Peace in his presence.
As the room around you silences, each chair moves in behind the legs of gods and is met with wide smiles around the room, festivities beginning for the day. As Odin stands, announcing the beginning of the day and the formal invitation to all those able to join his party after the meal, you become less aware of the place you hold in your seat. Eyes missing sections of the table, voids filling your vision where cups and saucers should be, your head begins to spin as though you’re falling.
You close your eyes, breath deepening in an attempt to center yourself. Your fingers find the fabric of your dress in your lap, finding any detail to hone in on, any thread or bead of texture to ground yourself. You find yourself grasping at the expanse of your lap to find nothing but matter, you're unable to determine a difference as your hands move quicker under the table, searching for even a splinter in the wood that may prick you back into awareness.
The sound around you is muffled, though it has risen; you assume Odin had sat back down a moment ago, allowing the conversation in the room to begin. The fear of looking odd strikes in your chest, realizing how fidgety your hands are with your eyes closed, chin dipped to your chest. You bring a hand to your forehead, a gentle touch of your fingertips to your brow to explain any questions those around you may have been asking themselves.
Your title sounds as if it’s being whispered from a world away when you first hear the thought. The second time the call is closer, nearly in the same room as you now in its distinction, clear in its determination though you’re unable to turn your head to find the source. The third call is almost deafening; you hear now who is calling to you from the seat beside you. Loki’s voice never breaks the air, however, as he reaches to you the same you had called for him the first night you woke here.
“Goddess,” Loki’s voice fills your thoughts once more and you nearly flinch from the volume, “Goddess, are you alright?”
All you can do is inhale in response, a slow steadying breath as you focus on Loki’s call.
“My Goddess,” he nearly pleads, “Do you wish to leave?”
In less time than it takes to bat an eye you see Loki, the same view you once held onto Thor with as he thrashed about his room at your arrival. Loki sits to your right, a polite smile on his face as he exchanges pleasantries to the few within hearing distance to his right. Along with Loki dining and talking, you see yourself doing the same.
You seem to be taking small bites of your food between agreeing hums to Odin’s commentary but upon further inspection you see that you never truly allow food to enter your mouth. The scene your body is stuck in isn’t a perfectly repetitive reaction, though it seems entirely genuine in its falseness.
Loki calls to you again, “Are you able to return?”
You realize now what more is wrong besides your hand never reaching your mouth and liquid never lessening in its cup. This image of you has slightly brighter eyes, a smile you would not dare to share with Odin, and the soft hums of your undoubtable attention. This is the image Loki offers in your stead as you sit beside him, hand covering your face as you try to find your way back to your seat through the fog of a loose connection.
You ponder for a moment, a curiosity pitting in your stomach. If you were to sever this connection, allow yourself to slip away from this universe for good, you may be able to return home, to wake up. That peace sits with you another moment as you watch yourself ignore another bite, refuse another drink. You watch yourself exist through the eyes of Loki and wonder if this universe is worth staying in.
You think about home, about your life, about the things you’ve built for yourself and the pain of longing for them. Your mourning potential is disturbed as you watch yourself set the cutlery down, attention pointing to Loki as he speaks to those around him. You watch Loki tell his story, his version of you holding his excited gaze.
An insecure thought crossed your mind, how this cannot be how he sees you, he must be altering his perception in order to maintain the appearance of you, not his version. This assumption is shattered as he tells a section of a story you recognize; you watch in fear as Loki leads to the part of the story that causes a fearful roar of laughter from you each time he has told you the ending.
“Loki!” You try to reach him, however he continues with the story, “Oh, please, Loki.” You nearly beg him, watching as the expectant smile on your face grows beside him, your chest pulling in a big breath as you prepare yourself for laughter.
As you begin to cringe at the last three words from Loki, a physical flinch from hearing your own laughter, your laugh rings into the space around you in the most melodic performance you've ever heard. What you experienced as embarrassment before, this unfiltered reaction of joy that rang bells on tops of towers and took up the room around it like a wave, this laughter sounds like peace.
Your laugh sounds like peace to Loki.
This is his image of you, this is you.
The wave of potential longing, that guilty pang for return leaves you in an exhale as you find your way back to the table you’re seated at, to the left of Loki. He looks down at you, laughing with you as your eyes take in his face and the lines his cheeks make when they’re pulled back wide enough. As your eyes readjust, so do your fingers.
You find the texture of your dress to be replaced with Loki's hand, your fingertips slowly circling his palm as he holds it open between the two of you. Whether your hands remain below the sight of the people around you or hidden with an illusion, you're unsure, though you do not cease the paths you make in the lines of his hand.
“Goddess,” the Valkyrie across from you has a voice nearly as bold as Thor’s, “I hear you shall be joining our ride before tea this morning.”
You nod, “I shall, is it a surprise?” Your hands find your fork and knife, the course in front of you finally reaching your mouth.
“It is not often guests of Odin join on the outings near the realm’s edge.” She explains, “I am simply eager to have a change of pace.” The Valkyrie smiles wide, taking a drink from the glass in her hand.
“I am entirely eager, as well.” Beams the god to her right, “I’ve yet to introduce myself. Baldur.” His fist folds over his chest, a small nod in the same style of Thor’s friends.
“Sigrún,” the Valkyrie follows, “it’s an honor, my Goddess.”
“It’s my honor, and seemingly my uninformed presence.” You set your cup down, nodding to the gods across from you, “Queen of the Valkyrie should need no introduction, less the God of Light and Wisdom.”
