair.”
“You will not question my decisions in my own hall. Go back to your drink, finish what story you were telling.”
Thor stood there staring at his father. He took a breath and let it out. “I’m done for the night.”
Odin waved him off as he picked back up his ale.
Thor turned and walked out of the hall; celebration forgotten in leu of that night’s events.
With both brothers gone, Fandral found his eyes lingering on the spot where Loki had stood. Maybe he should feel bad about not going after Thor, or for not doing anything to help stop Loki’s outburst, but the sudden emptiness left in Loki’s absence mirrored a hole in Fandral’s chest, something that he could not fully express amidst the turmoil. It distracted him from whatever else he should have been thinking.
Dinner ended swiftly; the atmosphere changed for the worse. No one would tell any more stories; no more drinks were poured. Fandral was amongst the first to retreat that night, the meal turned to ice in his stomach.
As Fandral thought about Loki’s outburst, he reflected on the jeers about Loki’s masculinity, or perceived femininity. The taunts weren’t just insults—they struck at something deeper. It was a challenge Loki faced in proving himself against traditional expectations in a community that consistently punished him for every single difference that he revealed. While he struggled to find his place, Thor thrived, constantly succeeding where Loki fell short.
The judgment Loki faced, about something he never publicly confirmed, made Fandral more conscious of his own vulnerabilities. All Loki did was exist, too flowy, too vain, too many interests that were considered feminine. Fandral was lucky, he supposed. He didn’t have a hard time with those issues. Sure, he was vain, that was written off as a consequence of his charm, and it helped that he valued swords, sweat, women, and ale, the same things everyone else did. Still, watching Loki's struggle reminded him of the risks in revealing too much about oneself, reinforcing that unease about exposing his own, uh, similarities shared with the youngest prince.
As he slipped away into the night, Fandral’s thoughts were consumed by the evening’s events. Odin’s heavy hand, Loki’s unrestrained anger—it was too much. Something was bound to break, it had too. Hopefully it wouldn’t be Loki. Hopefully, Loki wouldn’t be doing the breaking.