Baldur waves your apology away, “Many faces have been forced upon you since your arrival. Though I must disagree with the lack of necessary introduction you propose. Sig is the standard of Valkyrie to the pole.” He checks his head to his right, “Sometimes I find myself needing a reminder on which tall, red-haired warrior this is.”
You laugh as Sigrún rolls her eyes, “Says a wide blonde God of Something Bright.”
“Tsk,” Baldur clicks his tongue, “You must know better, Sigrún, my light is not physical.”
Sigrún hums as she takes another drink, “Must I?”
Bladur’s eyes roll, almost a mirror of Sigrún’s expression a moment earlier, as your shoulders scrunch in laughter.
Courses continue until all bellies are full and all conversations pull to an end, a satisfied sigh leaving more than one blue-covered torso. Conversation falls around the table between the long-time friends you join for breakfast, stories and references explained to you by Loki. He shares with you context and memories in the whispers between your thoughts, your hand finding its way back to his as Baldur stands.
“I’m unsure how I will ever mount my horse with such a full stomach, however I must first try to put on the proper equipment.” Baldur sets his fist on his chest once more, a bow to you and to the Allfather, “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Must try?” Sigrún calls to him, “Baldur you’re hardly wearing clothes to begin with! What trouble could you have in removing them?”
Baldur’s smirk pulls high in his response as he backpedals, “Sigrún, is your concern for my struggle enough to aid me in the process? Perhaps you can report to everyone how much of a fibber I am?”
Sigrún’s eyes fill with mischief as she stands and bows quickly, “Goddess, Allfather.” As she turns her own smirk covers her features. Baldur runs down the dining hall, between the tables and out the door. You laugh as you watch Sigrún do the same, sprinting after the god, yelling threats that sound more like promises from where you sit.
Odin falls into conversation with other court members who have walked up to him as you turn to find Loki watching you with soft eyes. No need for conversation surrounds the peace in his gaze as your fingertips memorize the dips in the pad of his hand for the private moment you take between you.
Motion over your right shoulder pulls your attention, Thyra standing under an archway at the back of the hall. You smile softly to her, your fingers pressing slightly into Loki’s fingertips before pulling away from him. His gaze drops to your hands before combing back to your face, contentment in his brow.
“I believe I must go change for the ride, now.” Your voice is just loud enough to tell Loki, “Find me.”
“Of course,” he promises. Loki rises from his seat, moving yours out as you stand. The ten steps it takes to get from your seat to Thyra is guided by Loki. Before he can offer to walk you to your chambers his own dresser finds him, beckoning him to follow in the quickest direction of your rooms.
“Thyra,” you say, “Would you be able to walk with him?” You gesture to the man who beckoned to Loki, “Explain to him we will be taking the preferred route to our rooms; you two are welcome to join us or meet us in the hall outside my rooms, if you’d like.”
Thyra looks to the man once in uncertainty but resolves into a bow at the sight of your hand on Loki’s arm, feet already beginning to follow him in the opposite direction of your chambers.
The walk sustains itself in a comfortable silence as you wander the halls, the preferred route, on the arm of Loki. You think about the image of you he shared with the table, how it was not only entirely endearing, but incredibly selfless. Loki could have allowed you to be viewed as an incompetent being, one who couldn’t hold her head up for the morning meal. Yet Loki masked you, protected you.
“Thank you.” You say softly as you walk around the third wall of the garden, growing closer to starting the last stretch across the parkway to your hall.
“For?” He questions. Loki’s hand had found its way atop yours near the kitchens, but now it makes light circles on the back of your knuckles.
Your stride keeps in time with him as you step on to the garden pathway, the final stretch. “You made an illusion of me to prevent the court from seeing me slip.”
Loki hums and looks down to you, “You’re welcome.” The acknowledgement is somehow said like you’ve never heard it before; pure pleasure behind his eyes, peace in his presence.
You find your feet have stopped, a mimic of his own as you stand in the liminal space between the garden and the hall leading to your chambers. As you look up to Loki your shoulders relax, breath steady as it leaves a face of tranquility, eyes nearly hooded over in satisfaction from looking into the eyes of a god who looks into the eyes of you.
A small, quick breath leaves Loki’s nose as his mouth tugs at a soft smile, eyes outlining your face as the morning light rises higher into your sky. Turned towards you, the hand that was once on your own runs a knuckle along your cheek and down your jaw line, thumb and forefinger burning into the spot they sit on your chin.
You lean into his touch enough to feel more than featherweight fingertips on your skin.
Loki’s voice is almost too soft to hear, raspy in admission, “I would frame this memory if I could.”
Your heart beats in your chest, breath begging to escape your lungs.
“Goddess,” Loki’s voice trails as the dryness in his throat takes hold of his vocal cords, thumb just below your lip.
“Loki,” his name barely escapes your throat, eyes only leaving him to gaze at his own parted lips.
“Goddess,” His head shakes slightly, he sounds as if he is warning you to not call his name again. That if you do call his name once more, he has an oath to maintain that would require his life in exchange. That if you call his name in that voice in the very next second, he would gladly give his life for whatever request fell from your mouth in the following.
A clearing of the throat robs your opportunity to indulge in the promises of a god as it rips your attention to the inside of the building, Frigga bowing politely as you pull from Loki. Your hand remains on his arm, a tether to his own heart beat.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Frigga says, “I was on my way to call on you.” She looks to her son and back to you, “I apologize, I need Loki for a moment before he changes for the ride. Might I steal him for a moment?”
You smile and bow, “I could never deny a mother her son.” You squeeze Loki’s arm once, noting the longing and frustration in his eye as you say a small goodbye. “Find me.”
You enter your chambers, turning back to see Loki and Frigga watching you as you leave the hall.